The Black Opera (10 page)

“Will you put your life on his discretion?”

“Always.”

His tone must have conveyed that this wasn't a rash or rapid judgement. Ferdinand gave an accepting nod

“Very well. Inform this Rossi of what you must. And tell him, not that I'll hang him, but that he'll get
you
hanged if he's lax. If I know the type of man, that will keep him silent more than a threat to himself.”

Conrad nodded, quietly impressed.

“Tell as few as you can, as little as you can—and if you decide at any time that you want nothing to do with the employment I offer you, I need you to affirm you'll never speak of any part of it afterwards. Never, to anyone. Will you affirm those things?”

“I affirm that I'll keep silent.”

Conrad frowned.

“—Unless anyone will come to harm by my doing so. In that case, I'll do my utmost to consult with you first, sir, but I won't keep quiet if it means someone will be hurt or killed.”

“…Has anyone ever told you you're a difficult man, Conrad?”

“Yes, sir. Almost everyone.”

Something in that evidently appealed to Ferdinand. The King shook his head ruefully, with a mercurial smile that Conrad realised was much more
characteristic of the man than his banal public expression. It did not detract from his sincerity.

“Very well, I accept the reservation. I accept your word. In turn, I swear I'll tell you all of this matter that I can, except where reasons of State mean I cannot.”

Ferdinand offered his hand. Conrad took it. The King's grip felt surprisingly strong.

“I'll guarantee your safety as much as is humanly possibly. In fact your defiance of the Church is useful, Conrad. I can make you seem just a bone of contention between Cardinal Corazza and myself—our views are known to differ… But, if you were in the Neapolitan forces during the northern campaign, you'll know that not all dangers can be avoided. There are powerful men involved. They won't like being opposed.”

Powerful men—but not the Camorra or the
società onorata?

The same kind of powerful men.

The old helpless fury spilled into Conrad's memory, and this time goaded him. “I'll need you to provide safety on the other Sicily for my mother, Agnese, and the family. I can undertake this with a clear conscience, but I don't want them dragged in.”

“That's reasonable. Yes.”

Ferdinand turned on his heel, making restlessly for the end of the terrace.

He's not relieved that we've made an agreement
. If anything he's more tense. What is it he has to tell me?

Conrad rapidly moved up, and fell in the half-pace behind a monarch that good breeding requires.

Ferdinand beckoned him forward, to his side.

“I'll arrange for your family to be watched and guarded, and if it becomes necessary, moved to a safer place.”

The King paused, and rested his hands on the sea-wall's sun-bleached stone. He stared at the Amalfi coast. The fingers of his right hand drummed a tattoo.

“As for you… I intend, first, to hide you in plain sight. Nothing attracts attention like guards. We'll attach you to the Master of Music here at the Palace; say, as a copyist. If it's discovered you're writing a libretto, describe it as a oneact summer comedy in Neapolitan dialect, or a replacement opera to go on if another production fails.”

The world fell into one of those moments of silence. It brought Conrad the lap of waves, and the cries of sea-birds over in the harbour. The wind shifted inshore, carrying the faint odour of umbrella pine over the smell of the city.

“Tell me, Conrad. Have you ever heard of society that calls itself ‘the Prince's Men'?”

N
ow we begin to get answers
! Conrad scraped at the barrel-bottom of his memory.
With a jackdaw-mind that snaps up every shiny thing to store for opera librettos, have I ever… ever…

“No, sir.” Conrad pushed away frustration.
The first thing I'm asked, I don't know!
“Maybe I've been away from Naples too long.”

“Being elsewhere in Europe need not necessarily preclude you coming across their activities. From St Petersburg to Madrid; from England to Egypt… The Prince's Men are woven into the world like ivy.”

“Not unlike those other organisations we suffer from in the Two Kingdoms, sir?”

“They differ in key respects.”

Ferdinand clasped his hands again behind his back, letting his turning movement carry him around to face Conrad. His gaze swept the palace walls and windows in a natural way. It wouldn't tell any outsider he was checking to see if they were spied on.

In his own palace
.

“The Prince's Men resemble the Lodges of Freemasonry more than they do the cells of organised Sicilian criminals. They recruit by word of mouth, they meet behind closed doors, and their membership and existence is kept secret. If they
are
heard of, at all—”

Here a brief amusement showed on Ferdinand's face.

“—It's as men who meet for ‘philosophical and scientific debates'—”

The King continued to turn on his heel. Conrad noted this allowed Ferdinand to survey all the Palazzo Reale, and what of the small royal dock was visible from this terrace.

Doubtless we're observed. But not overheard
.

Ferdinand shifted his attention back to Conrad.

“—Naturally, this is believed to be a cover for a revolutionary political society, devoted to overthrowing European monarchies by violence. They're hardly the only such society. I believe, however, that the Prince's Men do have the widest and most heterogeneous membership. Everybody from wagon-drivers and charcoal-burners to magistrates and noblemen. Financiers, courtiers—in
my
court, I don't doubt—and certain men of the Church…
Lazzaroni
… It appears
that, as a society, they're not interested in making money—their upper ranks largely have it, and donate it to the cause. Ostensibly, they do claim to desire the removal of reactionary ministers of state and kings.”

Conrad couldn't help his brows going up. “Ostensibly?”

“As a ‘philosophical position.' None have been caught in any illegal activity. I'll assume you know this Kingdom has its own force of agents, spies, and secret police. Apart from organised crime, Europe is now riddled with political associations that are radical, revolutionary, or plain anarchist—most of whom are devoted to political change by way of terror, murder, and assassination. It took a number of years for us to discover that the Prince's Men are—very different.”

He turned towards a door into the Palazzo Reale. “I intend you to meet with the two men who can best explain the situation.”

Conrad started forward.

He nearly walked into Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily.

The man remained motionless, his back to Conrad. Conrad felt that he shouldn't move forward.
Ferdinand doesn't want his face seen at this moment.

“Conrad—After this point, there's no going back. Be sure. Are you sure?”

Conrad folded his arms, marvelling at the easiness of moving without fetters. “I've had time to think, sir, now the Inquisition aren't wrestling with me… As far as managements are concerned, no impresario's going to want the man who got the Teatro Nuovo burned down by lightning. Too dangerous. It's a fortnight to the end of the month. My payments to Father's creditors will be coming up. I need this job.”

The King rasped an interruption. “You need
a
job.”

“Yes. I can leave Naples, change my name, flee to Rome… Or, I can take your offer, sir, which means keeping my name and spitting in the eye of anyone who thinks I'm atheist scum. Even if I can't claim it's more than a petty royal sinecure, it's still connected with the court. Gossip can't say I ran off like a yelping dog and Giuseppe Persiani found me a job out of charity!”

The other man took an irresolute step towards the French windows. Conrad glimpsed servants behind the glass. They looked uncertain whether to open the doors or not.

“Conrad, at this moment, I still know more about this business than you do. I'm warning you. Be certain.”

Is this business so terrible that he thinks I'll refuse anyway, once I know?

Is it something in which King Ferdinand of the Two Sicilies has qualms about involving another man?

“Sir, you have a guaranteed place in life.” Conrad considerately did not add:
revolutions and foreign Tyrants aside
. “As for me—there are always more
poets besieging impresarios, offering to write librettos at half the price! I value my reputation. It's hard-won, and I
worked
for it. I don't see why a random lightning-bolt should take it away!”

Ferdinand glanced back. Conrad met his gaze. He felt ashamed of his attempts at humour.

The King regarded him with a long considering stare. “Very well.”

Ferdinand walked forward, and the doors opened for him.

As unwritten law demanded, Conrad did not raise the subject again while they walked into the royal palace. The usual gadfly crowd of gentlemen-in-waiting, aides, officials and servants congregated around the King within moments. Ferdinand curtly waved them away. He took what Conrad later understood must have been short-cuts through the warren of a building.

The Palazzo Reale was two quite different palaces, it became apparent: one all grandiose white space, grand marble staircases, and frescoed barrel ceilings, and the other, behind the scenes, being full of dusty passages and green baize doors, and wood-panelled rooms too small to keep a cat in, never mind swing it.

They emerged from one such door, Conrad treading almost on the King's heels so as not to become lost, and turned a sharp corner into a long gallery.

The ceiling rose up high and pale. Every few yards on their left-hand side, the outer wall held a tall sash-window. The glass was cunningly offset to cast light into every corner of the long gallery. Together with the white gauze curtains that veiled the row of windows, it gave an impression of mist shot through with sunlight—counteracted by the right-hand wall, that was all solid colours.

“The map room,” Ferdinand announced.

Whatever I expected as a “map room”… this isn't it!

His eyes adjusting to the dim light, Conrad made out that every section of the long wall was painted with maps. The images shone bright on the plaster, blue and green and ochre and gold. To look was to have the odd sensation of flying, like a hawk, above Naples or France or the Adriatic shores.

Most of the maps were of Europe, and some of the Americas; one at least of the South China Sea, another of Indonesia, and the coastal lands of Australia. The ochres and greens of Europe were here and there brighter, where new paint changed the boundaries after the end of the Emperor's War.

An eight foot long map-chest stood against the wall, by one of the windows. Servants had just finished setting up a linen cloth incongruously on top of it, with chairs and bright silver place settings, and were bringing out coffee.

Conrad realised,
My mouth is dry as a furnace!

The King instructed a nearby footman. “See we're not disturbed.”

Absently watching the last man's back as the footmen paced away, Conrad
realised,
This is another place one can't be spied on
. No furniture to hide behind. No one can approach without being seen—or eavesdrop through a retaining wall. Or spy by clinging outside the window like a fly.

The King seated himself on a baroque chair beside the map-chest, and gestured for Conrad to take one of the others.

“Ah—” Ferdinand glanced past Conrad's shoulder, and gave a welcoming smile. “Major Mantenucci!”

Precipitated into remembering his manners, Conrad stood up again.
This must be one of those two men he mentioned; the ones who can best explain this situation
.

A lively spare-bodied man came down the gallery, moving with alacrity. Mopping his forehead free of the sweat of his energetic movement, he took off his hat, showing himself crop-haired, iron grey still present in his hair and moustaches.