The Black Opera (14 page)

Conrad rose without seeking permission. His thoughts whirled, and physical movement eased that. He paced the length of the gallery and back. The open window allowed a warm wind through; a welcome contact from the world outside.

His mind fought against accepting the idea of such a miracle—or so he thought. When he listened to his thoughts, he heard them chattering:
There isn't a god—there might
be
a god if they succeed—what would the world be like if someone added a god to it
now?

“Of course,” Mantenucci added grumpily, “as their heretical ideas are false, all they'll succeed in doing is killing a million men, if we're lucky. If we're unlucky, they'll succeed in raising up the
real
Devil.”

Conrad felt his pulse hammer in his ears. “Theology is bunkum! As to ‘miracles'… I'm willing to allow Tambora could have been man-caused.”

Therefore, so might Vesuvius be, one day
.

Conrad drew a breath and let it out, tension finding resolution in a sudden black humour. “After all, it isn't the first time someone's had the idea of using a sacrifice to get God's attention.”

Enrico Mantenucci raised prompting brows.

“The Crucifixion?” Conrad pointed out.

Both the Commendatore and the King developed an identical, absently-shocked, expression. It was wholly familiar to Conrad from other men.

They'd forgotten what I am. Drifted into assuming that I must share their beliefs, because “everybody does
.”

“I apologise for my levity, sir.”

“Don't apologise.” Under Ferdinand's bourgeois exterior, a sharp humour gleamed. “It's a quality that will give your opera power to counter theirs.”

Conrad dropped back into his chair. “It's truly possible they can alter the world.”

Mantenucci nodded, slowly. “Yes—but even his majesty's Natural Philosophers can't be sure how it would work, or exactly what it would do. It's the Prince's Men who have the confidence it'll do what
they
want.”

Ferdinand, hands clasped behind his back, turned away from the windows and the view of the plaza below. “I would suppose that from their point of view, it's simple enough. If ‘the Prince' can do miracles to help us, but not to help himself, then Man can likewise bring about a miracle liberate the Prince from the Laws left behind by creation.”

“Even if the change were only a minor improvement,” Enrico Mantenucci put in. “Say, allowing the Prince of this World to administer
justice
. The Men would consider that morally preferable to what we have now. No more suffering three month old babies, dead before their time. No lives lived in sickness and crippling injury. If we were Prince's Men, we might think a Just universe the ideal. The old Greek philosophers did! If suffering can't be eliminated, then at least undeserved suffering can. Only the criminal, the immoral, and the vicious would suffer. The good would not.”

Drawn in to something so involving, it took Conrad a full minute to ground himself.

Very dryly, he said, “That very much depends on who you define as the criminal, the immoral, and the vicious.”

Mantenucci grinned and applauded, one finger tapping the opposite palm.

Ferdinand sounded whimsical. “I still hold out for my Machiavellian Prince of this World. He'd be less arbitrary than your Just God—would reward those who strive and succeed, no matter what methods they use, and punish only those who are feckless and lazy. A God of
virtù
.”

Caught between his various mother tongues, Conrad appreciated the point. ‘Virtue' has a moral dimension.
Virtù
only denotes ability.

Enrico Mantenucci muttered “Blasphemy!” under his breath, but looked grimly amused.

“Perhaps,” Ferdinand agreed. “But I think the point is, as we judge from our intelligence, that unless something is done, the Prince's Men will succeed.”

“The Prince's Men are insane!” Conrad muttered.

Ferdinand sat back, sounding oddly wistful. “Neither mad, nor evil, reportedly. It would be easier if they were.”

Major Mantenucci sounded grudging. “Sire, for some men, or some acts, I can only use the term
wicked
.”

“We
must
look at this through their eyes. Otherwise we have no hope of defeating them. By all means, gentlemen, speculate.”

Conrad exhaled, purging tension deliberately from his body.
Think of it like a libretto
.

I can't.

“Sir—If I see unscientific alterations to the world, that doesn't mean I'm going to label them ‘miracles'!” Conrad couldn't help a wry grin. “When people talk about magicking up Satan, I tend to leave the room.”

Light and shadow swept the gallery in quick succession. Outside the tall windows, clouds raced from the west across the now-higher sun. Conrad shivered at the ghost of the Year Without a Summer and its thousands of deaths.

Major Mantenucci muttered under his breath, and reached to top up the King's coffee cup. Conrad silently took the pot when the police chief relinquished it.

Ferdinand said, “We may disagree on the nature of God, and whether or not His nature is subject to change by Mankind. But do we agree on this, Conrad? That there is every likelihood that the Prince's Men can repeat what they did to Mount Tambora, here in the Two Sicilies.”

Conrad scowled and thrust his fists into his coat pockets, slumping down in his chair. “I want to talk to your Signore Adriano about what he witnessed… I know there have been significant miracles connected with opera in the past. If you're right, and the Prince's Men used Tambora as a test—I agree, we can't leave it to chance that they'll fail with Vesuvius. But I come into this on the grounds that what we call a ‘miracle' is something as yet unaccounted for by science, not an expression of the will of a Deity. If I agree that these lunatics can trigger a volcanic eruption, I don't agree that we'll find God at the end of it!”

“With all respect, Signore Conrad, does that matter?” Ferdinand steepled his thumbs and index fingers. His eyes met Conrad's. “Your business will be the black opera. It will require inhuman excellence on their part, to provoke what they want it to provoke. We
must
have the counter opera. If you can work without needing to think of the theology—I have no difficulty with that.”

Conrad clenched and unclenched his fists. “All right, sire, yes.”

Ferdinand rummaged among the papers and small maps on the map-chest. He
selected what Conrad saw was an almanac. The King thumbed through it. “… Adriano reports that the Prince's Men must choose a dark phase of the moon to give their black opera.”

Conrad raised his brows. “Very superstitious, sir.”

Ferdinand put paper in the almanac to mark his place, and put it down. “In fact, my Natural Philosophers confirm the fact. It seems volcanic eruptions tend to occur at that time when the Sun and Moon both pull at the Earth from the same side.”

“Ignoring astronomy, Signore Conrad?” Enrico Mantenucci blandly commented.

Conrad felt his ears blush hot.

The King set three of the cups in a line on the map-chest, ignoring the police chief's amusement. “The Sun—the Moon—the Earth. Like so. Apparently there's a strain on the Earth with such a direct line. They tell me the Sun's and Moon's gravity affects, not just the tides of the sea, but the ‘tides of the Earth,' if you like. Lava and magma become unstable, under the earth. It was at such a high earth-tide that Tambora erupted.”

Conrad examined the cups carefully. “Would a solar eclipse be better?—Worse, that is, from our point of view?”

Ferdinand nodded, clearly pleased. “A direct line-up would provide more stress on the Earth. It seems that the Prince's Men have known since Tambora's eruption that they needed to wait for a suitable eclipse, or partial eclipse. If you were to look in any Almanac, you'll find there are precious few this side of the next half century. Only one is suitable.”

He opened the almanac and turned it around to face Conrad.

“The path of a partial eclipse crosses Italy's southern states, including both Sicilies, on the fourteenth of March. All the evidence points to that being the date they've chosen.”

Conrad frowned. “March?”

He looked closer.

Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily raked his fingers through his Brutus-cut brown hair, reducing the fashionable style to a street-brat's crop. “I'm afraid so.”

“But it's—” Conrad stared at the entry. “February now. And—
This
March? Not next spring? It would be—That's six weeks from now!”

The King of the Two Sicilies laughed out loud.

It might be the release of tension.

Or again, I may just look completely fish-smacked
.

Ferdinand murmured an apology.

Conrad hardly heard it. “I thought a year, at least! No book, no score, and—You need an opera in
six weeks
.”

“Of course,
that
would be the thing, out of all, to disconcert you…” Ferdinand's humour changed to a grave regard. “Conrad, to be clear, I'm asking you to write the libretto for my opera. You'll have six weeks to put on a first night. I'll let you have the Teatro San Carlo. I know that you gave me your decision—but the options are still open. Now's the time to change your mind, if you desire to.”

The dazzle of being a librettist at Naples' premier opera house blinded Conrad for a moment. The ligaments and tendons of his knees felt loose. Conrad bit back the words of immediate acceptance. He suppressed that part of himself that wanted to shout,
Yes, I'll do it, I'll write your opera!

He regarded Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily, attempting to clear from his mind any remnants of deference for royalty that might be influencing him.
And the fact that I like this man.

“Six weeks is a short time for an opera to be composed, rehearsed, and staged,” Conrad said, mildly as he might.

“True.”

“And you've known about the black opera for—some time?”

“Also true.”

Conrad collected his wits.
I can't let this slide
.

“Normally,” he said, “any man, if asked, would jump at the chance to write an opera for the King of the Two Sicilies. But in all this time, apparently, no one has. Therefore I have to ask, sire. What's the catch?”

King Ferdinand exchanged an indecipherable glance with Enrico Mantenucci.

“I'd want you to oversee the production in general,” Ferdinand said blandly. “You'd handle the staging and manage the singers, as is normal for a librettist, but since I can't appear as the impresario, you'd have to take that on, too—at least, in name. I'm told you have many contacts in the opera world—singers, stagehands, costumiers, builders of effects… I'll put as much finance in your hands as you need.”

Am I supposed to notice that he hasn't answered my question?

The impulse to simply agree pulled at him like gravity.

Even if the Prince's Men are nothing more than a gang of lunatic revolutionaries lurking in corners—even if the Tambora volcano was a fluke—If they're wrong about the threat… I'd still be staging my own libretto at one of the greatest theatres in Italy!

In six weeks.

…Barely six weeks
.

Conrad forced himself to speak as calmly as possible. “If I were a King, with a King's resources, and I needed to counter the ‘black opera'—I'd be looking for Felice Romani, the premier librettist of Italy, to write my arias and cabalettas and strettas. And I'd ask Donizetti and Mercadante, Bellini and Pacini, maybe even Rossini, to compose the music. I'd bring in every famous singer that I could hire, no matter the cost and inconvenience. Rubini and Duprez and Domzelli for your tenors! Tamborini and Luigi Lablache as basses; Caroline Ungher as contralto; sopranos of the class of Giulia Grisi, Giudita Pasta, Adelaide Tosi,
Malibran
—”

Conrad broke away from the image of what a production under royal command might truly be like.