The Black Opera (94 page)

The shouts of Ferdinand's troopers, rifles at the ready now, drowned out the singers, and one or other of the musicians who would
not
be parted from his instrument case. Conrad staggered sideways to avoid the roped line of prisoners.

It isn't forgiveness
.

If I didn't have to do
this
—I would have to think.

I would disbelieve that she's gone, even though I saw her die in front of me, because how can it be true?

The knowledge of other griefs and losses doesn't help. Conrad knows from war-time, and from when the plague is loose, that the shock of the news itself can mute the pain. Temporarily disconnect the grinding unhappiness that eventually sends other people away, leaving one waiting for the grief to pass.

And only Roberto can understand that this time it won't
.

The wide track to Pozzuoli was a river-bed of rocks. The uncertain footing, and the unconscious man's balance across his shoulders, took all Conrad's attention.

He forgot, for long enough to take three easy breaths.

It crashed back down on him.

She's gone. I saw her die
.

A shudder went through his belly, and he found his mind disconnected from the situation, coolly turning over ideas.
Whatever it is the Returned Dead do, they don't do it when so thoroughly destroyed, as by fire. But how long did it take for the lava to kill her? The same as for a living human, or—longer?

Roberto Capiraso's body stirred, over his shoulders. The injured man was not unconscious, Conrad realised. He recognised the shuddering breath, kept under iron control.

O Dio!
I
hate
her for dying!

Grief and guilt took him between iron jaws. The unbearable
dull
agony of bereavement stretched ahead—days and years of nothing. Only the glance at a street corner, heart stopping because a chance woman looks like her. The hallucination of
knowing
he has just heard her voice, when there's no one there. And when all strength is expended just to get through a week, a month—knowing it's all to do again. And again. And again.

Rising tones of panic roused him.

Paolo slid ahead, through the head of the column of refugees. Conrad slowed his trudging pace, watching Paolo move into the mob.

A minute or two later, she reappeared.

She nodded towards Roberto Capiraso. “You might want to put him down.”

The heavy weight had settled onto his body, compressing muscle and spine, tension and lung.

“If I put him down I may not pick him up again. What is it?”

She beckoned him a step forward. Conrad staggered, made it—and was looking down a shallow curve of hill, at the sails of the
Apollon
in the harbour.

We've covered more ground than I thought
.

Surprisingly close to Pozzuoli itself, he could see roofless houses, and roads full of rocks, under the black daytime sky scrawled across with lightning-bolts.

Between them and the port, a lava stream cut a wide red channel in the earth.

Conrad blinked the slow-moving scarlet brilliance out of his vision. It took him a moment to realise the extent of the flow.

We're cut off from the sea
.

From the
Apollon.

Tullio reached up, moving by instinct as Conrad did. He felt the older man's strong grip help him slide Roberto Capiraso down on the ash-covered grass.

A figure plodding through the ash-snow became Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily, half a dozen aides and officers behind him.

“We're already cut off from the coast, down there.”

He gestured south, over the rough scrub and rock, to the sea. Seeming to take
Conrad as the authority for the San Carlo group, Ferdinand added:

“I've sent men to time both streams. The one behind us, and this one, ahead.”

Conrad turned his head stiffly, muscles cramping.

He had not even noticed the unobtrusive line of steam and sparks crossing the Burning Fields to their rear, he realised. The lava stream behind them was surprisingly undramatic. A smudge of black above the tufts of grass and scrub, a shimmer of air where heat sent the ash swirling… it might have been nothing.

The wind shifted. Conrad caught the hiss of steam, and the sparks of the lava flow behind; the stink of sulphur more virulent than at Solfatara or Monte Nuovo.

“The lava flow is wide, but I think shallow.” Ferdinand frowned. “But that hardly helps us! We can't cross it.”

“How fast is it moving?”

Ferdinand gave a shrug that attempted to be careless. “Walking pace. Or a little faster.”

He's terrified
, Conrad realised. His own heart thumped.

Ferdinand is terrified we're going to be caught between that flow behind us and the lava in front.

“Alvarez's scouts say we're surrounded,” Ferdinand admitted. “…No one expected the flows to start moving at different rates.”

Frantic panic churned in Conrad's stomach. He pushed it out of his awareness, knowing it to be only the body's animal desire to survive.

Towards Pozzuoli, the lava looked no wider than a city street. The heat-rippling air above, and the charcoal where it touched anything but earth, made it obvious no man could survive it.

He elbowed his way to the front of the group of
aides
, where the King had the best view of what was before them.

Raw black earth.

A black surface with vermilion underneath.

And then—only a few yards in front of them, now—liquid orange-red lava slid down towards the harbour of Pozzuoli at the pace of a walking horse.

“My men have rockets and maroons, to send up as signals for the
Apollon
.”

Ferdinand looked back, letting his gaze linger on the thundering earth from the throat of the volcano, and the lightnings that continually sparked up and down the six mile high plume of cloud.

“If we get to the harbour, we'll still be extremely lucky if we're seen.”

More King's riflemen came back from all directions. Sent out as scouts, Conrad thought. He watched Ferdinand's face as they reported in.

Frustration burned acid-harsh in his belly.
No, no way out. We're surrounded
.

No way off the Burning Fields. The
Campi Ardenti
will have us in the end. Ahead, the stream of molten rock looks to be twenty-five, thirty-five yards wide… And anything we could bridge it with, will burn.

“This is my fault,” Conrad said aloud.

Ferdinand gave him a sharp amazed stare. “Conrad, I'm aware you're over-responsible, but—”

Conrad rubbed both grimy hands over his face, as if the grit and stink of sulphur might wipe out the heathland in front of his eyes. It was still there when he stopped. He blinked furiously at floating ash, and watched as the wind shifted again, long plumes of smoke and gas obscuring all trace of Pozzuoli.

Ahead, lava flowed in visible torrents, coils of black soot floating on the orange surface and marking the currents in the molten basalt. It felt as if a giant held him up to a furnace door, face forced unrelentingly forward. His skin dried. He felt it pull tight over his cheekbones and nose.

He didn't turn away from the flow, aware of Ferdinand at his side.

“I asked for this. You'll remember, sir. Sticky lava blocks things up, and then
un
blocks itself in eruptions. With sticky lava, the whole caldera of the Burning Fields would blow sky-high. Thin, runny lava, on the other hand…means the Burning Fields and Vesuvius won't blow up.”

Conrad couldn't help a bitter smile.

“—Proof if you needed it that we didn't speak with an all-knowing God! Any idiot could have told me that, yes, it would stop the volcanoes detonating, and they'd just spill over. And any idiot could have told me that thinner lava
flows faster
.”

The thunder of Vesuvius made him raise his voice. He became aware he was waving his arms, and consciously clasped his hands behind his back.

“Any idiot but me… Thin lava will run faster. So it won't erupt. But it
will
cover this whole area, several feet deep. And the streams are fast enough that we can't out-run them. I didn't think!
I
asked for this miracle. And it's about to kill us all.”

Voices shouted, sounds muffled by ash; he thought it was the rear of the column coming up faster. Nothing was quieter than where he stood. The silence emanated from King Ferdinand.

Tullio's resonant snort fractured the hiatus.

“You have to excuse him, sir. He gets like this. Often.”

Conrad cut in. “Yes, anyone could have asked for the miracle, but it was me,
and I didn't think it through.”

Ferdinand gave a snort that was an aristocratic echo of Tullio's. “You might as well blame me for not seeing it. Or not seeing a way out of it. Or for… not ordering the troopers mounted, so we could make better time.”

“On this ground? The half that didn't break a leg would have gone rump over ears—” Conrad realised Ferdinand's manipulation, and ceased babbling cavalry maxims. “All right. Perhaps there was no way to win.”

“Bear to the left.” Ferdinand had a small smile, under the muck and ash. “There's a parallel track to this one; it
may
get us across in front of the lava.”

Conrad hoisted Roberto Capiraso across his shoulders, again. The man, semi-conscious, was able—fortunately or not—to turn his head both behind or in front, see, and comment on what he saw.

It was not until Conrad had to come to a sharp halt to avoid crashing into King's riflemen, in front, and heard the Count's sharp
“Vaffanculo!”
that he came out of the altered state induced by physical exertion.

The slope of land dipped down to the sea, and the muddy withdrawn shore of the Bay. The fort of Pozzuoli harbour showed silhouetted against an odd, violet daytime sky.

The vast, slow-moving lava stream cut its channel in the earth, flowing between them and any chance of a ship. Lava seared its way into the sea. Where molten rock hit seawater, raging gouts of steam made everything invisible.

That flow
must
be thirty yards across!

Here we are between hammer and anvil
, Conrad admitted to himself.

Tullio's welcome grip helped him lower Roberto Capiraso down on the ash-covered grass. Conrad stood over the slumped man, protecting him, and caught an elbow in the ribs. Someone trod on the back of his heel from behind.

From this height of ground, he could see the steam and hissing sparks of the lava flow behind them, stemming from Solfatara, or perhaps some rift in Monte Nuovo.

Where every other breakthrough of lava from under the Burning Fields moved so slowly as to be—astonishingly!—tedious to watch, the lava flow from behind was approaching them much faster than a man can walk.

Trapping us completely against the flow in front
.

No way we can cross what's in front. And what's behind—is coming up fast.