Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  The Sky’s Dark Labyrinth

  Stuart Clark

  Contents

  Title Page

  PART I: Ascension

  1: Rome, Papal States

  2: Prague, Bohemia

  3

  4

  5

  6: Rome, Papal States

  7: Benátky, Bohemia

  8

  9: Tübingen, Swabia

  10: Prague, Bohemia

  11

  12: Rome, Papal States

  13: Prague, Bohemia

  14

  15

  PART II: Culmination

  16: Prague, Bohemia

  17: Padua, Republic of Venice

  18: Rome, Papal States

  19: Prague, Bohemia

  20: Rome, Papal States

  21: Prague, Bohemia

  22

  23: Florence, Tuscany

  24: Prague, Bohemia

  25: Rome, Papal States

  26

  PART III: Setting

  27: Linz, Upper Austria

  28: Florence, Tuscany

  29: Leonberg, Swabia

  30: Florence, Tuscany

  31: Linz, Upper Austria

  32

  33: Rome, Papal States

  34: Linz, Upper Austria

  35: Rome, Papal States

  36

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  PART I

  Ascension

  The roads that lead man to knowledge are as wondrous as that knowledge itself.

  JOHANNES KEPLER

  1

  Rome, Papal States

  1600

  Scarlet robes were the only sure way to achieve anonymity in public. Even in the narrowest streets, people would shy away as though the garments hid a leper. When physical distance was impossible because of the crush, they lowered their eyes and scuttled past, driven by the fear of judgement. Only children would gaze openly.

  Most of the other cardinals took litters so that they could enjoy looking down on their charges, and escape the worst of the summer stench, but Cardinal Bellarmine liked being among the people. Only from within the crowds could he truly feel their respect, their fear. That man in the emerald silk had the clothes of rank and privilege, but not the demeanour. With eyes darting this way and that, his garments were probably bought from the profits of short-changing his customers. Then there was the glutton leaning against the wall, still rubbing his paunch from last night’s meal that could doubtless have served an entire family. And the blonde woman with tired eyes, bare shoulders and bold cleavage; her sin was clear for all to see. All of them avoided his gaze, becoming awkward and self-conscious. Such reactions convinced Bellarmine of the need for his work to continue. It gave him courage, especially on a day like today.

  ‘I don’t understand why the prisoner has remained unsentenced for so long. He was arrested seven years ago. As a heretic, he should have been burned within fifteen days,’ said his companion.

  ‘Capital punishment is a last resort, young man.’

  ‘With respect, I’m thirty years old, hardly a young man.’

  ‘You’re half my age, Cardinal Pippe. You’re a young man to me.’

  They were squeezing through a passageway, knocking shoulders as they headed out of the town while the throng plodded in. The sun was not yet high enough to slice into the alley, making it a popular shortcut for those eager to escape the heat-drenched boulevards. As the pale stone walls funnelled the pedestrians together, Pippe accidentally placed his sandalled foot in the running gutter. He growled in disgust.

  ‘But it shows weakness to prevaricate like this. Rome must be strong. In the north of Europe, I’ve heard that witches are burned every day.’

  ‘We are not Lutheran barbarians with their superstitions and summary executions. Everything must have due legal process – even for a heretic,’ said Bellarmine.

  They turned into a wider street, the sun now fully in their eyes. It was no less of a crush, and the cardinals were still walking against the flow of people. A farmer drove an old sow patiently around them, the smell of the farmyard lingering long after the animal passed from view. Young men with flapping shirtsleeves dodged in and out, hurrying to find work for the day. Scrawny dogs followed scents, and a young girl waved the grimy air away from her nose as her mother dragged her onwards.

  Old houses – survivors from the sacking of the city seventy-three years ago – lined the dirt road, which was furrowed with cart tracks and cracked for want of rain. A low cloud of dust shrouded feet and ankles.

  A family had chosen that day to move home. Their belongings spewed out of the door across the dirt, slowing people down and causing much head-shaking and muttering. Their donkey flicked its tail at the buzzing flies, occasionally catching one of the passers-by. A burly man lashed another chair onto the donkey’s already laden back and, in the midst of it all, the mother did her best to organise the swarming children into some kind of team.

  The crack of trampled wood brought a thunderous glare from the man and an apology from someone in the crowd. The two clerics took their turn in stepping around the chattels and the children.

  ‘Why do these people clutter their lives so?’ asked Pippe, openly staring at the jumble.

  ‘It is how they define themselves. The rich have land; the poor have knick-knacks.’ Bellarmine dabbed his forehead with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. On any other day he might have been amused by the young man’s annoyance.

  ‘Shouldn’t they turn to God for definition?’

  ‘They do that too.’

  They paused at a crossroads to allow a small cart to rumble by. Pulled by a slender boy, it was piled high with bolts of cheap cloth that not even the sun could brighten. Still, it was a start for him. Pippe tapped his foot impatiently, raising more dust. ‘I have read that the prisoner talks of the Earth moving through the heavens.’

  ‘We cannot burn him for that; the Church has no position on those teachings.’

  ‘But, Cardinal Bellarmine, the Bible talks of the Sun moving across the sky.’ He flung an arm upwards to the brilliant blue dome.

  The older man ignored the gesture and began walking once more. ‘I agree. The Sun’s motion is obvious. I have talked to Father Clavius of the Jesuits …’

  ‘The Jesuits.’ Pippe spoke the name as if it were a curse. ‘More layers of grey. Why must we continually seek their approval on matters that are so clearly black and white?’

  Bellarmine glanced around the crowd, satisfying himself that no one had taken any notice of the outburst. ‘We need the Jesuits,’ he told the younger cardinal. ‘Their missionaries are fearless. They are staunching the spread of Lutherism across Europe every day.’

  ‘But they seem more interested in natural philosophy than theology.’

  ‘Not all of them. But, since you mention it, natural philosophy is interwoven into our theology. It remains as it was handed down by Aristotle. The Lutherans attack us there because they think it’s our weak spot, but the Jesuits can defend us; their mathematicians are without equal. Are you old enough to remember when Pope Gregory ordered ten days of October to be dropped, to bring the calendar back in line with the seasons?’

  ‘I was twelve in 1582, of course I remember it,’ said Pippe wistfully. ‘How could I not remember it? My birthday falls on one of the days skipped that year. A hard lesson for a twelve year old who was left wondering if he’d have to wait another twelve months to turn thirteen.’

  ‘Father Clavius made those calculations,’ said Bellarmine. ‘The old way of calculating the length of a year had thrown Easter into confusion. Now, thanks to the Jesuit method, we have the most accurate calendar in the world, and the Luthe
rans are still arguing about whether to swallow their pride and adopt it. The Jesuits have put us ahead.’

  ‘And they know it. They’re arrogant. The Black Pope …’

  Bellarmine grabbed Pippe by the arm and dragged him to a nearby doorway. ‘Who have you heard call him that?’

  Pippe stared at Bellarmine.

  Bellarmine demanded again, but Pippe did not answer.

  ‘You refer to the head of the Jesuits as the Praepositus Generalis, never as the … that term,’ said Bellarmine.

  ‘But there are rumours he’s going behind our backs, advising the Pope privately, rather than working with the cardinals.’

  Bellarmine shook his head curtly. ‘Jesuit Catholicism is not in doubt.’

  ‘Are you afraid of them?’

  Bellarmine looked away. Eventually he said, ‘If the Church’s hierarchy is no longer simple, it is because times demand it. The Pope will always be the head, but the Jesuits are now the backbone.’

  Pippe lifted his chin. ‘Well, I don’t trust them.’

  ‘Stop talking, cardinal, before you say something that both of us will regret.’ Pippe frowned, then looked directly at Bellarmine. ‘You’re one of them …’

  Bellarmine nodded slowly, watching the effect of his admission. Pippe bit his lip. For a moment, it looked as if he might flee, but he controlled himself and stood his ground. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said meekly.

  ‘I say this as a friend, it’s better to have Jesuit respect than contempt. Now let us put this conversation behind us, along with this reeking doorway.’ Bellarmine cut back into the street, forcing Pippe to catch him up.

  ‘Now, as I was saying, I’ve spoken to Father Clavius, and he assures me the ideas of Copernicus that Giordano Bruno advocates are unworkable. Ingenious but unworkable. They require even more mathematics than the method they’re designed to replace, and their predictions for the positions of the planets are less accurate than traditional methods. The philosophers will reject Copernican ideas on those grounds alone. Of much greater concern are Giordano’s comments about Christ’s divinity. You have read the reports?’

  ‘Yes, cardinal. He believes that Christ was just a man skilled in the arts of magic.’

  Bellarmine nodded. That was only the start of it. Bruno also refuted the transubstantiation of the sacrament into the blood and body of Christ, and openly denied the Virgin birth. ‘His list of heresies is a long one. I’m afraid for him.’

  ‘Afraid for him? We should be afraid for Rome. We cannot risk another Martin Luther. The world still reels from his wickedness. Half of Europe’s Catholics cleaved off into Lutheran heresy because of his demonic vision.’

  ‘That, young man, is why I have to end this business with Giordano one way or another today.’

  The pair arrived at a quieter part of town. Though just a few turns from the main streets, the people had all but vanished, the hubbub dissolved in the soupy air. The calm was eerie, and Bellarmine shuddered as the gaol’s oak door scraped open.

  ‘Welcome, gentlemen, it’s not often we have such distinguished visitors.’ The gaoler fussed around them as if they were much loved dinner guests. Bellarmine remained silent as their host raised a flaming torch and led them down a flight of spiral steps. At a small doorway, the gaoler flicked his cape over his shoulder. ‘He won’t give you any trouble.’

  As he unlocked the door, Bellarmine crouched to peer into the dark cell. He could make out nothing, not even the dimensions of the silent room. Only the stink of an unwashed body betrayed the presence of someone inside.

  ‘You’ll need this,’ said the gaoler, handing him the torch.

  Bellarmine edged inside and stood up. Pippe craned to see over his shoulder. The floor was covered in straw, and the reek grew stronger.

  ‘Giordano, it is Robert Bellarmine.’

  There was no answer. Bellarmine called again.

  A coiled figure was discernible in a corner, and Bellarmine feared that he was too late, that Giordano had simply been left to rot. But the prisoner lifted a trembling hand to shield his face from the torchlight. His hair was a shoulder-length frizz of grey. His eyes were screwed shut like a newborn pup. It took a long time for them to open. Bellarmine waited. He could feel Pippe’s impatience behind him but only when Bruno’s eyes flickered with something that could have been recognition did Bellarmine speak again.

  ‘I understand what you must feel.’

  Giordano did not move.

  ‘These past seven years … I have come to know you, to love you. I want to save you.’ He offered the palm of his free hand to the prisoner, whose cracked lips began to move. His voice was a barely audible rasp.

  ‘Fetch me water,’ Bellarmine barked over his shoulder. There was a scuffling, followed by a damp wooden cup being thrust at him. He took the vessel with his free hand and held it to Bruno’s lips. Pippe removed the torch from his other hand. Bruno’s face was cast orange by the flames and his moving lips made words. ‘Set me free … I will teach my works.’

  ‘Your works are flawed. You cannot be set free until you let go of those beliefs,’ said Bellarmine. ‘Only Vatican theologians are permitted to interpret the Scriptures. Don’t make the same mistake as the Lutherans – translating the Bible into German so that any man can draw a conclusion. It leads to confusion and collapse. You should know that.’

  Bruno twitched.

  ‘You risk death if you do not recant. Time is running out.’

  ‘Then deliver me into God’s hands.’

  ‘Not God’s hands, Giordano. You risk damnation for your beliefs.’

  ‘The Devil will be saved too.’

  ‘That decides it,’ hissed Pippe. ‘Rank heresy.’

  Bellarmine lifted his hand to silence the younger cardinal.

  ‘The Devil is beyond salvation, Giordano,’ he said mildly. ‘Our greatest theologians tell us so. We cannot pick and choose what we believe. Authority is handed down from one echelon to the next, with all our beliefs flowing like a river from the fountain of God. This cannot be questioned; the Church derives its strength from unity. Do not trouble yourself with matters of interpretation. How can you achieve more than the legions of cardinals who have pored over the Holy Book for centuries and refined our understanding to perfection?’

  Bruno stared into the darkness.

  Bellarmine felt the stone in his chest grow heavier. He was unable to keep the pleading from his voice. ‘A simple recantation is all that we need from you, some act of sincere contrition. Otherwise you strike at the authority of the Church, and we cannot allow that.’

  Bruno’s eyes suddenly widened in the flickering light. Bellarmine’s breath quickened and he leaned closer. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have found God,’ whispered Bruno. ‘He is not some ethereal being but he is all around us, he is in everything …’

  Something dark stirred in Bellarmine. ‘No, Giordano, no. God stands away from his creation. You mustn’t …’

  ‘And the Holy Spirit? It is the very soul of the Earth beneath our feet.’

  The dread grew, overwhelming Bellarmine’s compassion. He locked eyes with Bruno. ‘You speak of the underworld, the Kingdom of Hell. I cannot allow you to place God there, Giordano.’

  ‘Kill me, cardinal, I invite it. I demand it. I will have the validation of knowing I was right – of taking my rightful place at God’s side. When the time comes for you to kneel before me, I will be ready with my judgement, ready to send you all to Hell.’

  There was no mockery in Bruno’s tone. Bellarmine fought for breath. He grasped at the stone wall and hauled himself upright, sucking the fetid air into his lungs. ‘You are insane, dangerously insane.’ He whirled to leave the cell, colliding with Pippe and the gaoler. Sparks flew from Pippe’s torch. ‘There can be no earthly redemption for this man.’ Bellarmine took the spiral steps two, three at a time, gathering his robes so as not to trip. His lungs screamed for fresh air. ‘We have no choice but to commit him to God’s mercy for final judgement.’ />
  A fortnight later, Bellarmine awoke with the first hints of dawn. For a while he watched the ochre shafts of light cross his room. The first wafts of incense from the chapels reached his nose. He rose to wash himself but something was wrong. The water, usually so refreshing, stung his face. He stared at his hands, and into the bowl beneath them, seeing the deep lines and bulbous nose of his rippling reflection.

  Then he remembered the day.

  He kneeled immediately by his bed, welcoming the jolt of pain as his aching knees struck the floor. He searched himself for remorse or doubt, or anything that would need atonement. He found none. He interlaced his bony fingers and dipped his head in prayer.

  There was a sharp rap on his door. Pippe’s face appeared. ‘Are you coming to the piazza after Matins?’

  Bellarmine swallowed, shook his head.

  Pippe began to protest but a sharp look silenced him. ‘As you wish.’ He withdrew.

  Bellarmine prayed for God to show mercy on Bruno’s soul, so close now to its release.

  After the morning’s formal prayers, Bellarmine arrived at his office, and was assailed by memories of the first time the condemned man had been brought to him: a boyish demeanour with Dominican fringe and an endearing warmth. And a naivety that had led to this disaster. He tried to banish the images by working, but concentration was a shy visitor that morning.

  Later, a dark twist of movement caught his eye. Breathing heavily, he rose to look out of the window. It was smoke, spiralling upwards from the market square. From this distance, it was impossible to tell if his request for a fast fire had been heeded. If it had, the fumes could well have overcome Bruno, sparing him the flames.

  The shouts of a cheering crowd drifted on the breeze. Bellarmine’s mouth dried. Pippe had been right; he should have been there at the end. In a better world, executions would be conducted in private, but, until that day, the jeering masses must bear witness, so that the warning could be carried onwards.

  Goodbye, Giordano, he mouthed, God receive you and bless you.