by Stuart Clark
He knocked and led Pippe inside to where Father Clavius was waiting behind a desk strewn with papers. The Professor of Mathematics radiated concern. His squat body comfortably filled the chair, and his snowy beard lined a square jaw. Below his black biretta, his brow was pinched into deep furrows.
‘I don’t know you,’ said Clavius in his age-deepened voice, staring past Bellarmine.
‘This is Cardinal Pippe, recently appointed to the Inquisition offices,’ said Bellarmine.
Clavius cocked his head, ‘Dominican?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pippe answered with an unusual lack of volume.
‘Thank you both for coming over to see me. Please be seated.’ The visitors settled into ornate wooden chairs, carved with griffin heads. ‘As this is a day for introductions, let me present Father Grienberger.’
Next to him stood a giant of a man in black Jesuit robes. He was perhaps a decade older than Pippe, with an unreadable expression that Bellarmine found both compelling and unnerving in equal measures. He remained standing.
‘Father Grienberger has distinguished himself in mathematics. I dare say he will follow me into this very chair when my time comes.’
Grienberger’s face betrayed nothing.
‘Good. Let us proceed to the matter in hand.’ Atop the various manuscripts and letters on Clavius’s desk was a leather-bound book. Its cover bore the marks of repeated readings. Clavius placed a liver-spotted hand on it, as if taking an oath. ‘We hear from Prague that a Lutheran astronomer called Johannes Kepler has recently become an assistant to Tycho Brahe, the Imperial Mathematician to Rudolph II.’
‘Why should this concern us?’ asked Bellarmine.
‘Kepler is a supporter of Copernicus,’ said Clavius.
Pippe snorted, his trepidation forgotten. ‘Can the Lutherans reach any lower? This desire to claim the heavens for human reason is abominable. To lower the planets to the realm of human wit is to diminish God’s glory. Why do we even discuss it?’
Bellarmine eyed Clavius. ‘I am wondering the same thing,’ he said. ‘I thought the ideas of Copernicus were unworkable.’
Clavius scratched his brow. ‘Father Grienberger, please explain.’
‘Kepler is an original thinker. He came to our attention because of his book, the Mysterium Cosmographicum.’ He indicated the tome beneath Clavius’s fingers. ‘It’s the first worthwhile defence of Copernicanism to be published. It’s still unworkable, but Kepler has made advances in the way he treats the movement of the planets. Shortly after I saw this book, Hans Hewart von Hohenburg, the Bavarian Chancellor, contacted me with some questions of chronology. I placed him in correspondence with Kepler, to test the Lutheran’s mathematical abilities.’
Bellarmine’s shoulders were growing tight. ‘And …’
‘He solved everything Hewart asked of him. He is a mathematician without equal in the Lutheran Church, maybe in the whole world. Now that he has access to Tycho Brahe’s measurements, he may surprise us and provide better predictions for the planetary positions than the traditional Ptolemaic method.’
‘Have you discussed this with the Praepositus Generalis?’
Clavius fidgeted. ‘Not yet, we wanted your theological advice first.’
‘There is more,’ said Grienberger. ‘Tycho has observations of other celestial phenomena that cannot be explained by the traditional ways of thinking. He observed a comet in 1577 that moved through the crystal spheres.’
‘Wait! Ptolemaic method? Crystal spheres? You speak another language,’ said Pippe.
‘Aristotle tells us that the heavens are composed of crystal spheres. The first major one contains the Moon, the second Mercury, then Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn. The eighth is the sphere where the fixed stars are located. Beyond this is the realm of the Prime Mover, which turns the whole arrangement to give us night and day. In addition to this movement, each crystal sphere has a movement of its own, which is why the planets travel across the sky at different speeds from each other and the stars. Ptolemy provided the mathematical recipe to calculate the position of the planets from the movement of the spheres.’
‘Yet you say this comet moved through the crystal spheres,’ said Bellarmine.
‘How? How can it pass through them?’ demanded Pippe, sliding to the edge of his seat.
‘We do not know,’ said Grienberger impassively.
‘Then, Father Grienberger, you must be mistaken. They must be atmospheric phenomena. Change is possible only beneath the Moon’s sphere, where the perfect ether is corrupted by human sin and wickedness.’
‘We can find no error in Brahe’s work.’
‘Pah,’ spat Pippe.
Bellarmine looked at Clavius. ‘Is Tycho within our control?’
The Professor shook his head. ‘His attendance at Church has lapsed.’
‘Does the Emperor not insist that his Mathematician attends Mass? What did we do to deserve Rudolph II?’ Bellarmine rolled his eyes.
‘There is one hope,’ said Clavius, looking again at Grienberger.
‘Through their correspondence, Hewart and Kepler have become friends. The Chancellor now sees himself as something of a patron; so much so that Kepler sends all his letters through Hewart’s personal courier,’ said Grienberger.
‘We could read them while they are en route,’ cut in Pippe. ‘A Lutheran writing to Catholics is surely a matter for the Inquisition.’
Bellarmine nodded. ‘It would seem a prudent move.’
Clavius straightened his posture. ‘Father Bellarmine, I know modesty would forbid you from acknowledging this, but you are the Church’s foremost theologian; you are also a Jesuit.’ The old eyes flicked to Pippe and back. ‘You may wish to clarify your thinking in this matter. If a change to Aristotelian ideas is necessary, we cannot be caught unprepared – especially if it comes from a Lutheran camp. We must know if the Scriptures contain any room for reinterpretation.’
Bellarmine met Clavius’s eyes. There was something fearful in them. ‘I will ponder as you ask but do not be falsely hopeful. The Scriptures are quite clear in this regard: the Earth is at rest in the centre of the Universe.’
7
Benátky, Bohemia
There was little free time in Tycho’s household. Kepler was permanently exhausted and his giddy spells were on the increase, too. In addition to the nightly observing sessions, there were meetings to attend, maintenance to perform and, of course, meals to endure. Meanwhile, the Mars data lay unworked like a gemstone waiting to be cut. The need to be with the figures crowded his thoughts. Every day, every meaningless chore around the household served only to increase the craving within him. And all the time, Tycho went about with his usual bombast, convinced that the act of observation was the performance, when Kepler knew it just marked the arrival of the players. The music would only come once the observations had been fashioned into a score.
Kepler skipped breakfast one morning to set down his terms of work. It was the only way forwards. Once Tycho had agreed, then progress with the data could be made. He had completed the first draft and was just dusting it with blotting powder when Longomontanus returned from the dining hall.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ said Kepler, swivelling from the small desk next to his cot. ‘Will you negotiate on my behalf with Tycho?’
The senior assistant looked bemused.
Kepler offered the sheet. ‘I have written out my requirements but I would ask that you not show the actual document to Tycho, simply discuss its contents with him.’
Longomontanus hesitated but took the piece of paper. He scanned it, sucking air through his teeth. ‘No one has ever demanded so much before.’
‘Because Tycho has never needed anyone as badly before.’
‘I cannot represent you. You need to find another negotiator.’
‘But who else can I trust?’
Longomontanus placed the piece of paper onto Kepler’s desk. ‘It would be better for me if you forgot that you showed me your demand
s. I want no part of this negotiation.’
Kepler sighed. ‘Very well, I will solve Mars and then approach Tycho myself.’
That night, Kepler found it impossible to concentrate on the observations. No matter how hard the stars called for his attention, the Mars data sang more loudly. The only blessing about being on the roof was that the cold air soothed his fever, parting the fog in his mind.
A quick glance around the sky told him that his illness was probably far from over. Jupiter was shining high in the sky, raining down its influence, clawing at his liver and throwing his humours out of balance. Sitting firmly among the stars of Aries, the alignment conspired to attack his thinking. Worst of all it could last months; Jupiter would continue to creep across the sky. Only with the rise of Leo in the spring, might he hope for some strength to return.
Camomile – he must find camomile in the kitchen, and sage too. Yes, cooling camomile and purifying sage. A poultice about his forehead should balance him enough to work. Better still, a sage balsam rubbed into his torso.
It occurred to him that once he had achieved his goal and described the motion of the planets, the next step would be to understand why they moved and then how their influence propagated across space. If he could understand that, perhaps it would be possible to build a shield to bounce the celestial forces back into space – though only the ruinous ones, of course. Perhaps roofs could be made in this way and people could wear protective hats to banish illness …
Longomontanus called out an observation from the other side of the sextant, startling Kepler, who asked for it to be repeated and then fought the numbing ache in his fingers to record the figures. But the act felt meaningless, like collecting raindrops instead of swimming in the ocean. Any literate person could do this work, but only he could solve the shape of the Martian orbit.
In his head, he tried juggling the planet’s observations. He had been shown so few that he had memorised them easily, despite the fever. Now, he could rearrange them at will and search for their hidden meaning.
‘Johannes, I’m talking to you,’ Longomontanus hissed. The assistants never raised their voices on the roof. It was as if they feared alerting the stars to their vigil. ‘Declination: thirty-four degrees, twenty-five arcminutes.’
‘It’s no good,’ Kepler said, letting his arm fall to his side, all pretence of standing with the notebook at the ready forgotten. ‘When did an architect ever lay the stones himself?’
Longomontanus unbent himself from the instrument and pressed his hands into the small of his back. ‘You misunderstand. In Tycho’s castle we are cogs, not wheels.’
‘I’m sorry. I have to go and work.’ He did not wait for an answer but thrust the notebook at his companion and dodged the other instruments and assistants on his way to the stairway.
A few sparse torches lit the corridor beneath. As Kepler threaded his way from one pool of shivering brightness to the next, he heard the sound of hushed voices, some way ahead. The urgency of their tone halted him, and he sank into the shadows.
It was Tengnagel and Elisabeth, Tycho’s eldest daughter. They were whispering and pawing each other. Tengnagel seized her by the arm and drew her close, pressing his mouth against hers.
Caught between disgust and fascination, Kepler watched the urgent fumbling of their hands upon each other. As their kissing reached its crescendo, she pushed him away and giggled breathlessly before slipping through a doorway. Kepler knew that he should move before he was discovered. Inadvertently his feet shuffled on the gritty stone.
Tengnagel was on the verge of following Elisabeth inside when the noise caught his attention. ‘Who’s there?’
Kepler flattened himself against the dark wall.
Tengnagel challenged again, this time drawing a small sword.
At the sight of the blade, Kepler stepped into the orange light and locked eyes with the younger man. Wordlessly Tengnagel sheathed his sword, reached for Elisabeth’s door and pulled it shut. Turning on his heels, he marched away, tossing his hair.
Once safely inside his room, Kepler wrote out the memorised observations of Mars. Individually each coordinate held a glimmer of meaning; taken together they were loaded with significance.
They were the coordinates of Mars for the planet’s last ten oppositions. During an opposition – according to Copernicus – Earth caught up with Mars and lapped it like an Olympian on an inside track. When this happened, every 780 days, Mars appeared to backtrack in the sky before resuming its onward motion.
Kepler toyed with the numbers, deciding on the best way to attack them tonight. At opposition Earth and Mars were at their closest, with the Sun banished to the opposite side of the sky. So, these figures provided excellent starting points for his analysis. Yet, without the observations in between, all he really possessed were a few guard towers but no walls from which to build a citadel. Nonetheless, it was a start.
Longomontanus arrived as the sky began to blush with the dawn. His movements were laboured, more befitting a man of twice his age. ‘Progress?’ he asked flatly.
‘Some,’ said Kepler. ‘I need a full set of observations, from one opposition to another.’
Longomontanus rolled his eyes. ‘How many times must I say this? I can show you only what the Master has allowed. Now I must sleep.’ He closed the wooden shutters over the window, encasing the apartment in gloom, and then dropped to his bed where he was soon breathing evenly.
Kepler retreated to his own bed, frustrated and annoyed. It set the pattern for the rest of the week.
8
The noises started early as the servants rose to light fires and begin the breakfast preparations. A little later, the sounds of the other assistants rousing themselves after too little sleep would come from the neighbouring rooms. What began as soft voices and footsteps on the stone would inevitably rise into the occasional shout or burst of laughter. Sooner or later, someone would drop something, and Kepler would wake up.
But on this particular day, sleep gripped him more tenaciously than usual.
‘Johannes, you’ve overslept.’ Longomontanus was rocking his shoulder.
‘I cannot …’
‘You must get up. The Master is asking for you.’
‘What can he be thinking? I was up again all night working for him.’
‘There are strict timetables here, you know that.’
Kepler managed to hoist himself to a sitting position. He was hot and shivery, his face swollen with phlegm. Longomontanus stepped back from the stale air that escaped the bed.
‘I’m unwell,’ said Kepler.
‘It makes no difference.’
Struggling for breath, Kepler pushed himself to his feet and reached for his clothes. He fumbled a few buttons shut on his jacket but left the doublet on the chair. He still wore yesterday’s hose, so had only to slide his breeches up his legs. He teetered to his feet.
Tycho was waiting for him downstairs, in conversation with Tengnagel. As Kepler approached, they stopped talking.
‘It has been eight days, Johannes. You owe me an orbit of Mars.’
‘You raise me from my sickbed to mock me?’
‘It was you who made the wager.’
It took Kepler a moment to realise that Tycho was walking away. He forced his aching legs to follow. Tengnagel brought up the rear, making his presence felt only by the confident rhythm of his footsteps.
They reached Tycho’s study and went inside. It was a messy place with piles of letters abandoned on the desk and burned-out candle stubs on the mantelpiece, their spent wax hanging like stalactites above the hearth. Tycho reached for a metal pitcher on a table and sloshed wine into three silver goblets. ‘You look dreadful, drink something.’
It was not until Kepler raised the goblet to his lips that he realised how thirsty he was. He drank deeply, comprehending too late that this was not the watered-down stuff usually served at breakfast.
‘Remember, I talked to you of trust.’
Kepler set dow
n the goblet, nodded stiffly.
‘Tengnagel tells me that you met with The Bear in Prague.’
‘He accosted me.’
‘Quite.’
Kepler glanced at Tengnagel, then back at Tycho. ‘Sir, you must not confuse a chance encounter with sympathy.’
‘You have been a supporter of his in the past,’ said Tycho.
‘How I regret the inane letter I once wrote. Sir, you must forgive me for my naivety.’
‘I wonder if the same thinking applies to me?’
Kepler fought a surge of annoyance. ‘There is no one I hold in higher esteem. If you are the king of astronomy, I would willingly be your knight, to stand and serve beside you.’
‘Yet you distance yourself from the work here, preferring to isolate yourself in private studies.’
‘I work on Mars, the task you set me. We both know I am the one to fashion your harvest into a feast.’
‘The task of which you speak would take any single man a decade or more to complete. I need a workforce to split the load and I expect you to be part of that.’
‘You need no workforce to craft this vision. You just need to allow me a key to the ledger room. I must have access to your measurements – all of them.’
‘Then what? You’ll solve it all in another eight days?’
Kepler looked away, drumming his fingers against his thigh.
‘Did we not discuss the very observations you seek over dinner yesterday?’
‘What? When you mentioned the apogee of Mars in passing, then the position of the nodes in between mouthfuls. Am I to grab these titbits in the same way your tiny fool waits for bones? You think I’ll be satisfied with that? How little you know of my intellectual providence.’
Tycho’s face turned crimson. ‘From a man whose father was a mercenary and whose mother was a witch! You would do well to remember in whose house you are standing.’
‘And you would do well to remember who you are talking to. I am God’s witness to the heavenly structure. I am the only man in Europe to unfold his design.’
