Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  Katharina silenced him with a look.

  ‘Sorry, mother. It’s just …’

  ‘I know. Don’t be afraid. That was a long time ago.’ She reached up to his shoulder. ‘I need your kitchen.’

  She did not wait for his answer before heading in its direction. Kepler trailed after her, to smooth things over with Frau Bezold.

  Katharina tied her stems into bunches and hung them in front of the window, where they could catch the strongest sunlight. ‘I’ll be back later.’

  Kepler and Bezold exchanged shrugs.

  In the evening, Katharina returned to the kitchen to complete her preparation. Before long she was carrying a bowl of liquid upstairs to Barbara. Its bitter steam reached Kepler’s nose.

  ‘Are you sure this is wise, mother?’

  ‘Trust me. It’s only motherwort and a few other things.’

  Barbara was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was cupping her heavy abdomen, gently stroking her thumbs up and down. Regina stood next to her, massaging between her mother’s shoulderblades.

  ‘Here you go, drink this.’ Katharina held the bowl so Barbara could see it. The pregnant woman’s eyes flitted to her husband.

  He nodded.

  When the bowl was inches from her mouth, she pulled a face. ‘It smells bitter.’

  ‘It’ll do you good,’ urged Katharina.

  Pinching her nose, Barbara sipped at the potion, taking bigger and bigger mouthfuls until it was all gone.

  ‘Now then, let’s get you back into bed,’ said Katharina, taking the empty bowl. ‘Help me, Regina.’

  Together they swung Barbara’s legs back onto the mattress, as she heaved herself up on her arms.

  That night, there were no sobs. The night after, Kepler heard Barbara laughing again.

  On the night of the birth, Kepler was buffeted by the agonising screams coming from upstairs and the constant bustle of women fetching cloths and water. Adrift, he wandered from room to room but nowhere could he find any peace of mind, not even in his study amid the piles of Tycho’s ledgers, which he had appropriated after his appointment by the Emperor.

  His suffering was finally broken in the early hours when the newborn’s cry echoed through the house. As he climbed the stairs, he became suddenly fearful of what might await him, and slowed his step.

  When he reached the bedroom, he tiptoed inside. The baby had quietened and was slumbering in Barbara’s fleshy arms. His wife’s round face was haggard, the first time Kepler could remember thinking of her in that way, and at the sight of him she started to cry.

  Regina delivered the news. ‘I have a sister,’ she told her stepfather with a delighted hug, her head resting just above his stomach.

  ‘Is she …?’ Kepler’s voice caught.

  Barbara held the baby for his inspection. ‘Husband, she is perfect.’

  He took the miniature form into his hands and stared into her face. Her eyes were tightly shut and her lips were pressed together. Her tiny hands bobbed. It was then that he understood that his wife’s tears were those of joy.

  ‘Let us call her Susanna,’ he said.

  ‘Dare we use that name again?’

  ‘She will be our constant reminder of God’s divine wisdom.’

  A few days later, a sharp rap on the front door sprang Kepler from an all too brief sleep. He felt as if the strength had been baked from him during the night. Susanna’s cries for food and Barbara’s complaints over the pain of suckling had not helped either.

  More ladies to welcome Susanna to the world.

  He straightened his jacket in preparation for playing host but upon entering the front room, he saw that it was Jessenius. Silhouetted at the window was a towering figure. The mountain of black fabric turned slowly.

  ‘I believe you two have corresponded with each other,’ said Jessenius. ‘This is Father Grienberger.’

  ‘Father Grienberger! My apologies, no one has bade you sit down. Please excuse my housemaid, she’s old and weak of mind. We must …’

  ‘It is of no concern. We are here to speak with you as friends, not to judge you on etiquette.’

  ‘My wife gave birth some days ago. We are still getting used to this joyous adjustment in our lives.’

  Grienberger smiled, an expression that did not sit comfortably beneath his enigmatic blue eyes. ‘We share your good news.’

  ‘It is why we’re here,’ Jessenius added, earning him a warning frown from Grienberger.

  Alerted, Kepler stared at the Jesuit. The moment threatened to become awkward but, thankfully, it was broken by Frau Bezold’s entrance. She set down a tray laden with goblets and a pitcher of wine on the table, and the men gathered round.

  Kepler served his guests with trembling hands and after some small talk about the heat, he asked, ‘How may I be of service to you today, gentlemen?’

  Grienberger inclined his head, not quite looking at Kepler. ‘It is a delicate matter.’

  ‘Are we not friends?’ asked Kepler, watching Jessenius closely.

  ‘We are concerned for your daughter,’ said Grienberger. ‘You are not known for fathering strong children and you know full well the peril to your daughter’s soul, should she pass away without being baptised.’

  Vertigo wheeled inside Kepler; he looked from Grienberger’s averted gaze to Jessenius. He too was studying the walls.

  ‘You are suggesting I baptise my daughter a Catholic.’

  ‘Lutheran services are outlawed. It is the only way.’

  ‘She is an innocent; her soul has nothing to fear.’

  ‘You forget; we are all born with Adam’s guilt on our shoulder.’

  ‘You need only look at her to know that she is pure.’

  ‘Even Luther believes in original sin.’

  ‘Then Luther is wrong.’

  The Jesuit cocked his head, drawing Kepler up sharply. A profound sorrow grew from nowhere to fill the astronomer completely. ‘I cannot baptise her a Roman Catholic.’

  ‘We would organise something quiet for you. No one need know.’

  ‘I cannot. I have taken the decision. Since my daughter cannot be Lutheran, she will be baptised Utraquist.’ The decision had cost him nights of sleep. He had contemplated smuggling the family out to one of the surrounding castles where it was said that Lutheran ministers were hiding. However, if he were to be caught he would certainly be replaced as imperial mathematician, and he could not risk another expulsion like Graz, not with a newborn. A Catholic baptism was out of the question; there was no way he could yield to the Pontiff; it would be an unthinkable betrayal of his upbringing and education, not to mention his personal conviction. God had given men minds to use, not to surrender them to blind obedience. To do so would be the equivalent of a farmhand refusing to lift a scythe. The only alternative was the Utraquists. At least by maintaining their own identity they had demonstrated some ability to stand up to Roman pressure.

  Kepler rose from his seat. ‘I thank you for your concern and I bid you both a good day.’

  Their exit was conducted in silence. As Kepler returned to the foot of the stairs, wondering what to tell Barbara about the encounter, he heard his mother’s indignant voice coming from the kitchen. From the sound of it, Frau Bezold was rising to the challenge.

  The two women were engaged in a tug of war over the remains of a shoulder of mutton. Some remnants of meat were all that hung from the bone.

  ‘It’s spoiled in the heat,’ Frau Bezold was saying.

  ‘You can cut that off.’

  Kepler raised his voice. ‘Mother, what are you doing?’

  She did not let go of the bone. ‘She’s going to waste this.’

  ‘It’s gone off,’ said Bezold.

  ‘Enough, the pair of you! Give me the bone.’

  Kepler held out his hand. After a moment, Bezold relinquished her grip and Katharina passed it to her son. Sure enough there was a green tinge to the scraps that remained.

  ‘This joint is spoiled. We cannot eat it.’r />
  ‘You were not brought up to live a wasteful life,’ accused Katharina.

  ‘Oh, mother, if only you knew how tightly our belts are tied. It is an effort just to get the salary that I was promised from the Palace. I spend most of my time chasing from one office to another, trying to find someone who won’t fob me off saying it isn’t their concern.’

  ‘But the Emperor said he would pay you.’

  ‘Yes, but the actual business of handing over the money is done by officials who are overwhelmed by the demands of their master.’

  ‘Then I will go up there tomorrow. I’ll make them pay up what they owe you.’

  ‘No, mother, you won’t. I can fight my own battles.’

  Crossing the bridge one morning, Kepler stopped to mop his brow and noticed six or seven feet of cracked mud beneath. The Vltava usually sloshed all the way up to the stone embankment. He had to stop several more times on his walk up Hradčany Hill. His best doublet and jerkin were too heavy for this weather, but what else could he wear to the Palace?

  A red-faced von Wackenfels was waiting for him, his blond hair newly cropped.

  ‘You’ve cut your hair.’

  ‘Vanity gave way to practicality.’ He ushered Kepler into the Palace and guided him to the grand hall, which was full of gentlemen fanning themselves with their hats.

  Kepler approached the vast windows in the great hall, thrown open to allow in what currently passed for fresh air, but the heat from the stone columns drove him back.

  ‘You look tired, my friend,’ said von Wackenfels. ‘Are the demands of fatherhood testing your resolve?’

  ‘It’s this constant business of visits. I had no idea my wife was so widely known in Prague. She has amassed a veritable army of friends. Each one must be treated with such cordiality on arrival and exit that it drains my time.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you have completed the prognostications?’ Von Wackenfels sounded anxious.

  ‘Indeed, I have.’ Kepler patted the documents, tied into a sheaf. ‘It is The Rudolphine Tables that are falling behind. But I’ll catch up.’ He passed the documents to von Wackenfels.

  ‘I have another issue to discuss,’ said Kepler. ‘My salary is now three months in arrears.’

  Von Wackenfels grimaced. He leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘I am sorry, my friend. These are difficult times for the Emperor’s finances. We are pressed from all sides. The presentation of this should help though.’ He waved the horoscope. ‘Nothing loosens the imperial purse more than a gift.’

  ‘Is there nothing that can be done today?’

  Von Wackenfels considered the problem for a moment. ‘Listen, I have a surfeit of wine. I’ll have some brought round to you.’

  ‘I don’t want charity.’

  ‘It isn’t charity. It’s a gift while I see what I can do on your behalf. You must drink in this heat; my wine will help.’

  Kepler nodded his thanks.

  ‘You’re not the only one who hasn’t been paid.’ Von Wackenfels tipped his eyes across the room.

  Striding towards them from the inner chamber was Tengnagel and a number of hangers-on.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ whispered Kepler.

  ‘He is an Appellate Councillor now.’

  Tengnagel’s heels clicked on the flagstones. As he drew close, Kepler noticed that a crucifix was bound around his belt. Flanked by his cronies, the Junker stopped, raised his chin and looked down his long nose.

  ‘Herr Kepler.’ He sounded cross.

  ‘Junker Tengnagel. You have exchanged astronomy for politics.’

  ‘Where are the great and illustrious observations of my father-in-law?’

  ‘In my study, at home, where I can work on them.’

  ‘And who gave you permission to remove them from the Golden Griffin?’

  ‘The Emperor purchased them from you and commanded me to produce the tables.’

  ‘The Emperor has not paid me so they are still mine. That means you stole them from me.’

  Von Wackenfels stepped in. ‘You have been paid some money.’

  ‘A thousand thaler, which is no more than the interest on the debt. I want my father-in-law’s observations back.’

  ‘I cannot go against an imperial command. I will not hand them over.’

  Tengnagel smirked. ‘Then I propose a deal, since you are using my observations. Everything you do with them must be published under our joint names.’

  Kepler stilled his first instinct, thought about it, and then spoke: ‘I agree, on one condition: that you pay me a quarter of all interest monies you receive for the observations. Two hundred and fifty thaler per annum – a small price to pay for immortality, wouldn’t you say?’

  Tengnagel’s brow knotted. He pointed at Kepler. ‘Your impudent greed knows no bounds. You’ll get nothing from me. Prepare the ledgers. Someone will be round to collect them this afternoon.’

  Kepler was left standing open-mouthed, unsure how this disaster could so suddenly have befallen him.

  ‘I’m sure we can do something,’ said von Wackenfels.

  Kepler was not listening. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Johannes, wait!’

  ‘I have no time,’ he shouted over his shoulder, drawing stares from the others as he sped out of the hall.

  Von Wackenfels caught up. ‘At least let me pay for a carriage for you.’

  When Kepler burst through the front door, Barbara was nursing Susanna in the coolness of the shadows. She jumped from her seat. ‘Husband! You gave me a start.’

  ‘Take Susanna upstairs. I have no time to lose.’

  As she scurried away, he separated the Mars ledgers from the others and laid them in a stack in strict chronological order. They comprised a tiny fraction of the whole collection. If he were lucky, Tengnagel’s men wouldn’t notice they were missing. He checked to make sure he had them all and then carried them five at a time to the attic, setting them on the floor of his temporary bedroom.

  On one trip Katharina appeared. ‘What’s all this running up and down?’

  ‘I have no time to explain, mother. Please, stay out of sight.’

  She shrank back into her bedroom.

  When the last trip was completed, he heaved the mattress off the bed and laid the books in a single layer across the wooden frame. Eyes stinging with sweat, he pulled the mattress back over them and rearranged the covers.

  He finished just as the bailiffs arrived, instantly recognisable by their rhythmic thumping on the front door.

  15

  1604

  The carriage rumbled through the night, bumping across the Stone Bridge. Inside, Kepler tried to rub some life into his eyes, which not ten minutes ago had been shut tightly in sleep. As well as playing havoc with his rest, these late night summonses irked Barbara, and with good reason, thought Kepler. They woke Susanna who then toddled around the house, behaving as if it were morning.

  The Emperor demanded more and more attention these days, commanding reports or horoscopes whenever a whim entered his head. Lately it had been the nativity chart of Caesar Augustus; then one for Mohammed; followed by the fate – according to the stars – of the Turkish kingdom; and a prophesy on the outcome of a fight between the Republic of Venice and the Pope. The list was never-ending.

  Kepler sniffed loudly, trying to clear his nose. He swallowed down the foul-tasting stuff and yawned as the carriage started up the hill to the Palace. When they reached the courtyard, a bleary-eyed footman opened the door.

  Von Wackenfels was waiting, shifting from one foot to the other.

  ‘What is the urgency?’ asked Kepler, dismounting.

  ‘You don’t know? There’s a new star in the sky.’

  Kepler looked up. It was thick with cloud.

  ‘The Imperial Meteorologist reported it earlier, before it became overcast.’

  ‘A meteorologist?’ Kepler struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He knew he was being uncharitable but, at this time of night, he found being grum
py helped, especially if he thought he had been woken for nothing.

  Von Wackenfels frowned at him. ‘He’s no fool. He and the Emperor are up there now, waiting for it to clear.’

  As they hurried along one black corridor after another, Kepler finally recognised the mural of the god Jupiter above the entrance to Rudolph’s Chamber of Art. They hastened inside.

  ‘Johannes, you should know that the Emperor is not himself these days. He has a lot on his mind. Having not married, he leaves no heir.’

  ‘He’s only fifty-two.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he feels time is running short.’

  ‘Then he will be succeeded by his brother.’

  ‘Yes, Matthias is the obvious choice. He is well regarded by the rest of the family and has a fine military mind, but he has been so antagonistic towards His Majesty that the Emperor would prefer to be succeeded by his cousin.’ Von Wackenfels hesitated before saying the name. ‘Archduke Ferdinand of Styria.’

  Kepler’s insides churned. ‘The man who exiled me from Graz.’

  Von Wackenfels nodded.

  They climbed the tower and returned to the night air.

  Rudolph was dressed in little more than his nightshirt and a gown. He looked thin and was tottering on tiptoes, moving from one parapet to another, anxiously scanning the sky. His hair was unruly. He mumbled something as von Wackenfels announced Kepler’s arrival.

  The Meteorologist was a young man with an earnest face. He wore a long cloak and stayed fixed in his position, watching the voluminous clouds. ‘It was in this part of the sky, brilliant bright and sparkling with colour,’ he said to Kepler.

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Jupiter? It’s bright, though it doesn’t twinkle.’

  ‘It was close to Jupiter, sir, but it was not that planet.’ He radiated sincerity.

  They waited together as Rudolph flitted around behind them, saying something in Latin that Kepler could not catch. The rest of them passed few words. After an hour, an unmistakable dampness rose in the air.

  ‘If it turns misty, we are finished tonight,’ said Kepler.

  ‘There!’ The meteorologist was leaning over the edge, pointing to the sky. ‘It’s clearing.’