Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  ‘Indeed, it is, but I want more. Let me ask you this: do you really believe in your new astronomy? Or is it just a mathematical trick?’

  ‘I believe most truthfully that God has revealed the working of his heavens to me. When I contemplate the stars, I find God – something I cannot say to be true when I look around Earth. Years ago, a new star appeared near Jupiter and Saturn. I witnessed it from the roof of the Imperial Palace and wondered what new age it foretold. I now believe that when this war is over, we will enter an age of reason, an age when mankind will step beyond superstition and investigate the natural world with rationality. We will believe nothing unless it can be measured or observed.’

  ‘Then shall we throw away our beliefs in the horoscopes altogether?’

  ‘Perhaps, but we must be careful. There are effects coming from the stars that we can measure. The tide ebbs and flows in response to the Moon. The planets circulate in response to the Sun. If the mighty oceans are moved by forces from space, so too – surely – must the fragile human soul. Perhaps we just do not yet have the means with which to measure such subtleties.’

  ‘How do you spread this wisdom?’

  ‘I’ve written many books to explain my insights and the technical details of how to derive my planetary laws. Now I must bring it all together in one volume. The man who originally taught me Copernicus has turned his back on it. Mästlin’s book, Epitome Astronomiae, is the standard text in all universities yet it expounds the old ways of thinking. And he’s not updated it in decades to include my work. So, I will write my own Epitome, that of Copernican astronomy, and distribute it. Once people see that and start using The Rudolphine Tables, they will see the accuracy of it, and appreciate its simplicity, its elegance.’

  ‘And how will you do that when you’re being chased from one city to another by Ferdinand’s Protestant witch hunt?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. You yourself are an architect of that witch hunt.’

  The General shook his head. ‘I’m a military man. I fight armies, not individuals.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I could provide you with a printing press. No more struggling to find a publisher. Would that interest you?’

  ‘Of course, but I’m wise enough to know there will be a price attached.’

  Wallenstein laughed. ‘I said you were shrewd. The price is that you become one of my advisors. Money and power interest me. Art and science interest you. We are perfectly matched. Each needs the other yet neither will admit it. I can supply you with a place to live in peace, under my protection. In exchange, you can supply me with some of your shrewd judgement.’

  ‘Are you offering me patronage?’

  ‘Patronage and protection. No one has ever known what to do with you: not Rudolph; not Matthias; and certainly not Ferdinand. They’ve all tried to control you because of your religious beliefs. But I know exactly what to do: protect you and then leave you alone. Your beliefs are of no concern to me. You need no stick and no carrot to work. You are the prophet of the new age. I’ll give you my offer in writing. It will mean that you move to Sagan, in Silesia. You’ll have to adapt to a new country and a new language, but you’ll be free to work on whatever you wish. Think on it. There’s a place for you and your family there, if you’d like it.’

  The messenger rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a sheet of parchment, covered in writing. Kepler accepted the document, read the words. They reiterated everything Wallenstein had said. This was not how Kepler had imagined this day unfolding at all.

  He looked from face to face, hoping to see some flicker that would guide his decision. Perhaps the guarded smirk of a trap about to be sprung, or the eager twitch of duplicity.

  But Wallenstein and his men met his gaze, their faces unreadable. Either they were master bluffers, or possibly – just possibly – they were telling the truth. Either way, this was Kepler’s decision alone.

  He thought of Susanna and the children having to pack up and move when all they had known was Linz. He was the nomad, not them. They were comfortable in the house even though the city was becoming increasingly dangerous. Could he start again at fifty-six, or rather fifty-seven, as he would be two days after Christmas? It was a daunting prospect, but as he identified that shadowy feeling, so a spark kindled inside him to chase it away. It was the same glow of excitement he used to feel when contemplating the future. In his mind’s eye he could see his completed textbook, feel it in his hands. He should really go home and discuss this all with Susanna. Instead, he looked at Wallenstein.

  ‘I accept.’

  33

  Rome, Papal States

  1632

  Pippe knew something was going to happen. He could feel it in the same way he sensed a coming thunderstorm during August: by the pricking of the hairs on the back of his neck. What he could not sense was whether it would help his own agenda in today’s meeting.

  The seventy cardinals sat in a horseshoe formation in the large meeting hall, along with the various Vatican ambassadors visiting Rome. Their papers were placed on the tables in front of them. Their voices echoed from the bare marble. The canny ones heeded those reflections as warnings. Whenever they could hear themselves rebounding from the walls, it was time to calm down.

  Not so the Vatican ambassador to Spain.

  The voice of Ambassador Borgia issued from his pudding face to bounce around the room, while he threaded his fingers into his sandy hair. ‘You are more interested in shoring up your own power here than you are in helping our Spanish brothers reconvert Northern Europe,’ he accused Pope Urban.

  There was a murmur of dissent from the cardinals, even from some of the other ambassadors, not because what Borgia was saying was untrue but simply because it was unwise to voice it.

  ‘Borgia …’ began one of the elder cardinals.

  ‘No, I will not keep quiet. King Philip is spending his fortune making sure the Catholics of the North can press the war to their advantage. What is our own Pope doing to help? Nothing.’

  ‘That is enough,’ said a shrill voice. Pippe’s eyes darted to its source. It was the Pope’s nephew, Cardinal Francesco Barberini. The face beneath the tight curly hair was drawn.

  Pippe caught the thrill of knowing what was about to happen. Barberini was going to break. Pippe could see it in the way the young man had his hands pressed palm down on the tabletop, arms rigid.

  Sure enough, Barberini jumped to his feet, sending his chair flying.

  ‘What about the Spanish manoeuvres in Naples?’ He aimed an accusatory finger as if it were a musket barrel. ‘If fighters are needed in the North, why does King Philip build up his military presence on our very borders? You forgot to tell us of this. Perhaps we have a right to be wary of Spain. Perhaps we have a right to question your loyalty.’

  Now Borgia shot upwards, too. ‘Of what do you accuse me?’

  The two men rushed at each other, as the others stared dumbly, paralysed by shock. The doors burst open, and the Swiss Guards ran in. Pippe was impressed by their speed. He always thought of them as little more than ornaments yet in seconds their wiry frames had separated the brawlers with crossed halberds.

  Breaking the stunned silence that settled over the room, the Pope spoke: ‘That’s enough for today.’

  His voice gave the impression of control, but Pippe could hear the quaver beneath betraying temper, perhaps fright. It was rumoured that Urban lived in fear of Spanish assassins and had taken to employing food-tasters.

  The cardinals and ambassadors gathered their papers and scuttled away like schoolchildren dismissed from class. Pippe dallied, undecided about whether to join them or press ahead with his plan. When he found himself the last in the room, the decision was made for him.

  The Pope raised his head. ‘Cardinal Pippe? What troubles you?’

  ‘Your Holiness, it’s Galileo. His new book …’

  ‘His Dialogues? It’s the most eagerly anticipated book of astronomy.’

  ‘Although it pains me to say it, he uses the work
to attack traditional thinking and …’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with modernity.’

  ‘… and to assert absolutely that the Earth moves.’

  Pippe saw the words strike Urban.

  ‘And how does he do that?’ The Pope attempted to sound nonchalant.

  ‘He spends a great deal of the book discussing why the ebb and flow of the tides prove conclusively that the Earth moves through space – an argument I need not remind you has been rejected as utterly false by the Roman College.’

  Urban pushed himself from the throne, walked to the window and stared outwards with his hands clasped behind his white robes. Pippe held himself motionless, wondering what else he should be saying.

  ‘Send me this book. I will have it read to me,’ said Urban.

  ‘It is five hundred pages long.’

  ‘Five hundred pages? It would take me a feast every day for a month to get through it.’ Urban turned to face the cardinal, ‘I want it read by three others; they must decide Galileo’s intention with this work.’

  ‘Yes, Your Holiness.’ Pippe found it difficult not to smile before he was safely out of sight.

  A week later, Pippe returned to the audience chamber carrying the assessment. Urban edged forwards as he listened to the conclusion.

  ‘We think that Galileo may have overstepped his instructions by asserting absolutely the Earth’s motion and the Sun’s immobility, thus deviating from hypothesis,’ read Pippe carefully. ‘Your Holiness, we must now consider how to proceed against Galileo and the book.’

  Urban’s gaze drifted from Pippe. ‘How is one supposed to proceed in such a matter? When Galileo visited me, we spoke of his writing this book. Perhaps I even urged him to write it.’

  ‘This might help.’ Pippe produced another sheet of writing, recapturing Urban’s attention. ‘It’s the edict from 1616, issued to Galileo by Cardinal Bellarmine, may he rest in peace. It clearly states that Galileo was forbidden to hold, defend or to teach, in any way, the Copernican doctrine. In any way, Your Holiness.’ Pippe’s eyes fixed upon the Pope. ‘Just by discussing this book with you, he was breaking the law.’

  ‘No, there must be some other explanation. Galileo must have misunderstood Bellarmine.’

  Why was he being so stubborn? Pippe tugged his bottom lip, thinking hard. ‘Your Holiness, I believe that Galileo has mocked you in his pages.’

  ‘Ridiculous. It is a work of philosophy.’

  ‘Your Holiness, with all respect …’

  ‘Today is not the day for scheming, Cardinal Pippe. Explain yourself.’

  Pippe tensed; he should have rehearsed this. He hung his head in imitation of a penitent. ‘The book is a dialogue between three people. Salviati is a thinly disguised version of Galileo, spouting Copernican nonsense at every opportunity. Sagredo is supposedly neutral but sides with Salviati. Then there is the bastion of tradition and ancient reason; the spokesperson for our way of life. Painted here as an imbecile, even in name. He is called Simplicio.’

  ‘Simplicio?’

  ‘Your Holiness, it is my most humble opinion that Galileo has cast you in the role of Simplicio. The similarity of the name to that of simpleton is one you hardly need a Jesuit intellect to recognise. Galileo did not write the book in Latin but in Italian for the common man. He is claiming to all that he is your intellectual superior.’

  Urban’s eyes were unblinking. Pippe felt uncomfortable under their hardening glare and willed himself to keep talking. ‘Is it not your belief that God’s will is greater than any man’s imagination? Therefore how a man chooses to interpret nature can never be held up as true?’

  Urban nodded tightly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Allow me to read to you the words of Simplicio, his last line of defence, once Salviati has supposedly beaten him in all other argument. He appeals to God’s omnipotence: it would be excessive boldness for anyone to limit and restrict the Divine power and wisdom to some particular fancy of his own. Your Holiness, Galileo has placed your very philosophy in the mouth of a simpleton. Can there be a greater insult?’ Pippe regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He had gone too far, he was sure of it. He began to feel cold and clammy.

  When the Pope finally spoke, it was quietly, as if he were organising his thoughts. ‘Betrayed by a man I sought to make an ally, a man whose intellect I respected. And all the while he was making sport with me. Cast me as a fool, would he?’

  For a moment, Pippe thought Urban was going to cry. The Pontiff raised his hands to his head and rocked back and forth. Presently he lifted his face to stare at Pippe again; all traces of self-pity erased.

  ‘Fetch him to Rome at once. He will answer for this.’

  34

  Linz, Upper Austria

  1627

  Wooden blocks had been placed behind the wagon’s wheels, and for the last hour two industrious drivers had packed it with clothes and chattels. They had fitted everything together like some giant puzzle and topped it off with Kepler’s writing desk, upturned so that its legs resembled chimneys. Now, they were making their last inspection of the ropes holding everything in place.

  Kepler dodged between them, performing his own investigation. Try as he might, there was no way he could squeeze in the armillary sphere he was holding. He attempted to balance it in the far corner but realised that the first pothole would send it bouncing from the wagon. Reluctantly he retrieved it and carried it back into the house.

  ‘We’ll have to leave this one behind until we can send for the last of our things,’ he said.

  Susanna was crouched in the hall, fastening Fridmar’s jacket. ‘I never realised just how many possessions we’ve accumulated. Do we really need all of them?’

  ‘I’ll be sure to remind you of that the first time you ask me where something is.’ Kepler set down the sphere, running his hands across its filigreed surface.

  Susanna flipped Fridmar’s hair from his eyes. ‘Off you go, into the carriage. Your brother and sister are waiting.’

  From the doorway, Kepler could see the carriage they would be travelling in, parked behind the wagon. Inside it, Cordula was swinging her legs, impatient for the adventure to begin, an arm curled around Hildebert who grinned at the people gathering in the street to watch their departure. Fridmar clambered in beside his brother and sister. Kepler was about to follow but stopped on the doorstep and took a deep breath.

  ‘What is it?’ asked his wife.

  ‘Once more my belongings and I are bundled together for a journey. It seems to be the story of my life: never quite knowing what awaits me. If I were a planet, I’d know exactly where I was going.’ He raised an eyebrow to let her know he was not being entirely serious.

  ‘What do you hope for this time?’

  Kepler ran both hands down his beard. ‘I don’t know. But it feels different. For the first time in my life, I have discharged all my debts to other people – all my debts save one, that is.’

  ‘And who is that to?’

  Kepler drew her close. ‘To my wife and children. I owe them some years of peace and quiet.’

  Susanna put her arms around him. ‘I think you’re about to fulfil that debt.’

  ‘So do I.’ Kepler bent his head to hers. The warmth of her lips reminded him of the first time they had kissed. It had been in the meadows downstream from the town. He had hired a boat to take her there, forgetting what hard work it would be to row back upstream at the end of the day.

  They had talked and laughed and looked at one another. Then they had leaned quite naturally together. The instant before their lips touched, he remembered Barbara and felt a rush of panic. It vanished upon contact. Susanna’s hot lips seared his, and he knew it was right to love her.

  He lingered in the feeling and forgot about the poverty, the illnesses and the tragedies. All that mattered now was their future. He pulled back and looked into her eyes.

  ‘To Sagan,’ he said.

  ‘To Sagan,’ she repeated.

  He took
her by the hand and led her to the waiting carriage.

  35

  Rome, Papal States

  1633

  Galileo had taken to prowling the hallway of the Tuscan embassy. Today, however, the heat did not agree with his breathing. He propped himself against a table, massaging his aching chest.

  Once a week a courier arrived to deposit a pouch containing letters and documents of state, and to remove the previous pouch now stuffed with outgoing post. It was one of those automatic processes that allowed the embassy to function. No one paid it much mind. But on this particular morning, Galileo was waiting when the courier galloped into the grounds. He watched one of the administrators accept the correspondence.

  The tubby young man caught Galileo’s stare. ‘Are you expecting something, signor?’

  ‘My daughter,’ wheezed Galileo.

  ‘Your mail will be brought to your room once I’ve sorted it.’

  ‘Please,’ said Galileo.

  Pity crossed the man’s face. It irked Galileo, but if it meant he got the letter faster, he would tolerate it.

  The administrator made a laborious search of the pouch. Then he turned to Galileo. ‘Sorry, signor.’

  Galileo had been here two months now, dragging himself from room to room, staring at the walls, enduring day after day of relentless heat. Plague was spreading across the peninsula, and he spent endless hours listening to gossip about roadblocks and quarantines, of people being boarded into their homes or into inns to contain the spread of the disease.

  And every day Galileo suffered the interminable wait to be summoned that final distance across the Tiber and into the Vatican. He could not decide what caused him more anxiety: the hollow relaxation of being spared the ordeal for another day, or the shallow hope that the silence meant the matter was close to being dropped.

  Perhaps the real frustration was that with each passing day, another twenty-four hours of his remaining life ebbed away, wasted. He feared he would never see Maria Celeste again.