Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  Confusion crowded his brain. Why was Pippe – yes, Pippe, that was his name – scowling? Was the confession not good enough? Perhaps he should have said more.

  Galileo turned. The guards caught him by the shoulder as he began to fall.

  ‘Please, I must speak again,’ said Galileo, planting his feet.

  Without a word, the guards took him back to the room, where Maculano and Pippe were preparing to leave.

  ‘I could write another one or two days in the book, so that the speakers agree to meet again. I promise to reconsider the arguments already presented in favour of the condemned opinion and refute them in the most effective way that the blessed God will enable me. I beg this Holy Tribunal to grant me the permission to put it into practice.’

  ‘The last thing we need is you writing another book, Galileo,’ said Maculano. ‘Go and rest.’

  ‘Sir, sir, there’s a letter for you.’

  Galileo peered into the gloom. He pushed himself upright, his shoulders stiff and cold as ice.

  The man thrust the letter in front of him. ‘I believe it’s the one you’ve been waiting for. From Florence. Shall I read it for you, sir?’

  Galileo shook his head. ‘No, that will be all. Thank you, Tito.’

  When the door closed, Galileo fumbled open the letter. He recognised the handwriting instantly, though it was smaller and tighter than usual. He skimmed the letter so fast, he only picked up the basic themes: Arcangela in trouble, a request for money, the plague raging and finally a plea for him to drink less.

  Hmm. So what if he drank in the evenings? It had been a mistake writing to Maria Celeste with an enthusiastic description of the vintages held in the Embassy’s cellar. But what else was there to tell her about? There was nothing else to do.

  He was forbidden social visitors. While the Embassy was indeed comfortable, he might just as well be in prison. No one had time for him here, apart from Tito. They were all so busy with their jobs that Galileo was nothing but a ghost, haunting the corridors. Since submitting his written defence, he had done nothing.

  As he reread the letter more slowly, he realised that his return to Florence was not going to happen soon. The city was being ravaged by the plague, so much so that the Grand Duke had ordered the sacred painting of the Madonna to be taken from the church in the nearby village of Impruneta and paraded through the Florentine streets to drive out the evil of the plague.

  How Galileo wished he could have seen the giant portrait being carried aloft. Each night the icon was being sheltered in a different religious building. The nuns at San Matteo had broken down a wall because their unobtrusive doorway was too small to grant it passage. Galileo could imagine Maria Celeste’s hands clearing the rubble to offer the painting sanctuary. Thankfully the plague was still clear of the convent, but it gripped the city so tightly it would be madness to return until the autumn, months away, when it would naturally abate in the cooler weather.

  He read on. Arcangela was in debt. She had overspent on the provisions for the convent and needed funds. He would have to write at once to organise a release of money. Ordinarily Galileo would have bristled at his younger daughter’s incompetence; today he relished having something to do.

  Maria Celeste next recounted that she had successfully exchanged Arcangela’s spell of looking after the wine cellar to looking after the convent drapery. Apparently Maria Celeste worried that Arcangela might drink too much if she were appointed Cellarer. And that led her neatly into nagging her father about his own wine consumption. He read her soft admonishment with the whisper of a smile on his lips.

  He rose from the bed and went in search of pen and paper. For the next hour he could be busy and feel worthwhile again. All too soon he would return to the endless waiting for the verdict. Why was it taking so long? They had what they wanted from him. Why not just publish his humiliating retraction and let him go? No one would take him seriously any more. What more harm could he do?

  The cardinals took their seats in the traditional horseshoe formation around Urban. It crossed Pippe’s mind that the Pope was looking beleaguered these days. Like so many of them now, Urban’s hair had turned to snow, as had his beard and moustache. Only his eyebrows retained their dark colour and, together with Urban’s dark eyes, they radiated gentility.

  Perhaps a little too much gentility, thought Pippe. We need a strong Pope, especially at times like this.

  Urban’s forehead was riven with worry lines. As the cardinals debated, he would frequently massage the bridge of his nose, or press at the tight knots of flesh just above. He would look out at them with a pained expression, then drop his gaze to the floor.

  ‘What are we if we destroy this man?’ Barberini, the Pope’s nephew, was saying. ‘What purpose will it serve?’

  ‘We must be strong in our defence of Catholicism,’ answered another.

  ‘You were a student of Galileo’s, were you not?’ Pippe asked Barberini.

  ‘My education does not enter into this.’

  Pippe held his gaze.

  ‘Yes, I was tutored by Galileo,’ admitted Barberini. ‘I knew him well and continue to regard him highly.’

  A frisson rippled around the chamber.

  ‘That does not mean I believe Galileo is innocent of all charges,’ said Barberini.

  ‘He is a heretic and there is only one punishment for heretics,’ said Pippe.

  ‘Careful.’ Urban wagged his finger at Pippe. ‘The 1616 decree does not include the word heresy. In fact, I remember that the word was specifically removed. Whatever Galileo is guilty of, it is not heresy.’

  ‘Then he is vehemently suspected of it,’ said Pippe, registering the ripple of agreement around the table. ‘Suspicion hangs around him like the smell of drains in summer. Your Eminence, this is no time for leniency. He persists in the lie that he never held a belief in Copernicus.’

  Urban turned his head. ‘Is this true, Father Maculano?’

  Maculano shot Pippe a look. ‘It is true that Galileo claims not to have believed in the Sun’s stability following 1616, and that he claims his Dialogue was designed to falsify Copernicus, not prove it.’

  Urban pinched his nose and closed his eyes.

  Pippe spoke again. ‘Lying to the Inquisition is a most serious affair. We cannot be lenient.’

  ‘I will not make a martyr out of Galileo,’ said Urban.

  ‘He makes fools of us all.’

  Urban pressed his palms together, raised his fingers to touch his lips. ‘There is no doubt in my mind that Galileo is lying about his belief in Copernicus. He must therefore be severely punished and may God forgive him for being so deluded as to involve himself in such matters in the first place. But before Galileo’s punishment, he must be given one last chance to confess the true motive for writing the book. He is to be questioned under threat of torture but he is not to be taken to the dungeons, nor shown the instruments. Do you understand?’

  Pippe was on the verge of protesting when Maculano spoke. ‘Perfectly, Your Holiness.’

  ‘Once we have his final deposition, we can decide his eventual fate,’ said Urban.

  ‘Your Holiness, he’s an old man. Has he not suffered enough?’ asked Barberini.

  ‘His age makes our actions all the more urgent,’ said Urban. ‘One must meet God cleansed of sin. If Galileo will not cleanse himself willingly, then we are forced to do it for him.’

  Pippe smiled at the prospect.

  ‘Once more, Galileo, we are here to establish your true intention in writing the Dialogue.’ Maculano sounded bored, but this time Galileo knew better than to read anything into it. What was beyond doubt, however, was that he was here, with the same two cardinals for the fourth time. That had to mean something.

  If only he could force his mind to work. He had offered to correct the Dialogue, why was that not enough?

  Maculano spoke again. ‘Do you have anything to say?’

  That was when it hit Galileo, as it used to when he was young: the sudden
clarity of thought. Felt more than seen, everything suddenly made sense. Now he knew the truth. He could see it on the two cardinals’ faces: the book was to be banned altogether. He was to be denounced as a heinous criminal.

  What now for Galileo? What now?

  He forced himself to calm down. ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘How long have you held the Copernican arrangement of Heaven to be correct?’

  ‘A long time ago, before the decision of the Holy Office, I was … undecided regarding the opinions of Copernicus. It could be true in nature. But after the said decision, I never held it. The Earth’s stability is true and indisputable.’

  ‘Yet you are presumed to hold the opinion because of the manner in which you presented and defended it in your book. I ask you, therefore, to freely tell me the truth as to whether you hold or have held the opinion.’ Impatience had seeped into Maculano’s voice.

  Why won’t you believe me? How many more times do I have to say it? This is the truth now, the one I feel in my heart. The one I wish to drape across my past. Surely penitence is all that matters now?

  ‘I did not write the Dialogue because I held the Copernican doctrine to be true. I tried to show that neither has the force of conclusive demonstration and so we have to proceed with the Holy Father’s guidance.’

  ‘Galileo,’ Maculano’s voice was now grave, ‘unless you proffer the truth, we will have no choice but to rely on torture. Do you understand me?’

  Pippe was leering from his seat.

  A wave of nausea swept over Galileo. He had heard of the pricking needles, the branding irons and the stretching racks. He gagged at the mere thought; his body hurt enough from the decrepitude of old age. That was sufficient punishment alone.

  How could you be so wicked to one of your own, a loyal servant? It was beyond reason. Confess and burn, or lie and be tortured. Either way he was lost. Galileo knew he could not survive the torture chamber. He would never see Maria Celeste again. I’m so sorry, he said to her silently. Then he began to weep.

  He hated himself for each solitary tear that slipped across his cheek and gathered in his beard. He took a final deep breath. ‘I am here to obey, but I have not held this opinion after the determination of the Holy Office. You must do with me as you please.’

  There was a long pause then Maculano rose from the chair. Galileo fought to remain upright. A cyclone of confusion buffeted him as he waited for the command that would see him dragged to the dungeons, and the pricking needles.

  ‘You may return to the Tuscan embassy …’

  ‘No, wait,’ said Pippe, shooting from his chair.

  ‘Enough!’

  It’s too perplexing. Galileo listened with only vague comprehension. His ordeal seemed to be over, he was to await sentence.

  Several days later, Galileo trudged beneath the gothic arches in the Church of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva. Spared the journey to the Vatican, he had been called only as far as the city centre. Initially he had been grateful but when he saw the nave’s ceiling it touched raw nerves. The very setting was a taunt. The domed arches were painted navy blue and studded with golden stars.

  He changed into the set of pure white vestments handed to him and followed the guards to a spiral staircase. He climbed slowly, tripping on his robe because he found it difficult to hold the rail and prevent the material from wrapping around his feet.

  When he reached his destination, he saw the room was filled with cardinals and other officials. An unnatural hush fell across them as he appeared. He paused at the door to look at his accusers. Even Grienberger was here, characteristically avoiding eye contact. Galileo stepped inside. He identified Maculano and shuffled across to stand in front of him, head bowed.

  Maculano read from a sheet of parchment. His voice was strong and betrayed no emotion. ‘In the judgement of this Holy Office, you have rendered yourself vehemently suspected of heresy, namely in having held and believed the doctrine which is false and contrary to the Sacred and Divine Scriptures, that the Sun is the centre of the universe and that the Earth moves. Consequently you have incurred all the censures and penalties enjoined and promulgated by the sacred Canons and all particular and general laws against such delinquents.’

  The room spun around Galileo. That could only mean burning, he was sure of it.

  Maculano continued. ‘We are willing to absolve you from them provided that you, with a sincere heart and unfeigned faith, in our presence abjure the said errors in a manner that we will prescribe to you. Furthermore, so that this grievous and pernicious error does not go altogether unpunished, we order that the book Dialogue be prohibited by public edict.’

  Maculano looked around before completing his statement. ‘Also, as a salutary penance, we impose on you to recite the seven penitential psalms once a week for the next three years. And, finally, we condemn you to formal imprisonment in this Holy Office at our pleasure.’

  Imprisonment instead of burning. A life but no life.

  Before he had time to think more, he was presented with a sheet of parchment. The curly script contained his recantation. He read it slowly; taking pleasure in letting the assembled men wait. When he finished the text, he went back to the top and read it again. Then, he handed it back and turned to Maculano.

  ‘I will not speak these words.’

  A pained expression materialised on Maculano’s face. ‘Don’t you know what you risk? Why ever not?’

  ‘It states that I lapsed in my adherence to Catholicism. I deny this. My personal judgement may have lapsed but I have never lost my love for the Catholic Church, not even now. I will not read a passage that states I am a bad Catholic.’

  There were murmurings. Maculano drew a number of the cardinals together and a hushed debate ensued. The result was that Maculano motioned to the scribe who crossed through the disputed words.

  ‘You will now recant,’ Maculano said to Galileo.

  Two guards supported Galileo and lowered him to his knees. He was passed a copy of the Bible and the script. It quivered in his hand as he raised it to eye level. The room fell silent.

  Once more, he told himself, and began reading aloud. ‘I, Galileo, son of Vincenzio Galilei, Florentine, aged seventy, arraigned personally before this tribunal against heretical depravity, believe all that is held, preached and taught by the Holy Catholic Church. For the act of printing a book that argued in favour of an already condemned doctrine, which is that I believed the Sun is immovable and the Earth moves, I have been judged vehemently suspected of heresy.’

  Galileo paused for breath. ‘Therefore, desiring to remove from the minds of your Eminences, and of all faithful Christians, this vehement suspicion, justly conceived against me, with sincere heart and unfeigned faith I abjure, curse and detest the aforesaid errors and heresies, and generally every other error, heresy and sect whatsoever contrary to the said Holy Church. I swear that in the future I will never again say or assert, verbally or in writing, anything that might furnish occasion for a similar suspicion regarding me.’

  Galileo paused again. It was so hot in the room he could feel the sweat beading on his forehead.

  ‘Finish the reading.’ It was the voice of Pippe.

  Galileo unhurriedly mopped his brow then returned his eyes to the text.

  ‘In the event of my contravening, which God forbid, any of these promises and oaths, I submit myself to all the pains and penalties imposed and promulgated in the sacred canons and other constitutions, general and particular, against such delinquents. So help me God and these, His Holy Gospels, which I touch with my hands.’

  He looked up, not needing to read the final line, the hollowest of them all. He recited, ‘I, Galileo Galilei, have abjured as above with my own hand.’

  36

  The housemaid looked around, surprised at the speed with which she had finished Galileo’s packing. She was olive-skinned and dark-eyed, young as well, though the details of her features were beyond Galileo’s ability to discern.

  ‘
I have nothing, I am nothing,’ he said, leaning on the stick he had taken to using. ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘You must know. Why won’t anybody tell me anything?’ He tried to watch her move around the room, but she was too quick for him, and he became light-headed. ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘The other day, you told me you wanted to go.’

  Galileo could not remember the occasion. ‘Well, now I want to stay. I’m too ill to travel – oh, do stand still – I shall die if I’m moved. You’ll have me on your conscience.’

  ‘Come, Galileo, you’re strong as an ox.’ The voice was male, if lacking a certain timbre.

  Galileo turned to see Niccolini. The Tuscan ambassador was dressed informally in a linen tunic.

  ‘That will be all, thank you,’ said Niccolini to the housemaid, who flew from the room.

  ‘Where am I going?’ Galileo demanded.

  ‘We have struck a bargain with the Inquisition. You are to escape imprisonment if you remain under house arrest.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For the rest of your life, Galileo.’

  Galileo pretended not to hear.

  Niccolini continued. ‘The Archbishop of Siena, Ascanio Piccolomini, has agreed to take you in …’

  ‘Why can’t I go back to Florence?’

  ‘… He counts two Popes in his lineage.’

  ‘Why can’t I go back to Florence?’

  ‘You cannot go back to your old life, Galileo. Your sentence can only be fulfilled by a custodian acceptable to the Inquisition. Archbishop Piccolomini is such a man. Cardinal Barberini was most helpful in arguing for your wellbeing.’

  Galileo wondered again if by ignoring him he could just pretend nothing had ever happened.

  ‘Come, Galileo. This is the best we can do for you. It’s this or the dungeons. A carriage is waiting to take you to Siena. At least you’re returning to Tuscany.’