Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  Another victim of a world eager for change, where none was needed.

  How many must share your fate before the Catholic Church is restored throughout Europe?

  2

  Prague, Bohemia

  Death danced in Prague. Every hour, the tiny skeletal figure held up an hourglass and beckoned to those in the market square. He was accompanied by Vanity, in the guise of a man raising a looking-glass, Greed, depicted as a merchant shaking a purse, and an Infidel, dressed in Turkish robes.

  On this particular day, as the noon bell tolled and the macabre clockwork jig played out, an astronomer stood in front of the town clock. He studied the golden icons on the face of the timepiece. Each represented the current position of a celestial object: the Sun in Libra and the Moon in Aries, edging towards full roundness.

  ‘We arrive at a favourable time,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s hurry, husband. It’s damp, and these bags are heavy.’

  He relieved his plump wife of a bundle and hoisted his own from the ground, then turned to the small girl beside him. ‘Are you ready to move on, Regina?’

  The girl carried a roll of clothing under one arm and a rag doll under the other. ‘Astrid is tired, Papa. I have to carry her as well.’

  ‘We’ll soon be there,’ he said, as much for his own benefit as hers. They set off across the market square, weaving through the crowds. Regina squeaked with delight at a juggler in a gaudy costume of orange and green. She held up Astrid to show her the performer. Next, a basket of dirty turnips caught her attention. She showed these to the doll too. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, ‘Come along! Keep up!’

  Tottering behind her were two lads from the coaching inn. For a few coins they had been eager to carry the family’s trunk of essentials but they did not look too enamoured with their ten-year-old mistress.

  Stallholders called from every direction, keen to sell their late harvest produce.

  ‘Mercy! Everything is four times the price it was in Graz.’

  ‘We’ll manage, Barbara,’ said the astronomer.

  ‘How? It’s already cost one hundred and twenty thaler just to move, and we still have two wagonloads of furniture back in Graz. That’ll all have to be paid for once we’re settled.’

  He fought down his irritation, blaming his mood on the fatigue lodged firmly in his muscles. He pushed on, glancing to check that Regina was still close by. A sword-swallower had momentarily captured her attention, but she soon turned away.

  Through the hoards of people and baskets, on the far side of the square, the astronomer turned into a narrow residential road.

  ‘You want the next street for Baron Hoffman’s house,’ called one of the boys.

  ‘Ah, of course. In a week’s time, think how familiar these streets will all be.’ He managed a wan smile, but his wife looked unimpressed.

  When they arrived at the house, Barbara admired the gothic windows – each as tall as a man, arranged over three storeys – and the large arch of the entrance. She seemed to straighten up. ‘It’s stone, you didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’ Their own house had been made of draughty timber. At night it creaked, and he used to imagine that God was sending him messages.

  He gathered his family and rapped on the door. As he did so, the delivery boys set down their heavy load and vanished.

  The wide door swung open. A housekeeper showed the new arrivals into a panelled hallway where a boy dressed in black took the astronomer’s hat, gloves and cape, and a young woman, thin as a pole, approached Barbara. ‘May I take that for you, madam?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Barbara, shrugging off her heavy travelling shawl.

  Footsteps signalled Baron Hoffman’s approach. He appeared from the depths of the house, a broad smile on his face. ‘Johannes Kepler, we have you in Prague at last.’

  Kepler, taken aback by the warmth of the welcome, clasped the outstretched arm. ‘We will presume upon your hospitality only for a few days, until I can secure a place of our own.’

  Hoffman waved a hand dismissively. ‘Nonsense, my home is yours for as long as you need it. Any friend of Hans is most welcome. He’s a shrewd judge of character and he tells me you’re the finest mathematician in Christendom.’

  Kepler could not help but smile at mention of their mutual acquaintance. The charismatic Bavarian Chancellor, Hans Georg Hewart von Hohenburg, was everything that Kepler admired: erudite, enquiring, gracious, well connected, high-born. He had first heard of him some years ago when a courier in bright livery arrived at the Lutheran school in Graz, where Kepler was teaching, and handed over a letter from Rome.

  Standing in the courtyard, Kepler broke the wax seal and saw that it was from somebody called Father Grienberger, a Jesuit mathematician. The handwriting was composed of deliberate strokes, each character devoid of flourish, and asked Kepler whether he would help a nobleman – Hewart – with a problem of chronology.

  Hewart was seeking the exact date when a magnificent constellation of stars could have appeared. The alignment was described by the classical Roman poet Lucanus in the epic work Pharsalia, about the civil war between Julius Caesar and Pompey the Great.

  Kepler’s first thought had been an uneasy one: Why were the Jesuits asking for his help? But that evening, curiosity piqued and eager to prove himself, he had brushed away his doubts along with the clutter on his desk and set to his calculations.

  He first made rough guesses at the stars he thought Lucanus had been describing, then started to calculate their positions more than 1,500 years ago in the sky, compensating for the drift in the calendar, to see if they lined up. When he could find no match to Lucanus’s description, he recalculated, convinced he had made a stupid error. When the answer came out the same, he tried different stars, searching for any pattern that might be reasonable. In the end, he was forced to write back to Hewart stating that the great poet had been caught out in a flash of artistic licence. No such pattern of star had ever existed in the skies above earth.

  Hewart responded with more questions relating to other documents: one month it was the precise date of a conjunction between Mercury and Venus in 5 BC; another it was the date of Augustus Caesar’s birth and the appropriate star chart to divine his character. Each request was designed to test the veracity of a historical document by checking its celestial descriptions against Kepler’s ability to calculate the position of the stars in times past. With each answer, Hewart built a more precise chronology of history.

  As the correspondence mounted, so the letters became warmer. Their sentiments transformed from politeness to respect, and gradually blossomed into friendship. Hewart would offer the young astronomer advice, and never more valuably than in recent times when a hardening of Catholic attitudes in Graz’s ruling class had meant that Kepler and his family had been forced to leave because of their Lutheran beliefs.

  When he heard the news, Hewart had recommended Kepler to Hoffman, an imperial advisor, who agreed to take them in. To Kepler, the act had underlined the injustice of the exile because both Hewart and Hoffman were Catholics.

  ‘Baron Hoffman, you are most gracious to accept us on Hans’s recommendation. May I introduce my wife, Barbara?’

  Hoffman smoothed his chestnut hair. It was thinner than it used to be, and his doublet was a little tighter, nevertheless, he retained the power to make a woman blush just by looking at her. He bowed. ‘Frau Kepler, time has not touched you.’

  Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Thank you, Baron.’

  ‘Please, call me Johann. I have assigned you a maid to make your stay as comfortable as possible.’ He beckoned the thin woman who had returned from stowing Barbara’s shawl. ‘This is Anicka.’

  She bobbed at the knees. ‘Madam.’

  ‘And who is this?’ asked Hoffman, crouching down.

  ‘This is Regina, my stepdaughter,’ said Kepler, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘And this is Astrid,’ said Regina, offering her doll.

 
‘A pleasure to meet you both.’ Hoffman turned to Kepler. ‘I have something for you.’

  On the ornate hall table was a package, wrapped in waxed paper and bound with string. ‘Hans was at court last week. He left this for you.’

  ‘Thank you. How is the Chancellor?’

  ‘In good health but rather preoccupied. I sense urgency in the diplomatic corps these days.’

  Inside the wrapping was a vellum-bound book. Kepler flicked to the title page and gasped. ‘Ptolemy’s Harmony – and in the original Greek. I have coveted this for some time.’

  ‘Hans said as much. It is to welcome you to your new life in Prague. Now, honoured guests, you must be tired. Anicka will show you to your rooms, and I will have your trunk brought up. Please join me for refreshments once you are established.’

  ‘It will be our pleasure,’ said Barbara before Kepler could reply. Once in their suite, Kepler sank into an upholstered chair, his bony body taking up only half of it. He started leafing through the book, but all too soon his eyes began to close. He was jolted back to consciousness by Barbara telling the maid where to hang dresses and shirts, how to fold stays and underpinnings, and where to place them in drawers, only to move them a moment later when she spied a better place.

  ‘I can do all this for you, madam. You need not worry yourself,’ said Anicka.

  ‘How will I know where to find things?’

  ‘I am your maid. You ask me, madam.’ When the clothes were stored, Anicka left. All that remained in the trunk were Kepler’s books and papers. They took up a good quarter of the space. ‘I will sort these later,’ he said and went to the window, eager for the cool air that lingered by the glass. His throat prickled.

  ‘Are you unwell again?’

  ‘I am starting a fever, that’s all. With God’s grace, it will pass.’

  She tucked a lank strand of his hair behind his ear. ‘You know, I don’t think living in Prague will be so bad after all.’

  Kepler managed a weak smile. At the next window, Regina was pointing out the sharp spires of the city’s skyline to Astrid.

  ‘Come along, you two,’ said Barbara, ‘we must join our host.’

  Hoffman sat at a large table close to the panelled window, basking in the last rays of the afternoon sun. He stood up as the guests made their tentative entrance.

  ‘Come in, come in. Take a seat.’

  Kepler waited for Regina to hop into a chair, and then eased it into the table. He seated himself next to Barbara.

  Hoffman poured three goblets and passed them round.

  ‘To your new life in Prague,’ he toasted.

  The wine tasted considerably smoother than Kepler was used to drinking. Though weak, it went to work immediately, and with each sip, he felt the stiffness in his limbs ebb a little more.

  ‘I cannot thank you enough for all you are doing,’ said Kepler.

  ‘It is the least I can do for a family who has suffered as you have. Forgive me for asking, but how bad was it in Graz?’

  ‘Just to be Lutheran was to be a target. Every day the Archduke passed new laws against us. It was rumoured that he thought Emperor Rudolph weak because of his tolerance of Lutherans throughout the Empire. So Ferdinand was determined to set an example in his own part of it. First, our ministers were banned, then our hymns, then the possession of Lutheran books. Even to bury a child …’ He could still feel the tiny bundle that had briefly been their first born, cradled in his arms. Barbara had risen on that morning and dressed in silence, then sat rocking back and forth. Kepler had seen the indescribable pain in her eyes and known that nothing he could do would erase it. Even now that impasse in their relationship troubled him on sleepless nights.

  He reached over and took Barbara’s hand, steeling himself to finish his sentence. ‘I was fined ten thaler because I insisted on burying our child, Susanna, with Lutheran rites.’

  Hoffman frowned. ‘Archduke Ferdinand is pushing the boundaries of his limited authority. He knows that as Holy Roman Emperor, Rudolph cannot defend Lutherans, and so Ferdinand uses this as tacit agreement to proceed with his persecutions. It is cowardly. Someone must make a stand, but who? If Rudolph speaks up, he risks excommunication from the Vatican, and with the Empire so deeply divided right now, that would surely lead to its collapse. How did it come to this?’

  ‘Much as it pains me to say this, there were those in our Lutheran community who invited it. Mostly teachers. They stood in front of their classes and attacked the papists like dogs slavering over old bones. In the face of their rabid insults, the Archduke found it easy to act.’

  ‘They say he returned from Rome determined to lead his land back to Catholicism.’

  Kepler nodded. ‘As is his right in law. All he needed was the excuse, and the foolish teachers provided it.’

  ‘Even so, to include you in their punishment, when you were Ferdinand’s Mathematician …’

  Kepler’s body tightened at the memory of that final day. ‘I served him with diligence yet, when the time came, it made no difference.’

  It had been just after dawn when Kepler had taken his place among those summoned to the town church. The early hour of the call was a blessing because, the previous night, sleep had escaped him. He had prowled the house, tentacles of fear entangling his insides.

  Eventually settling into an exhausted heap at Barbara’s feet, he crossed his arms on her lap and rested his head. She closed the outlawed prayer book and ran her fingers through his hair. Together they had waited for sunrise, and judgement.

  By six in the morning, the crowd was a thousand strong. As the numbers rose, so did the heat. Kepler edged onto a worn pew as officials placed the city rolls on a table in the middle of the church. Behind them was an elaborate wooden throne on a raised dais. Near the altar, a black-robed priest was swinging a smoking thurible of incense, blessing anything within reach.

  ‘Courage,’ whispered a passing acquaintance, jarring Kepler from his thoughts. Another squeezed his arm, undisguised pity on his face and possibly a hint of shame. He’s going to convert, thought Kepler, experiencing a stab of betrayal.

  His tension rose with the clatter of horses’ hooves outside. The congregation stood and waited for the procession to appear, all eyes on the young Archduke.

  Although twenty-two, Ferdinand still looked as if he were a boy dressed to resemble a man. There was no definition in his doughy cheeks, just a long nose that slid down his face. His sandy mop bounced in time with his skittish gait and his thin moustache had been waxed and kinked upwards. He wore a partial suit of black armour, ludicrously teaming it with riding boots of pale brown leather and a wide-brimmed felt hat.

  A phalanx of guards clanked around him, their armour polished like mirrors. Behind them, more officials walked with exaggerated gravitas. These were the commissioners who would examine each member of the congregation and decide their fate.

  Kepler watched as the Archduke advanced, but the young ruler stared ahead with practised aloofness. As he passed, Kepler despaired. Only then did he realise that he was still harbouring the faint hope of recognition and reprieve.

  Ferdinand sat on the makeshift throne and signalled for the proceedings to begin. During the inflammatory sermon that followed, the Catholic preacher hurled back all that the Lutherans had dished out. Kepler shut his eyes and silently muttered a prayer, calling for strength and begging forgiveness for the pain he was about to inflict on his family.

  One by one, the men were called to the central table where each professed their obedience to Rome – even those who a week ago had been screaming insults at the Pope. All was apparently expunged by this public conversion. When Kepler’s name was called from the register, he rose from the pew and walked towards the table, legs unsteady and blood pounding at his temples.

  The commissioners regarded him with graven faces. ‘Johannes Kepler, you have been called here today so that we may examine your faith. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do.’ He searched each face at the ta
ble.

  ‘Do you worship in the Roman Catholic way, with your trust placed in God through His Holiness?’

  Kepler spoke clearly: ‘No.’

  A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd.

  ‘Are you willing to swear your allegiance to Rome?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a collective gasp from the crowd. The commissioners held a hushed discussion involving much head shaking. Eventually the central official stood up. ‘Johannes Kepler, you are a heretic. You and your family must leave Graz and the entire territory of Styria within six weeks. If you return, you do so on pain of death.’

  Kepler looked to the Archduke, who rolled his eyes as if bored.

  Hoffman blew out a long breath as Kepler finished his story. ‘What a thing to have to endure. Take comfort in knowing that this cannot happen in Prague.’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, I fear that the tolerance that once gave our Empire unity is slipping away. Are we not all imperial subjects regardless of personal belief? I wonder if anywhere, other than the Lutheran heartland to the west, is safe for my family now.’

  Hoffman waved the objection away. ‘Fear not, Johannes. We cannot be judged by what happened in Graz. Rudolph may be sworn to Rome but – like his father – he is a tolerant man. You and your family are safe now.’

  3

  Kepler yelped like a puppy as the broom cracked him on the ankle.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled the boy who was clumsily brushing away the hair from around Kepler’s seat.

  The barber cuffed the lad, who retreated to a safer corner of the shop, then reached for a sheet of polished metal. ‘There, sir, all done.’ He held the scratched mirror for Kepler to peer at himself. Massaging his bruise, Kepler stared incredulously. He did not know whether to be fascinated or appalled; he hardly recognised himself any more. He had long become accustomed to the scars from his bout of childhood smallpox, but in the six months since Susanna’s brief attempt at life, the flesh of his face had fallen away. Although more than a year shy of his thirtieth birthday, his once plump cheeks had sunken into dark wells and his eyes had grown heavy cowls. While the barber had done a good job of restoring some vigour to his hair, it now seemed in conflict with his cheerless face.