Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  As he looked, he noticed that Jupiter appeared bigger than the four new stars, more of a disc than a spot of light. It was said that the new stars moved around Jupiter, creating their own system of revolution, and that if he watched all night he could see them move.

  Did they, too, move in ellipses? Could his laws of planetary motion be applied to them? It seemed a reasonable assumption. To prove it, he would need someone to devise a way of measuring the positions with this new device.

  He felt a sudden pang. Tycho. What would he have made of all this?

  A new thought chased away the old. He hurried to the children’s bedroom and woke Friedrich and Susanna, shushing them to silence. ‘I have something for you to see,’ he whispered, ushering them upstairs as quietly as possible.

  Inside the darkened attic room, he placed a chair for Susanna to look through the tube. Friedrich traced his hands along a leg of the tripod.

  ‘Don’t move it, son. It must be completely still or your sister will see nothing.’

  The boy was a miniature version of his mother, blessed with her apple cheeks and chubby fingers. Kepler could not help but smile whenever Friedrich was near, wrapping his inquisitive nature around whatever was at hand, just as he himself had behaved as a child.

  Susanna stood on the chair, holding its back, and studiously squinted into the eyepiece. She reminded Kepler in so many ways of Regina at that age: her earnest behaviour and her growing imitation of adults. She had even taken over the care of Astrid the rag doll, when her big sister left to be married.

  Kepler stood poised next to her. ‘Be patient, Susanna, it’s difficult to see. You must be very still.’

  ‘Papa, I can see them.’

  ‘My turn, my turn, my turn.’ Friedrich rocked the chair.

  ‘Careful!’ scolded his sister.

  Kepler lifted her down and helped Friedrich clamber up. It was obvious his sister’s two extra years of growth were an advantage. So Kepler held him by the chest and lifted him up, but the boy dissolved into giggles rather than making a serious attempt at astronomy.

  ‘That tickles.’

  ‘Oh, does it? I thought this was tickling.’ Kepler increased the pressure of his fingers into Friedrich’s soft body, imitating Frau Bezold kneading bread. His son wriggled in his arms, squealing in delight.

  Susanna joined them, adding her voice to the growing cacophony. Together they tumbled to the mattress, lost in their pretend wrestling match.

  ‘Enough!’ A sharp voice cut through their play. ‘Enough, I say!’

  Barbara stood at the door, hair tousled, a smelly tallow candle in one hand; two-year-old Ludwig balanced on her hip. Panels in the side of her nightdress showed where she had adjusted it to accommodate her new bulk, as if she were still pregnant with Ludwig. His little foot dug into her midriff, pushing the soft fat into a foothold.

  ‘We were just playing,’ said Kepler.

  ‘Playing? At this time of night? I’ll never get them back to sleep now.’

  ‘Barbara, this is a historic occasion. The discovery of these new stars is worthy of celebration.’

  ‘Only in your head. It’s a fantasy. It means nothing in reality because it changes nothing. Nothing is different for us. Nothing.’

  ‘I should have known better than to expect a simple country girl to understand.’ Kepler pushed past her to stamp as heavily as he could down the stairs. ‘You think about nothing beyond your own reach. Well, there’s more to this world than eating. Our minds must be exercised or we’re no better than the beasts.’

  ‘That’s right, walk away from us, just like you always do. Go and shut yourself away and daydream.’

  The sound of the children sobbing followed him the rest of the way down to his study.

  At court the next day, Kepler struggled with a fearsome headache. For an instant, he thought it might be clearing when von Wackenfels bounced up to him flapping a sheet of paper, calling excitedly, ‘My friend, I have more good news!’

  Kepler shifted the charts he was carrying and took the letter.

  ‘It’s from Galileo,’ said von Wackenfels. ‘His latest discovery, apparently, but we need your help to tell us what it is.’

  Momentarily flattered, Kepler scanned the words. Addressed to Rudolph, they were full of supplication and praise, and he felt a tremendous rage against the Italian.

  Why is he not writing these things to me? Kepler thought. Have I not been the staunchest champion of his claims? Have I not sent him a copy of my Astronomia Nova? Why does he favour me with so little in return? Galileo’s one and only letter to him had been a brush-off, the words guarded if not wholly evasive.

  As Kepler fought to read on, his fingers clenched the paper into creases. Then he arrived at the discovery: Smaismrmilmepoetaleumibunenugttaurias. Kepler fought to suppress his anger as he stared at the nonsense word, coded to protect Galileo from further attacks, yet ready to prove his priority.

  ‘Galileo teases us, eh? We need you’re brain, Johannes, to uncover what it is he is telling us.’

  Kepler’s first instinct had been to refuse. Why should Galileo treat them all like puppets? But just as he was about to thrust the letter back to von Wackenfels, he realised that uncovering the message would be a victory. Yes! Unmask the discovery and send it back to Galileo. Perhaps then he will treat me with more respect.

  Kepler took the note home and crept into his study, anxious to avoid Barbara after last night, and spent the rest of the day pushing the letters of the anagram around. He tried a few words of Latin, kept the good ones and returned the bad ones to the melting pot and tried again. If only Galileo’s handwriting were clearer; it was difficult to tell ‘u’ from ‘v’. He broke the nib on his quill jabbing it into the desk in frustration when one attempted solution ran out of letters at the last minute. He spent the next few minutes refashioning it with a desk knife. He was dimly aware of the household beyond the closed door but refused all food in order to work on undisturbed.

  Then, as night fell, his excitement mounted. This time he knew he was close to the answer. In the same way that he could sense when numbers and patterns were about to fall into place, even before his conscious mind could see the solution, so the letters suddenly felt right.

  Then it happened.

  Salve umbistineum geminatum Martia proles. There was something barbaric about the Latin verse but it was a solution: Hail, burning twin, offspring of Mars. The meaning was clear: Mars has moons as well.

  Exhausted, he let the quill drop and made his way to the attic. It was difficult to locate Mars, but he caught it close to the chimneystack of a house on the opposite side of the road. Lining up the optical tube, he managed a long enough look to be certain of one thing: there were no moons dancing attendance to the planet’s red disc. No moons. He had not solved Galileo’s puzzle.

  Disappointed, he drifted though the house, looking for Barbara. He found her squeezed into a chair in the front room, reading her prayer book. He edged towards her, knowing better than to share his troubles. When she did not shuffle her legs away, he settled at her feet.

  ‘The children missed saying good-night to you earlier,’ she said softly.

  ‘I’ll make it up to them tomorrow. Did they say their prayers?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You are a good mother to them.’

  After a moment, she rested her hand on his shoulder.

  The crowd that gathered around the makeshift stage in the market square was rowdy, as usual. The leading actor preened in the evening sunlight, wearing a gaudy suit of orange silk that played tricks on Kepler’s eyes, and a white hat with enormous plumage. The outfit was as incongruous to his role as a sea captain as it was in keeping with his status in the troupe.

  Those closest hurled abuse or encouragement depending upon their mood, and it occurred to Kepler that the spectacle was only one step removed from the bear baiting that took place in some quarters of the city.

  Ordinarily he would not be here, but Hewart
von Hohenburg had suggested they spend the evening together, starting with the street theatre. Kepler never missed the chance to meet up, having long ago accepted his predilection for the company of those born into a higher station.

  ‘And what brings the Chancellor of Bavaria to Prague on this occasion? Apart from bringing me the optical tube, of course.’ Kepler looked at his friend, hoping that his joke would register, but Hewart looked tired and unusually jumpy.

  ‘Business as usual,’ said Hewart unconvincingly. ‘Tell me, how is Regina liking marriage?’

  ‘She is the happiest I have ever known her. Philip is a good man, but I do miss her so. Pfaffenhofen is far enough away to deter the casual visit,’ said Kepler.

  ‘And how is my godson, Friedrich?’

  ‘I swear that he is God’s gift to us for our patience. He is the noblest heir a man could wish for. He has grace and humour; it is impossible to be sad with him around.’

  ‘It’s quite a full house you have now.’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness my mother returned to Leonberg. Even so, we are full to bursting. The three children keep Barbara and Frau Bezold very busy.’

  ‘And to think you were so worried about Susanna to start with.’

  ‘My pedigree with children was not a good one. Thankfully things are better now. All three are in the best of health. It is Barbara I worry for. The melancholy has attached itself to her so badly that her black days outnumber her good.’

  ‘She will come round. Childbirth does strange things to a woman. Makes me wonder sometimes why God chose them for the task when men are so clearly stronger.’

  An actor playing the fool was drawing whoops of delight from the crowd with his faltering English accent. Hewart spoke, his voice all but lost amid the happy noise. ‘I confess my weakness for the theatre, but I am unsure whether it is to watch the players or the crowd. It is a welcome distraction at this time.’

  ‘I take it you saw through the looking-glass before giving it to me?’

  ‘No, well, I say no. We tried, but the truth is we couldn’t make it work. Didn’t know what we were looking for. It just all seemed so … black up there.’ He shrugged pitifully. ‘So, I burn with envy for you at being able to master it. Is it marvellous?’

  ‘It’s a revelation but an acquired skill. It’s a challenge to find the object in the first place. When you have, the image appears in a round spot, as if you are peering up a chimney and seeing the small patch of light surrounded by a halo of darkness. It takes time for your eyes to comprehend what you’re seeing, but persevere and you will be rewarded. I have seen all that Galileo describes, despite my troublesome eyes. There are more stars in Heaven than we can possibly imagine.’

  ‘Are you in contact with Galileo?’

  ‘Not really, he sends infuriating anagrams to Emperor Rudolph that I attempt to decode. We had to beg Galileo to reveal the first solution. I thought he was telling me that Mars has two moons but instead it is that Saturn appears “three-formed”. I have managed only to catch glimpses of this new discovery but I believe there are two close moons around the planet. Recently he sent a new riddle to court, Haec immatura a me iam frustra leguntuory …’

  ‘These immature things I am searching for now in vain,’ Hewart translated.

  ‘Precisely, but I have made no headway rearranging it at all.’ Kepler shrugged.

  At the unsatisfactory end of the play, which included a five-minute death scene for the vision in orange, Hewart invited Kepler to return with him for a drink.

  ‘Let’s go to my house on the way and I’ll fetch the optical tube,’ said Kepler.

  Hewart agreed at once. As they walked to the waiting carriage, the Chancellor grew nervous and appeared to be on the verge of saying something. Kepler pretended not to notice, concentrating instead on holding himself erect – he always felt so clumsy next to Hewart.

  Making their brief stop at Karlova Street, where Barbara was talking to Frau Bezold about what to serve Friday’s dinner guests, the carriage continued over to the New Town. It deposited them at a large well-furnished house, where they were served tawny port.

  They climbed to the top of the house and out onto the wooden roof terrace. Below them, the city was swirling with nightlife. Above, the press of Heaven bore down. The cobalt sky was not yet fully dark, but the multicoloured stars twinkled in the evening air. Not for the first time, Kepler marvelled at the way the vista could be transformed into mathematics by the human mind.

  ‘What is it that attracts us to the stars?’ Hewart asked.

  ‘We are made in God’s image. Our faculties cannot help but be primed for astronomy. The songbird sings because it is in its nature, so it is with the human mind and astronomy. God has given us the gift of curiosity and the mental faculties to read his words in the architecture of the cosmos.’

  Hewart swept his gaze across the starry vault. ‘Don’t you agree that standing beneath the stars is the only time that certain thoughts can be entertained? The only time that certain things can be said?’

  Kepler paused in his fiddling with the tripod. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  Again there was that strange look of anticipation and then the self-conscious smile. ‘Nothing,’ said Hewart, dropping his gaze to the streets.

  ‘What is it?’

  Hewart waited, perhaps wrestling with some internal conflict. Then turning to Kepler he spoke in a whisper: ‘Rudolph is working towards revenge over the Protestant estates. He negotiated with my Duke to raise an army of Bavarian mercenaries to march on Prague and crush the Protestant Union. But it’s gone terribly wrong. Rudolph hasn’t provided the money to pay the army, and they’re on the rampage. That’s why my Duke and I are here, to warn him of the danger if he continues to renege on the deal. The last report I heard, the mercenaries were moving through Upper Austria, burning and pillaging. If they reach Prague, it will be the excuse Matthias needs to send his army into the capital and wrest control from his brother. The only question is what the Lutherans and the other Protestants will do. Will they defend Prague or attack it with the mercenaries?’

  Kepler felt the pit of his stomach fall away. ‘How soon before the mercenaries arrive?’

  ‘Weeks, but they have cavalry so it may only be a matter of days.’ Hewart looked across the city’s darkened rooftops. ‘Prague is no place for a young family. It’s about to become a battleground.’

  20

  Rome, Papal States

  1611

  Summer had come early to the Italian peninsula, carpeting the slopes in a million shades of green. Galileo studied the grand patchwork as he bobbed along in Grand Duke Cosimo’s litter, carried by two broad-chested servants. It would be all too easy for someone to see only a single wash of colour but to Galileo the landscape resolved itself like faces appearing in a crowd: trees and shrubs; ferns and grasses; bushes and vines.

  Wedged next to him was a narrow box, some four feet long. Inside was what everyone wanted to see: the optical tube. He patted his fingers against the wooden case, as an indulgent father might comfort a demanding child.

  The litter slipped into the busy streets of Rome as the setting sun transformed the mighty buildings, statues and obelisks into silhouettes. Weaving around the carts and pedestrians, they reached the Tuscan embassy as the staff were lighting the first torches. At sight of the arrival the staff hurriedly finished their preparations and lined up to receive Galileo. The Grand Duke himself had sanctioned the stay.

  The runners placed the chair outside the front porch, then peeled the straps from their shoulders and arched their backs. Galileo stepped from the small chamber and immediately despatched one of them with a message to the Roman College, announcing his arrival. The other one hauled down Galileo’s trunk of clothing and lugged it round to the back of the building, a servant guiding his way.

  As Galileo entered the spacious hallway the housekeeper handed him a message – an invitation for later that week from someone called Federico Cesi.

  Whoever
Cesi was, he signed himself the Marquis of Monticelli and requested that Galileo, and the optical tube naturally, be guest of honour at a dinner to be given by a body called the Lyncean Academy. According to the brief explanation, this august organisation hungered for members who pursued true knowledge and would be honoured if Galileo deigned to join their number.

  Galileo found the invitation sufficiently intriguing to pen a quick reply in the affirmative and hand it back to the housekeeper for despatch.

  When the litter bearer returned from the Roman College, he carried a brief reply inviting Galileo to visit Father Clavius, the Head of the College, the very next morning.

  ‘Did they say anything else? Give you some hint …’

  ‘No, signor,’ said the exhausted man.

  As cockerels crowed somewhere on the outskirts of the city, Galileo dressed himself carefully. He slipped into his newest tabard, created from a beige brocade that in a certain light looked golden – and also did a good job of disguising his belly. He remembered to brush his hair and even pulled his beard into some semblance of shape, smiling as he thought of little Virginia sitting on his lap and twirling her fingers in it.

  Little Virginia! She’s eleven now, practically an adult. He pushed the thought aside. He had to concentrate. The Jesuits were his stepping stone to the Vatican; he had to convince them of his discoveries.

  In the bright glare of the sun, it was hard to believe that, only fifty years ago, Rome had been pillaged. Piles of cadavers had lain reeking in the streets while the invaders slaughtered anyone who tried to retrieve a body for burial.

  Now Galileo’s litter wove through a city echoing with footsteps and conversation, the grumble of carriage wheels and the clop of horses’ hooves. Great rectangular buildings stood firm, curves having been largely replaced by the solidity of straight lines and right angles. There was little adornment around the rectangular windows and doors, nothing to spoil the buildings’ defiant faces.