Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  As he drew close to the Roman College, Galileo’s eagerness gave way to anxiety. He stumbled as he alighted from his vehicle and wondered whether Clavius was watching from one of those enormous windows.

  Walking through the magnificent entrance, the lintel some twenty feet above the ground, Galileo could not remember ever feeling so small. Surely this place had been built for gods, not men.

  Jesuits in black robes moved through the lobby. Occasionally one would glance his way; mostly they ignored him.

  Galileo stared at the Egyptian obelisk in the entrance hall, feeling minuscule by comparison. He wondered what knowledge lay hidden within those ancient symbols.

  ‘Every time I look at it, I am reminded of the task we still have ahead of us,’ said a deep voice.

  Startled, Galileo turned to find a large man in black vestments, whose eyes and mouth turned down in a way that unnerved Galileo.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Christoph Grienberger,’ said the man.

  ‘Galileo Galilei, a pleasure to meet you, Father.’

  ‘The Professor of Mathematics, Father Clavius, is waiting.’ Grienberger indicated the way, and set off at a lumbering pace that made Galileo feel quite youthful.

  ‘How much do you believe the ancients knew?’ asked Galileo as they walked into the heart of the college.

  ‘Sometimes I think that everything we struggle to uncover was known to the Egyptians; that if we could just read the glyphs, our work would be done.’

  ‘In that case, shouldn’t we devote all of our academic efforts to deciphering?’

  Grienberger inclined his head towards Galileo. ‘Would you be content to do that? If there is one thing I have discovered about learned men, it is that they have a stubborn loyalty to their chosen fields.’

  ‘And their own convictions,’ said Galileo, thinking of his father. The man’s steadfast devotion to music and his insistence that melodies should reflect the instantaneous mood of the lyric rather than follow some overarching design, had led him into bitter argument with the traditionalists. Nevertheless, his madrigals were still being sung.

  They turned into a corridor. The herringbone pattern of wooden blocks softened their footsteps, enhancing the sense of reverence.

  Grienberger knocked on a door and immediately opened it wide.

  Father Clavius’s neck had curved forwards with age. A knotted brow topped his square face; thickets of hair peeped from his ears and nostrils. He was sitting in an armchair near the towering window. Sharp sunlight sliced acrosss his pallid flesh, and his yellowing eyes tracked the new arrivals.

  Galileo knelt before him. ‘Father Clavius, you have done more to dignify mathematics than any man alive.’

  Clavius lifted a tremulous hand from the chair arm and turned his palm upwards. Galileo frowned at the ambiguous gesture.

  ‘Please stand up, Galileo, kneeling is unnecessary,’ said Grienberger, moving to stand beside the chair.

  Galileo got to his feet and stepped back so as not to loom over Clavius.

  The old man spoke, the effort of the action obvious. What his voice lacked in power it made up for in the unmistakable intonation of a man used to being obeyed. ‘Someone has to champion the mathematical arts; they have been the poor relation of other pursuits for too long.’

  ‘Indeed they have. I have always enjoyed the company of numbers. They bring with them a sense of security. Father, if you would permit me to return this evening, I would enjoy the opportunity of showing you the wonders of Heaven through my optical tube.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ said Grienberger. ‘We have seen all we need to.’

  Galileo looked from Grienberger to Clavius. There was a hint of mischief on the professor’s face.

  ‘We have made seeing instruments of our own,’ explained Grienberger.

  ‘You have seen the Medici stars?’

  Grienberger raised an eyebrow. ‘The moons of Jupiter, yes, and the stars of the Milky Way and the strange markings on the Moon. The question is how we interpret all of this.’

  ‘It proves Copernicus.’

  Clavius made a noise but otherwise remained impassive.

  ‘That is a bold claim. You refer, of course, to the idea that the Sun is the centre of the universe,’ said Grienberger.

  ‘I do,’ said Galileo. ‘None of my observations contradict Copernicus.’

  ‘Neither do they prove it,’ said Clavius.

  Grienberger inclined his head. ‘What do you make of Johannes Kepler’s work?’

  ‘I find him tedious. He approaches the observations with a caution bordering on pedantry. Copernicus completed his work on this subject almost seventy years ago. We have no need of a Lutheran champion on this side of the Alps, pushing around some numbers and claiming victory. Copernicus beat him to it; we cannot let that great canon’s work be usurped by a Protestant mathematician. His talk of elliptical orbits is ugly. How can anybody think that the planets move on anything but perfect circles? How can God’s Heaven be anything but perfect?’

  ‘I can find no errors in his mathematics,’ said Grienberger. ‘In fact, I would say that the Astronomia Nova is one of the greatest works of astronomy ever published. Kepler’s elliptical orbits reproduce the appearances of the planets better than any other mathematical model, including that of Copernicus.’

  Galileo gasped. ‘Is the original cutting of the cloth less important than the final decoration? Kepler’s work is nothing but adornment on that of Copernicus. One can do without the details but take away the original pattern and you are left with nothing.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘We must have the courage to believe the evidence of our own eyes.’

  Clavius pushed himself to his feet, shuddering with the effort. Grienberger immediately bent to support him.

  ‘I know you want to shout your discoveries from the rooftops, but we must move carefully,’ said Clavius. ‘I realise that the orbs of Heaven need rearranging to accommodate what you have seen. But we must be careful to make the correct interpretation. We cannot allow a casual glance through an optical tube and a snap decision to become the preferred route to knowledge. If we do that – and make no mistake about this – the theologians will crush our little hobby of stargazing for ever. Look at me, Galileo. We cannot risk natural philosophy becoming divorced from religion. Do you understand?’

  ‘But truth is truth, why should we submerge such truthful convictions?’ Galileo’s muscles began to prickle with passion.

  Clavius’s jaw trembled as he spoke. ‘We are inclined to believe you, Galileo. But the Church is not a court of law. It does not rest on evidence alone. Beliefs, personal preferences and political considerations must all be weighed before we can change such a fundamental piece of understanding. We must persuade the theologians to help us, or we will never succeed. You must comply, or you and your discoveries will suffer.’

  Galileo nodded dumbly, unsure whether he had just been threatened or appointed a Jesuit confidant.

  As the sun began to slide from the sky, Galileo prepared to meet the Lynceans. He checked the instrument to make sure that the lenses had not been dislodged during the long journey from Florence.

  His two bearers looked relieved when Galileo granted them the night off. Soon afterwards, a carriage pulled up. The driver hopped from his seat to open the door. As he did so, he bowed. ‘Signor Galileo, Prince Cesi awaits.’

  ‘Prince? I thought he was the Marquis of Monticelli.’

  ‘He is, signor, in addition to being the Prince of San Polo and Sant’ Angelo, and the Duke of Acquasparta.’

  Galileo was glad that the driver was still stooped in a bow and so could not see the surprise spreading across his face. He climbed into the carriage.

  The journey took no more than fifteen minutes. When the driver opened the door for Galileo to step down, a slim youth with an oval face and almond eyes was waiting. About his neck he wore a heavy gold chain with a lynx pendant attached. The wild animal was sculpted in mid-stalk, ears upr
ight, staring straight ahead.

  ‘Signor Galileo, you more than honour us with your presence, you enlighten us. We are all most excited that you are here.’ His gaze came to rest on the box.

  Galileo was leaning against it, as if it were a walking stick. ‘The honour is mine, Prince Cesi, but I think you would have been just as pleased with this box alone, yes?’

  Cesi clutched at his heart. ‘You wound me with the accusation. What greater pleasure can there be to have the man himself here to demonstrate?’

  Federico Cesi carried himself with an easy self-assurance, walking with a casual swing of his arms and laughing at trifles. He was all youth and enthusiasm, usually a combination that irritated Galileo.

  Nearby stood a familiar figure in black, wearing a silk biretta on his head.

  ‘Father Grienberger, have you been sent to keep an eye on me?’ quipped Galileo.

  The Jesuit looked awkward, and Galileo wondered if his joke had somehow struck close to the truth.

  ‘Christoph is a good friend of the Academy,’ said Cesi. ‘I’d say there’s no better mathematician in all of Rome. But he hides his light, takes none of the praise.’

  ‘You credit me with too much, Federico,’ said Grienberger.

  ‘Come, let us make our way to the banquet.’ Cesi indicated the grassy slope.

  Galileo hesitated.

  ‘Tonight, we will be eating under the stars in your honour. The tables are set on the hill. We have even set forks as well as knives. Why let standards drop just because the setting is unusual?’ Cesi’s smile reached all the way across his face. ‘Then lead on.’

  The gathering was larger than he expected. Some thirty gentlemen, all drinking and laughing, stood around a wooden pergola. When they were still some ten paces away, a familiar voice rang out. ‘I swear there is a new spring in your step, Galileo.’

  ‘What do you expect? I have found new pages in the book of nature. It is enough to reinvigorate any man. If only it could remove the white from my beard, or put the hair back on my head.’

  ‘I think you two must know each other,’ said Cesi with another smile, indicating the short gaunt man with heavy black eyebrows who had spoken.

  ‘Indeed, we do. Giovanni Magini, what is it like to finally have been overtaken as Europe’s greatest astronomer?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when it happens.’

  Galileo forced himself to laugh. Magini was ten years his senior and had been chosen over him for the Chair of Mathematics in Bologna. Even though the appointment had been made twenty years ago, the rejection still hurt.

  ‘Allow me to introduce our other guests,’ said Cesi.

  The circle of introductions rapidly became a blur. One bright young man was an aspiring astronomer. An older man was a philosopher, though Galileo had not heard of him before. And there was at least one doctor among them; he may have been the fat one with the bad skin. The others were various friends of his host, mostly merchants and the odd petty noble with an interest in natural philosophy. No one Galileo took too seriously.

  ‘Looks as though the feast is ready,’ said Cesi, indicating the well-stocked tables beneath the lantern-clad pergola. Galileo could only imagine the effort of carrying the huge wooden furniture up the hill.

  The dinner guests ate standing up, something Galileo detested. The ham was good though, and he returned several times for more. He made a small effort with the fork but spent most of his time hoisting cuts into his mouth with his fingers. ‘Using a fork takes so much of the pleasure out of eating,’ he heard someone grumble behind him. Soon, only Cesi and a few of the younger gentlemen were persevering with the ludicrous implement.

  Studiously avoiding the salads, Galileo was cutting another hunk of meat when one of the guests asked him, ‘How does it feel to have invented such an instrument?’

  Galileo brushed his tongue around his teeth. ‘I did not invent the optical tube. I reinvented it.’ He relished the puzzled faces before him. The group clustered around him.

  ‘I heard of a Dutch spectacle-maker who had made a looking-glass by placing a concave and convex lens some distance apart. So, I began buying lenses to see if I could replicate the device. It took me three hundred lenses before I found a pair that worked.’

  ‘What magnification do you achieve?’ asked Cesi.

  ‘About twenty times, and I think I can achieve more. My experiments are not yet finished.’

  ‘And what made you decide to look at the heavens?’ asked the aspiring astronomer, whose name Galileo had already forgotten.

  ‘I’m an astronomer. I look at the heavens. Would you ask a bookkeeper what makes him count money?’

  The young man looked down at his plate as a ripple of embarrassed laughter circulated.

  Galileo lay down his food and swung the carrying box onto a table. He slid it between the half-finished trays of roasted dove and olive polenta, and twisted the catches.

  The optical tube rested in a cushion of green velvet. It was just over three feet in length but only a couple of inches in diameter. With its sinuous ridges and fawn-brown colouring, the leather fixed to the tube made it look strangely organic.

  Galileo lifted it and held it out, as if presenting it as a gift.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked someone in the crowd.

  ‘It does not look very big to see all that way,’ said another.

  ‘It is bigger than your eye, that is all that matters,’ said Galileo.

  ‘How did this Dutch spectacle-maker conceive of such a device? He strikes me as a very clever man indeed,’ said Cesi.

  Galileo dismissed the remark. ‘I think it must have been an accident. Children playing in his shop, holding lenses to look through. Some folly that in this instance paid off.’

  ‘But the lenses are further apart than a child’s arm span. That cannot be true,’ said Grienberger, pointing to the tube.

  Galileo forced himself to laugh. ‘I wait to hear the Dutchman’s account of the story, then we can all be satisfied.’

  Cesi glanced at the sky. ‘It is getting dark, I think.’

  Galileo took the tripod from the case and stood it on the grass beyond the terrace. He fixed the optical tube in place and looked up. The night was not as still as he would have liked, but he had observed under worse conditions. Jupiter was shining brightly. It took him only a few moments to capture it in the eyepiece. The men drifted from the pergola to stand around him again.

  ‘Gentlemen, the only people who do not believe me are those who have not looked through the instrument itself. Do not fall into that category tonight. Who’s first to see the Medici stars?’

  One of the merchants stepped forwards.

  ‘Don’t touch the tube in case you move it. The alignment must be precise,’ said Galileo.

  The other guests waited in silence as the man squinted with first one eye and then the other. In between attempts, he cast a wary glance at the crowd. Eventually he straightened up, blew out a deep breath. ‘Sorry, signor. I think you forgot to put the crystals in this one.’

  Galileo checked the alignment. ‘But they are clearly there. Giovanni, your turn. Please, restore some sanity to this gathering.’

  Magini took a long pull on his wine. ‘I am sceptical about even putting my eye to the device.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you are going to refuse to look. I thought that foolishness was the preserve of old Libri.’

  ‘Show some respect. Libri is gravely ill, perhaps even on his deathbed.’

  ‘Then let us hope that having failed to see the Medici stars in life, he gets a good view of them en route to Heaven.’

  Magini tutted. ‘And why call them the Medici stars?’

  ‘I am Grand Duke Cosimo’s court astronomer and philosopher. What could be more natural than to honour my patron?’

  Magini scowled.

  ‘I will look through, and put an end to this bickering,’ Cesi announced. He took up his position and stared for a long time. Anxious looks passed between the onlookers, th
en a few whispered comments. Cesi remained fixed at the tripod as the level of conversation grew around him. He gave a little nod and straightened his back. The men hushed. Galileo stepped forward. ‘Well?’

  ‘I see them,’ said Cesi. ‘Exactly as Galileo describes.’

  There was a cheer that lifted Galileo almost to the stars himself. After that the guests trooped up to look through the tube. Some laughed. Some sighed. All of them left the tube with shakes of their head and looks of astonishment. Galileo soaked up their compliments with what he hoped was due modesty, a swell of vindication growing inside him. Yet he did not see Magini take a look.

  No matter. Who is the greatest astronomer now?

  At one point Galileo noticed Grienberger behind the tube. Intrigued, he excused himself from a conversation and went over, arriving just as Grienberger straightened up. ‘How do my optics compare to yours?’

  ‘They are broadly comparable.’ The wide face was not giving anything away.

  Cesi called them all to order. ‘Tonight, we are gathered to honour our great guest,’ he held his hand towards Galileo and a round of applause broke out. ‘Tonight he becomes one of us, a Lyncean. Having read his Siderius Nuncius, I wish to extend this pledge. From now on, Galileo, you will never have to search for a publisher. The Lyncean Academy would be honoured if you were to allow us to publish all your future works, so that everyone can benefit from your wisdom. We will pay for the production and ensure that the books are widely read.’

  Galileo was touched by the commitment. ‘Thank you, Prince Cesi, I accept.’

  ‘Then I need say nothing more except to call upon Professor Demisiani to make a very special … suggestion.’

  A rotund man stepped forward, his face ruddy in the jittery lantern light. When he spoke, his large teeth shone white. ‘If I may be so bold, Signor Galileo, I wish to propose a name for your incredible device. In my way of honouring the ancient Greek astronomers, I propose to take tele, meaning “afar”, and skopeo, “to look at” and bring them together to give us telescope, meaning “far-seeing”. I humbly beseech you to accept the name as our gift to you.’