Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  ‘How? How can it make any sense?’

  ‘There is one thing that strikes me whenever I perform an autopsy. It is that by the time the body ends up on my slab, whatever animates the flesh has long since fled.’

  ‘You mean our soul?’

  ‘Yes, implanted in us by God forty days after conception and set free at the moment of our death. The soul controls everything: our growth, our perception, the way we move and the way we think. Without it we are nothing. And just as tenants occupy houses, evil spirits can invade our bodies.’ Jessenius scanned the corridor.

  ‘Am I keeping you?’

  ‘No, no, no. Let us keep walking. Where was I? Oh yes, think of it this way. The liver creates the blood, which flows to the brain where the nervous spirits are created. These are then transported by the blood around the body and control our movements. We accept that illness is caused when vapours contaminate the blood. These slow us down, make it difficult to carry out our daily lives. Seizures, on the other hand, are completely different. The movements they cause are frightening, are they not?’

  The sight of Barbara writhing on the floor flashed into Kepler’s mind.

  ‘Seizures look to me as if the body is fighting against something malevolent that wants to take control of it.’

  ‘I cannot believe that evil dwells in my wife.’

  ‘Johannes, think: has she been bad-tempered lately? Not herself? Melancholic? All these things make her susceptible to bad spirits. You look sceptical. Ask yourself this: are you reluctant to believe your wife is fighting evil because you don’t believe in spirits, or because you don’t want to believe that someone you love has become their victim?’

  Hasty footsteps drew their attention. An agitated man approached. Jessenius glanced sideways at Kepler then at the new arrival. ‘Well?’

  ‘They’re not after us. Their argument is with Rudolph. They say they’ve not been paid, so they’ll take what they want from the city.’

  Fear etched Jessenius’s face. ‘We can’t just stand back and let them invade Prague.’

  Hewart von Hohenburg’s warning about Rudolph’s out-of-control mercenaries rattled inside Kepler.

  ‘Are the men ready?’ asked Jessenius.

  The messenger nodded.

  ‘Very well. Send the riders out. They are to find Matthias and ask for his support. We’ll hold the city for as long as possible.’

  The messenger hurried away, leaving Jessenius breathing deeply.

  ‘Jan, what are you involved in?’ Kepler said.

  Jessenius looked up, ashen. ‘I am not just an anatomist, Johannes. I’ve used my position at court to negotiate on behalf of the Protestant estates with Rudolph, but he’s betrayed us with these Bavarian mercenaries. We have been talking to Matthias and will now side with him. With Matthias as Emperor, we can stabilise the city again.’

  ‘But the bloodshed …’

  ‘Go home, Johannes. Lock your doors. The golden age of our beautiful city is about to end.’

  The streets were empty. Kepler could see twisting columns of black smoke rising in the distance, but there was no noise yet of the advance. Not a soul was in the market square; a few abandoned stalls and some squashed fruit and vegetables were all that remained. Kepler felt horribly exposed. He darted into the shadows and skirted along the walls.

  A hand fastened onto his arm, pulling him so sharply that he lost his balance as he was dragged into an alleyway. He lashed out against the vice-like grip and tried to get his feet back under him, but it was to no avail. A hand that smelled of earth clamped over his mouth.

  ‘Not that way, friend. Not if you want to live,’ said a gravelly voice next to his ear.

  Kepler stopped struggling. His captor was a man of the countryside: sunburned cheeks and forehead, calloused hands and creased eyes. He let go of Kepler, who peered around the dark alleyway. It was crowded with men, the smell of their bodies pricking his nose. Kepler saw faces of all ages in the shadows. Irregulars. Workers from the surrounding estates rallying to defend their city.

  The man who had grabbed Kepler drew a dagger from his belt and flipped it so that the handle faced the astronomer. ‘Take this, you’re going to need it.’

  Kepler backed away from the weapon.

  ‘Suit yourself, but Rudolph’s men will be all over the square and they won’t care if you’re armed or not.’ He replaced it in his belt.

  ‘I have to get to Karlova Street,’ said Kepler.

  ‘You’ll run straight into them. Get down!’ He yanked Kepler back into the shadows. The sound of trotting hooves began to echo around the stone buildings. Kepler’s breathing quickened as he watched twenty, thirty, fifty, a hundred horsemen pouring into the square. He lost count; they just kept coming.

  Behind him, Kepler could hear muttered prayers.

  ‘We wait for the signal,’ hissed someone.

  A horse trotted so close to the end of the alleyway that Kepler could see the dark stain of blood smeared across its rider’s sword. The man rolled his shoulders, flexed his head from side to side, and spurred his horse onwards. Another horseman filled his place, then another and another.

  The crack of a single musket shot ricocheted around the market square. Kepler was engulfed in noise. The men hollered at the top of their voices and charged out of the alleyway, driving Kepler onwards with them.

  The chances were that the cavalryman never knew what hit him. The same hands that had manhandled Kepler dragged the soldier from his horse. As he toppled, a blade slashed a ribbon of blood across his neck, and his twitching body fell to the ground. The swiftness of his death terrified Kepler; somehow it seemed both trivial and momentous.

  More irregulars joined the battle, swords waving, from the many side streets. The cavalry were trapped, pressed so close that there was no room to manoeuvre their horses. Each swing of a horseman’s sword was as dangerous to their fellows as for the men they were fighting. In the midst of the crush, a horse reared, hurling its rider backwards into an abyss of flailing hooves.

  A man took aim and fired a musket into the crowd. There was a bloody explosion as the ball found its mark. Then the marksman himself crumpled, run through by a horseman. The rider hollered in triumph and signalled for his men to follow him in a charge towards the main skirmish.

  Wounded men screamed, but the worst cries were from the horses. Slashed or shot, they fell, adding their own agonies to the bedlam in the market square.

  Kepler tried to block out the excruciating screams and the sharp report of musket shots, the tinny clash of swords and the dull thud of lead balls into soft flesh. The battle had become an indefatigable engine of hacking, bludgeoning death. Man after bleeding man toppled. The metallic tang of blood was overwhelming, creating a fetid invisible mist. A panic-stricken horse careered into Kepler, and the collision sent him sprawling onto the blood-soaked ground. He found himself among the bodies. A man, face streaked with dirt, lay on the ground nearby, silently weeping. Kepler rolled him over to cradle his head, and watched the light fade from his eyes.

  Then Kepler saw it.

  Scoto’s booth, toppled but intact. He clambered over the cadavers and crawled inside the wooden shelter. Inside, he curled into a foetal position, closed his eyes and pressed his hands to his ears.

  22

  He had no idea how much time had elapsed. All he knew as he emerged from the shelter was that the worst sounds of the battle had gone and his quaking had subsided. There were still noises coming from the north, in what could be the Jewish quarter, but that was far enough away not to be an immediate threat.

  The dead lay everywhere. The hot smell of blood and guts and emptied bowels fouled the summer air. Already, a few old women and children were picking over the corpses for rings and other valuables. One old woman looked up defiantly as Kepler drew near. Heaving erupted inside him. He bent over to vomit. He retched time and time again until his stomach was completely empty.

  Tearfully he straightened up and took a few faltering
steps. The old woman regarded him with disdain; she reminded him so much of his mother that he almost addressed her as such. He opened his mouth before realising the absurdity of it. Katharina would be safe, at home in Leonberg. Ignoring the hag’s sneer, he stumbled away.

  That’s when his crying truly started: huge sobs of grief for those slain today, and those slain yesterday, and for those whose time would be forced upon them tomorrow. All of it sparked by Rudolph’s ineptitude in government. The blubbery fool spent his days hiding in the Kunstkammer, weeping over the beauty of some painting one moment and then issuing murderous orders to look good to the Pope the next.

  Kepler had seen the Jesuits at court, gliding through the corridors with their stern expressions masking whatever dark mischief they were there to orchestrate. They would march in on Rudolph, who seemed powerless before them, swaying like a sapling in the breeze in his desperate attempt to cling on to power.

  All of the Emperor’s previous treaties became as easy to break as one of Susanna’s daisy chains, and, as a result, a Bavarian army was rampaging through his city, slaughtering his people. Despite Rudolph’s education, wealth and upbringing, Kepler had never known a more ignorant man. He doubted Rudolph even knew what was happening outside. Even if he did, it would mean nothing to him. He would claim it was the work of God, cleansing the land of heretics. God! This was nothing to do with God. This was all too human power play for Earthly authority. God must surely find this bloody spectacle repellent.

  When would people be free to live their lives, worship God in their chosen way, and no longer fear the onslaught of some foreign army? Kepler angrily rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. Maybe never, he thought, maybe never.

  There were a dozen or so bodies in Karlova Street, ordinary citizens trampled by the horses. At first glance, none of them looked familiar. Then Kepler saw, face down in the gutter, the broken body of the man who used to sharpen knives.

  Kepler reached home. Thankfully there were no broken windows or signs of fighting. He found the front door locked firmly. The back door was also apparently secure, but an experimental push produced movement and the scrape of a heavy piece of furniture. He shoved harder and forced the door open far enough to squeeze through. Frau Bezold must have shoved the kitchen table against it.

  There was a pail of water on the floor. Kepler plunged his hands into it and splashed his face, needing the sting of the cold water to prove that he was still alive. The more he repeated the action, the dirtier the water became, stained by the dirt and gore that had clung to his hands.

  A whisper of movement made Kepler turn. Frau Bezold was inching her way into the kitchen, shoulders hunched, holding the family carving knife. She was squinting so tightly, her eyes were practically closed.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Kepler.

  She relaxed, dropping the knife. ‘It’s the Master,’ she shouted.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ said Kepler.

  She was shaking as he guided her gently towards a chair.

  Susanna came scurrying down the stairs to meet him near the kitchen door. ‘Papa, hurry. It’s Friedrich.’ She grabbed his hand and pulled him urgently up the stairs.

  Barbara was sitting on Friedrich’s bed, holding him in her arms. She was clutching him so fiercely the boy looked in danger of suffocating.

  ‘What’s wrong with him, Barbara? Barbara?’

  She rocked back and forth, oblivious to Kepler’s presence. A terrible thought occurred to Kepler. One of dark forces manipulating Barbara to spread their malignancy.

  ‘Let go of him, Barbara.’

  She favoured him with an evil stare, increasing his resolve.

  ‘Let go of him. We must let him breathe.’

  Kepler prised Friedrich from her arms.

  ‘It’s like the last time … when we lost Heinrich,’ said Barbara.

  ‘No, Barbara. Heinrich was a baby. Friedrich is strong and healthy.’

  Barbara returned to her rocking motion at the bedside as Kepler stripped the boy of his outer clothing. He checked Friedrich’s hands and feet for the marks of the Hungarian plague. Thank God, there were no such blemishes but there was an angry rash across the boy’s torso. He was anxious to move Barbara away.

  ‘We can leave Friedrich to sleep now. Frau Bezold will look after him.’

  Barbara shook her head. ‘I’m not leaving him.’

  Kepler began to protest when Susanna distracted him. She was standing next to the doorframe, her face flushed. ‘Papa, I don’t feel very well, either.’ He rushed to her and conducted a similar examination. She too, had a rash.

  By midnight, Friedrich’s rash had transformed into a multitude of spots.

  ‘Don’t scratch, you’ll make it worse.’ Kepler eased the boy’s arm away from his face.

  Frau Bezold found a tincture of camomile and some clean cloths. Together, she and Kepler dabbed at the children. In the third bed, Ludwig too was showing signs of the illness.

  Barbara had not been taken by a seizure all afternoon or evening. That single fact alone was all that comforted Kepler. She slept now in the chair by the side of the children, her head lolling.

  During the night, Kepler prowled the house, watching from the windows. Every shout from outside seemed amplified, every distant fusillade a threat. He traced the glow of outlying fires, orange as the sunset, above the surrounding rooflines. Incandescent cinders wafted into the air and Kepler fancied that each was a human soul beginning its flight to Heaven.

  Frau Bezold catnapped in a chair outside the children’s room.

  ‘How are they?’ he asked during one pass.

  ‘Settled now. What’s wrong with them?’

  Kepler looked down at his own scarred hands.

  ‘Smallpox.’

  By dawn, the city felt calm. Head pounding and limbs heavy, Kepler stepped into the street. Black birds circled in the sky. Dogs loped by, noses down. Most of the bodies still lay where they had fallen.

  Unwilling to see the market square again, he cut down an alleyway and emerged in a neighbouring street where the crows were busying themselves on the human carrion. He chased the birds into the sky, hollering at the top of his voice.

  Somewhere across the city a bell began an empty toll.

  Kepler arrived at the Jewish quarter. Many of the houses lay in confusions of blackened beams and blistered timber; some still smouldered. Everywhere were twisted bodies, as charred as the homes they had once occupied.

  A small girl wandered into view, obviously searching for someone. Kepler knew better than to approach her. Already men were gathering in the few remaining doorways to cross their arms and glare at him. He risked a tentative step towards one of the householders. ‘Who did this to you?’

  ‘Your kind.’

  ‘You mean the mercenaries?’

  ‘No, the irregulars. The mercenaries ran. The Protestants couldn’t keep up so they did this.’

  Kepler stared again at the devastation and tried to match it with the words he was hearing. The Protestants were defending the city; they were not here to sack the Jews. Yet as he was shaking his head in disbelief, he remembered the confusion in the market square, the inhuman things he had seen there. He could hear it again, smell it again – the horror of the bloodlust. Tremors of betrayal rippled through him. How could they have done this to innocent people?

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ he pleaded.

  The man took a purposeful step towards him. ‘No mistake. And many here want revenge.’

  Kepler turned and fled, screaming his rage into the streets. What was one more cry of anguish in a city that had echoed to so many just a day before? He passed the university, his original destination, and headed straight for the bridge, his sights now set on Rudolph’s palace.

  Nervous soldiers guarded the entrance. A captain recognised Kepler and waved him onwards. As the gates opened, Kepler saw Tengnagel astride a skittish horse, waiting to leave. Tycho’s son-in-law noticed Kepler too but did not acknowledge him. He spurred
his steed and galloped out into the sunlight, head high, followed by a small mounted entourage who struggled to keep up.

  Inside the Palace was a cacophony of arguing officials. Nothing could be decided in this commotion, and Kepler wanted to scream at all of them. When he finally found von Wackenfels, he saw that the Privy Councillor was on the verge of tears. His blond hair stood on end in greasy stubs. The skin under his eyes was shadowed and there were ink stains on his fingers.

  ‘Johannes, thank the Lord you are here. The Emperor is asking for you. I was about to send a carriage. Come this way, we can reach him faster if we use the lower corridors.’

  Von Wackenfels led him away from the hubbub and down a narrow staircase, almost concealed behind a stone pillar. There was no daylight in the lower passage. It relied on illumination spilling out from the various chambers that hung like ribs from its backbone.

  There was a chemical tang in the air. As they hurried by an open chamber, Kepler could not help but stare.

  Inside, smoking trays were suspended over candles. Towards the back of the room an alchemical furnace roared. In the hellish heat a man was on his bended knees, praying in front of a tabernacle. His long white beard was waxed to a point and he wore clothes that resembled a priest’s. However, instead of hands clasped in Christian prayer, he held his arms in a wide beseeching gesture as he dipped his forehead to the floor.

  ‘Magic?’ asked Kepler despairingly.

  ‘The application of philosophy. What good is knowledge if we cannot tap into it and use it?’

  ‘You cannot believe that we can summon spirits?’

  ‘Why not? The priests summon spirits.’

  ‘No, they don’t …’

  ‘I believe what His Majesty believes.’ There was a flash of temper in von Wackenfels’s voice. His face quickly softened but remained drawn. ‘That’s my job.’

  They found Rudolph in one of the nearby chambers, huddled on the floor. Drawn in chalk around him was a circular band, divided into twelve. Within each section was a scrawled symbol of the zodiac. Beside Rudolph was a tapered spike, some three feet long and fashioned out of some flaking mineral. In his hands, Rudolph caressed a golden cup.