by Stuart Clark
Kepler watched the carriage trundle away. As it passed, pedestrians would occasionally look up and point, or applaud.
Kepler heaved himself into his own vehicle. ‘To the palace, please.’
Turning up Hradčany Hill the palace faced them, looking more like a fortress than a palace. With guards stationed at the locked gates and on the ramparts, there were even lookouts on the astronomer’s tower that rose from Rudolph’s former Arts Chamber.
The soldiers were not needed for defence – the city was safe now – so this was a show of strength, a display that Prague was the iron heart of Ferdinand’s Empire, united in its Catholicism.
Kepler imagined a noose slipping around his neck.
Children appeared to be running the Imperial Court now. Worse still, children pretending to be adults. The austere cut of their clothing seemed at odds with their youthful faces and they looked more concerned with their appearance than with government.
Glancing upwards in the reception hall, Kepler expected to see those magnificent arches, but the light was so bad today that the exquisite tracery was lost in the highest vaults. Or was it his eyes?
‘Please wait here. Do you have the book?’ The court official was coldly formal. Although he put Kepler on edge, it was preferable to insincerity. He handed over the Tables and resigned himself to a long wait.
Watching the toing and froing, Kepler despaired. The officials grimaced at each other and postured in a manner that Kepler had noticed was endemic in young men before the comfort of accomplishment softened their intensity. It was no wonder that war was upon them. Not a single one of them here was old enough to foresee the consequences of their actions. Every decision would be taken with self-righteous declarations of piety, designed to absolve them from the consideration of any suffering it might cause to others. Thus, the counter-reformation continued its bloody march.
Ironically it had been Kepler’s excommunication that saved him when orders banning Lutheran services had arrived in Linz. Pastor Hitzler had been imprisoned; fines were raised on burials and marriage services for Lutherans; and, of course, the schools and churches were closed. Emigration was offered as the only option for those unwilling to convert: but to where? Catholicism had the momentum again. Only the Protestant heartlands were safe these days, or England.
Kepler had slipped through the net. He had made money by soliciting gifts from European nobles, sending them lavishly bound copies of his various books and, occasionally, this very Court remembered to pay him.
His mind drifted to Susanna and his cherished family; his second and surely his last: Cordula, with her six-year-old girlish chatter; four-year-old Fridmar and his thoughtful – if hesitant – sentences; and finally the somnolent Hildebert, who at three should have been making a lot more trouble than he was. Kepler felt a pang of homesickness and wondered what he was missing. He was becoming increasingly aware of time’s passing. At fifty-six, he did not feel particularly old, but he certainly did not feel strong.
‘This way, please.’ The court official interrupted his thoughts.
From inside a nearby anteroom another official opened yet another door and wafted through, announcing Johannes Kepler.
Ferdinand was jammed into a wooden throne. The tiny eyes and long nose were those of the boy Kepler remembered, but the once sandy mop of hair had dulled and thinned, and the fading ginger goatee unnaturally lengthened his face. His fleshy body was hidden beneath a gigantic robe of black and gold making his head look too small.
A pair of fawn-coloured pugs engaged in a friendly skirmish near the corner of the room. No one else paid them any attention, but Kepler found them distracting. He dragged his attention back, bowing as deeply as he could. ‘Your Majesty, you are most gracious to receive me.’
‘It is an honour to have you here at last.’ Ferdinand’s mouth twitched into a smile. ‘It is my understanding that you always enjoyed living in Prague.’
‘I did, Your Majesty.’ He resisted adding that in those days it had been a place of stimulating diversity.
There were a number of other people in the room. A scribe sat at a little desk, quill in hand, and advisors hovered near the Emperor; one of them held The Rudolphine Tables. Another man was dressed head to toe in a black Jesuit cassock.
Ferdinand followed his line of vision. He said, ‘Father Paul Guldin, I believe you two know of each other.’
Guldin? Yes, that name did sound familiar.
‘I helped furnish you with a Galilean telescope, Herr Kepler.’
‘Of course, my apologies for my lack of recall. Without that telescope, I would have fallen behind.’
‘It was my pleasure. A man of your learning must have the instruments to make the most of his gifts.’ There was genuine warmth in Guldin’s eyes. If anything, it made Kepler more nervous.
The aide handed the book to Ferdinand, who turned the wide pages reverently.
‘Father Guldin informs me that this is the greatest work of positional astronomy since The Alphonsine Tables from the thirteenth century. It is a work that could be used for centuries to come.’
‘They are the first to correct for the deflection of starlight by the thicker layers of atmosphere near the horizon, it is true. But let me say that the undoubted quality of this book is due to the observations of the late Tycho Brahe. His observatory was unsurpassed.’
‘You are too modest for a man of your abilities. Your years of painstaking calculation match those of Brahe’s observations.’
‘I am a humble computer, nothing more.’
‘Nonsense. You are the greatest living astronomer. Not only have you charted the stars, but you have supplied prognostications of remarkable accuracy.’ Ferdinand shifted his great bulk. ‘Would it surprise you to know that I too can play the prophet?’
Kepler was nonplussed by the turn of the conversation. Ferdinand smiled and continued. ‘Let me tell you what I foresee for you. Firstly, in honour of your great work that glorifies my departed cousin Rudolph, I foresee that you will receive a total of four thousand gulden from the cities of Nürnberg and Ulm.’ He glanced at the scribe, who noted down the order. ‘Secondly, you will take your place in my court; you have been in the provinces for too long. Thirdly, I foresee a comfortable teaching post, so that you can spread your wisdom to the generation of astronomers that will succeed you.’
Kepler stared at Ferdinand. ‘I am to stay in your service and remain in imperial lands, Your Majesty?’
‘You are a trusted and loyal servant, closer to us now than you have ever been. It is time to bring you fully into our heart.’
The dogs caught Kepler’s attention again. Their play had become more boisterous and they were growling at each other. A heavy goblet thumped into them, eliciting yelps. They skulked off in opposite directions, heads down.
‘Get them out of here,’ shouted Ferdinand in a fit of pique, lowering his throwing arm. One of the aides hurriedly shooed the dogs out of the room.
Kepler hastily expressed his thanks and backed away. He expected to be accompanied by the anonymous official who had shown him in, but it was Guldin who moved to escort him.
‘Let us discuss your move to Prague,’ he said, when they reached the corridor.
The reality of the Emperor’s offer was slowly beginning to dawn on Kepler. This was the vindication he had yearned for in Graz, what he had hoped for in vain on the day of his expulsion. Of course, back then, Ferdinand had been too young to understand.
Guldin led him to a small room in which a table was laid with refreshments. Guldin poured two drinks and slid one across.
‘To Prague,’ said Guldin.
‘To Emperor Ferdinand.’ Kepler drank deeply.
‘There are a few details that the Emperor has asked me to go through with you, so we can finalise this agreement.’
‘Of course.’
Guldin said, ‘We are aware of the rather strained state of affairs between you and the Lutheran Church.’
‘I believe we ar
e past strained. The Lutheran Church and I are broken. But it is of no concern to me; I am at peace with God in my heart.’
The ghost of a smile crossed Guldin’s face. ‘It is of concern to His Majesty that you appear to be outside religion.’
The golden aura that had been growing around Kepler since the audience turned black and crumbled. ‘This is another attempt to convert me, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’
‘You cannot work for the Emperor unless you turn to Rome. Soon after you were excommunicated, you referred to the Lutheran Church as a gelding animal basking among roses and staring at its enemy. An enemy, you said, who would soon cause its death. Those were your words, were they not?’
‘I never made it clear who the gelding was. It could just as easily be the Roman Church, or the Jesuits.’
‘Come, Johannes, that has never been your style. I’ve watched you long enough to know that the only anger you have is directed inwards. I understand that feeling.’ Guldin interlaced his hands and leaned on his elbows. ‘I was once like you: undecided.’
‘I am not undecided.’
‘Johannes, I am your friend. Friends do not have secrets. I’ll trade you one of mine. I was baptised a Protestant. Yes, it’s true. But I began to have my doubts: all that self-congratulation and superiority. Even then, to turn to Rome was the hardest decision I have ever taken but now look at me. The Jesuits have given me the strength I never had before. You could join us, and we will carry your ideas across the world. We know that your interpretation of Copernicus is correct. We trust your elliptical orbits as the true astronomy.’
‘But the papal edict …’
‘The edict was forced upon us by that blundering fool, Galileo. His pathetic ambitions have hobbled us for years. But we have been patient, and even as we speak there are moves to silence him once and for all. He has opposed the Jesuits once too often. You only need to read his works to realise that Galileo doesn’t understand Copernicus as you do, and as we do. He still believes in circular orbits, even though you and I know they cannot work. He still believes comets are atmospheric phenomena. Your books are the future. Join us and we will help you to secure your place in history.’
Kepler looked squarely at Guldin. ‘I will leave this life as I entered it: a member of the catholic church.’
The Jesuit’s eye’s widened.
‘Do not take that to mean the Roman Catholic Church. I speak with the original meaning in mind. The one derived from the Greek katholikos, meaning universal. My catholic faith embraces all of Christ’s followers with equal respect. Yes, respect – the one thing each Church denies the followers of the other. Respect between fellow Christians is all I ask.’
‘But there are such great differences of opinion between the Churches.’
‘What we agree on is far greater than what we disagree about. Divisions betray the weakness of man, not the will of God. Yet the fact that we do disagree is all that seems to matter. There will always be quarrels in any family. There are differences of opinion between the burghers of our great cities, yet they all regard themselves as citizens. We were all baptised as children of God. Some of us follow His Holiness; others the teachings of Luther; and yet others follow their own conscience.’
‘Johannes, you’re going to throw away your future. You will be destitute if you walk away from this opportunity.’
‘Yes, I will, but, even as I beg in the streets, I will still be true to who I am. My work is finished here.’ He fastened his cloak and rose. ‘It’s time for me to go and buy gingerbread.’
Kepler strode through the Palace with new purpose. Although he doubted that he would find a carriage bound for Linz at this time of day, he might get as far as Tabor before nightfall. That, at least, would mean he did not have to spend any more time in Prague. Finding his carriage in the yard, he asked his driver to take him back to his lodgings. He would collect his things, buy the children their gift and go at once to the coaching inn in the south of the city.
The carriage rocked its way down the hill. It carried him across the bridge and through the confounded checkpoint, then it turned to track the misty Vltava up past the university to what had once been the Jewish quarter. Unexpectedly the carriage drew to a halt.
‘Why have we stopped?’ demanded Kepler, sticking his head out of the window.
‘To test a suspicion.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Look behind you. They’ve been following us since we left the Palace.’
Some way back, another carriage had also drawn to a halt. The horse shook its head; its driver sat still as a statue.
What now? Spies? Assassins?
An incandescent rage burst inside him. He flung open the door and marched towards the other vehicle, pulling in great lungfuls of the bitter air and sending clouds of vapour billowing from his nostrils. He was within ten feet of the carriage and preparing to launch his tirade, when the carriage door opened and a well-dressed man emerged. He doffed an extravagant, wide-brimmed hat.
‘Apologies for the somewhat unorthodox approach, Herr Kepler.’ He was slender and youthful in appearance, with thin lips, although not unkind, and dark eyes; the kind Kepler found easy to believe.
The man wore a satchel, into which he reached. ‘I have something for you, something you may recognise.’ He proferred Kepler a battered sheet of paper. Yellowed with age and frayed at the edges, but unmistakable: it held the diamond-shaped chart of a horoscope that Kepler had done years earlier. He looked up. There was a hint of amusement on the man’s face.
‘Where did you get this?’ demanded Kepler.
‘My master has owned it since you wrote it for him.’
Kepler pieced together his memories of the event. There had been an anonymous customer who had requested a horoscope. He had sent a messenger to find Kepler and paid handsomely for the job. As Kepler had charted the mystery man’s nativity, he had found it to be striking in its leadership qualities, similar to that of the former English queen, Elizabeth.
‘That must have been more than fifteen years ago. Your master, does he still live?’ asked Kepler, looking into the man’s dark eyes.
‘He does.’
‘Was it you who approached me last time?’
‘No, sir.’
There was writing on the horoscope after Kepler’s original notes. Someone had recorded various personal events and linked them to Kepler’s prognostications, forming a patchwork biography. Kepler read the spidery hand, but the notes were too cryptic to make much sense. ‘What does your master want?’
‘He would like you to update the chart.’
A moment ago, Kepler had been set on speeding back to his family and leaving this former life behind once and for all. Now, he was wavering. He hated the part of himself that was so easily ensnared by intrigue but, if he spent just one more night here, perhaps he could resolve this loose end, as well.
‘Who is the person?’
‘I’m not at liberty to tell you. The arrangement is the same as before.’
The money would certainly come in handy. Kepler deliberated a moment or two longer, then said, ‘I’ll do the work tonight.’
‘Bring it to the Half Moon Tavern tomorrow at noon.’
32
What had started as a light drizzle had become a downpour, and Kepler was soaked by the time the black timber frame of the Half Moon Tavern came into view. He opened the door, and the reek of damp clothes, hair and beer hit him at once. He tunnelled his way into the press of people and began to search for his man. There was a tap on his shoulder.
‘Do you have it?’ Those dark eyes flashed.
Kepler handed over the scroll.
‘Wait here.’ The man disappeared.
Kepler was just about to give in to the barman’s stare and order a drink when the slim figure reappeared.
‘Come this way, please.’
Kepler followed him through a doorway, then down a gloomy corridor to a back room. Inside sat several men, all wearing
swords and fine clothes. Their conversation stopped. Kepler saw his horoscope spread across the table. Facing him was the broad-shouldered man from the church. He was smiling. It looked almost incongruous on such a military face. He stood up. ‘I am …’
‘General Wallenstein.’ Kepler completed for him.
The General stepped around the table. ‘Are you surprised to see me?’
‘Your chart makes perfect sense now.’
‘I was an ambitious young man when you drew my first horoscope. Now, I have achieved everything you said I would. Naturally I want to know: what’s next?’
‘My work is for people who understand philosophy, not for those who believe that I can pluck future eventualities from the heavens.’
Wallenstein recited from memory: ‘If he pays proper attention to the events in the world, he will attain the high honours he seeks, along with great wealth.’ He continued: ‘You wrote that in your original horoscope, and I took it to heart. I know the value of your advice and the part the individual plays in making his own fortune. You are a shrewd observer: one eye on the stars; the other on those around you.’
‘I’ve seen farmers grow pumpkins in Linz. They tie ribbons around them to mould them into fanciful shapes, but no one would say the ribbons make the pumpkins grow. So it is with the stars – they may influence us but they do not predetermine us,’ said Kepler.
‘I’m not sure I like being thought of as a pumpkin but I take your point.’ Wallenstein crossed his arms. ‘I heard about your meeting yesterday. It confirms what I have long thought and admired about you. You’re an individual, intent on following your own path, even if it leads you into difficulty. That applies to me too. Oh, I see in your face that you’re sceptical of our similarity but consider this: I want power and you want knowledge. We’re both willing to do whatever we must to achieve our goals on our own terms. So how different are we, really?’
Kepler paused. There was expectation in the air, though for what he could not yet tell. ‘Is the new horoscope to your liking?’