by Stuart Clark
He hated London. Being here in the midst of such decay felt like crows pecking at his flesh. Even in the finest streets you would often glimpse a dead body. Mostly these were animal carcasses, but it was not uncommon to come across a human who had perished in the night. Yet, if he was going to exorcise the dreams that continued to haunt him, he could see no other way than to make this trip. He had made a breakthrough with his experiments, but he needed confirmation.
When he found the doorway, Newton squared his shoulders and rapped sharply.
A panel opened. There was a faint glow from inside and a silhouette. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m–’
‘Don‘t tell me your name. Didn’t you read the instructions? Show me the letter.’
Newton had planned to quote the pseudonym he had been using on his letters, but he was so startled by the admonishment that he said nothing. He retrieved the cryptic invitation from his pocket and pushed it through the panel. Every inch of him was poised to turn tail and run.
The door opened. Newton’s blood froze. The doorman was hooded, like an executioner. ‘Don’t be shy. Come in.’
Newton stepped inside. The man closed the door, then touched a candle to the letter before dropping it on to a metal plate. They were in a small ante-room, little more than a closet. Pointing to a doorway, the man said, ‘Down there.’
Newton peered into the gloom. ‘There’s no light.’
‘There’s only one way to go.’
Newton adjusted his satchel across his shoulders and descended. The door shut behind him. He was suspended in pitch darkness with only the touch of the cold wall on his fingers to reassure him that he was alive. He felt his way to the base of the staircase, where he discerned a door by the faint glow underneath it. He groped for the handle and pushed the door open. In the middle of the room, sitting on an earthen floor, was a single candle. The room smelled of damp earth and stale humans.
‘Sit down, please,’ offered an incongruously cultured voice.
There was a simple wooden chair and Newton perched on it. The candlelight revealed little. A metal grate behind it blocked most of the illumination from striking his hosts, though Newton could make out shapes sitting in a semi-circle.
As his eyes adjusted he saw shoes and legs: one pair was long and slim, another was in mud-splattered hose, yet another grossly swollen, with varicose veins bulging beneath the stockings. All wore the fashionable block heels. So, all were gentlemen.
And all are secret adepts. Newton’s pulse raced.
The same voice cut through the murky air. ‘You have been invited here today because it has come to our attention that you have made substantial progress in the alchemical arts. This is not an easy thing to undertake alone. Our art is much mistaken by those who do not truly understand what we seek. What is it that drives you?’
Newton cleared his throat. He was confident on this: alchemy was not the petty quest for gold but the pursuit of the lost knowledge of creation. ‘I seek the bridge between the material and the spiritual worlds. Through my studies I pursue the active principles of nature, the ones that God has used to bind up His creation and make all transformations possible: why the clouds turn to rain; why life springs from dirty Earth. Transforming lead into gold? Yes, that would be a profound transformation, but not for the sake of wealth. It signifies the raising of baseness to perfection, as life signifies the perfection of inanimate matter.’
‘Are you pure of heart in these intentions?’
‘I am,’ said Newton. ‘I have brought something to demonstrate this to you.’
He opened the satchel and pulled out a small, ruby-coloured mass, which he placed in the palm of his hand. Stubby crystalline branches stuck out from the central blob in parody of fingers. There were gasps from the invisible committee.
‘Where did you get that?’ asked one.
‘I made it in my own furnaces,’ said Newton, basking in their surprise.
‘But it’s . . .’
‘The star of regulus.’
A pair of liver-spotted hands reached out for the crystal. ‘May I?’
Newton held back deliberately before handing it over. It allowed him to catch a glimpse of a lined face with sagging flesh.
Robert Boyle – as he had suspected.
‘You did this without guidance?’ asked Boyle.
‘I used only my own reading into the subject and experiments.’ He had decoded the recipe from an engraving of two winged dragons fighting. One was wounded and scorched and plummeting from the sky, and he had comprehended that he needed to pour the heated chemicals into a flask of liquid. So vivid had been his understanding of the allegory that he was starting to think of his experiments in terms of mythical beasts: griffins and feathered serpents and dragons – they were all coded references to alchemy.
There was an urgent round of muttering. They passed the crystal between them, then all the shadows stood. A new voice spoke up, younger and bolder.
‘You are to be adopted forthwith. Stand, please.’
Newton did so. He was passed a Bible.
‘Do you promise and swear faithfully and truly to keep close and conceal all secrets whatsoever shall be revealed to you by us, the Fathers of this Society, to which you are about to be admitted, so help you Almighty God?’
‘I do,’ said Newton.
‘Do you promise and swear faithfully and truly not to reveal the names of any persons revealed to you, so help you Almighty God?’
‘I do.’
‘Then you are now one of us. What is the name you have chosen for yourself?’
‘Jehovah Sanctus Unus.’ Newton had constructed it from the Latinised version of his name. When he had seen the pseudonym hiding in the letters, he knew he had been sent a heavenly message. The realisation had chilled and thrilled him in equal measure.
One true God.
11
Rome, Papal States
Halley woke with images of Elisabeth Hevelius crowding his head. He could still see the hungry look in her eyes as vividly as if she were standing over him now, and he wondered why her image should return to him today. It had been months since he had left Danzig and begun his meandering journey across Europe to end up here on the Italian peninsula.
He was sticky with sweat, and rose to clean himself in the washbowl. The morning light was already overwhelming and carried a fearsome heat through the wooden shutters. Shaking water from his hair, he decided to breakfast in the piazza.
There was an old man watching the entrance of the English College building as Halley left that morning. His grey head was too large for the rest of the body, and he needed to support himself by resting on the fountain’s wall.
Halley noticed him next to the sparkling water but thought nothing of it.
‘Signor, a word with you, please?’ It took a number of repetitions before Halley realised he was being addressed. The old man drew near with slow but certain footsteps. His features were carved as boldly as a sculpture, with a wide mouth and Roman nose set below a heavy brow.
‘You are Edmond Halley, are you not?’
‘I am,’ said Halley warily.
The old man bowed. ‘Your reputation as an astronomer precedes you.’
‘Thank you, but you have me at a disadvantage.’
‘My name is Vincenzo Viviani. However, I think that you would best recognise me if I tell you that I was Galileo’s last student.’
Halley looked the man up and down, from the bandy legs to the disproportionately large head.
‘I studied with the maestro in his final years.’
Halley found his voice. ‘Have you had breakfast yet, Signor Viviani?’ They ended up eating pastries with coffee in a shady alcove on the perimeter of a packed market square. Oblivious to the commotion, Halley fixed on the lined face before him. ‘But his final book, the one on motion, that he wrote after his trial, how did he arrange for its publication when he was being so closely watched?’
Viviani nodded as if it were a
n expected question. ‘You have to understand that, by that point in his life, Galileo had nothing left to live for. He was taken in by Archbishop Piccolomini in Siena, who agreed to be his first gaoler. He nurtured Galileo back to health, but the maestro’s rehabilitation there lasted just five months. Then the Vatican found out that the archbishop was a supporter, inviting academics and thinkers to revive my master’s fractured mind, and they ordered Galileo to be moved. Piccolomini was ignored by Rome from then on, all influence lost. He remained in Siena as archbishop for the rest of his life. But he had given Galileo enough succour to continue. Without the archbishop’s love, the maestro could not have endured the next burden.’
Halley nodded for Viviani to continue.
‘He was placed under house arrest back in his home in Florence. Forbidden to see friends or host any gathering of more than a few people, he lived in peace, visiting his daughters in the convent nearby. But within weeks, his most beloved eldest daughter succumbed to dysentery and was taken by the Lord. On the day of her death, Galileo was escorted home by a local doctor, only to find an Inquisition officer waiting for him. He was told that he risked being taken back to Rome and imprisoned if he did not cease the calls for his good name to be restored.’ The words were pouring from him now.
‘So he wrote everything he could in his new book while he still had the time. And everything he wrote was demonstrably true. Anyone with the correct education could read and reproduce his experiments. No one could argue with him any more. His Discorsi is the greatest work of Italian philosophy ever written – why, it is a new philosophy! Yet even now, Italy does not know of its greatest son’s achievement. His works are banned, his name not even whispered.’ A heavy sigh escaped Viviani and his shoulders slumped. ‘I vowed that I would see his grave moved here to Rome. It’s unmarked, in a small room under the bell tower in Santa Croce. But I have failed. Galileo is still considered a traitor.’
‘Not in northern Europe,’ said Halley quickly, ‘not in England.’
Viviani was breathing hard. ‘I have covered my house in a tribute to his work. Etched into the stone on either side of the entrances are eulogies; above the door is a bust. Great men must be championed, no matter what the personal cost, don’t you think, Signor Halley? They come along too rarely to be ignored. In 1564, the maestro Michelangelo died and Galileo was born. I believe they shared the same spirit. But who has it now?’ Viviani looked around at the market stalls, the hordes of shoppers and hawkers. ‘Who in this world now holds that spirit? No one in Italy, that’s certain. But perhaps in England, with the Royal Society?’ He fixed Halley with a burning stare. ‘Tell me, Mr Halley, is there anyone in England who could be the next Galileo?’
Halley was still mulling the question over as he returned to the English College that evening.
‘Letter for you, sir.’ A steward waved the missive in the air.
Halley’s eyes widened as he read.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked the steward.
It took a moment for Halley to form the words. ‘I’m to return to England at once. I’m getting married.’
A black carriage was waiting at the bottom of the gangplank when Halley stepped on to the wharf at Greenwich. He made to step around the vehicle, but the scraping as its window was lowered drew his attention.
‘Lift home?’ The nasal voice was familiar.
Halley regarded the weasel-like features.
‘Mr Winslow. How did you know I was arriving today?’
Winslow remained inscrutable.
Halley climbed into the carriage, which jolted into motion.
‘So?’ Winslow drawled.
‘So what?’
‘Anything to report? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your promise to the King.’
‘Of course not. Let me see . . . There were more than 24,000 recorded deaths in Paris last year, as opposed to 20,000 in London, but the same rate of marriages and births. So, to maintain the population each French couple must have four children.’
Winslow looked bored.
‘I measured the Roman foot against our London one. It’s four-tenths of an inch shorter. And the Greek foot is one-twentieth of an inch longer than we are used to.’
‘Don’t tell me that’s it?’
‘I think you will find that enough, especially if you’re marching an army across Europe. One would want to know distances to the inch.’
Winslow scratched the stubble on his jaw. Then he struck the carriage roof with a brass-topped walking-stick and flicked his head towards the street. ‘You can walk from here.’
On his wedding day, Halley found himself wondering if the unpleasant little man was watching from some dark nook during the ceremony. If he were spying, he would have seen Halley looking upwards to say the holy words, but would he have guessed that the astronomer was saying them to his mother rather than to God? He imagined her looking down and watching the proceedings with her soft smile.
Joane looked insufferably smug, as though she had single-handedly brought a miscreant to justice. While she stayed on the periphery of the celebrations, thankfully Halley’s father took centre stage. Halley could not remember the last time he had seen the patriarch laugh so much, or drink so much for that matter.
Robert was there with Grace. She had regarded Halley so openly that at times he felt quite uncomfortable. Mary’s sisters, Margaret and Dorothy, also attended; Margaret was the eldest, and she had gazed plaintively all day at Mary’s gown. When the time came to be bundled up to bed, Halley’s mind whirled with excitement and alcohol as Margaret and Dorothy flattened him on the soft mattress and stripped him of his stockings. Next to him, his friends were removing Mary’s undergarments. Then the bawdy attendants all stood with their backs to the bed and flung the garments over their shoulders to see whose would reach the bride and groom.
All of them missed, but Halley caught Margaret’s fabric talisman and dropped it quickly on his torso.
‘There, see, you shall be married,’ said Dorothy, to her elder sister’s delight.
Then Halley and Mary were alone. They rolled to face each other . . .
12
Islington Village
1683
With Mary’s eyes shut Halley could admire her without the usual self-consciousness that overcame him. Her fine blonde hair curled round her face and she wore a permanently mischievous expression. She had a little pointed chin, and pale lips that always seemed to be dancing on the edges of a smile.
Every time he studied her like this, it reminded him of their wedding night and the first time he had really looked at her, lying on the pillows beside him at the end of the day. The memory still shone so brightly that it was difficult to believe it had been all those months – a couple of years! – ago. He fancied it would never fade.
He backed out of their cottage, guiding her into the dusk by her slender forearms. The aroma of summer honeysuckle surrounded them. ‘No peeping, Mrs Halley.’
She giggled as he led her away from the pool of candlelight at the back door and down the garden path.
‘You’ll spoil your surprise if you peep, and I’ll have to punish you for being a bad wife,’ he said with mock severity.
She immediately opened her eyes and pulled a comic face at him in challenge. Point made, she squeezed them shut again and continued with the game.
Halley fought the urge to kiss her and pull her back inside to their bedroom. By sheer willpower he led her to the bottom of the garden. She had to see this – everyone should see it – to understand. He guided her to a telescope pointing at the full, rich Moon. ‘One more second,’ he told his wife. He checked the telescope’s alignment, making a whisker of an adjustment, and then guided her into the seat he had positioned. He crouched behind her and, cradling her jaw, moved her head to the telescope. ‘Now then, open your right eye,’ he whispered into her ear.
She gasped. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful! The hills are in a perfect circle. What a divine sight.’ She cocked her head to check
where the telescope was pointing. ‘This isn’t one of your tricks, is it? I’m really looking at the Moon?’
‘It’s real. It’s called a crater. The Moon’s covered in them, but we don’t know how they got there.’
She returned her gaze to the eyepiece. ‘Everything is silvery. Where are the plants and animals?’
‘We don’t know. It’s a long way away – of course, not as far as the planets, and then the stars–’
‘Stop it, Edmond, you’re scaring me. I cannot imagine it.’
‘No one can, but it’s nothing to be scared of. It’s a marvel.’
‘It’s truly the work of God . . .’
Halley said nothing.
‘No wonder you spend so long out here.’
‘I’m not just gazing around,’ he said. ‘We need to be able to fix our position at sea. You can measure your latitude easily by the height of the Pole Star above the horizon, but longitude is still difficult. The best way is to use the Moon. It takes twenty-eight days to orbit Earth, and as it does so, it passes in front of the stars that are scattered along its path. The exact time for each star to be eclipsed depends on your position on the Earth. What’s funny?’
‘You sound like a schoolmaster.’
‘Then be a good pupil and pay attention. If we can compute a set of tables that gives the precise times when these stars will be eclipsed at Greenwich, then sailors can compare the time at which they observe the eclipses and calculate how far away they are from London. You see? That’s what I’m trying to do . . . but I need the Moon’s position as precisely as I can measure it, night after night after–’
Mary twisted in the chair and threw her arms around him so tightly that when he stood up, he pulled her out of her chair and into his arms. The Moon forgotten, her slight frame was easy to carry back into the house.
In Hertfordshire, the soldiers arrived early to arrest the Earl of Essex. The rosy tints of morning bathed the redcoats as they marched through the estate’s regimented gardens. They negotiated the box hedges and sidestepped the lavender, making for the original Tudor wing with its crumbling red bricks and diamond-shaped chimneys, before forcing their way into the slumbering mansion. On locating the Earl’s sleeping-chamber they ordered his servants to dress and wig the peer. Then they carted him to the Tower – so the story went. It was all the coffeehouse patrons could talk about.