The Sky's Dark Labyrinth E-Book

Stuart Clark

• Herausgeber: Birlinn
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Sky's Dark Labyrinth Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 473

Beschreibung

At the dawn of the seventeenth century everyone believed that the sun revolved around the earth. Yet some men knew that the heavens did not move as they should. And some men began to suspect that this heresy was in fact the truth. As Europe convulsed in conflict between Catholic and Protestant, these men prepared to die for that truth. This is the story of Kepler and Galileo, two men whose struggle with themselves, with the evidence and with the forces of reaction changed not simply themselves but our world. The Sky's Dark Labyrinth is the first of a trilogy of novels inspired by the dramatic struggles, personal and professional, and key historical events in man's quest to understand the Universe.

Leseprobe

The Sky’s Dark Labyrinth

Stuart Clark

Contents

Title PagePART I: Ascension1: Rome, Papal States2: Prague, Bohemia3456: Rome, Papal States7: Benátky, Bohemia89: Tübingen, Swabia10: Prague, Bohemia1112: Rome, Papal States13: Prague, Bohemia1415PART II: Culmination16: Prague, Bohemia17: Padua, Republic of Venice18: Rome, Papal States19: Prague, Bohemia20: Rome, Papal States21: Prague, Bohemia2223: Florence, Tuscany24: Prague, Bohemia25: Rome, Papal States26PART III: Setting27: Linz, Upper Austria28: Florence, Tuscany29: Leonberg, Swabia30: Florence, Tuscany31: Linz, Upper Austria3233: Rome, Papal States34: Linz, Upper Austria35: Rome, Papal States36EpilogueAcknowledgementsCopyright

PART I

Ascension

The roads that lead man to knowledge are as wondrous as that knowledge itself.

JOHANNES KEPLER

1

Rome, Papal States

1600

Scarlet robes were the only sure way to achieve anonymity in public. Even in the narrowest streets, people would shy away as though the garments hid a leper. When physical distance was impossible because of the crush, they lowered their eyes and scuttled past, driven by the fear of judgement. Only children would gaze openly.

Most of the other cardinals took litters so that they could enjoy looking down on their charges, and escape the worst of the summer stench, but Cardinal Bellarmine liked being among the people. Only from within the crowds could he truly feel their respect, their fear. That man in the emerald silk had the clothes of rank and privilege, but not the demeanour. With eyes darting this way and that, his garments were probably bought from the profits of short-changing his customers. Then there was the glutton leaning against the wall, still rubbing his paunch from last night’s meal that could doubtless have served an entire family. And the blonde woman with tired eyes, bare shoulders and bold cleavage; her sin was clear for all to see. All of them avoided his gaze, becoming awkward and self-conscious. Such reactions convinced Bellarmine of the need for his work to continue. It gave him courage, especially on a day like today.

‘I don’t understand why the prisoner has remained unsentenced for so long. He was arrested seven years ago. As a heretic, he should have been burned within fifteen days,’ said his companion.

‘Capital punishment is a last resort, young man.’

‘With respect, I’m thirty years old, hardly a young man.’

‘You’re half my age, Cardinal Pippe. You’re a young man to me.’

They were squeezing through a passageway, knocking shoulders as they headed out of the town while the throng plodded in. The sun was not yet high enough to slice into the alley, making it a popular shortcut for those eager to escape the heat-drenched boulevards. As the pale stone walls funnelled the pedestrians together, Pippe accidentally placed his sandalled foot in the running gutter. He growled in disgust.

‘But it shows weakness to prevaricate like this. Rome must be strong. In the north of Europe, I’ve heard that witches are burned every day.’

‘We are not Lutheran barbarians with their superstitions and summary executions. Everything must have due legal process – even for a heretic,’ said Bellarmine.

They turned into a wider street, the sun now fully in their eyes. It was no less of a crush, and the cardinals were still walking against the flow of people. A farmer drove an old sow patiently around them, the smell of the farmyard lingering long after the animal passed from view. Young men with flapping shirtsleeves dodged in and out, hurrying to find work for the day. Scrawny dogs followed scents, and a young girl waved the grimy air away from her nose as her mother dragged her onwards.

Old houses – survivors from the sacking of the city seventy-three years ago – lined the dirt road, which was furrowed with cart tracks and cracked for want of rain. A low cloud of dust shrouded feet and ankles.

A family had chosen that day to move home. Their belongings spewed out of the door across the dirt, slowing people down and causing much head-shaking and muttering. Their donkey flicked its tail at the buzzing flies, occasionally catching one of the passers-by. A burly man lashed another chair onto the donkey’s already laden back and, in the midst of it all, the mother did her best to organise the swarming children into some kind of team.

The crack of trampled wood brought a thunderous glare from the man and an apology from someone in the crowd. The two clerics took their turn in stepping around the chattels and the children.

‘Why do these people clutter their lives so?’ asked Pippe, openly staring at the jumble.

‘It is how they define themselves. The rich have land; the poor have knick-knacks.’ Bellarmine dabbed his forehead with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. On any other day he might have been amused by the young man’s annoyance.

‘Shouldn’t they turn to God for definition?’

‘They do that too.’

They paused at a crossroads to allow a small cart to rumble by. Pulled by a slender boy, it was piled high with bolts of cheap cloth that not even the sun could brighten. Still, it was a start for him. Pippe tapped his foot impatiently, raising more dust. ‘I have read that the prisoner talks of the Earth moving through the heavens.’

‘We cannot burn him for that; the Church has no position on those teachings.’

‘But, Cardinal Bellarmine, the Bible talks of the Sun moving across the sky.’ He flung an arm upwards to the brilliant blue dome.

The older man ignored the gesture and began walking once more. ‘I agree. The Sun’s motion is obvious. I have talked to Father Clavius of the Jesuits …’

‘The Jesuits.’ Pippe spoke the name as if it were a curse. ‘More layers of grey. Why must we continually seek their approval on matters that are so clearly black and white?’

Bellarmine glanced around the crowd, satisfying himself that no one had taken any notice of the outburst. ‘We need the Jesuits,’ he told the younger cardinal. ‘Their missionaries are fearless. They are staunching the spread of Lutherism across Europe every day.’

‘But they seem more interested in natural philosophy than theology.’

‘Not all of them. But, since you mention it, natural philosophy is interwoven into our theology. It remains as it was handed down by Aristotle. The Lutherans attack us there because they think it’s our weak spot, but the Jesuits can defend us; their mathematicians are without equal. Are you old enough to remember when Pope Gregory ordered ten days of October to be dropped, to bring the calendar back in line with the seasons?’

‘I was twelve in 1582, of course I remember it,’ said Pippe wistfully. ‘How could I not remember it? My birthday falls on one of the days skipped that year. A hard lesson for a twelve year old who was left wondering if he’d have to wait another twelve months to turn thirteen.’

‘Father Clavius made those calculations,’ said Bellarmine. ‘The old way of calculating the length of a year had thrown Easter into confusion. Now, thanks to the Jesuit method, we have the most accurate calendar in the world, and the Lutherans are still arguing about whether to swallow their pride and adopt it. The Jesuits have put us ahead.’

‘And they know it. They’re arrogant. The Black Pope …’

Bellarmine grabbed Pippe by the arm and dragged him to a nearby doorway. ‘Who have you heard call him that?’

Pippe stared at Bellarmine.

Bellarmine demanded again, but Pippe did not answer.

‘You refer to the head of the Jesuits as the Praepositus Generalis, never as the … that term,’ said Bellarmine.

‘But there are rumours he’s going behind our backs, advising the Pope privately, rather than working with the cardinals.’

Bellarmine shook his head curtly. ‘Jesuit Catholicism is not in doubt.’

‘Are you afraid of them?’

Bellarmine looked away. Eventually he said, ‘If the Church’s hierarchy is no longer simple, it is because times demand it. The Pope will always be the head, but the Jesuits are now the backbone.’

Pippe lifted his chin. ‘Well, I don’t trust them.’

‘Stop talking, cardinal, before you say something that both of us will regret.’ Pippe frowned, then looked directly at Bellarmine. ‘You’re one of them …’

Bellarmine nodded slowly, watching the effect of his admission. Pippe bit his lip. For a moment, it looked as if he might flee, but he controlled himself and stood his ground. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said meekly.

‘I say this as a friend, it’s better to have Jesuit respect than contempt. Now let us put this conversation behind us, along with this reeking doorway.’ Bellarmine cut back into the street, forcing Pippe to catch him up.

‘Now, as I was saying, I’ve spoken to Father Clavius, and he assures me the ideas of Copernicus that Giordano Bruno advocates are unworkable. Ingenious but unworkable. They require even more mathematics than the method they’re designed to replace, and their predictions for the positions of the planets are less accurate than traditional methods. The philosophers will reject Copernican ideas on those grounds alone. Of much greater concern are Giordano’s comments about Christ’s divinity. You have read the reports?’

‘Yes, cardinal. He believes that Christ was just a man skilled in the arts of magic.’

Bellarmine nodded. That was only the start of it. Bruno also refuted the transubstantiation of the sacrament into the blood and body of Christ, and openly denied the Virgin birth. ‘His list of heresies is a long one. I’m afraid for him.’

‘Afraid for him? We should be afraid for Rome. We cannot risk another Martin Luther. The world still reels from his wickedness. Half of Europe’s Catholics cleaved off into Lutheran heresy because of his demonic vision.’

‘That, young man, is why I have to end this business with Giordano one way or another today.’

The pair arrived at a quieter part of town. Though just a few turns from the main streets, the people had all but vanished, the hubbub dissolved in the soupy air. The calm was eerie, and Bellarmine shuddered as the gaol’s oak door scraped open.

‘Welcome, gentlemen, it’s not often we have such distinguished visitors.’ The gaoler fussed around them as if they were much loved dinner guests. Bellarmine remained silent as their host raised a flaming torch and led them down a flight of spiral steps. At a small doorway, the gaoler flicked his cape over his shoulder. ‘He won’t give you any trouble.’

As he unlocked the door, Bellarmine crouched to peer into the dark cell. He could make out nothing, not even the dimensions of the silent room. Only the stink of an unwashed body betrayed the presence of someone inside.

‘You’ll need this,’ said the gaoler, handing him the torch.

Bellarmine edged inside and stood up. Pippe craned to see over his shoulder. The floor was covered in straw, and the reek grew stronger.

‘Giordano, it is Robert Bellarmine.’

There was no answer. Bellarmine called again.

A coiled figure was discernible in a corner, and Bellarmine feared that he was too late, that Giordano had simply been left to rot. But the prisoner lifted a trembling hand to shield his face from the torchlight. His hair was a shoulder-length frizz of grey. His eyes were screwed shut like a newborn pup. It took a long time for them to open. Bellarmine waited. He could feel Pippe’s impatience behind him but only when Bruno’s eyes flickered with something that could have been recognition did Bellarmine speak again.

‘I understand what you must feel.’

Giordano did not move.

‘These past seven years … I have come to know you, to love you. I want to save you.’ He offered the palm of his free hand to the prisoner, whose cracked lips began to move. His voice was a barely audible rasp.

‘Fetch me water,’ Bellarmine barked over his shoulder. There was a scuffling, followed by a damp wooden cup being thrust at him. He took the vessel with his free hand and held it to Bruno’s lips. Pippe removed the torch from his other hand. Bruno’s face was cast orange by the flames and his moving lips made words. ‘Set me free … I will teach my works.’

‘Your works are flawed. You cannot be set free until you let go of those beliefs,’ said Bellarmine. ‘Only Vatican theologians are permitted to interpret the Scriptures. Don’t make the same mistake as the Lutherans – translating the Bible into German so that any man can draw a conclusion. It leads to confusion and collapse. You should know that.’

Bruno twitched.

‘You risk death if you do not recant. Time is running out.’

‘Then deliver me into God’s hands.’

‘Not God’s hands, Giordano. You risk damnation for your beliefs.’

‘The Devil will be saved too.’

‘That decides it,’ hissed Pippe. ‘Rank heresy.’

Bellarmine lifted his hand to silence the younger cardinal.

‘The Devil is beyond salvation, Giordano,’ he said mildly. ‘Our greatest theologians tell us so. We cannot pick and choose what we believe. Authority is handed down from one echelon to the next, with all our beliefs flowing like a river from the fountain of God. This cannot be questioned; the Church derives its strength from unity. Do not trouble yourself with matters of interpretation. How can you achieve more than the legions of cardinals who have pored over the Holy Book for centuries and refined our understanding to perfection?’

Bruno stared into the darkness.

Bellarmine felt the stone in his chest grow heavier. He was unable to keep the pleading from his voice. ‘A simple recantation is all that we need from you, some act of sincere contrition. Otherwise you strike at the authority of the Church, and we cannot allow that.’

Bruno’s eyes suddenly widened in the flickering light. Bellarmine’s breath quickened and he leaned closer. ‘Yes?’

‘I have found God,’ whispered Bruno. ‘He is not some ethereal being but he is all around us, he is in everything …’

Something dark stirred in Bellarmine. ‘No, Giordano, no. God stands away from his creation. You mustn’t …’

‘And the Holy Spirit? It is the very soul of the Earth beneath our feet.’

The dread grew, overwhelming Bellarmine’s compassion. He locked eyes with Bruno. ‘You speak of the underworld, the Kingdom of Hell. I cannot allow you to place God there, Giordano.’

‘Kill me, cardinal, I invite it. I demand it. I will have the validation of knowing I was right – of taking my rightful place at God’s side. When the time comes for you to kneel before me, I will be ready with my judgement, ready to send you all to Hell.’

There was no mockery in Bruno’s tone. Bellarmine fought for breath. He grasped at the stone wall and hauled himself upright, sucking the fetid air into his lungs. ‘You are insane, dangerously insane.’ He whirled to leave the cell, colliding with Pippe and the gaoler. Sparks flew from Pippe’s torch. ‘There can be no earthly redemption for this man.’ Bellarmine took the spiral steps two, three at a time, gathering his robes so as not to trip. His lungs screamed for fresh air. ‘We have no choice but to commit him to God’s mercy for final judgement.’

A fortnight later, Bellarmine awoke with the first hints of dawn. For a while he watched the ochre shafts of light cross his room. The first wafts of incense from the chapels reached his nose. He rose to wash himself but something was wrong. The water, usually so refreshing, stung his face. He stared at his hands, and into the bowl beneath them, seeing the deep lines and bulbous nose of his rippling reflection.

Then he remembered the day.

He kneeled immediately by his bed, welcoming the jolt of pain as his aching knees struck the floor. He searched himself for remorse or doubt, or anything that would need atonement. He found none. He interlaced his bony fingers and dipped his head in prayer.

There was a sharp rap on his door. Pippe’s face appeared. ‘Are you coming to the piazza after Matins?’

Bellarmine swallowed, shook his head.

Pippe began to protest but a sharp look silenced him. ‘As you wish.’ He withdrew.

Bellarmine prayed for God to show mercy on Bruno’s soul, so close now to its release.

After the morning’s formal prayers, Bellarmine arrived at his office, and was assailed by memories of the first time the condemned man had been brought to him: a boyish demeanour with Dominican fringe and an endearing warmth. And a naivety that had led to this disaster. He tried to banish the images by working, but concentration was a shy visitor that morning.

Later, a dark twist of movement caught his eye. Breathing heavily, he rose to look out of the window. It was smoke, spiralling upwards from the market square. From this distance, it was impossible to tell if his request for a fast fire had been heeded. If it had, the fumes could well have overcome Bruno, sparing him the flames.

The shouts of a cheering crowd drifted on the breeze. Bellarmine’s mouth dried. Pippe had been right; he should have been there at the end. In a better world, executions would be conducted in private, but, until that day, the jeering masses must bear witness, so that the warning could be carried onwards.

Goodbye, Giordano, he mouthed, God receive you and bless you.

Another victim of a world eager for change, where none was needed.

How many must share your fate before the Catholic Church is restored throughout Europe?

2

Prague, Bohemia

Death danced in Prague. Every hour, the tiny skeletal figure held up an hourglass and beckoned to those in the market square. He was accompanied by Vanity, in the guise of a man raising a looking-glass, Greed, depicted as a merchant shaking a purse, and an Infidel, dressed in Turkish robes.

On this particular day, as the noon bell tolled and the macabre clockwork jig played out, an astronomer stood in front of the town clock. He studied the golden icons on the face of the timepiece. Each represented the current position of a celestial object: the Sun in Libra and the Moon in Aries, edging towards full roundness.

‘We arrive at a favourable time,’ he said.

‘Let’s hurry, husband. It’s damp, and these bags are heavy.’

He relieved his plump wife of a bundle and hoisted his own from the ground, then turned to the small girl beside him. ‘Are you ready to move on, Regina?’

The girl carried a roll of clothing under one arm and a rag doll under the other. ‘Astrid is tired, Papa. I have to carry her as well.’

‘We’ll soon be there,’ he said, as much for his own benefit as hers. They set off across the market square, weaving through the crowds. Regina squeaked with delight at a juggler in a gaudy costume of orange and green. She held up Astrid to show her the performer. Next, a basket of dirty turnips caught her attention. She showed these to the doll too. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, ‘Come along! Keep up!’

Tottering behind her were two lads from the coaching inn. For a few coins they had been eager to carry the family’s trunk of essentials but they did not look too enamoured with their ten-year-old mistress.

Stallholders called from every direction, keen to sell their late harvest produce.

‘Mercy! Everything is four times the price it was in Graz.’

‘We’ll manage, Barbara,’ said the astronomer.

‘How? It’s already cost one hundred and twenty thaler just to move, and we still have two wagonloads of furniture back in Graz. That’ll all have to be paid for once we’re settled.’

He fought down his irritation, blaming his mood on the fatigue lodged firmly in his muscles. He pushed on, glancing to check that Regina was still close by. A sword-swallower had momentarily captured her attention, but she soon turned away.

Through the hoards of people and baskets, on the far side of the square, the astronomer turned into a narrow residential road.

‘You want the next street for Baron Hoffman’s house,’ called one of the boys.

‘Ah, of course. In a week’s time, think how familiar these streets will all be.’ He managed a wan smile, but his wife looked unimpressed.

When they arrived at the house, Barbara admired the gothic windows – each as tall as a man, arranged over three storeys – and the large arch of the entrance. She seemed to straighten up. ‘It’s stone, you didn’t tell me that.’

‘I didn’t know.’ Their own house had been made of draughty timber. At night it creaked, and he used to imagine that God was sending him messages.

He gathered his family and rapped on the door. As he did so, the delivery boys set down their heavy load and vanished.

The wide door swung open. A housekeeper showed the new arrivals into a panelled hallway where a boy dressed in black took the astronomer’s hat, gloves and cape, and a young woman, thin as a pole, approached Barbara. ‘May I take that for you, madam?’

‘Thank you,’ said Barbara, shrugging off her heavy travelling shawl.

Footsteps signalled Baron Hoffman’s approach. He appeared from the depths of the house, a broad smile on his face. ‘Johannes Kepler, we have you in Prague at last.’

Kepler, taken aback by the warmth of the welcome, clasped the outstretched arm. ‘We will presume upon your hospitality only for a few days, until I can secure a place of our own.’

Hoffman waved a hand dismissively. ‘Nonsense, my home is yours for as long as you need it. Any friend of Hans is most welcome. He’s a shrewd judge of character and he tells me you’re the finest mathematician in Christendom.’

Kepler could not help but smile at mention of their mutual acquaintance. The charismatic Bavarian Chancellor, Hans Georg Hewart von Hohenburg, was everything that Kepler admired: erudite, enquiring, gracious, well connected, high-born. He had first heard of him some years ago when a courier in bright livery arrived at the Lutheran school in Graz, where Kepler was teaching, and handed over a letter from Rome.

Standing in the courtyard, Kepler broke the wax seal and saw that it was from somebody called Father Grienberger, a Jesuit mathematician. The handwriting was composed of deliberate strokes, each character devoid of flourish, and asked Kepler whether he would help a nobleman – Hewart – with a problem of chronology.

Hewart was seeking the exact date when a magnificent constellation of stars could have appeared. The alignment was described by the classical Roman poet Lucanus in the epic work Pharsalia, about the civil war between Julius Caesar and Pompey the Great.

Kepler’s first thought had been an uneasy one: Why were the Jesuits asking for his help? But that evening, curiosity piqued and eager to prove himself, he had brushed away his doubts along with the clutter on his desk and set to his calculations.

He first made rough guesses at the stars he thought Lucanus had been describing, then started to calculate their positions more than 1,500 years ago in the sky, compensating for the drift in the calendar, to see if they lined up. When he could find no match to Lucanus’s description, he recalculated, convinced he had made a stupid error. When the answer came out the same, he tried different stars, searching for any pattern that might be reasonable. In the end, he was forced to write back to Hewart stating that the great poet had been caught out in a flash of artistic licence. No such pattern of star had ever existed in the skies above earth.

Hewart responded with more questions relating to other documents: one month it was the precise date of a conjunction between Mercury and Venus in 5 BC; another it was the date of Augustus Caesar’s birth and the appropriate star chart to divine his character. Each request was designed to test the veracity of a historical document by checking its celestial descriptions against Kepler’s ability to calculate the position of the stars in times past. With each answer, Hewart built a more precise chronology of history.

As the correspondence mounted, so the letters became warmer. Their sentiments transformed from politeness to respect, and gradually blossomed into friendship. Hewart would offer the young astronomer advice, and never more valuably than in recent times when a hardening of Catholic attitudes in Graz’s ruling class had meant that Kepler and his family had been forced to leave because of their Lutheran beliefs.

When he heard the news, Hewart had recommended Kepler to Hoffman, an imperial advisor, who agreed to take them in. To Kepler, the act had underlined the injustice of the exile because both Hewart and Hoffman were Catholics.

‘Baron Hoffman, you are most gracious to accept us on Hans’s recommendation. May I introduce my wife, Barbara?’

Hoffman smoothed his chestnut hair. It was thinner than it used to be, and his doublet was a little tighter, nevertheless, he retained the power to make a woman blush just by looking at her. He bowed. ‘Frau Kepler, time has not touched you.’

Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Thank you, Baron.’

‘Please, call me Johann. I have assigned you a maid to make your stay as comfortable as possible.’ He beckoned the thin woman who had returned from stowing Barbara’s shawl. ‘This is Anicka.’

She bobbed at the knees. ‘Madam.’

‘And who is this?’ asked Hoffman, crouching down.

‘This is Regina, my stepdaughter,’ said Kepler, placing a hand on her shoulder.

‘And this is Astrid,’ said Regina, offering her doll.

‘A pleasure to meet you both.’ Hoffman turned to Kepler. ‘I have something for you.’

On the ornate hall table was a package, wrapped in waxed paper and bound with string. ‘Hans was at court last week. He left this for you.’

‘Thank you. How is the Chancellor?’

‘In good health but rather preoccupied. I sense urgency in the diplomatic corps these days.’

Inside the wrapping was a vellum-bound book. Kepler flicked to the title page and gasped. ‘Ptolemy’s Harmony – and in the original Greek. I have coveted this for some time.’

‘Hans said as much. It is to welcome you to your new life in Prague. Now, honoured guests, you must be tired. Anicka will show you to your rooms, and I will have your trunk brought up. Please join me for refreshments once you are established.’

‘It will be our pleasure,’ said Barbara before Kepler could reply. Once in their suite, Kepler sank into an upholstered chair, his bony body taking up only half of it. He started leafing through the book, but all too soon his eyes began to close. He was jolted back to consciousness by Barbara telling the maid where to hang dresses and shirts, how to fold stays and underpinnings, and where to place them in drawers, only to move them a moment later when she spied a better place.

‘I can do all this for you, madam. You need not worry yourself,’ said Anicka.

‘How will I know where to find things?’

‘I am your maid. You ask me, madam.’ When the clothes were stored, Anicka left. All that remained in the trunk were Kepler’s books and papers. They took up a good quarter of the space. ‘I will sort these later,’ he said and went to the window, eager for the cool air that lingered by the glass. His throat prickled.

‘Are you unwell again?’

‘I am starting a fever, that’s all. With God’s grace, it will pass.’

She tucked a lank strand of his hair behind his ear. ‘You know, I don’t think living in Prague will be so bad after all.’

Kepler managed a weak smile. At the next window, Regina was pointing out the sharp spires of the city’s skyline to Astrid.

‘Come along, you two,’ said Barbara, ‘we must join our host.’

Hoffman sat at a large table close to the panelled window, basking in the last rays of the afternoon sun. He stood up as the guests made their tentative entrance.

‘Come in, come in. Take a seat.’

Kepler waited for Regina to hop into a chair, and then eased it into the table. He seated himself next to Barbara.

Hoffman poured three goblets and passed them round.

‘To your new life in Prague,’ he toasted.

The wine tasted considerably smoother than Kepler was used to drinking. Though weak, it went to work immediately, and with each sip, he felt the stiffness in his limbs ebb a little more.

‘I cannot thank you enough for all you are doing,’ said Kepler.

‘It is the least I can do for a family who has suffered as you have. Forgive me for asking, but how bad was it in Graz?’

‘Just to be Lutheran was to be a target. Every day the Archduke passed new laws against us. It was rumoured that he thought Emperor Rudolph weak because of his tolerance of Lutherans throughout the Empire. So Ferdinand was determined to set an example in his own part of it. First, our ministers were banned, then our hymns, then the possession of Lutheran books. Even to bury a child …’ He could still feel the tiny bundle that had briefly been their first born, cradled in his arms. Barbara had risen on that morning and dressed in silence, then sat rocking back and forth. Kepler had seen the indescribable pain in her eyes and known that nothing he could do would erase it. Even now that impasse in their relationship troubled him on sleepless nights.

He reached over and took Barbara’s hand, steeling himself to finish his sentence. ‘I was fined ten thaler because I insisted on burying our child, Susanna, with Lutheran rites.’

Hoffman frowned. ‘Archduke Ferdinand is pushing the boundaries of his limited authority. He knows that as Holy Roman Emperor, Rudolph cannot defend Lutherans, and so Ferdinand uses this as tacit agreement to proceed with his persecutions. It is cowardly. Someone must make a stand, but who? If Rudolph speaks up, he risks excommunication from the Vatican, and with the Empire so deeply divided right now, that would surely lead to its collapse. How did it come to this?’

‘Much as it pains me to say this, there were those in our Lutheran community who invited it. Mostly teachers. They stood in front of their classes and attacked the papists like dogs slavering over old bones. In the face of their rabid insults, the Archduke found it easy to act.’

‘They say he returned from Rome determined to lead his land back to Catholicism.’

Kepler nodded. ‘As is his right in law. All he needed was the excuse, and the foolish teachers provided it.’

‘Even so, to include you in their punishment, when you were Ferdinand’s Mathematician …’

Kepler’s body tightened at the memory of that final day. ‘I served him with diligence yet, when the time came, it made no difference.’

It had been just after dawn when Kepler had taken his place among those summoned to the town church. The early hour of the call was a blessing because, the previous night, sleep had escaped him. He had prowled the house, tentacles of fear entangling his insides.

Eventually settling into an exhausted heap at Barbara’s feet, he crossed his arms on her lap and rested his head. She closed the outlawed prayer book and ran her fingers through his hair. Together they had waited for sunrise, and judgement.

By six in the morning, the crowd was a thousand strong. As the numbers rose, so did the heat. Kepler edged onto a worn pew as officials placed the city rolls on a table in the middle of the church. Behind them was an elaborate wooden throne on a raised dais. Near the altar, a black-robed priest was swinging a smoking thurible of incense, blessing anything within reach.

‘Courage,’ whispered a passing acquaintance, jarring Kepler from his thoughts. Another squeezed his arm, undisguised pity on his face and possibly a hint of shame. He’s going to convert, thought Kepler, experiencing a stab of betrayal.

His tension rose with the clatter of horses’ hooves outside. The congregation stood and waited for the procession to appear, all eyes on the young Archduke.

Although twenty-two, Ferdinand still looked as if he were a boy dressed to resemble a man. There was no definition in his doughy cheeks, just a long nose that slid down his face. His sandy mop bounced in time with his skittish gait and his thin moustache had been waxed and kinked upwards. He wore a partial suit of black armour, ludicrously teaming it with riding boots of pale brown leather and a wide-brimmed felt hat.

A phalanx of guards clanked around him, their armour polished like mirrors. Behind them, more officials walked with exaggerated gravitas. These were the commissioners who would examine each member of the congregation and decide their fate.

Kepler watched as the Archduke advanced, but the young ruler stared ahead with practised aloofness. As he passed, Kepler despaired. Only then did he realise that he was still harbouring the faint hope of recognition and reprieve.

Ferdinand sat on the makeshift throne and signalled for the proceedings to begin. During the inflammatory sermon that followed, the Catholic preacher hurled back all that the Lutherans had dished out. Kepler shut his eyes and silently muttered a prayer, calling for strength and begging forgiveness for the pain he was about to inflict on his family.

One by one, the men were called to the central table where each professed their obedience to Rome – even those who a week ago had been screaming insults at the Pope. All was apparently expunged by this public conversion. When Kepler’s name was called from the register, he rose from the pew and walked towards the table, legs unsteady and blood pounding at his temples.

The commissioners regarded him with graven faces. ‘Johannes Kepler, you have been called here today so that we may examine your faith. Do you understand?’

‘I do.’ He searched each face at the table.

‘Do you worship in the Roman Catholic way, with your trust placed in God through His Holiness?’

Kepler spoke clearly: ‘No.’

A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd.

‘Are you willing to swear your allegiance to Rome?’

‘No.’

There was a collective gasp from the crowd. The commissioners held a hushed discussion involving much head shaking. Eventually the central official stood up. ‘Johannes Kepler, you are a heretic. You and your family must leave Graz and the entire territory of Styria within six weeks. If you return, you do so on pain of death.’

Kepler looked to the Archduke, who rolled his eyes as if bored.

Hoffman blew out a long breath as Kepler finished his story. ‘What a thing to have to endure. Take comfort in knowing that this cannot happen in Prague.’

‘I’ll be honest with you, I fear that the tolerance that once gave our Empire unity is slipping away. Are we not all imperial subjects regardless of personal belief? I wonder if anywhere, other than the Lutheran heartland to the west, is safe for my family now.’

Hoffman waved the objection away. ‘Fear not, Johannes. We cannot be judged by what happened in Graz. Rudolph may be sworn to Rome but – like his father – he is a tolerant man. You and your family are safe now.’

3

Kepler yelped like a puppy as the broom cracked him on the ankle.

‘Sorry,’ mumbled the boy who was clumsily brushing away the hair from around Kepler’s seat.

The barber cuffed the lad, who retreated to a safer corner of the shop, then reached for a sheet of polished metal. ‘There, sir, all done.’ He held the scratched mirror for Kepler to peer at himself. Massaging his bruise, Kepler stared incredulously. He did not know whether to be fascinated or appalled; he hardly recognised himself any more. He had long become accustomed to the scars from his bout of childhood smallpox, but in the six months since Susanna’s brief attempt at life, the flesh of his face had fallen away. Although more than a year shy of his thirtieth birthday, his once plump cheeks had sunken into dark wells and his eyes had grown heavy cowls. While the barber had done a good job of restoring some vigour to his hair, it now seemed in conflict with his cheerless face.

He paid for his haircut and left, eager to reach his next appointment. As he walked the overcast streets, he wondered what others thought when they looked at him. Perhaps they think me close to death. The notion gave him some curious satisfaction. A grand funeral would finally show the doubters what a valued citizen he had been. He conjured pictures of mourning crowds, the Archduke’s arrival in black, and the narration of condolence letters from universities across Europe.

‘Johannes!’ The call broke him from his grim musings. ‘We’re over here.’

Hoffman was standing with a stocky man in a short cape. The stranger favoured Kepler with a polite smile.

‘Allow me to introduce Jan Jessenius, anatomist and fellow advisor to our illustrious Emperor Rudolph II,’ said Hoffman.

‘An honour to meet you, Herr Kepler. I have heard of your great book, though, alas, I have yet to experience the pleasure of reading your Mysterium Cosmographicum.’ His words were warm, but his eyes scrutinised Kepler.

‘The pleasure is mine, Herr Jessenius.’

‘Gentleman, I thought we would take lunch at the inn.’ Hoffman indicated a squat building with a black timber frame, leaning, as if inebriated, on its neighbour for support.

‘Lead on,’ said Jessenius, clapping his hands and rubbing them together.

Inside, they burrowed through the drinkers and searched for a spare table. As they squatted on stools around a battered wooden slab, the conviviality of the place lifted Kepler’s spirits. It was as if the inn were divorced from the troubles of the outside world.

Hoffman leaned towards him. ‘Jan performed the first public dissection of a human cadaver here in the city, not three weeks ago. If I had not seen the lengths of the intestine myself, I would not have believed it.’

‘Thank goodness the day was a cold one – it kept the stench at bay,’ Jessenius added, prompting the men to grin.

‘I have considered turning to anatomy myself,’ said Kepler. ‘I find the resonances between the condition of the individual and the aspects of the heavens fascinating.’

As any learned man knew, the twelve constellations of the zodiac influenced the twelve regions of the body, starting with Aries and the head, face and brain, Taurus and the neck, throat and larynx, and continuing downwards to Pisces and the feet and toes. As the planets passed through these constellations, so they exerted their own power on those areas of the human body: Jupiter brought with it a desire to hunt; Saturn, the blight of melancholia; while Venus stirred the passions. The planets and their ever shifting alignments combined to produce the celestial wind that swayed the human soul, sometimes provoking insight and brilliance, happiness and strength; at others despair and illness, even wickedness if the alignment were adverse.

‘But,’ continued Kepler, ‘my heart is drawn so powerfully to the stars that I cannot help but think astronomy is God’s choice for me.’

A barmaid placed a pie and three pewter plates on the table. Hoffman unsheathed his dagger and levered open the pie’s coffin lid. He and Jessenius both helped themselves to large platefuls of the pink and brown meat, whereas Kepler picked more carefully.

‘I believe that you chose Prague for your exile with an agenda in mind,’ said Jessenius.

‘Indeed. I hope to work with the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe. He has recently taken up residence not far from here, at Benátky Castle.’

‘Why Tycho?’

‘He’s the greatest observational astronomer alive. He has spent his lifetime on the subject and amassed the finest collection of observations in human history.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Jessenius, toying with some meat, ‘but I thought your allegiance was to the Bear, Ursus, the imperial mathematician.’

Kepler felt his cheeks burn. Would this haunt him for ever?

Hoffman looked concerned.

‘I did not give Ursus permission to publish my letter as the prelude to his book,’ said Kepler.

‘But you did write the letter.’ A watchfulness returned to Jessenius’s eyes.

Something hot sparked inside Kepler. ‘And how I regret it now. I was young, guileless and stupid, trying to worm my way into the favour of any astronomer who would give me credit. So, yes, a few years ago I sent Ursus a letter of the utmost praise with a copy of my book; as I did to Tycho; as I did to many others. At the time, I was unaware of their rivalry. Now, I would not hesitate to name Tycho the greater astronomer. He knows this; we have corresponded since. He even praised my work, inviting me to Prague so that we could discuss astronomy. But I was not at liberty to leave my teaching post.’ Kepler scratched his head, desperate to make them believe him. ‘You see the Mysterium is just the beginning. It sets out my belief in Copernican astronomy but not my proof of it. It is infatuation without marriage; a man’s ideas without the womanly curves of a solution. Just as a carpenter needs wood to fashion, so a mathematician needs numbers to shape. In his lifetime Tycho has accumulated more observations than all other astronomers in history put together. With them, I can prove that the Sun is the centre of the Universe – I know it.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I feel the influence of God in my belief.’

A sideways glance passed between Hoffman and Jessenius. When he realised that Kepler had seen the look, Hoffman hastily slid the pie across. ‘Do eat, Johannes, or there will be none left.’

‘I’ve had my fill, thank you,’ Kepler said pointedly. ‘I’ve also written to my old tutor at Tübingen, asking about a professorship there. Perhaps coming to Prague was a mistake.’

‘Patience, friend,’ Jessenius said, wiping his lips with a napkin.

Hoffman placed a hand on Kepler’s arm, guiding him back into the seat.

Jessenius continued. ‘Please accept my apologies for questioning you, but you must understand that Tycho is a law unto himself. If you are to work with him, your loyalty must be beyond reproach.’

Kepler looked from Jessenius to Hoffman, and saw in their faces the reality of the situation.

‘Jan is a close friend of Tycho,’ confirmed Hoffman.

‘Fear not, Johannes,’ said Jessenius, ‘I believe you are a good man and I will take word of your arrival to Tycho.’

‘Sir, may I humbly beg that you not reveal the circumstances of my arrival? You see, it is my hope to collaborate with Tycho as an equal: his observations and my mathematics. Any hint of my plight will make me seem in need of charity. It would destroy my pride.’ If not for the table, Kepler would have sunk to his knees.

Jessenius nodded. ‘I will inform him only of your arrival. The rest is down to Tycho. Be warned, Johannes, no man makes up Tycho’s mind for him.’

4

‘That’ll do,’ said Barbara. ‘Do you want me to stop breathing?’

Anicka tied the laces of her mistress’s stays and helped her into a dark blue dress that flared at the hips and had an embroidered bodice.

‘And the ruff,’ said Barbara, oblivious to the maid’s smirks as she secured the cartwheel of fabric.

‘Come, husband, we should be downstairs by now.’

Kepler reluctantly put down Harmony and blew out his reading flame. He ran a cursory hand through his hair.

‘Better than that.’ Barbara pointed to the brushes on the mantelpiece. Kepler smoothed his hair backwards with the wiry implements. ‘There, am I presentable?’ He was wearing his best black jacket, as befitted a formal occasion, to which Barbara had sewn lace cuffs that picked out the white of his new hose.

‘You’ll do,’ she said.

They made their way downstairs, drawn by voices and music, to where Baron Hoffman’s grand reception room was already full of visitors. Everything sparkled in the candlelight: the wine glasses, the jewellery and the men’s buttons. Gentlemen were in earnest discussion. The women were nodding politely or clustering in little groups of their own to exchange confidences. In the corner of the room, a quartet of musicians plucked and blew their way through a selection of airy melodies.

Their host met them at the door. ‘Welcome to the Feast of the Hunters’ Moon.’

‘What better omen for an astronomer’s first weekend in the new city?’ smiled Kepler. The lively babble of conversation enveloped them. Almost at once, men eager to be introduced to the new arrival besieged Kepler. He was driven deeper into the room, leaving Barbara stranded. Self-consciously she scanned the assembly. The women were wearing high collars that plunged downwards to the swell of their décolletages. A further glance around the room confirmed the ubiquity of the fashion; each woman was revealing skin, in fact flaunting it.

‘You must be Mrs Stargazer,’ said one of the guests, older than Barbara but taller and slimmer.

‘Barbara Kepler, madam.’

‘I hear that your husband is a clever man. His arrival is the talk of the town.’

Barbara stopped short. ‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes, another for Rudolph’s inner circle, no doubt.’

‘The Emperor?’

‘He collects thinkers the way a small boy hunts for spiders. I say! Is that what they are wearing in Graz these days?’ She favoured Barbara with an unnerving smile. ‘I haven’t seen such a ruff in Prague for years. Still, it’s good to know the old ideas live on in other places.’

Barbara touched the starched fabric standing proud of her neck by some four inches, each point culminating in a bead. She forced herself to laugh as though she had been caught in a moment of forgetfulness. ‘I am unused to Prague’s customs, having only just arrived.’

‘Oh, my dear, a little rustic charm is welcome. It reminds us who we are.’ Again that smile flashed.

‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ Barbara ignored her companion’s puzzled expression and retreated to the quiet hall, all but tearing the ruff from her neck. Flushed with embarrassment, she was about to thrust the offending garment behind a chair cushion when another thought struck her. She loosened the drawstring on her chemise and tugged down the neckline as much as she dared. Then she turned the ruff around, so that the opening was in front of her throat and tucked the open ends underneath the shoulders of her bodice, forcing the ruff to stand up like a collar. Catching her faint reflection in a windowpane, she squared her shoulders and returned to the party.

She spied her acquaintance and walked straight up to her. ‘I’m back,’ said Barbara.

She received a cold look at first but watched it transform into surprise and then warmth as the older woman registered Barbara’s altered appearance. ‘I am Frau Dietrich. Now, let me introduce you to my friends.’

In the gentlemen’s quarter, Kepler sipped a rich wine, delighted to be drinking from glass rather than pewter. The cut crystal felt so much cleaner on his lips. One day, he thought, Barbara and I will have a small set just like these.

‘My dear friend, I trust the book is to your liking.’

There was no mistaking the voice of Hans Georg Hewart von Hohenburg.

‘Hans, how good to see you again,’ said Kepler.

The Bavarian Chancellor was a short man, no taller than Kepler, but carried himself much straighter to give the illusion of height. As always, he was in the best of clothes; this evening clad in an exquisite jacket in maroon velvet and brilliant white hose. Every blond hair on his head had been brushed strictly into place. But when Hewart thought no one was looking, he was in the habit of sucking on his bottom lip, as if chewing over some conundrum.

Kepler noticed how delicately Hewart held his glass by the stem, and readjusted his own ham-fisted grip. ‘The book is a revelation and an inspiration all in one. I can scarcely set it down. And what of the book I recommended to you?’

Hewart smiled. ‘Ah … I’m afraid I’ve let you down. I can understand so little of what Copernicus writes that I’ve given up. He puts in so many epicycles that I just cannot picture the convoluted motions – all the planets whirling through the heavens so. To my thinking, it is scarce improvement on Ptolemy.’

‘Copernicus over-complicates his system but his basic idea is sound.’

‘Can the Sun truly be at the centre of everything?’

Kepler drew closer. ‘A growing number of us think so. There is an astronomer in Italy named Galileo …’

‘A Catholic?’ Hewart’s voice rang with pride.

‘An astronomer,’ said Kepler by way of refusing the distinction. ‘He writes to me, signing himself one Copernican to another. Yet he will not speak out in favour of the system as I’ve urged him to do.’

Hewart tugged at his goatee. ‘What holds him back?’

‘We cannot yet prove that Earth moves. Until we can, I fear there will always be support for the old ideas.’

‘But how could you measure such a thing?’

‘Simply. If the Earth orbits the Sun, the North Star will appear to move during the year.’

Hewart looked at him blankly.

‘Here, hold your finger in front of your face and close one eye. Where’s your finger against the background.’

‘In front of the lute player.’

‘Now look through the other eye.’

‘It’s moved; it is to the left of him now, but I haven’t moved my finger.’ He swapped eyes again, testing the new discovery.

‘Precisely, it’s called parallax. Your finger has remained stationary but it appears to have moved against the more distant objects because you have changed your vantage point. The same will happen to Earth. Every six months we look out from the other side of our orbit. All someone needs to do is measure the position of the North Star at six-monthly intervals and see it change.’

‘You say that Copernicus complicates his system … Can it be simplified?’ Hewart asked.

Kepler nodded, setting off miniature waves in his wine. ‘The key is beauty. Ptolemy and Copernicus both present ugly systems of motion that no man can keep in his head. The true movement of the planets will be a simple elegant dance – beautiful even. How could the heavens be otherwise?’

‘You look flushed. Has the wine disagreed with you?’

‘I am fighting a poor humour, that is all.’ Kepler raised his free hand. His forehead was clammy again. His vision started to blur. ‘We travelled through so much country on the way here, there is no telling what miasmas we encountered.’

‘My dear friend, let us sit you down.’ But Hewart’s eyes were drawn away.

Kepler followed the gaze and saw Jessenius approaching. ‘I’ll be alright.’ He took a deep breath and pulled himself straighter. Alongside Jessenius was a young man, tall and well built, with intense pale eyes and a walk that bordered on a swagger. He was dressed in green velvet with black hose and held steady a long sword, sheathed at his side.

‘Johannes, allow me introduce the Junker Franz Tengnagel, one of Tycho’s assistants. He brings word from Benátky Castle.’

‘Herr Kepler,’ said the young man in clipped tones, thrusting forth a sealed letter.

Hesitating at first, Kepler took the letter and slipped a finger under the seal. Blinking to clear his vision, it was difficult to read Tycho’s extravagant handwriting despite the mass of candles that poured light around the room.

‘Well, let us share in your news,’ Hewart encouraged.

Kepler skimmed the words again, took a deep breath. ‘I am welcome to be his companion in observing the heavens.’

‘Then we recharge our glasses,’ said Hewart, ‘and drink in your honour.’

‘We ride to Benátky the day after tomorrow,’ said Tengnagel. It sounded like an order.

After the toast, Kepler slipped out to read the letter more carefully. His surroundings had begun to assume an unreal edge, as if he were looking at them through old panes of glass. Yet Tycho’s words were imprinted on his mind. You will come not so much as a guest but as a very welcome friend and highly desirable participant and companion in our observations of the heavens. Kepler’s cheeks became suddenly damp with tears, and his body began to tremble. He leaned back against the wall, feeling the corner of an ornate mirror-frame press into his back.

When the peculiar exorcism had run it course, he wiped his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall. His mind was clear. The hallway looked normal again. Then a labouring voice caught his attention. It called his name, though more in statement than in greeting. A large man was tottering near the staircase. He was bound into a suit of silver-grey cloth, rolls of fat bulging between the strapping that held the seams closed. His bald head emerged from a ring of blubber.

‘I am Nicholas Reimers Ursus, Mathematicus to his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Rudolph. You perhaps know me best as The Bear.’

Kepler caught his breath. Ursus, The Bear. ‘You caused me trouble, sir, publishing my private letter as if I sided with you against Tycho Brahe, the prince of astronomers.’

Ursus snorted, seemingly amused. ‘The prince of astronomers, you say? I worked as one of your “prince’s” subjects, just as I hear you are about to do. Be warned, he is not what you think.’

‘He has gathered the finest astronomical observations in the history of mankind.’

‘For all his work, Tycho is an anchor to progress. Who cares about his arrangement of the planets – or my one? Both are wrong. You know that as well as I do.’

Kepler nodded cautiously.

The Bear squeezed out his words between ragged gasps. ‘I’m under no illusion about my worth as an astronomer. I’m no great asset to history. Neither is Tycho. He will squander the measurements, if you let him, and the new thinking will never come. You’re his best hope for immortality. Examine everything you thought you knew; leave no assumption unchallenged. If it cannot be proved, it can be changed. I’m too old to put this insight to use but you … you are different from any man I have encountered before. You are original. Your Mysterium proves that. I published your letter without your consent – that is true – but not to cause you trouble. It was so that those yet to come will see the praise you once lavished on me.’

With a grunt of exertion, The Bear lumbered into motion, headed for the front door and, all too soon, was gone into the night. Only then did Kepler’s mind fill with the questions he should have asked.

Turning back towards the party, he all but collided with the loitering Tengnagel. ‘Do excuse me, Junker Tengnagel.’

‘You are acquainted with The Bear, Herr Kepler.’

‘I am not. I’ve simply had dealings with him.’ Kepler walked on, sensing the other man’s eyes following him back into the reception.

It was long past midnight when Kepler followed his wife to the bedroom. Downstairs, a few guests still lingered, seemingly content to see the celebration through to the dawn.

‘You are showing much courage tonight, wife.’ Kepler planted kisses on her exposed neck and chest. Her skin tasted sweet to his wine-moistened lips.

She pushed herself further into his caress. ‘It’s the fashion. And I need one of those tapered bodices – all the ladies were wearing them tonight.’

‘I didn’t notice,’ he said.

‘Really? They were so beautiful.’

‘There is only one star in my Heaven.’ He kissed her firmly on the lips, thrilled by the hunger with which she responded. He pressed her to the bed, the alcohol accentuating the dizziness of their fall.

‘Think of how we got here,’ he said. ‘I would not have thought it so sweet to suffer the injury and indignity of being forced to abandon house, fields, friends and homeland for religious belief. If this is also the way with real martyrdom, how much bigger the exultation must be to actually die for one’s faith.’

‘Oh, husband, you do choose your moments to say such funny things.’

‘Then I will stop talking.’ Kepler let his hands rove across the swell of her torso, finding the laces on her dress.