Sky's Dark Labyrinth (11 page)

Immediately behind the coffin was Tycho's weeping widow, supported by their eldest son. Then, of course, there was Tengnagel. Walking with his chin thrust upwards, he was glorying in the weight that was now upon his shoulders. At his side walked his wife, Elisabeth, quiet and composed.

Next came the nobles and gentry. Von Wackenfels was there,
representing
the Emperor. Kepler walked along behind them, in among the ranks of colleagues and collaborators, who included Jessenius. Bringing up the rear were the assistants.

The mourners packed the church shoulder-to-shoulder and listened to a torrent of unending praise for the astronomer. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to pay their respects. Jessenius spoke last, concluding the
eulogies
. He reminded the congregation that, while money and power die, art and science endure.

Afterwards at the Golden Griffin a feast of appropriately Tychonic proportions had been laid on. As the eating and drinking progressed, so the level of conversation rose, the odd laugh was heard, and soon it resembled any other party.

Kepler was seated at a table with Jessenius and von Wackenfels, content just to listen and observe.

‘Thank heavens for the Utraquists and their liberal Catholicism,' von Wackenfels was saying, draining his goblet. ‘Who here thought we'd say that?'

Jessenius nodded. ‘It must have been difficult to decide how to send him off.'

‘He hadn't been to church for twenty years. He wasn't a Catholic,' said von Wackenfels.

‘Indeed not, especially as he spent some of his student days at Wittenberg.'

‘He certainly couldn't be buried a Lutheran while being afforded the pomp that the Emperor demanded. And especially not with the ban coming.'

Kepler looked up. ‘What ban?'

An embarrassed silence fell over the table.

‘What ban?'

Von Wackenfels squirmed. He put his elbows on the table and spoke into his clasped hands. ‘The Emperor is coming under increasing
pressure
from Rome. He must be seen to act. A decree is being drawn up to ban Lutheran practices.'

‘Why did you not tell me before? I will be forced out.'

‘Calm, stay your panic.' Von Wackenfels held up a palm. ‘To be Lutheran is not outlawed, only the services.'

‘And you of all people will be safe,' said Jessenius. ‘It is widely known that you have your own issues with Lutheran doctrine: the Formula of Concord …'

‘How do you know of that?'

‘Father Grienberger, the Jesuit, has been visiting Prague. You know each other, I believe.'

‘We have corresponded, yes. It was he who put me in contact with Hewart von Hohenburg.'

‘He spoke very highly of you.'

But Kepler was no longer listening. All of a sudden there was a pain in his stomach. It was as though something in the meal had disagreed with him.

Back in his study in the little house on Karlova Street, Kepler found it hard to keep his thoughts on Mars. A fuzz of panicky questions constantly demanded his attention. Where could he escape to, if things became fraught here? Who needed a mathematician? Even if he could find another job, how could Barbara move in her condition? Maybe once the baby had been safely delivered he could think again.

The estuarine smell of boiled turtles coiled under the study door, threatening to make him retch. It reminded him of the hateful day he had screamed at Barbara.

They had still been in Graz. It was after a snowstorm, the very night that Heinrich, their first child together, had been born. The concern on the faces of the women in the delivery party should have told him something was wrong, but the baby's cries persuaded him that his worries were unfounded.

‘A son!' he shouted as loudly as he could.

With the words ringing in his head, he rushed to his study to consult the planetary tables and chart his son's nativity. It was the second of February, 1598, and the constellations were promising something propitious indeed. Kepler noted with growing excitement that the moon was in quadrature with Saturn.

A noble disposition, a strong body, strong fingers and agile hands, with a capacity for mathematical and mechanical arts, he wrote down. As he further contemplated the celestial alignments, he could see the portent of a vivid imagination, compassion, piety, perhaps a hint of stinginess and mistrust – but with Europe in such turmoil they were probably good traits to have.

He bounded up the stairs waving his notebook in triumph.

Barbara was sitting up in bed, rocking the child. Tears had streaked her face. Little wonder, thought Kepler. At times the house had echoed with screams more akin to taking a life than bringing one into the world.

He was halfway through his proclamation when she said his name sharply, capturing his attention. She continued more quietly: ‘Johannes, there is something you must see.'

With heart pounding, he watched her unwrap the baby. Lodged between the boy's legs was a peculiar carapace of skin, dark and craggy, where his testicles should have been. It looked like the gelatinous mass of a boiled turtle.

Kepler stared at the deformed genitals. He could think of only one thing: the liquor dripping from Barbara's smiling chin as she wolfed down another turtle. His eyes began to play tricks, doubling the image of his son and then quadrupling it. Dizziness and nausea assaulted him.

‘Husband?'

He began talking – then shouting – and then screaming at her about how her gluttony had engineered this calamity. It all made perfect sense in his pain-drenched mind. The women began to wail, some running from the room with their arms thrown upwards. Barbara too began to weep, but silently.

The sight stopped Kepler mid sentence and, with a panic-stricken glance around him, he fled the room.

Later, his thoughts black with anguish, he returned to see Barbara. He sank to his knees and begged for her forgiveness at her bedside. ‘I am worse than a mad dog, barking at those I love the most,' he pleaded.

She told him the matter was closed, but his shame would not budge so easily, especially when two months later Heinrich's final tragedy had overwhelmed them all. His tiny body had been consumed by an unquenchable fever that took him in a matter of hours. Worse, the same had happened a year and a half later to their next child, Susanna.

If the smell reminded Barbara of that awful confrontation then she gave no indication of it when Kepler joined her at the table. She
occasionally
looked up and smiled as her jaws mashed the softened cartilage.

Kepler could bring himself to eat no more than a few spoonfuls and excused himself. As he left the room he glimpsed Barbara reaching for his plate.

Later that evening Barbara fetched him from the study. Von Wackenfels had arrived and was pacing excitedly across the front room. ‘I have the news you crave,' he said. ‘His Majesty wishes to appoint you imperial mathematician.'

Kepler remained expressionless, not daring to hope. ‘He has
remembered
that I am Lutheran?'

Von Wackenfels nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, yes. You'll be safe under his protection. He wishes to meet you tomorrow. Be at the Palace at nine.'

The front door had barely closed when Barbara flung her arms around Kepler, her weight throwing him against the oak. ‘Husband, you are my prince.'

Kepler followed von Wackenfels through the grand hall milling with courtiers, and then into an anteroom decorated with calendrical murals. Above the harvests and frosts, storms and flowers, the
depictions
turned to the base elements of nature: a green field and
mountains
to represent earth; a ship on the stormy ocean for water; a twisting pillar of flame for fire; and an extra-vagant cloudscape with eagles for air. The god Jupiter represented the celestial realm. His conquering eyes regarded Kepler from above the inner doorway as if determining whether to let him pass.

Von Wackenfels drew open the far door and Kepler walked into a large chamber. He could scarcely believe such grandeur existed. Pictures were on the floor, resting against the walls, or up on benches in an approximation of where they might hang.

Most featured elongated characters in stylised postures. Many of the paintings seemed to be at least partly mythological in subject matter. Kepler recognised Urania, the muse of astronomy. The cherub was holding a sextant and dancing.

There were a number of bare-breasted women suckling babies. The mothers all possessed exaggerated necks so as to look down on their infants.

‘This gallery will be one of the wonders of the world when it is finished,' said Kepler, wishing he could linger.

Von Wackenfels looked puzzled.

‘The paintings, when they are hung,' said Kepler.

‘But His Majesty prefers them this way.'

Kepler decided to keep his thoughts to himself from then on. He could ill afford a blunder like that in front of Rudolph.

From the gallery they passed into another similarly sized hall. This one housed exquisite mechanisms. Some of them Kepler recognised as
astronomical instruments; others he could not even guess at. Suits of armour, some dented or split from battle, shared the floor space with display cases crammed full of glittering cups and amulets. From the ceilings the skeletons of animals hung down like macabre puppets. Some of them were so outlandish that Kepler could not even begin to imagine what they had looked like in life.

‘We call this the Kunstkammer, His Majesty's Chamber of the Arts.'

‘I have never seen such a place.'

‘Nothing like it has ever existed before. It is the finest collection of human knowledge and artefacts ever amassed. Beyond are cupboards of manuscripts and other relics. His Majesty has everything in here from the latest philosophical books to unicorn horns.'

‘I can see why he is loath to leave these rooms. Sorting through all this could keep a man fascinated for a lifetime.'

Von Wackenfels led Kepler up a steep staircase and out into the daylight. It was a glorious day, the sky powder blue; the kind of day that suggested the trees had been tricked into shedding their leaves too early.

They were on the top of a tower. The Emperor stood by the ramparts, looking out over Prague. From this distance, the city's
buildings
looked like toys, and Rudolph as though he could reach out and rearrange them. Above the tiny red roofs, starlings were massing in preparation for their annual migration south.

‘Johannes Kepler, Your Majesty,' announced von Wackenfels.

The darkly clad figure did not turn round. Von Wackenfels jerked his head, indicating that Kepler should approach.

‘Your Majesty,' Kepler said with a bow, ‘I am here as your humble servant.'

Rudolph muttered something that was lost to the wind. Kepler edged closer.

‘See the bridge?'

From this distance, its exquisite detail was lost. It was nothing but a strip of road that crossed numerous stone pontoons. Underneath slid the water of the Vltava, snaking crests of white foam marking its progress.

‘Yes, Your Majesty.'

‘My ancestor Charles IV founded that bridge. He did it at the very moment when the Sun eclipsed Saturn to shield it from the planet's evil influence.'

‘His Majesty's forefathers were wise indeed.'

‘Astrology is of the highest importance here. We rely on it to guide us. Tycho understood that.'

‘And I will endeavour to succeed him in every way that I can, Your Majesty.'

Rudolph made a small sound. ‘There is someone I want you to meet.'

Kepler followed in silence back inside and downstairs, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. At one point, he snatched a glance at von Wackenfels, a few paces behind. The councillor smiled reassuringly, and Kepler relaxed.

When Rudolph did speak, Kepler strained to hear above their
footsteps
.

‘We will buy Tycho's equipment and observations from his heirs. We've made them an offer of twenty thousand thaler. You will do everything you must to publish
The Rudolphine Tables
, as Tycho promised.'

‘I will, Your Majesty.'

‘You will be paid for this work by the Palace.'

‘Most generous, Your Majesty. May I respectfully discuss the salary? My wife is expecting a ch—'

Rudolph stopped him with a squeak. ‘The Privy Councillor will deal with that.'

Instead of heading into the Kunstkammer, they passed through a doorway and out into a sloping garden. Full sunshine greeted them, and Kepler had to raise a hand to shield his eyes.

‘Welcome to the Garden of Paradise,' mumbled Rudolph.

It was a large triangular space lain mostly to lawn, interrupted by the occasional pruned shrub. Exotic squawks such as Kepler had never heard before came from a stone building with a chimney that twisted ribbons of smoke into the air.

‘My aviary,' said Rudolph. ‘We have to heat it, otherwise they die. Such a waste after all the trouble it takes to bring them here.'

A curious creature, resembling a black duck in shape, but around four times the size, waddled up to Kepler. Its large beak clicked open and closed, and its tail feathers curled like the plumage on some of the hats
Kepler had seen at court that morning. He tried to sidestep the bird. It flapped its vestigial wings as if trying to work out what they were for. Then it turned to intercept him again.

‘There is nothing to fear. It is quite harmless,' said Rudolph. ‘They call it a dodo because it is utterly stupid.'

Von Wackenfels shooed it away when Rudolph was not looking. Kepler mouthed his thanks and hurried to catch up. The Emperor led them to another stone outhouse, much larger than the first. At the doorway, Kepler heard unmistakable growls from within and hesitated. Rudolph giggled and walked on. As Kepler followed, the tang of animals caught in his nostrils.