Sky's Dark Labyrinth (18 page)

‘Business as usual,' said Hewart unconvincingly. ‘Tell me, how is Regina liking marriage?'

‘She is the happiest I have ever known her. Philip is a good man, but I do miss her so. Pfaffenhofen is far enough away to deter the casual visit,' said Kepler.

‘And how is my godson, Friedrich?'

‘I swear that he is God's gift to us for our patience. He is the noblest heir a man could wish for. He has grace and humour; it is impossible to be sad with him around.'

‘It's quite a full house you have now.'

‘Yes, thank goodness my mother returned to Leonberg. Even so, we are full to bursting. The three children keep Barbara and Frau Bezold very busy.'

‘And to think you were so worried about Susanna to start with.'

‘My pedigree with children was not a good one. Thankfully things are better now. All three are in the best of health. It is Barbara I worry for. The melancholy has attached itself to her so badly that her black days outnumber her good.'

‘She will come round. Childbirth does strange things to a woman. Makes me wonder sometimes why God chose them for the task when men are so clearly stronger.'

An actor playing the fool was drawing whoops of delight from the crowd with his faltering English accent. Hewart spoke, his voice all but lost amid the happy noise. ‘I confess my weakness for the theatre, but I am unsure whether it is to watch the players or the crowd. It is a welcome distraction at this time.'

‘I take it you saw through the looking-glass before giving it to me?'

‘No, well, I say no. We tried, but the truth is we couldn't make it work. Didn't know what we were looking for. It just all seemed so … black up there.' He shrugged pitifully. ‘So, I burn with envy for you at being able to master it. Is it marvellous?'

‘It's a revelation but an acquired skill. It's a challenge to find the object in the first place. When you have, the image appears in a round spot, as if you are peering up a chimney and seeing the small patch of light surrounded by a halo of darkness. It takes time for your eyes to comprehend what you're seeing, but persevere and you will be rewarded. I have seen all that Galileo describes, despite my
troublesome
eyes. There are more stars in Heaven than we can possibly imagine.'

‘Are you in contact with Galileo?'

‘Not really, he sends infuriating anagrams to Emperor Rudolph that I attempt to decode. We had to beg Galileo to reveal the first solution. I thought he was telling me that Mars has two moons but instead it is that Saturn appears “three-formed”. I have managed only to catch glimpses of this new discovery but I believe there are two close moons around the planet. Recently he sent a new riddle to court,
Haec immatura a me iam frustra leguntuory
…'

‘These immature things I am searching for now in vain,' Hewart translated.

‘Precisely, but I have made no headway rearranging it at all.' Kepler shrugged.

At the unsatisfactory end of the play, which included a five-minute death scene for the vision in orange, Hewart invited Kepler to return with him for a drink.

‘Let's go to my house on the way and I'll fetch the optical tube,' said Kepler.

Hewart agreed at once. As they walked to the waiting carriage, the Chancellor grew nervous and appeared to be on the verge of saying something. Kepler pretended not to notice, concentrating instead on holding himself erect – he always felt so clumsy next to Hewart.

Making their brief stop at Karlova Street, where Barbara was talking to Frau Bezold about what to serve Friday's dinner guests, the carriage continued over to the New Town. It deposited them at a large
well-furnished
house, where they were served tawny port.

They climbed to the top of the house and out onto the wooden roof terrace. Below them, the city was swirling with nightlife. Above, the press of Heaven bore down. The cobalt sky was not yet fully dark, but the multicoloured stars twinkled in the evening air. Not for the first time, Kepler marvelled at the way the vista could be transformed into mathematics by the human mind.

‘What is it that attracts us to the stars?' Hewart asked.

‘We are made in God's image. Our faculties cannot help but be primed for astronomy. The songbird sings because it is in its nature, so it is with the human mind and astronomy. God has given us the gift of curiosity and the mental faculties to read his words in the architecture of the cosmos.'

Hewart swept his gaze across the starry vault. ‘Don't you agree that standing beneath the stars is the only time that certain thoughts can be entertained? The only time that certain things can be said?'

Kepler paused in his fiddling with the tripod. ‘What's on your mind?'

Again there was that strange look of anticipation and then the
self-conscious
smile. ‘Nothing,' said Hewart, dropping his gaze to the streets.

‘What is it?'

Hewart waited, perhaps wrestling with some internal conflict. Then turning to Kepler he spoke in a whisper: ‘Rudolph is working towards revenge over the Protestant estates. He negotiated with my Duke to raise an army of Bavarian mercenaries to march on Prague and crush
the Protestant Union. But it's gone terribly wrong. Rudolph hasn't provided the money to pay the army, and they're on the rampage. That's why my Duke and I are here, to warn him of the danger if he continues to renege on the deal. The last report I heard, the
mercenaries
were moving through Upper Austria, burning and pillaging. If they reach Prague, it will be the excuse Matthias needs to send his army into the capital and wrest control from his brother. The only question is what the Lutherans and the other Protestants will do. Will they defend Prague or attack it with the mercenaries?'

Kepler felt the pit of his stomach fall away. ‘How soon before the mercenaries arrive?'

‘Weeks, but they have cavalry so it may only be a matter of days.' Hewart looked across the city's darkened rooftops. ‘Prague is no place for a young family. It's about to become a battleground.'

Summer had come early to the Italian peninsula, carpeting the slopes in a million shades of green. Galileo studied the grand patchwork as he bobbed along in Grand Duke Cosimo's litter, carried by two
broad-chested
servants. It would be all too easy for someone to see only a single wash of colour but to Galileo the landscape resolved itself like faces appearing in a crowd: trees and shrubs; ferns and grasses; bushes and vines.

Wedged next to him was a narrow box, some four feet long. Inside was what everyone wanted to see: the optical tube. He patted his fingers against the wooden case, as an indulgent father might comfort a demanding child.

The litter slipped into the busy streets of Rome as the setting sun transformed the mighty buildings, statues and obelisks into
silhouettes
. Weaving around the carts and pedestrians, they reached the Tuscan embassy as the staff were lighting the first torches. At sight of the arrival the staff hurriedly finished their preparations and lined up to receive Galileo. The Grand Duke himself had sanctioned the stay.

The runners placed the chair outside the front porch, then peeled the straps from their shoulders and arched their backs. Galileo stepped from the small chamber and immediately despatched one of them with a message to the Roman College, announcing his arrival. The other one hauled down Galileo's trunk of clothing and lugged it round to the back of the building, a servant guiding his way.

As Galileo entered the spacious hallway the housekeeper handed him a message – an invitation for later that week from someone called Federico Cesi.

Whoever Cesi was, he signed himself the Marquis of Monticelli and requested that Galileo, and the optical tube naturally, be guest of honour at a dinner to be given by a body called the Lyncean Academy.
According to the brief explanation, this august organisation hungered for members who pursued true knowledge and would be honoured if Galileo deigned to join their number.

Galileo found the invitation sufficiently intriguing to pen a quick reply in the affirmative and hand it back to the housekeeper for despatch.  

When the litter bearer returned from the Roman College, he carried a brief reply inviting Galileo to visit Father Clavius, the Head of the College, the very next morning.  

‘Did they say anything else? Give you some hint …'  

‘No, signor,' said the exhausted man.

As cockerels crowed somewhere on the outskirts of the city, Galileo dressed himself carefully. He slipped into his newest tabard, created from a beige brocade that in a certain light looked golden – and also did a good job of disguising his belly. He remembered to brush his hair and even pulled his beard into some semblance of shape, smiling as he thought of little Virginia sitting on his lap and twirling her fingers in it.

Little Virginia! She's eleven now, practically an adult
. He pushed the thought aside. He had to concentrate. The Jesuits were his stepping stone to the Vatican; he had to convince them of his discoveries.

In the bright glare of the sun, it was hard to believe that, only fifty years ago, Rome had been pillaged. Piles of cadavers had lain reeking in the streets while the invaders slaughtered anyone who tried to retrieve a body for burial.

Now Galileo's litter wove through a city echoing with footsteps and conversation, the grumble of carriage wheels and the clop of horses' hooves. Great rectangular buildings stood firm, curves having been largely replaced by the solidity of straight lines and right angles. There was little adornment around the rectangular windows and doors, nothing to spoil the buildings' defiant faces.

As he drew close to the Roman College, Galileo's eagerness gave way to anxiety. He stumbled as he alighted from his vehicle and wondered whether Clavius was watching from one of those enormous windows.

Walking through the magnificent entrance, the lintel some twenty feet above the ground, Galileo could not remember ever feeling so small. Surely this place had been built for gods, not men.

Jesuits in black robes moved through the lobby. Occasionally one would glance his way; mostly they ignored him.

Galileo stared at the Egyptian obelisk in the entrance hall, feeling minuscule by comparison. He wondered what knowledge lay hidden within those ancient symbols.

‘Every time I look at it, I am reminded of the task we still have ahead of us,' said a deep voice.

Startled, Galileo turned to find a large man in black vestments, whose eyes and mouth turned down in a way that unnerved Galileo.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Christoph Grienberger,' said the man.

‘Galileo Galilei, a pleasure to meet you, Father.'

‘The Professor of Mathematics, Father Clavius, is waiting.' Grienberger indicated the way, and set off at a lumbering pace that made Galileo feel quite youthful.

‘How much do you believe the ancients knew?' asked Galileo as they walked into the heart of the college.

‘Sometimes I think that everything we struggle to uncover was known to the Egyptians; that if we could just read the glyphs, our work would be done.'

‘In that case, shouldn't we devote all of our academic efforts to
deciphering
?'

Grienberger inclined his head towards Galileo. ‘Would you be content to do that? If there is one thing I have discovered about learned men, it is that they have a stubborn loyalty to their chosen fields.'

‘And their own convictions,' said Galileo, thinking of his father. The man's steadfast devotion to music and his insistence that melodies should reflect the instantaneous mood of the lyric rather than follow some overarching design, had led him into bitter argument with the traditionalists. Nevertheless, his madrigals were still being sung.

They turned into a corridor. The herringbone pattern of wooden blocks softened their footsteps, enhancing the sense of reverence.

Grienberger knocked on a door and immediately opened it wide.

Father Clavius's neck had curved forwards with age. A knotted brow topped his square face; thickets of hair peeped from his ears and nostrils. He was sitting in an armchair near the towering window.
Sharp sunlight sliced acrosss his pallid flesh, and his yellowing eyes tracked the new arrivals.

Galileo knelt before him. ‘Father Clavius, you have done more to dignify mathematics than any man alive.'

Clavius lifted a tremulous hand from the chair arm and turned his palm upwards. Galileo frowned at the ambiguous gesture.

‘Please stand up, Galileo, kneeling is unnecessary,' said Grienberger, moving to stand beside the chair.

Galileo got to his feet and stepped back so as not to loom over Clavius.

The old man spoke, the effort of the action obvious. What his voice lacked in power it made up for in the unmistakable intonation of a man used to being obeyed. ‘Someone has to champion the mathematical arts; they have been the poor relation of other pursuits for too long.'

‘Indeed they have. I have always enjoyed the company of numbers. They bring with them a sense of security. Father, if you would permit me to return this evening, I would enjoy the opportunity of showing you the wonders of Heaven through my optical tube.'

‘That will not be necessary,' said Grienberger. ‘We have seen all we need to.'

Galileo looked from Grienberger to Clavius. There was a hint of mischief on the professor's face.

‘We have made seeing instruments of our own,' explained Grienberger.

‘You have seen the Medici stars?'

Grienberger raised an eyebrow. ‘The moons of Jupiter, yes, and the stars of the Milky Way and the strange markings on the Moon. The question is how we interpret all of this.'

‘It proves Copernicus.'

Clavius made a noise but otherwise remained impassive.

‘That is a bold claim. You refer, of course, to the idea that the Sun is the centre of the universe,' said Grienberger.

‘I do,' said Galileo. ‘None of my observations contradict Copernicus.'

‘Neither do they prove it,' said Clavius.

Grienberger inclined his head. ‘What do you make of Johannes Kepler's work?'

‘I find him tedious. He approaches the observations with a caution bordering on pedantry. Copernicus completed his work on this subject almost seventy years ago. We have no need of a Lutheran champion on this side of the Alps, pushing around some numbers and claiming victory. Copernicus beat him to it; we cannot let that great canon's work be usurped by a Protestant mathematician. His talk of elliptical orbits is ugly. How can anybody think that the planets move on anything but perfect circles? How can God's Heaven be anything but perfect?'

‘I can find no errors in his mathematics,' said Grienberger. ‘In fact, I would say that the
Astronomia Nova
is one of the greatest works of astronomy ever published. Kepler's elliptical orbits reproduce the appearances of the planets better than any other mathematical model, including that of Copernicus.'

Galileo gasped. ‘Is the original cutting of the cloth less important than the final decoration? Kepler's work is nothing but adornment on that of Copernicus. One can do without the details but take away the original pattern and you are left with nothing.' He clasped his hands together. ‘We must have the courage to believe the evidence of our own eyes.'

Clavius pushed himself to his feet, shuddering with the effort. Grienberger immediately bent to support him.

‘I know you want to shout your discoveries from the rooftops, but we must move carefully,' said Clavius. ‘I realise that the orbs of Heaven need rearranging to accommodate what you have seen. But we must be careful to make the correct interpretation. We cannot allow a casual glance through an optical tube and a snap decision to become the preferred route to knowledge. If we do that – and make no mistake about this – the theologians will crush our little hobby of stargazing for ever. Look at me, Galileo. We cannot risk natural philosophy becoming divorced from religion. Do you understand?'

‘But truth is truth, why should we submerge such truthful
convictions
?' Galileo's muscles began to prickle with passion.

Clavius's jaw trembled as he spoke. ‘We are inclined to believe you, Galileo. But the Church is not a court of law. It does not rest on evidence alone. Beliefs, personal preferences and political
considerations
must all be weighed before we can change such a fundamental piece of understanding. We must persuade the theologians to help us,
or we will never succeed. You must comply, or you and your
discoveries
will suffer.'

Galileo nodded dumbly, unsure whether he had just been threatened or appointed a Jesuit confidant.

As the sun began to slide from the sky, Galileo prepared to meet the Lynceans. He checked the instrument to make sure that the lenses had not been dislodged during the long journey from Florence.

His two bearers looked relieved when Galileo granted them the night off. Soon afterwards, a carriage pulled up. The driver hopped from his seat to open the door. As he did so, he bowed. ‘Signor Galileo, Prince Cesi awaits.'

‘Prince? I thought he was the Marquis of Monticelli.'

‘He is, signor, in addition to being the Prince of San Polo and Sant' Angelo, and the Duke of Acquasparta.'

Galileo was glad that the driver was still stooped in a bow and so could not see the surprise spreading across his face. He climbed into the carriage.

The journey took no more than fifteen minutes. When the driver opened the door for Galileo to step down, a slim youth with an oval face and almond eyes was waiting. About his neck he wore a heavy gold chain with a lynx pendant attached. The wild animal was sculpted in mid-stalk, ears upright, staring straight ahead.

‘Signor Galileo, you more than honour us with your presence, you enlighten us. We are all most excited that you are here.' His gaze came to rest on the box.

Galileo was leaning against it, as if it were a walking stick. ‘The honour is mine, Prince Cesi, but I think you would have been just as pleased with this box alone, yes?'

Cesi clutched at his heart. ‘You wound me with the accusation. What greater pleasure can there be to have the man himself here to demonstrate?'

Federico Cesi carried himself with an easy self-assurance, walking with a casual swing of his arms and laughing at trifles. He was all youth and enthusiasm, usually a combination that irritated Galileo.

Nearby stood a familiar figure in black, wearing a silk biretta on his head.

‘Father Grienberger, have you been sent to keep an eye on me?' quipped Galileo.

The Jesuit looked awkward, and Galileo wondered if his joke had somehow struck close to the truth.

‘Christoph is a good friend of the Academy,' said Cesi. ‘I'd say there's no better mathematician in all of Rome. But he hides his light, takes none of the praise.'

‘You credit me with too much, Federico,' said Grienberger.

‘Come, let us make our way to the banquet.' Cesi indicated the grassy slope.

Galileo hesitated.

‘Tonight, we will be eating under the stars in your honour. The tables are set on the hill. We have even set forks as well as knives. Why let standards drop just because the setting is unusual?' Cesi's smile reached all the way across his face. ‘Then lead on.'

The gathering was larger than he expected. Some thirty gentlemen, all drinking and laughing, stood around a wooden pergola. When they were still some ten paces away, a familiar voice rang out. ‘I swear there is a new spring in your step, Galileo.'

‘What do you expect? I have found new pages in the book of nature. It is enough to reinvigorate any man. If only it could remove the white from my beard, or put the hair back on my head.'

‘I think you two must know each other,' said Cesi with another smile, indicating the short gaunt man with heavy black eyebrows who had spoken.