Sky's Dark Labyrinth (25 page)

Kepler had intended to remain in Kunstadt just a few days, long enough to settle the children with the widow Frau Pauritsch and then to set off to prepare for their new life in Linz. However, in the warmth of her timber house, in a quiet part of town, she had made them comfortable and, apart from the wearying round of condolences, Kepler felt
unexpectedly
relaxed and content to rest awhile.

He wrote to the school in Linz, who were happy to give him some time. They were thrilled to have the imperial mathematician in their faculty and assured him that the job and accommodation would be available for him whenever he showed up.

The ache of losing Barbara persisted like the rheumatism that gnawed at his muscles during wet weather. In bed at night he would automatically roll towards her side of the bed, seeking her warmth. When he was in the town, he would start if he saw someone of her build and height. Such moments of impossible fantasy that she was still alive were the only true pleasures he could find.

Soon, the sympathy of others had turned to thoughts of
match-making
, and that was when it had all become too much to endure. He knew he needed a wife, if only to look after Susanna and Ludwig, but there could be no love involved, of that he was certain. He could never replace Barbara. Finding a new wife was simply computation, he told himself: she must serve him well and look after the children. Even so, he could summon no enthusiasm for the task.

Then the whole situation had taken an unexpected turn. Frau Pauritsch had appeared in the doorway of his room late one night. Her greying hair was loose over her slender shoulders and she wore only a nightshift. As he shrivelled into the far corner of the bed, she offered to make their temporary arrangement permanent.

He looked at her and tried to convince himself. She would be a good mother to his children; she had treated them with nothing but generosity and kindness since they had arrived; and yet something was wrong. He could not bring himself to respond, and the encounter had dissolved into embarrassed silence.

It did, however, galvanise him to complete his intended journey to Linz. The next morning, after a subdued Frau Pauritsch agreed to continue looking after the children, Kepler walked to the docks. He found a newly constructed barge being loaded for its trip downriver and struck a bargain. His wagonload of possessions was hoisted on board a day later and, with a gentle push from the wharf, his journey to Linz began.

‘I'll return for you as soon as the house is ready,' he called to his
children
on the bank, who waved back dutifully. Frau Pauritsch waved her tear-stained hanky and clutched Ludwig's hand.

He relished the anonymity to be found among the packing cases and wine barrels. Free to savour his memories of Barbara without being made to wallow in them by others, he felt increasingly liberated as the vessel bobbed downstream.

At first he occupied himself by watching the crew. Having no power of its own, the barge was under the command of the Danube. The only control came from a bargee standing at each corner of the vessel,
grappling
with a rudder. Occasionally one would shout to his colleagues; at all other times the men worked their giant paddles in silent synchrony, reading the river and guiding the craft along the currents.

When he tired of that, Kepler busied himself with numbers, devising a method of calculating the volume of wine barrels – anything to avoid having to compute the best of the possible brides who had been offered.

Linz clung to the riverbank as if afraid to be noticed. Only a few church spires dared to raise themselves much above the wooden quays. Kepler stood on the bobbing deck of the barge and did what he had promised himself he would not do: he thought of Prague. He brought to mind the way towering buildings had overshadowed the Vltava, turning its river into just another element of the city. The Danube was different. It was clearly in charge here, cutting a swathe around the city to hold it in check.

Rain was falling, and the impact of the droplets turned the river into a landscape of splashes. To Kepler, the watery surface looked like a
million swarming ants. He stepped out from the barn-like construction that ran the length of the deck and readjusted his hat, creating his own small river that flowed from the brim to his shoulder and then in a splashing waterfall to the deck.

The men pulling on the rudders edged the barge towards the dock, where workers in rain capes waited. The bargees flung coils of rope towards the shore, where their counterparts caught them and heaved the vessel into its berth.

Along the quayside, wooden tripods with ropes and pulleys hung over other barges. Nets bulged with goods and swung in the air as they were manoeuvred from shore to barge or vice versa. Soon Kepler's possessions would be similarly swaying. The space they left behind would be filled with some other paying commodity and the barge would continue downstream, carried by the flow towards the Black Sea.

Once at its journey's end, there was no way of navigating back upstream. The barge would be dismantled, and the wood sold off. The bargees would then start their journey back on foot, following the river paths, each hauling a small raft of goods upstream to make some more money.

Kepler bade his temporary companions farewell as he planted his feet on the ground of Linz, his new home. He found the modest house that the school had organised for him to rent – modest by Prague's standards – and arranged for his possessions to be brought across from the docks. The first things he unpacked were the ledgers. He stacked them in towers around the table in the dining room because there were not enough shelves.

Now was the time to fulfil his promise to Tycho and Rudolph by completing
The Rudolphine Tables
. In the process, he could put his theory of elliptical orbits to their most stringent test yet by using it to compute the positions of all the planets.

He wasted little time in reporting to the school for duty and was surprised to find it smaller than the one where he had taught in Graz. The governor guided him along the corridor to a small but
comfortable
office.

‘What duties did my predecessor perform?' asked Kepler.

The governor looked confused. ‘You have no predecessor. We created the post especially for you. It is our honour to host the
imperial
mathematician as he completes the great
Rudolphine Tables
. We will help you distribute them throughout the length and breadth of the Latin-speaking world.'

Kepler also set about finding the church. It was a simple
white-washed
affair with a single tower. Inside, the vaulted ceiling was high enough to be impressive, and the wooden pews gleamed with varnish. Near the altar, a carpenter was putting the finishing touches to a chancel screen. He was smoothing the carved rods with a piece of glass paper, filling the lofty chamber with a soft rasp and the faint odour of wood dust. A swarthy man with a mass of raven hair swept past the craftsman to bustle down the church aisle and introduce himself. ‘I am Daniel Hitzler, chief pastor in Linz.'

‘Delighted to meet you, Pastor Hitzler.'

‘Welcome to Linz and our rapidly growing congregation.'

‘I hope to add myself to your number. Johannes Kepler, honoured to meet you.'

‘
You
are Johannes Kepler?' Hitzler's voice was laced with disbelief. He squared his stance. ‘I must ask you to leave.'

The carpenter glanced in their direction.

‘I beg your pardon,' said Kepler.

‘You are suspected of heresy.'

It took Kepler a moment to realise that he had heard Hitzler correctly. ‘I have suffered for my Lutheran beliefs more than most.'

‘You, sir, are at variance with the Lutheran Church. I have been warned about you and your heresies concerning the ubiquity doctrine.'

‘Perhaps I can explain my position to you.'

‘That will not be necessary, you are not welcome in this church.'

‘You have no right to exclude me from communion,' said Kepler.

‘I have every right. The only way that I will admit you to my
congregation
is if you prove your devotion by signing the Formula of Concord.'

‘To be Lutheran is to use the mind that God gave you.'

‘To be Lutheran is to accept the interpretation of the Bible detailed in the Formula of Concord. Because there is suspicion attached to you,
I require that you sign this document before I allow you to take communion here.' Hitzler folded his arms.

In Kunstadt, Kepler had resumed attending services, having been prevented from doing so by the ban in Prague. Despite his early
assertions
, he realised just how much comfort communion could bring. ‘Very well, I will sign the document – with appropriate amendments.'

‘Not acceptable,' Hitzler said, raising both hands. ‘It is all or nothing. If everyone picks the ripest fruits of faith, how do we maintain our unity? The Protestant Church is divided enough: the Calvinists, the Huguenots – we can have no more splits. Every time we divide, we weaken, meanwhile the Catholic Church grows stronger.'

‘Then don't cast me out over one small disagreement.'

Hitzler leaned in, forcing Kepler to take a step backwards. ‘Herr Kepler, you carry a plague. If I admit you into my congregation I risk the spread of heresy to all those rubbing shoulders with you. Before I know it, I will lose half my congregation. As a surgeon amputates a limb to save a body, so must you be excised.' The pastor's jaw was set firm.

‘I will write to your superiors,' said Kepler. ‘You will answer for this insult.'

A number of weeks later, a courier arrived with a letter from Tübingen. Kepler ripped open the seal, eager for the words. He read them in disbelief:

Either give up your errors, your false fantasies, and embrace God's truth in a humble faith, or keep away from all fellowship with us, with our Church, and with our creed
.

The words disappeared into a grey fog on the page. Suddenly faint, he stumbled for a chair. Mästlin had finally and absolutely turned against him and, as a result, Tübingen had sided with Hitzler. He had been excommunicated.

That evening, the sunset was a purple bruise spread across the sky, and the night brought people spilling out onto the streets from the taverns and inns. Their attempts to quench their thirst with wine and ale steadily took its toll, and soon the throngs were laughing and shouting. Occasionally they burst into song while all the time drinking more and more.

Kepler pushed his way through the crowds, desperate to escape the silence in the house. Where was Susanna when he needed her, breezing into his study with yet another question? Ludwig, who tested everything to destruction? He yearned for the impossible: Friedrich and the way he used to laugh at everything.

All around him, couples dragged themselves into dark alleys to satiate their alcohol-induced desires and young men scrapped with each other over meaningless points of honour. A listless madrigal rose from the strings of an unseen cittern and Kepler followed the sound to an inn. Inside was a fug of pipe smoke, through which Kepler made out the musician, drifting from table to table, cradling the cittern and coaxing sounds out of it by walking his spidery fingers across the long neck.

Once Kepler had been served, he turned from the bar with a jug of wine and a goblet. There must be a seat somewhere. A man with bloodshot eyes indicated an empty stool nearby. Kepler sat down and sipped his wine. As he did so, the man shook his own goblet. It was empty.

‘Why not?' said Kepler and filled it.

His new companion smiled a toothless grin and toasted Kepler, who followed suit. The strange warmth of the alcohol exerted its calming influence. He felt the tension ease from his muscles. He took another mouthful and the tension eased a little more. So he took another mouthful, and another …

‘Let me get this straight,' slurred his companion. ‘You walked away from number three because she was too pretty …'

‘You're getting confused. Number three was the one who promised to check on my children every day in Kunstadt.' Kepler, too, was having problems pronouncing his words.

‘So what was wrong with number three?'

‘I met number four.'

‘And she's the pretty one?'

‘That's right.'

‘Which one was the clever one?'

‘Number two, offered to me by her mother before I left Prague.'

‘Was she pretty?'

‘Too young for marriage, if I'm honest.'

‘Oh.' There was a pause.

The pair of them leaned shoulder to shoulder on the bench, ignoring the draught from the window behind. Three empty wine jugs sat in front of them.

‘Any problem can be solved by collecting enough data and then performing the correct analysis,' explained Kepler. ‘From the
movement
of the planets to the selection of a bride.'

‘Mmm. Tell me about the pretty one again.'

‘She was young and firm, tall and slim,' said Kepler.

‘But not too slim? She still looked like a woman, didn't she?'

Kepler tried to bring his companion into focus. ‘Which one of us is telling this story?'

‘You are. I'm just trying to help you get to the good bits.'

‘Well, don't.'

The man raised his goblet and drained the remains. ‘Have you met a rich one yet?'

‘No.'

‘Is that what you're waiting for?'

‘No.'

‘You don't want a clever one; you don't want a pretty one; and you don't want a rich one. What
do
you want?'

Kepler reached for the table and pulled himself up. He wobbled on his feet. ‘A country girl, with apple cheeks and an earthy laugh.'