Sky's Dark Labyrinth (2 page)

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?

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.