Sky's Dark Labyrinth (10 page)

Rudolph's face did not move for some time, and Kepler sensed Tycho's uncertainty. When it did move, the voice was a soft mumble: ‘It is acceptable.'

‘Thank you, Your Majesty. With your name attached, it cannot help but ensure that the work will be remembered throughout all future time. As I do not need to tell Your Majesty, this undertaking is a difficult
task. I have a lifetime of observations to work through. I would humbly beg that, to assist me, Your Grace employs this man, Johannes Kepler.'

Rudolph mumbled again. ‘Can one man make such a difference?'

‘Only if it is this man, Your Majesty. There is no one like him in the world. His gift with numbers is incalculable.'

A childish squeak escaped Rudolph. It was followed by a stifled laugh that shook his body. ‘His gift with numbers is incalculable. That's very good. You're a dry wit, Mister Brahe.'

‘Thank you, Your Majesty.'

‘Johannes Kepler, how do you find Prague?'

‘It is the beating heart of Europe, Your Majesty. Your great works here influence everything.'

‘Indeed they do.' The Emperor returned to somnolence. At last he said, ‘It is agreed. You will be paid from the imperial purse.'

The ledger room was everything that Kepler had imagined: shelf after shelf of leather-bound observations. For the stars, the collection was categorised by season and subdivided by declination, the latitude on the sky. For the planets, a separate shelf was devoted to each one of the five orbs.

There was just enough space in between the cabinets for a table and chair, and, even though he was assigned a separate study, it was here that Kepler preferred to work. Surrounded by Tycho's treasure, he spent hours leafing through each ledger, acquainting himself with the data, growing to know the pages until some were as familiar as old friends. Within a week he could reach to the correct corner of the room for any observation he required. A fortnight later, he could point to the exact ledger.

The only actions forbidden were to make copies of the observations, or to remove them from the room.

‘You finally achieved everything you yearned for.' The tall figure of Longomontanus stood in the doorway.

‘I am helping the Master to compile his tables, nothing more.'

Longomontanus raised an eyebrow. ‘You will work on Mars, I know you well enough by now.'

Kepler slowly closed the ledger. ‘What of you? They say you are leaving.'

‘I am away to Copenhagen. A professorship awaits.'

‘A professorship?' Kepler's thoughts turned fleetingly to Tübingen.

‘I have been away from my homelands too long.'

Tübingen appeared again in Kepler's mind. ‘Then I wish you good fortune, my friend. We do part as friends, do we not?'

Longomontanus brought his hands together as if he were about to pray. ‘Johannes, the Master's arrangement of the planets may not be complete but it is the best we have. It fits the data. Why tear it down and start again?'

‘Because, in my heart, I know it is wrong.'

‘Then I must resist you every step of the way. For, in my heart, I know it can only be right.'

Later, another visitor passed the room: Tycho. He rested himself against the doorframe. ‘Still here?'

‘Working late,' said Kepler, rubbing his eyes.

A smile tugged at Tycho's pale lips. ‘Of course.'

Soon afterwards, Kepler rose from his seat and stacked his papers. He carefully locked up the ledger room and turned for the front door. It was a chill night, so he headed back inside towards his study, where he had left his hat, gloves and cloak.

The household was asleep. The long nights of observation were at an end now that Benátky had been abandoned. The instruments were in storage and the catalogues were as complete as they would be.

Kepler crept through the stillness, entered his study and froze. A small shadow was at his desk, rifling his papers. It carried a single small candle.

‘Leave my things alone,' said Kepler evenly, recovering from the initial fright.

Jepp turned slowly. There was a control about his movements that Kepler had never seen before.

‘You're not the imbecile you pretend to be, and you're certainly no seer. The only foolish thing you have done in all the time I have known you is to think that you could fool me. Now get out.'

Jepp took a step forwards. There was a cold clarity in his eyes that took Kepler by surprise. It was strangely entrancing. A dart of
movement
caught Kepler off guard. Before he knew what was happening, the candle Jepp had been holding was flying through the air.

He batted the flaming object to one side, sending hot wax cascading around the room. The candle bounced from the wall to the floor, narrowly avoiding a stack of paper. He pounced at once to extinguish the flame.

Shaking in the sudden darkness, Kepler looked around.

Jepp was gone.

Claudius Acquaviva went by several names. Hardly anyone used his given name because of the station he held. He was head of the Roman College, leader of the Jesuits and one of the chief advisors to the Pope. Those who thought of the Jesuits as soldiers of God fighting a war of ideology against the hated enemy referred to him as Praepositus Generalis. Then there were those who feared him.

There were many who fell into this category both across the Lutheran world and even within the Roman one. They worried that being Catholic was one thing, being Jesuit was altogether another. They considered him scheming and possessed of dark motives. To them he was covertly known as the Black Pope.

He was a skeleton in black shrouds. Though not yet past his
fifty-fifth
year, Claudius Acquaviva's head was no more than a skull with a tight covering of skin. His hair and beard were shaved to stubble, and the sharp outline of his cheekbones were clearly visible on either side of his angular nose.

He worked in the shadow of a crucifix, a six-foot-tall wooden carving of Christ's death secured to the wall behind his desk. In the far corner, behind any guests, was a hooded falcon, kneading its perch. He would send the bird of prey soaring over the rooftops from the window when he needed to clear his mind.

Acquaviva's eyes, as black as his clothing, floated in brilliant whites that even Bellarmine found difficult to meet for any length of time. They were looking at him now, having lifted from a sheet of writing that Bellarmine had handed to him a few minutes earlier.

‘This is copied exactly?' Acquaviva's voice never rose above that of softly shifting gravel.

‘Exactly as it was written to Herr Kepler, Father General. Tübingen have refused to help him find a professorship. He's isolated. His most powerful friends are now Catholics. He may be worth … approaching.'

Acquaviva remained impassive. The Praepositus Generalis's office closed in around Bellarmine, who added quickly, ‘It would not be the first time a Lutheran scholar has converted to us.'

‘Indeed not,' said Acquaviva. ‘But why would we want such a
troublemaker
? Father Clavius has informed me of Kepler's astronomical ideas. They are strictly against Aristotle, and we are sworn to obey the orthodoxy.'

‘For control, Father General. By making Kepler a Jesuit, we could steer his efforts away from the heresies. He's a pious man; he'd see reason.'

‘Just because he has been refused a professorship by his old masters, why should that make him ready to renounce Lutherism?'

Bellarmine felt a rush of pride. ‘There is something else. We've learned that he has not signed the Formula of Concord.'

Acquaviva inclined his head. ‘In truth?'

‘Most assuredly, Father General. He disagrees with Lutheran dogma over their ubiquity doctrine.'

Acquaviva smiled faintly. The Formula of Concord was the latest German effort to agree a succinct statement of Lutheran beliefs and thus shore up support across Europe in the face of the Catholic resurgence – and it was failing. Sweden, Denmark and England were protesting against it. Not even in Germany could full support be found; the Lutheran communities in Hesse, Zweibrücken, Anhalt, Nürnberg and others were refusing to sign. Now a prominent thinker from Tübingen was turning away. This was indeed a wedge to be pounded into a split.

Bellarmine could see from the ghost of a smile that Acquaviva grasped the importance. It was the most emotion Bellarmine had ever seen him show.

‘Can you spare the time to visit Prague?' the Praepositus Generalis asked.

‘With great respect, Father General, it would be better if Father Grienberger made the journey. He is known to Kepler; they have exchanged letters.'

‘Then Father Grienberger it will be. While he's there, he can remind Rudolph II of his duty to Rome. The reports suggest that most in Prague now prefer worshipping with the Utraquists, and that the surrounding lands are mostly Lutheran.'

‘The Utraquists have signed a treaty with the Vatican.'

‘Your diplomacy does you justice, Cardinal Bellarmine, but I think we both know the Utraquists are soft. Their insistence on treating the laity with the same dignity as the clergy is contemptible. I hardly need to remind you of all people that in matters of faith there can be no compromise.'

From over his left shoulder Bellarmine could hear the falcon clawing at its perch. Acquaviva slipped on a leather glove, crossed the room and unlaced the bird's tether. It automatically stepped onto his hand. He stroked the bird before unlatching the window. ‘See to it that more pressure is brought to bear on Prague.' He slipped off the falcon's hood and flung the bird from his hand, out into the air. ‘The sooner we re-establish direct control over the so-called Holy Roman Empire the better.'

Bellarmine watched the flash of the bird's feathers high above the city.

‘It is time for Rome to spread her wings again,' said Acquaviva.

Kepler ran his finger along the shelves and drew out one of the Mars ledgers. As he did so, something quickened inside him. Longomontanus was right; he would never be able to leave Mars alone until he had cracked the orbit.

Tycho was out, summoned to court for a reading of the imperial stars, and then to supper with an imperial councillor. The rest of the household seemed content to spend their evening in the bar room with the servant girls. Kepler would have hours to indulge himself.

The book was stiff to open, as if it had not been handled in a long time. He sat down with it and scanned the figures. In his mind's eye he could trace the journey they were describing. Mars was in Leo, gliding towards conjunction with the bright star Regulus, so that both could shine their red light down on Earth.

He began copying some figures onto a rough sheet of paper, savouring the curve of each character. It was the best way he knew to become acquainted with them. By writing the numbers, he brought them closer to him. Each number was an individual. There were the ordinary and the eccentric, the important and the seemingly worthless. Each one related to the others as every man could be traced back to Adam. He would tease out the relationships. He would look for patterns. Which numbers were doubles or triples of another? Which were
fractions
? Soon he would glimpse the furtive look that passes between lovers at a party and betrays the secret of what is really going on.

The enormity of his task confronted him. How he regretted having once boasted about solving Mars's orbit in eight days. How could he have been so stupid? If he was going to achieve his goal of looking down on the orbit of Mars from God's own viewpoint, to actually watch the planet following its path around the Sun then he would first have to take into account that Earth was moving as well. As Earth travelled on its own journey, so it changed the perspective from one observation to the
next. To deal with this, he would have to compute the movement of Earth and subtract it from Mars. And he would have to do it for each and every one of the observations he wanted to use. Otherwise the numbers he had in front of him were meaningless.

It was a step that no one had to take in either Ptolemy's or Tycho's vision because their Earth stayed fixed in the centre of the cosmos. Only in the Copernican view of a moving Earth did the correction have to be made and it more than doubled the workload.

Once he had the true Martian motion, then he could begin searching for a curved shape that would fit through all the points. All shapes – triangles, squares, circles, everything – could be described mathematically; this was the basis of geometry. But in God's Heaven, the only reasonable shape was the perfect circle because a planet on the circular track would always stay the same distance from the centre of the universe. Yet Copernicus had not been able to fit a circle to his observations. Why not?

It had driven Copernicus's student temporarily insane. Rheticus – so the story went – became so confused that he appealed to his guardian angel, beseeching the divine creature to appear as an Oracle and reveal the answer. However, the spirit grasped Rheticus by the hair and slammed him into the walls and ceilings of his workroom, shouting, ‘These are the motions of Mars.'

The last thing Kepler wanted to feel was that he was banging his own head against a stone wall. It would have to be a delicate analysis. His concentration was broken by an almighty commotion from the bar.

Jepp was squealing, ‘The Master! The Master is coming!'

So early. Kepler hastily closed the book and returned it to the shelf. Something must be wrong.

Kepler left the room and crossed the short distance to the hall. People were milling around but there was no sign of Tycho. He approached someone whose face he could dimly remember from Benátky. ‘Where's the Master?'

‘He's not here yet, but we've learned to trust Jepp's powers.'

Kepler rolled his eyes and turned back for the ledger room, but the sound of a carriage stopped him. It grew louder and then drew to a stop. Jepp flashed past and ran out into the dark. When he returned, it was at Tycho's side, the Master's hand resting on Jepp's closely cropped hair as if favouring a pet.

Tycho was walking with more difficulty than usual, sweat running down his face. ‘Fetch me a piss pot,' he bellowed. ‘And hurry, or I'll choose a hat.'

A servant returned with a chamber pot. Jepp disentangled himself.

Tycho turned from the crowd and dropped the metal bowl onto a nearby chair. Grunting with exertion he loosened his belt and thrust down his breeches. He took deep breaths and placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. He took aim and waited.

Behind him, the crowd stayed rooted and silent, collectively unsure what to do for the best. As they lingered, Tengnagel arrived from upstairs, buttoning up his jacket.

Tycho took more deep breaths. Then yowled in pain as a small stream set the bowl ringing. An acrid smell filled the room. He tried several more times before giving up. He tucked himself away and buckled up roughly. ‘What? Are you all just going to stand there?' he roared at their gawping faces.

The paralysis broken, the members of the household scurried here and there, looking for the quickest way to leave.

‘Johannes,' barked Tycho.

‘Yes, sir?'

‘You have left the ledger room unlocked.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Tycho lurched into motion, heading for the interior of the house. ‘Where's my wife?'

The next morning the household was still at breakfast when Kepler returned to the Golden Griffin. He looked into the room hopefully but Tycho was not at the table, and there was a grey pallor over the proceedings.

He walked to Tycho's study and found him there, sitting behind his desk, lost in thought and still dressed in the same clothes as the night before. Kepler hovered. Tycho looked up and waved him over.

‘How do you feel?' asked Kepler.

‘Hungry, if you must know. My wife in her feminine wisdom has forbidden me to eat until I have cleared myself out. So, I sit waiting for my body to rouse itself.'

He took a small cup from the table and swirled its contents. ‘It's supposed to do me good. Brandy would do me more good.' He shouted at someone unseen, then knocked back the drink with a grimace and wiped his mouth along the sleeve of his doublet. ‘How soon before we have the first pages ready for the printer?' he asked, clattering the pewter cup back onto the table.

The question took Kepler by surprise. ‘It is the earliest of days yet.'

‘I should at least buy the paper though, do you not think?'

‘If it pleases you.'

Tycho's study was too tidy, not at all as it had been at Benátky. There were too few papers and they were too neatly stacked. His most precious books were resting in a bookcase, rather than strewn across the desk. He poured himself some wine and drank it straight down. ‘When did you know that you were an astronomer?' he said.

‘Sir?'

‘It's an easy enough question: when did you know that you were an astronomer?'

‘You mean, when did I realise that I wanted to be an astronomer?'

‘No.' Tycho banged his palm upon the table. ‘Men like us don't
want
to be astronomers. You and me, we were born to it. The stars implant themselves at our birth, and wait to be triggered. When was it for you?'

Kepler smiled at the notion, Tycho's words sparking a memory as pure as the stars on a frosty night. ‘I was six. My mother took me to a hill just outside town and showed me a comet; she taught me not to be afraid of them.'

‘The bright comet of 1577?'

‘The very same.' 

‘I saw it too, tracked it across the sky.'

‘That's when I became interested in the stars. At university, I would defend Copernicus in any debate that blew up, but my original
inclination
was for the ministry.'

Tycho tutted. ‘Who taught you Copernicus?'

‘Magister Mästlin.'

‘He should know better.'

‘He refused to teach it in class because it went against Holy Writ but he showed me the ideas late one afternoon, when most students were outside catching the last of the sunshine. From the moment I heard the idea, I knew it was right. The Sun is too powerful to be anywhere but at the centre of creation.'

‘It's unseasonably hot, don't you find?'

Kepler was finding it hard not to shiver in the draughty room.

Tycho downed another goblet and ran his hands over his face. ‘I was sixteen – used to sleep with a cross-staff under my pillow so that I could observe when my tutor was asleep. He didn't approve of astronomy, thought it unfitting for a noble, but the thrill I felt when I pointed that simple instrument at the stars … I would spend half the night sliding the crossbeam to and fro along the staff, making it fit between pairs of stars and then reading the angles off the carved scale. One night I was taken by surprise at how close to each other Jupiter and Saturn were in the sky. When I checked Copernicus's book for his prediction of the conjunction, he was wrong. Ptolemy was more accurate – still wrong, but more
accurate
than Copernicus. It told me that neither was right, and I set out to correct things once and for all. Why is it so damned hot in here?'

He rose unsteadily to his feet and headed for the window. As he fought with the catch, a tiny breath escaped him. It was all the warning he gave before collapsing. As he fell, he knocked a tall candelabrum to the floor.

Kepler was at his side at once, rolling the great bulk over. There was a bloody bruise on Tycho's forehead where he had collided with the windowsill on the way down. His eyes remained open for a moment, locking with Kepler's, then flickered shut.

One by one, guests packed and departed, taking with them the lifeblood of Tycho's household. As the days went by, members of the family within reasonable travelling distance replaced them. Initially Jepp had taken to wailing outside the Master's bedchamber, but a well-placed boot from Tengnagel had stopped the dwarf from trying that again. With just the family and the assistants, and Jepp now keeping a
mercifully
low profile, the place began to feel ghostly.

Kepler worked on as best he could. Desperate for any news, he relived the scene over and over, wondering what more he could have
done. That pitiful last look in Tycho's eyes haunted him, as did the dead weight of his Master's body when he had tried to move him and his strangled voice when he had cried for help.

Tengnagel had appeared almost at once, muscling Kepler aside with sword drawn and sending him crashing into the plaster wall. ‘What have you done to my father-in-law?'

Kepler could not speak for fear, his eyes transfixed on the point of Tengnagel's blade. In his peripheral vision, he had been aware of Tycho's head lolling on the floor, the great man's legs twisted under that mighty body. He had to do something but what?

Thankfully Tycho's wife had arrived. Her scream drove away the murderous look in Tengnagel's eyes, and he had sheathed his sword and immediately attended to his father-in-law. Yet not even he could lift the unconscious form. He struggled for a moment, growing red as a beet, before grabbing the armpits and heaving. When Kepler made for the feet, Tengnagel had growled at him. Kepler's last view of Tycho had been of him being dragged away like a sack of firewood.

Occasionally snippets of information would come from upstairs; none were ever good. By all accounts, Tycho was in the grip of delirium.

‘It's all he says, over and over in Latin:
ne frustra vixisse videar
,' came one report.

‘Let me not seem to have lived in vain,' translated Kepler, a dark hole of foreboding opening within him.

One day, Tengnagel came to find him. ‘He's asking for you.'

Kepler was fearful as he entered Tycho's private chamber. Before going in, he brushed the flecks from his jerkin and smoothed his hair.

The room was shuttered. Only the odd shaft of daylight found its way through a knothole or a split in the wood. Tycho's family were gathered around the bed. As Kepler's eyes adjusted to the dark, so he made out their haggard expressions and suspicious eyes. The room stank, and Elisabeth held a nosegay of dried lavender. Someone had placed a picture of the Lord on the mantelpiece at the foot of the bed. Tengnagel bent to his father-in-law's ear. ‘It's Kepler.'

Tycho's eyes opened a crack, releasing beads of sticky moisture. The dying man beckoned Kepler to come closer.

‘Tengnagel will take charge of my observatory equipment and
observations
. He is the only one of my family who has any idea what do with it. But you must promise me that you will complete my task, and publish the tables according to my system of the planets. Promise me.'

‘Sir, I promise you that I will act only in the most noble of ways with your legacy. I will find only the most elegant solution.'

‘Then you will follow my system.'

‘I will follow the observations.'

Tycho's eyes filled with pleading but his mouth twitched. Kepler knew he had made him angry. Then the spasms stopped.

‘Tyge?' His wife rose from her seat to lean over him. ‘Tyge!'

Tengnagel pulled Kepler out of the way. ‘Fetch the doctor.'

‘It's too late for that,' said Tycho's widow.

Twelve imperial guards flanked Tycho's great coffin on its final journey to Prague's Old Town. Preceded by Tycho's coat of arms and his favourite horse, they led the long cortège of mourners across the city bridge, under the astronomical clock and across the market square to the Church of Our Lady Before T´yn. The building's two gigantic towers reached up to Heaven.

Onlookers crowded the streets in silent tribute, brought out by the spectacle, even though many of them had never heard of the man.