Sky's Dark Labyrinth (12 page)

The floor was covered in straw, and animals were chained along the walls. A prostrate wolf pricked its ears and looked up at the new arrivals. In the next stall, a black bear rocked its head to and fro, paying them no mind. Kepler stared in amazement at the next animal. It was a tiger. The vividness of its coat, the burnt orange and black stripes, entranced Kepler as did the lazy way it lifted its head and flicked its tail.

Arriving at the last stall, noticeably finer than all the others, Rudolph stopped. ‘And this is my lion.'

The beast was lapping at the eviscerated ribcage of a deer. The stench of blood hung in the air. The lion was so caught up in its meal that it completely ignored the humans. Its fur was the colour of
expensive
honey but its muzzle was stained red. It shook its head, rippling its luxuriant mane, and then returned to its meal.

‘Tycho told me we shared similar horoscopes.'

It took Kepler a moment to convince himself that he had heard correctly. He was about to object to the idea of an animal being in any way similar to a human.

‘I believe it to be true. We are brothers.' Rudolph gazed lovingly at the animal.

Kepler looked away lest his face betray shock.
Animals have no souls; how can the Emperor be so naive?
As Kepler's eyes sought something else to rest on, he could not help but notice there was enough meat left on the deer's carcass to feed his own family for a week. 

The next summer, as God walked among his people in Prague, so the Devil was but a half step behind. The burning wind withered crops and parched the city of moisture, clotting the air into a breathless mass that clung to the streets as molasses to a barrel. The sun glared, cracking the stucco façades of the buildings and blistering the faces of the
inhabitants
.

As tempers frayed, so rumours of plague in Hungary caught hold. Each stricken body was reputed to display bloody marks corresponding to where Christ had been nailed to the cross. This was taken as proof of the divine retribution being meted out. Undertakers in Prague searched the recently deceased for such marks; officials waited anxiously for news of the plague reaching the city.

In this cauldron, the Keplers prepared for their third baby. The
shutters
at Barbara's window prevented light from entering and heat from leaving. Regina spent much of her time in the simmering bedroom, dousing her mother with a wet cloth.

During Barbara's confinement, Kepler slept alone. Often he would rise in the night to scribble down some thought or to crank through some celestial calculation that had seemed intractable the day before when the closeness of the air had transformed his study into a furnace.

Today, however, he had entirely new things to worry about.

In the far corner of the coaching inn's courtyard, a black coach was being unloaded. He made his way through the crowd to where a young man was dropping the travelling cases down to a colleague.

That's when he saw her, smaller than he remembered and her
shoulders
now rounded, but unmistakably Katharina: she was chiding a boy whose only crime was to help with her luggage.

‘Careful with that,' she said.

The boy swung the bag up on his shoulder. ‘Just tell me where you want to go.'

Kepler rushed over. ‘I'll take it from here.' He handed the boy a coin.

‘You're welcome to her.' The boy dumped the bag on the ground, gave her a sour look and sauntered off.

‘You're not getting a tip from me,' she called to his receding back.

The boy raised a hand without looking round and moved his fingers and thumb to imitate a flapping duck bill.

Kepler turned to the woman. ‘Hello, mother.'

‘You let him talk to me like that.'

‘Mother, it's of no concern. Here, let me take your bag and escort you home.'

Her bad mood did not last long. It seldom ever did. The people and their clothes soon enthralled her; the neat cut of the summer jackets and the colour of the dresses. They pushed through the narrow passageways, dwarfed by huge churches and municipal buildings,
occasionally
coming to a crossroads or a square where they could glimpse the sprawl of the city around them.

‘My heavens, it's a wonder,' she said, bending backwards to look from the top of one building to another and another. ‘I never dreamed it could be so big.'

‘From the Palace up on the hill, the city is a beautiful sight. You look down on the rooftops.'

She took his arm. ‘I still think of you when you were five, running behind the bar, totting up the rounds in your head. People used to come to the inn just to watch you.'

Kepler felt himself blush though he could not say why. Those had been happy years at his grandparents' tavern, despite his father's
unpredictable
comings and goings.

‘Now look at you, Mathematician to the most powerful man in Europe. I can scarcely believe it.'

‘Nor I, mother, nor I.'

Kepler carried the case up the stairs to the attic and showed his mother to her room. The floorboards had not been polished up here; a small dormer window allowed in some light.

‘Opposite the servant's room …' she said.

Kepler took her back down the stairs and into his temporary bedroom.

‘I'll have Frau Bezold change the sheets.'

‘You don't need to do that; we're family.' Katharina was suddenly magnanimous again.

‘Nevertheless, you're my guest, mother. I'd like you to be
comfortable
.'

‘Well, I'll do it then, no need to make a fuss.'

That evening, Barbara started sobbing. Her muffled sounds carried through the house to where Kepler and his mother were sitting. The heat was insufferable, and his shirt was soaked at the armpits. ‘She grows more fearful with each passing day. Nothing I say comforts her, but she will quieten near morning when Venus rises.'

‘What's she scared of?'

‘That we'll lose another child. Barbara is a pious woman. She is a beautiful woman, but she is no longer a strong woman. She did not deserve to lose two babies. I fear a third bereavement might unbalance her completely.'

‘You have to put your trust in God.'

Kepler nodded. ‘Why must life be so harsh?'

‘We all waver in our belief at times, even me.'

‘They were so young; neither of them made it past their second month. I see them still in my mind. I notice children in the street that are of the age they would be now. What can God want with children that small?'

‘What if He saw something terrible in their future and decided to spare them?'

Kepler opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then plunged on anyway. ‘Then why didn't he weed out my father? His fighting did none of us any good. Especially not when he turned his fists on you.'

Her eyes narrowed into beads. ‘Because then you would not have been born.'

From upstairs, Barbara's sobs reached a crescendo. Kepler tried to shut his ears to them.

‘She cannot carry on like this,' said Katharina.

‘The doctor says there's nothing he can do,' Kepler snapped. ‘We must accept it.'

‘You might,' she said, her face thoughtful.

Next morning, Katharina was nowhere to be found. Kepler checked her room, releasing a pent-up breath when he saw that her luggage was still there. He bounded downstairs to the scullery.

‘Do you know where my mother went?' he asked Frau Bezold.

‘Out, that's all I know.'

Kepler was still pacing when the latch went on the front door. Katharina walked in carrying bunches of wild flowers and leaves. ‘Found some,' she said, pointing to a number of stems, each a foot or more long, with pale green leaves and clusters of tiny pink flowers close to the stem. ‘They're not too strong but better than nothing.'

‘Mother, this is not Leonberg, you must be careful in the streets.'

‘I've been out to the woods.'

‘There are thieves everywhere.'

‘Look at me, son. Do I look as though I have anything worth stealing?' Her tiny frame was covered in a grey country dress, and she wore clogs on her feet. ‘Most people look at me as if I've wandered into the city by mistake.'

‘Then think about how it looks to people who don't know you: an old woman collecting herbs for potions. You would do well to remember what happened to your aunt …'

Katharina silenced him with a look.

‘Sorry, mother. It's just …'

‘I know. Don't be afraid. That was a long time ago.' She reached up to his shoulder. ‘I need your kitchen.'

She did not wait for his answer before heading in its direction. Kepler trailed after her, to smooth things over with Frau Bezold.

Katharina tied her stems into bunches and hung them in front of the window, where they could catch the strongest sunlight. ‘I'll be back later.'

Kepler and Bezold exchanged shrugs.

In the evening, Katharina returned to the kitchen to complete her preparation. Before long she was carrying a bowl of liquid upstairs to Barbara. Its bitter steam reached Kepler's nose.

‘Are you sure this is wise, mother?'

‘Trust me. It's only motherwort and a few other things.'

Barbara was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was cupping her heavy abdomen, gently stroking her thumbs up and down. Regina stood next to her, massaging between her mother's shoulderblades.

‘Here you go, drink this.' Katharina held the bowl so Barbara could see it. The pregnant woman's eyes flitted to her husband.

He nodded.

When the bowl was inches from her mouth, she pulled a face. ‘It smells bitter.'

‘It'll do you good,' urged Katharina.

Pinching her nose, Barbara sipped at the potion, taking bigger and bigger mouthfuls until it was all gone.

‘Now then, let's get you back into bed,' said Katharina, taking the empty bowl. ‘Help me, Regina.'

Together they swung Barbara's legs back onto the mattress, as she heaved herself up on her arms.

That night, there were no sobs. The night after, Kepler heard Barbara laughing again.

On the night of the birth, Kepler was buffeted by the agonising screams coming from upstairs and the constant bustle of women fetching cloths and water. Adrift, he wandered from room to room but nowhere could he find any peace of mind, not even in his study amid the piles of Tycho's ledgers, which he had appropriated after his appointment by the Emperor.

His suffering was finally broken in the early hours when the newborn's cry echoed through the house. As he climbed the stairs, he became suddenly fearful of what might await him, and slowed his step.

When he reached the bedroom, he tiptoed inside. The baby had quietened and was slumbering in Barbara's fleshy arms. His wife's round face was haggard, the first time Kepler could remember thinking of her in that way, and at the sight of him she started to cry.

Regina delivered the news. ‘I have a sister,' she told her stepfather with a delighted hug, her head resting just above his stomach.

‘Is she …?' Kepler's voice caught.

Barbara held the baby for his inspection. ‘Husband, she is perfect.'

He took the miniature form into his hands and stared into her face. Her eyes were tightly shut and her lips were pressed together. Her tiny hands bobbed. It was then that he understood that his wife's tears were those of joy.

‘Let us call her Susanna,' he said.

‘Dare we use that name again?'

‘She will be our constant reminder of God's divine wisdom.'

A few days later, a sharp rap on the front door sprang Kepler from an all too brief sleep. He felt as if the strength had been baked from him during the night. Susanna's cries for food and Barbara's complaints over the pain of suckling had not helped either.

More ladies to welcome Susanna to the world
.

He straightened his jacket in preparation for playing host but upon entering the front room, he saw that it was Jessenius. Silhouetted at the window was a towering figure. The mountain of black fabric turned slowly.

‘I believe you two have corresponded with each other,' said Jessenius. ‘This is Father Grienberger.'

‘Father Grienberger! My apologies, no one has bade you sit down. Please excuse my housemaid, she's old and weak of mind. We must …'

‘It is of no concern. We are here to speak with you as friends, not to judge you on etiquette.'

‘My wife gave birth some days ago. We are still getting used to this joyous adjustment in our lives.'

Grienberger smiled, an expression that did not sit comfortably beneath his enigmatic blue eyes. ‘We share your good news.'

‘It is why we're here,' Jessenius added, earning him a warning frown from Grienberger.

Alerted, Kepler stared at the Jesuit. The moment threatened to become awkward but, thankfully, it was broken by Frau Bezold's entrance. She set down a tray laden with goblets and a pitcher of wine on the table, and the men gathered round.

Kepler served his guests with trembling hands and after some small talk about the heat, he asked, ‘How may I be of service to you today, gentlemen?'

Grienberger inclined his head, not quite looking at Kepler. ‘It is a delicate matter.'

‘Are we not friends?' asked Kepler, watching Jessenius closely.

‘We are concerned for your daughter,' said Grienberger. ‘You are not known for fathering strong children and you know full well the peril to your daughter's soul, should she pass away without being baptised.'

Vertigo wheeled inside Kepler; he looked from Grienberger's averted gaze to Jessenius. He too was studying the walls.

‘You are suggesting I baptise my daughter a Catholic.'

‘Lutheran services are outlawed. It is the only way.'

‘She is an innocent; her soul has nothing to fear.'

‘You forget; we are all born with Adam's guilt on our shoulder.'

‘You need only look at her to know that she is pure.'

‘Even Luther believes in original sin.'

‘Then Luther is wrong.'

The Jesuit cocked his head, drawing Kepler up sharply. A profound sorrow grew from nowhere to fill the astronomer completely. ‘I cannot baptise her a Roman Catholic.'

‘We would organise something quiet for you. No one need know.'

‘I cannot. I have taken the decision. Since my daughter cannot be Lutheran, she will be baptised Utraquist.' The decision had cost him nights of sleep. He had contemplated smuggling the family out to one of the surrounding castles where it was said that Lutheran ministers were hiding. However, if he were to be caught he would certainly be replaced as imperial mathematician, and he could not risk another expulsion like Graz, not with a newborn. A Catholic baptism was out of the question; there was no way he could yield to the Pontiff; it would be an unthinkable betrayal of his upbringing and education, not to mention his personal conviction. God had given men minds to use, not to surrender them to blind obedience. To do so would be the equivalent of a farmhand refusing to lift a scythe. The only alternative was the Utraquists. At least by maintaining their own identity they had demonstrated some ability to stand up to Roman pressure.