Sky's Dark Labyrinth (20 page)

‘What indeed? It is a dark place. The failed assassination of James has done us no favours. It has hardened his resolve to outlaw our loyal Catholics, however innocent they may be. We are far from resolution
there. But let us not wallow in such matters. Today is a celebration. Allow me to show you to your audience.' Bellarmine betrayed his years only when walking, emitting occasional grunts of pain. ‘Arthritis,' he explained. ‘I used to be able to count on it easing in the summer.'

‘My sympathies, cardinal,' said Galileo, hoping to extract some warmth that he could take as reassurance. ‘I suffer too, though this year has been merciful to me.'

Bellarmine led them from the magnificent arches into a more bureaucratic corridor, though one still adorned with busts between the windows and a floor of black-and-white diamond-shaped flagstones.

Two of the Pope's Swiss Guards stood at the end of the corridor. Uniformed in stripes of orange, red and blue, they opened a pair of wooden doors in unison, allowing Galileo's party to pass without breaking step. Pope Paul V sat at the far end of a wide strip of scarlet carpet.

His old face might as well have been carved on one of the busts that Galileo had walked past, moving only with a small nod when an aide in cardinal's robes bent to his ear and whispered something.

Bellarmine and Grienberger dropped behind Galileo, who walked forwards at what he hoped was a dignified pace and knelt before the Pope, touching his lips to the papal ring on the hand that the Pontiff held out with casual indifference.

‘I am told that you have seen wonders hitherto unanticipated in the heavens.' His voice was warmer than Galileo expected.

‘I have been blessed in this way, yes, Your Eminence.'

‘What is it you see?'

Galileo described the moons of Jupiter and the myriad stars he had seen in the Milky Way. He was about to launch into his discussion of the way the mountains on the Moon proved it was another Earth, when something stopped him. He decided to simply mention them as markings.

‘Heaven is richly stocked with new wonders. I cannot help but
speculate
as to what else I may find.' Immediately the words were out of his mouth, he wondered whether he had gone too far with that presumption.

‘I have one concern,' said the Pope.

Galileo's stomach clenched.

‘Why would God hide these marvels from us in the first place?'

‘Perhaps to urge us to greater heights of achievement than any of us thought possible.'

The Pope pursed his lips for a moment and then rocked his head in agreement. Galileo risked looking out of the corner of his eye. There was a change in Grienberger's face. He was not quite smiling but the corners of his mouth had definitely lifted.

The Pope spoke again. ‘Galileo of Florence, you are a credit to the Catholic Church. God go with you in your work.'

Nothing had changed in the buildings, the sounds or the high summer smells of the city when Galileo emerged from the Vatican, yet as he looked around, everything felt different. He wanted to laugh or maybe cry; it was difficult to tell which.

‘You did well today, Galileo. You have learned much in your week with us here,' said Grienberger.

Ordinarily Galileo would have taken offence at being patronised by a younger man but today he found it easy to accept the words as a compliment. ‘Thank you. I have a question for you.'

Grienberger inclined his head.

‘Do you not think that the weight of my observations proves Copernicus?' asked Galileo. ‘The fact that the Medici stars orbit Jupiter, not the Earth; that the Moon has earthly features …'

‘The official Jesuit position is currently an Aristotelian one.'

‘But my observations are so clearly in conflict with Aristotle.'

‘Listen to my words, Galileo: “currently”. As Father Clavius said to you, the Jesuits recognise that the orbs of Heaven need rearranging, but as yet we have no new interpretation to offer that satisfies everyone.'

‘I didn't ask you what the Jesuits think, I asked what you think.'

‘Galileo, I do not enjoy the same freedom as you. The Jesuits speak with one voice. Each of us understands that the individual is subservient to the group. There are 13,000 of us, some as far as China, all spreading the word of Christ with the same voice.' There was obvious pride in Grienberger's voice, the first time Galileo had perceived any passion in the man. ‘We achieve this unity because we work with a common purpose, with clear lines of communication and an acceptance of the hierarchy. Everything we publish passes through the College and is
reviewed before it goes near the presses; in this fashion we maintain the quality of what we do. It is our organisation, our unity of purpose that makes the Lutherans fear us.'

Galileo turned to face him. ‘These new observations can help in the fight, but only if we are willing to use them. We can show people that the true glory of Heaven is a Catholic revelation.'

Grienberger's head shifted a fraction. For a moment, Galileo
actually
saw into the Jesuit's blue eyes. ‘I agree, Galileo, but you need to work with us.'

‘One voice,' said Galileo after a pause.

‘One voice. It is what makes us strong. Know this, Galileo: stick to describing the basic facts of your observations, and let us do the rest. Do this, and you will have nothing to fear from us.'

‘And if not?'

Grienberger ignored the question.

The entrance hall was full of linen. Bundles of sheets lay on the floor; others were scattered higgledy-piggledy across the furnishings. As Kepler looked at the mess, some more came flying through the kitchen door, followed by pulses of angry conversation.

He headed for the source of the trouble, his face grim. Barbara stood with her hands on her hips, shrieking at the top of her voice. Frau Bezold had her back turned, pretending to ignore the tirade and folding one of the bedsheets.

Barbara's face was bright red. ‘Husband, tell her! We cannot sleep on dirty sheets.'

‘There's nothing wrong with my laundering,' said Frau Bezold.

‘You must do them again until they are cle—'

Barbara dropped to the floor.

She fell so quickly that it took a few seconds for Kepler to
comprehend
what had happened.

‘Don't just stand there!' urged Frau Bezold. But no sooner had the housekeeper taken a step towards her mistress than she recoiled, her face twisted in horror.

Barbara was thrashing wildly on the floor. Her limbs made the most sickening thudding noise on the flagstones. Livid bruising was already visible on her elbows and wrists.

Kepler clambered around the table and dropped to his knees, trying to grab hold of his wife's flailing arms. But there was too much force in her jerky motions. Every time he thought he had her, she would break free with a renewed surge of wild energy.

‘Barbara, Barbara,' Kepler called. ‘It's me, Johannes.'

Her head may have moved at his voice, but it was difficult to tell.

Frau Bezold began to recite the Lord's Prayer.

‘Help me, Frau Bezold, we must restrain her.'

She clutched her crucifix and did not budge.

‘Help me, now! There is no danger, except of her injuring herself.'

Frau Bezold gingerly approached and, with a wail, reached out to grasp Barbara's ankles. Together, Kepler and Bezold fought to keep Barbara still. Her eyes were half-open but unfocused. Then, as quickly as it had begun, so it ended. Barbara went limp and seemed to fall asleep, emitting a guttural snoring. Kepler hesitantly released the
slumbering
form. Neither he nor Frau Bezold spoke but he began to tremble, so leaned forwards on his knees.

When Barbara woke up, she was confused and weak. She reached up and clutched her husband, who manoeuvred her into his arms. She dug her fingers into him, twisting great handfuls of his clothing.

‘You're alright now. You're safe. Let's get you into bed,' he said.

There were pale marks on Barbara's neck where the doctor touched her carotid artery. Kepler stood beside Frau Bezold and watched the man from the corner of the room.

The doctor looked over his shoulder at him. ‘Seizures, you say?'

‘A handful in the past few days.'

‘A handful? What do you mean? Three? Four? Five?'

Kepler felt like a child, caught concealing the truth. ‘Five in three days, Doctor Reichard. But she has not been herself for many months now.' He flicked a glance at Barbara. ‘She suffers from melancholia.'

Reichard closed his eyes and counted Barbara's pulse. ‘A little high, but nothing to worry about.'

Kepler smiled at Barbara, who responded weakly. She was sitting upright, immobile, with the blankets pulled high around her. Reichard knelt down and ran a hand under the bed. ‘Aha.' He retrieved a ceramic chamberpot and looked into it, fascination written on his face.

He took the pan to the window, tilted it towards him, then away. There was a faint slopping sound. He swirled the pan and held it to his nose to sniff, as Kepler had seen Hewart von Hohenburg do with wine. He reached into his bag and retrieved a small glass beaker. Into it, he splashed a sample from the chamberpot and held it to the light at the window. With a noise of contentment, he tipped the contents back into the pot and dried the interior of the beaker with a cloth.

‘Doctor?' Kepler asked.

‘Nothing much wrong there. But, melancholia, you say? That is linked to an excess of the cold and dry vapours in the blood. The best course of action will be to bleed her at the temporal vein.'

Kepler nodded. Barbara remained motionless.

Reichard retrieved a small knife from his bag. He ran a fingernail down the dull blade, scraping at a collection of black spots on the metal. Then he pulled out a metal bowl.

Kepler noticed how reluctantly he approached Barbara and reached towards her right temple. She winced at the incision and screwed her eyes shut as the blood flowed from the side of her face. At arm's length, the doctor held the bowl until sufficient blood had pooled in the metal receptacle, after which he pressed a cloth to the wound. Frau Bezold immediately rushed to hold it in place as Barbara slumped backwards onto the pillows.

‘She will sleep now.' He turned to Kepler. ‘Can we talk, privately?'

Once outside, Reichard took a deep breath. ‘Herr Kepler, I'll come straight to the point. You do not need a doctor, you need a priest. The bleeding will help the melancholia but the seizures … It is beyond physic …'

Kepler squared his chest. ‘I cannot believe it.'

‘Herr Kepler, please. You must realise – evil is afoot in Prague.' The doctor took a deep breath. ‘I can find nothing medically wrong with your wife. The only explanation is that she has been … invaded by an evil spirit.'

‘You are wrong.'

‘You saw her thrashing, was it not demonic? She is fighting a war inside. You owe it to her – and to the rest of us – to stop this terror spreading. I urge you to help her with an exorcism.'

When the doctor left, Kepler brooded on the diagnosis, finding reasons why it could not be true. Yet that night he arranged the children around Barbara's sleeping form and conducted them in an hour of prayers and recitals. He pronounced each word more carefully than he could ever remember doing in the past, emphasising their meaning by holding each child's gaze in turn.

In the morning, Barbara awoke with a smile, blinking at the
brightness
from the window.

Kepler sprang up from the armchair in which he had spent the night dozing. ‘You look better.' He had barely completed the sentence when her eyes rolled upwards and another violent fit took possession of her.

Kepler made his way through the deserted streets of the Jewish quarter. Arriving at the university, he found Jessenius bustling down a corridor.

The anatomist had his hands clasped behind his back and appeared to be studying his feet. When Kepler intercepted him, his head jerked upwards.

‘What are you doing here, Johannes?' It sounded like an accusation.

Kepler explained about Barbara.

‘I am sorry to hear that.' Jessenius looked drawn.

‘Tell me you do not believe in this, too.'

‘I would prefer such things not to be true but they make sense to me.'

‘How? How can it make any sense?'

‘There is one thing that strikes me whenever I perform an autopsy. It is that by the time the body ends up on my slab, whatever animates the flesh has long since fled.'

‘You mean our soul?'

‘Yes, implanted in us by God forty days after conception and set free at the moment of our death. The soul controls everything: our growth, our perception, the way we move and the way we think. Without it we are nothing. And just as tenants occupy houses, evil spirits can invade our bodies.' Jessenius scanned the corridor.

‘Am I keeping you?'

‘No, no, no. Let us keep walking. Where was I? Oh yes, think of it this way. The liver creates the blood, which flows to the brain where the nervous spirits are created. These are then transported by the blood around the body and control our movements. We accept that illness is caused when vapours contaminate the blood. These slow us down, make it difficult to carry out our daily lives. Seizures, on the other hand, are completely different. The movements they cause are frightening, are they not?'

The sight of Barbara writhing on the floor flashed into Kepler's mind.

‘Seizures look to me as if the body is fighting against something malevolent that wants to take control of it.'

‘I cannot believe that evil dwells in my wife.'

‘Johannes, think: has she been bad-tempered lately? Not herself? Melancholic? All these things make her susceptible to bad spirits. You look sceptical. Ask yourself this: are you reluctant to believe your wife is fighting evil because you don't believe in spirits, or because you don't want to believe that someone you love has become their victim?'

Hasty footsteps drew their attention. An agitated man approached. Jessenius glanced sideways at Kepler then at the new arrival. ‘Well?'

‘They're not after us. Their argument is with Rudolph. They say they've not been paid, so they'll take what they want from the city.'

Fear etched Jessenius's face. ‘We can't just stand back and let them invade Prague.'

Hewart von Hohenburg's warning about Rudolph's out-of-control mercenaries rattled inside Kepler.

‘Are the men ready?' asked Jessenius.

The messenger nodded.

‘Very well. Send the riders out. They are to find Matthias and ask for his support. We'll hold the city for as long as possible.'

The messenger hurried away, leaving Jessenius breathing deeply.

‘Jan, what are you involved in?' Kepler said.

Jessenius looked up, ashen. ‘I am not just an anatomist, Johannes. I've used my position at court to negotiate on behalf of the Protestant estates with Rudolph, but he's betrayed us with these Bavarian
mercenaries
. We have been talking to Matthias and will now side with him. With Matthias as Emperor, we can stabilise the city again.'

‘But the bloodshed …'

‘Go home, Johannes. Lock your doors. The golden age of our beautiful city is about to end.'

The streets were empty. Kepler could see twisting columns of black smoke rising in the distance, but there was no noise yet of the advance. Not a soul was in the market square; a few abandoned stalls and some squashed fruit and vegetables were all that remained. Kepler felt horribly exposed. He darted into the shadows and skirted along the walls.

A hand fastened onto his arm, pulling him so sharply that he lost his balance as he was dragged into an alleyway. He lashed out against the
vice-like grip and tried to get his feet back under him, but it was to no avail. A hand that smelled of earth clamped over his mouth.

‘Not that way, friend. Not if you want to live,' said a gravelly voice next to his ear.

Kepler stopped struggling. His captor was a man of the countryside: sunburned cheeks and forehead, calloused hands and creased eyes. He let go of Kepler, who peered around the dark alleyway. It was crowded with men, the smell of their bodies pricking his nose. Kepler saw faces of all ages in the shadows. Irregulars. Workers from the surrounding estates rallying to defend their city.

The man who had grabbed Kepler drew a dagger from his belt and flipped it so that the handle faced the astronomer. ‘Take this, you're going to need it.'

Kepler backed away from the weapon.

‘Suit yourself, but Rudolph's men will be all over the square and they won't care if you're armed or not.' He replaced it in his belt.

‘I have to get to Karlova Street,' said Kepler.

‘You'll run straight into them. Get down!' He yanked Kepler back into the shadows. The sound of trotting hooves began to echo around the stone buildings. Kepler's breathing quickened as he watched twenty, thirty, fifty, a hundred horsemen pouring into the square. He lost count; they just kept coming.

Behind him, Kepler could hear muttered prayers.

‘We wait for the signal,' hissed someone.

A horse trotted so close to the end of the alleyway that Kepler could see the dark stain of blood smeared across its rider's sword. The man rolled his shoulders, flexed his head from side to side, and spurred his horse onwards. Another horseman filled his place, then another and another.

The crack of a single musket shot ricocheted around the market square. Kepler was engulfed in noise. The men hollered at the top of their voices and charged out of the alleyway, driving Kepler onwards with them.

The chances were that the cavalryman never knew what hit him. The same hands that had manhandled Kepler dragged the soldier from his horse. As he toppled, a blade slashed a ribbon of blood across his neck, and his twitching body fell to the ground. The swiftness
of his death terrified Kepler; somehow it seemed both trivial and momentous.

More irregulars joined the battle, swords waving, from the many side streets. The cavalry were trapped, pressed so close that there was no room to manoeuvre their horses. Each swing of a horseman's sword was as dangerous to their fellows as for the men they were fighting. In the midst of the crush, a horse reared, hurling its rider backwards into an abyss of flailing hooves.

A man took aim and fired a musket into the crowd. There was a bloody explosion as the ball found its mark. Then the marksman himself crumpled, run through by a horseman. The rider hollered in triumph and signalled for his men to follow him in a charge towards the main skirmish.

Wounded men screamed, but the worst cries were from the horses. Slashed or shot, they fell, adding their own agonies to the bedlam in the market square.

Kepler tried to block out the excruciating screams and the sharp report of musket shots, the tinny clash of swords and the dull thud of lead balls into soft flesh. The battle had become an indefatigable engine of hacking, bludgeoning death. Man after bleeding man toppled. The metallic tang of blood was overwhelming, creating a fetid invisible mist. A panic-stricken horse careered into Kepler, and the collision sent him sprawling onto the blood-soaked ground. He found himself among the bodies. A man, face streaked with dirt, lay on the ground nearby, silently weeping. Kepler rolled him over to cradle his head, and watched the light fade from his eyes.