Sky's Dark Labyrinth (31 page)

Pippe knew something was going to happen. He could feel it in the same way he sensed a coming thunderstorm during August: by the pricking of the hairs on the back of his neck. What he could not sense was whether it would help his own agenda in today's meeting.

The seventy cardinals sat in a horseshoe formation in the large meeting hall, along with the various Vatican ambassadors visiting Rome. Their papers were placed on the tables in front of them. Their voices echoed from the bare marble. The canny ones heeded those reflections as warnings. Whenever they could hear themselves rebounding from the walls, it was time to calm down.

Not so the Vatican ambassador to Spain.

The voice of Ambassador Borgia issued from his pudding face to bounce around the room, while he threaded his fingers into his sandy hair. ‘You are more interested in shoring up your own power here than you are in helping our Spanish brothers reconvert Northern Europe,' he accused Pope Urban.

There was a murmur of dissent from the cardinals, even from some of the other ambassadors, not because what Borgia was saying was untrue but simply because it was unwise to voice it.

‘Borgia …' began one of the elder cardinals.

‘No, I will not keep quiet. King Philip is spending his fortune making sure the Catholics of the North can press the war to their advantage. What is our own Pope doing to help? Nothing.'

‘That is enough,' said a shrill voice. Pippe's eyes darted to its source. It was the Pope's nephew, Cardinal Francesco Barberini. The face beneath the tight curly hair was drawn.

Pippe caught the thrill of knowing what was about to happen. Barberini was going to break. Pippe could see it in the way the young man had his hands pressed palm down on the tabletop, arms rigid.

Sure enough, Barberini jumped to his feet, sending his chair flying.

‘What about the Spanish manoeuvres in Naples?' He aimed an accusatory finger as if it were a musket barrel. ‘If fighters are needed in the North, why does King Philip build up his military presence on our very borders? You forgot to tell us of this. Perhaps we have a right to be wary of Spain. Perhaps we have a right to question your loyalty.'

Now Borgia shot upwards, too. ‘Of what do you accuse me?'

The two men rushed at each other, as the others stared dumbly, paralysed by shock. The doors burst open, and the Swiss Guards ran in. Pippe was impressed by their speed. He always thought of them as little more than ornaments yet in seconds their wiry frames had
separated
the brawlers with crossed halberds.

Breaking the stunned silence that settled over the room, the Pope spoke: ‘That's enough for today.'

His voice gave the impression of control, but Pippe could hear the quaver beneath betraying temper, perhaps fright. It was rumoured that Urban lived in fear of Spanish assassins and had taken to employing food-tasters.

The cardinals and ambassadors gathered their papers and scuttled away like schoolchildren dismissed from class. Pippe dallied, undecided about whether to join them or press ahead with his plan. When he found himself the last in the room, the decision was made for him.

The Pope raised his head. ‘Cardinal Pippe? What troubles you?'

‘Your Holiness, it's Galileo. His new book …'

‘His
Dialogues?
It's the most eagerly anticipated book of astronomy.'

‘Although it pains me to say it, he uses the work to attack traditional thinking and …'

‘There is nothing wrong with modernity.'

‘… and to assert absolutely that the Earth moves.'

Pippe saw the words strike Urban.

‘And how does he do that?' The Pope attempted to sound nonchalant.

‘He spends a great deal of the book discussing why the ebb and flow of the tides prove conclusively that the Earth moves through space – an argument I need not remind you has been rejected as utterly false by the Roman College.'

Urban pushed himself from the throne, walked to the window and stared outwards with his hands clasped behind his white robes. Pippe held himself motionless, wondering what else he should be saying.

‘Send me this book. I will have it read to me,' said Urban.

‘It is five hundred pages long.'

‘Five hundred pages? It would take me a feast every day for a month to get through it.' Urban turned to face the cardinal, ‘I want it read by three others; they must decide Galileo's intention with this work.'

‘Yes, Your Holiness.' Pippe found it difficult not to smile before he was safely out of sight.

A week later, Pippe returned to the audience chamber carrying the assessment. Urban edged forwards as he listened to the conclusion.

‘We think that Galileo may have overstepped his instructions by asserting absolutely the Earth's motion and the Sun's immobility, thus deviating from hypothesis,' read Pippe carefully. ‘Your Holiness, we must now consider how to proceed against Galileo and the book.'

Urban's gaze drifted from Pippe. ‘How is one supposed to proceed in such a matter? When Galileo visited me, we spoke of his writing this book. Perhaps I even urged him to write it.'

‘This might help.' Pippe produced another sheet of writing,
recapturing
Urban's attention. ‘It's the edict from 1616, issued to Galileo by Cardinal Bellarmine, may he rest in peace. It clearly states that Galileo was forbidden to hold, defend or to teach, in any way, the Copernican doctrine.
In any way
, Your Holiness.' Pippe's eyes fixed upon the Pope. ‘Just by discussing this book with you, he was breaking the law.'

‘No, there must be some other explanation. Galileo must have misunderstood Bellarmine.'

Why was he being so stubborn?
Pippe tugged his bottom lip, thinking hard. ‘Your Holiness, I believe that Galileo has mocked you in his pages.'

‘Ridiculous. It is a work of philosophy.'

‘Your Holiness, with all respect …'

‘Today is not the day for scheming, Cardinal Pippe. Explain yourself.'

Pippe tensed; he should have rehearsed this. He hung his head in imitation of a penitent. ‘The book is a dialogue between three people. Salviati is a thinly disguised version of Galileo, spouting Copernican
nonsense at every opportunity. Sagredo is supposedly neutral but sides with Salviati. Then there is the bastion of tradition and ancient reason; the spokesperson for our way of life. Painted here as an imbecile, even in name. He is called Simplicio.'

‘Simplicio?'

‘Your Holiness, it is my most humble opinion that Galileo has cast you in the role of Simplicio. The similarity of the name to that of simpleton is one you hardly need a Jesuit intellect to recognise. Galileo did not write the book in Latin but in Italian for the common man. He is claiming to all that he is your intellectual superior.'

Urban's eyes were unblinking. Pippe felt uncomfortable under their hardening glare and willed himself to keep talking. ‘Is it not your belief that God's will is greater than any man's imagination? Therefore how a man chooses to interpret nature can never be held up as true?'

Urban nodded tightly. ‘Go on.'

‘Allow me to read to you the words of Simplicio, his last line of defence, once Salviati has supposedly beaten him in all other argument. He appeals to God's omnipotence:
it would be excessive boldness for anyone to limit and restrict the Divine power and wisdom to some particular fancy of his own
. Your Holiness, Galileo has placed your very philosophy in the mouth of a simpleton. Can there be a greater insult?' Pippe regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He had gone too far, he was sure of it. He began to feel cold and clammy.

When the Pope finally spoke, it was quietly, as if he were organising his thoughts. ‘Betrayed by a man I sought to make an ally, a man whose intellect I respected. And all the while he was making sport with me. Cast me as a fool, would he?'

For a moment, Pippe thought Urban was going to cry. The Pontiff raised his hands to his head and rocked back and forth. Presently he lifted his face to stare at Pippe again; all traces of self-pity erased.

‘Fetch him to Rome at once. He will answer for this.'

Wooden blocks had been placed behind the wagon's wheels, and for the last hour two industrious drivers had packed it with clothes and chattels. They had fitted everything together like some giant puzzle and topped it off with Kepler's writing desk, upturned so that its legs resembled chimneys. Now, they were making their last inspection of the ropes holding everything in place.  

Kepler dodged between them, performing his own investigation. Try as he might, there was no way he could squeeze in the armillary sphere he was holding. He attempted to balance it in the far corner but realised that the first pothole would send it bouncing from the wagon. Reluctantly he retrieved it and carried it back into the house.  

‘We'll have to leave this one behind until we can send for the last of our things,' he said.  

Susanna was crouched in the hall, fastening Fridmar's jacket. ‘I never realised just how many possessions we've accumulated. Do we really need all of them?'  

‘I'll be sure to remind you of that the first time you ask me where something is.' Kepler set down the sphere, running his hands across its filigreed surface.  

Susanna flipped Fridmar's hair from his eyes. ‘Off you go, into the carriage. Your brother and sister are waiting.'  

From the doorway, Kepler could see the carriage they would be
travelling
in, parked behind the wagon. Inside it, Cordula was swinging her legs, impatient for the adventure to begin, an arm curled around Hildebert who grinned at the people gathering in the street to watch their departure. Fridmar clambered in beside his brother and sister. Kepler was about to follow but stopped on the doorstep and took a deep breath.  

‘What is it?' asked his wife.

‘Once more my belongings and I are bundled together for a journey. It seems to be the story of my life: never quite knowing what awaits me. If I were a planet, I'd know exactly where I was going.' He raised an eyebrow to let her know he was not being entirely serious.

‘What do you hope for this time?'

Kepler ran both hands down his beard. ‘I don't know. But it feels different. For the first time in my life, I have discharged all my debts to other people – all my debts save one, that is.'

‘And who is that to?'

Kepler drew her close. ‘To my wife and children. I owe them some years of peace and quiet.'

Susanna put her arms around him. ‘I think you're about to fulfil that debt.'

‘So do I.' Kepler bent his head to hers. The warmth of her lips reminded him of the first time they had kissed. It had been in the meadows downstream from the town. He had hired a boat to take her there, forgetting what hard work it would be to row back upstream at the end of the day.

They had talked and laughed and looked at one another. Then they had leaned quite naturally together. The instant before their lips touched, he remembered Barbara and felt a rush of panic. It vanished upon contact. Susanna's hot lips seared his, and he knew it was right to love her.

He lingered in the feeling and forgot about the poverty, the illnesses and the tragedies. All that mattered now was their future. He pulled back and looked into her eyes.

‘To Sagan,' he said.

‘To Sagan,' she repeated.

He took her by the hand and led her to the waiting carriage.

Galileo had taken to prowling the hallway of the Tuscan embassy. Today, however, the heat did not agree with his breathing. He propped himself against a table, massaging his aching chest.

Once a week a courier arrived to deposit a pouch containing letters and documents of state, and to remove the previous pouch now stuffed with outgoing post. It was one of those automatic processes that allowed the embassy to function. No one paid it much mind. But on this particular morning, Galileo was waiting when the courier galloped into the grounds. He watched one of the administrators accept the correspondence.

The tubby young man caught Galileo's stare. ‘Are you expecting something, signor?'

‘My daughter,' wheezed Galileo.

‘Your mail will be brought to your room once I've sorted it.'

‘Please,' said Galileo.

Pity crossed the man's face. It irked Galileo, but if it meant he got the letter faster, he would tolerate it.

The administrator made a laborious search of the pouch. Then he turned to Galileo. ‘Sorry, signor.'

Galileo had been here two months now, dragging himself from room to room, staring at the walls, enduring day after day of relentless heat. Plague was spreading across the peninsula, and he spent endless hours listening to gossip about roadblocks and quarantines, of people being boarded into their homes or into inns to contain the spread of the disease.

And every day Galileo suffered the interminable wait to be summoned that final distance across the Tiber and into the Vatican. He could not decide what caused him more anxiety: the hollow relaxation of being spared the ordeal for another day, or the shallow hope that the silence meant the matter was close to being dropped.

Perhaps the real frustration was that with each passing day, another twenty-four hours of his remaining life ebbed away, wasted. He feared he would never see Maria Celeste again.

If only he could have seen her the last time he visited, but sheets of parchment had been placed over the metal grilles in the meeting room as a precaution against the plague and all he had seen was her shadow.

He had gone to her shortly after the Vatican summons arrived, inching down the hill convinced that he was on the verge of collapse. She sensed it of course, even though she could not see the way he had slumped in a chair. ‘You cannot travel in your condition. I can hear in your voice how unwell you are.'

‘I've tried everything. The doctors have signed an affidavit confirming my infirmity yet the Inquisition dismisses it as a delaying tactic. I'm to report to Rome at once of my own free will, or I'm to be arrested and transported as a common felon.'

‘But the plague is afoot. You must not travel.'

‘I must obey His Holiness. The Grand Duke is paying for me to lodge at the Tuscan embassy yet again. I'm told the new ambassador is young and energetic. My things are being packed.'

‘Is Signora La Piera proving helpful?'

‘She's a good housekeeper. Mind you, at seventy, I am grateful for any assistance I can get.'

‘I count your birthdays at only sixty-eight.'

‘Well, I feel a lot older.' Galileo reached into a pocket. ‘I have
something
for you.' He heaved himself forwards and slid a folded sheet of paper between the translucent screen and the crumbling plaster.

‘It's my last will and testament,' he said.

The shadow drew closer to the parchment. ‘Father, I beseech you not to grasp the knife of these current troubles by the sharp edge. If you do so, it will only cut you more deeply.'

‘I keep all your letters, you know.'

‘Father, wait.' Her voice was anxious. ‘There is something I must get for you. It will only take a moment.'

Galileo leaned back in the chair; its ancient wood creaking beneath him. His head was fuzzy and he tried not to think about the climb back up the hill.

The shadow returned. Galileo grasped the pellet-shaped object that was slipped under the parchment screen. It was a bottle of transparent fluid.

‘It is the healing water from Abbess Ursula of Pistoia. It will help ward off the pestilence.'

Galileo admired the golden ribbon that adorned its neck but did not know how to respond.

Maria Celeste said, ‘There's something else.'

A second shadow fell upon the screen.

‘Father?' It was not Maria Celeste's voice.

‘Arcangela, my child,' Galileo's voice caught in his throat.

‘Yes.' The word sounded as if it were the prelude to a conversation but further words did not come from her.

‘Are you well?' asked Galileo.

‘I am.'

His memory filled with pictures of her as a child, small and neat, possessed of boundless energy and constantly laughing. She had been quite unlike her studious sister. What had possessed her to become so withdrawn? It troubled Galileo and had become one of his midnight worries. Something inside him needed to apologise to her, yet for the life of him he found the urge unfathomable. Perhaps such apologies were all that was left to a parent when their child's life had turned miserable for no apparent reason.

There was some urgent whispering, and then Arcangela spoke again. ‘I will pray for you on your journey, Father.'

Now Galileo was glad of the parchment: it hid his tears.

The noise of new arrivals drew his attention back to the porch. Servants came running as a shadow fell across the entrance. There was a crunch of gravel and the creaking of a carriage coming to rest. A horse whinnied and stamped its foot.

Ambassador Niccolini, his forehead shiny with sweat, swept into the embassy. He saw Galileo at once. ‘I have news. Come to my office.' He turned to the servants without breaking stride. ‘Fetch us wine.'

Inside the panelled office, Niccolini peeled off his jacket revealing a skinny frame. Three of him could have fitted into the space taken up by Galileo.

A servant rattled a tray of drinks onto the table and crept quietly from the room. Niccolini faced Galileo. ‘The waiting is over. The Holy Office is ready to proceed against you. You are to be moved today to the Inquisition Palace, perhaps even questioned today. Afterwards you will be detained there until this business is settled.'

‘Imprisoned?'

‘Not in the dungeons. You will be housed in a state room.'

‘Did you show them the Duke's letter?'

Niccolini hesitated.

‘You didn't, did you? What gives you the right to deny me my defence?' It confirmed everything Galileo had suspected; Niccolini was too young for this office.

The ambassador loosened the chemise laces at his neck and drank deeply from his glass. ‘I assure you, it would have done no good. The Holy Father's mind is set firmly against you. It could only have damaged the Duke if I'd presented the letter and I can't believe you would have wanted that.'

‘So, I am to be sacrificed.'

‘You have stirred such passions. You do have allies, but your defence must be your own.'

‘Who still supports me?'

Niccolini regarded him with calculation. ‘Better for your cause if you do not know.'

Once more there was a crunch of hooves on the gravel outside. Niccolini's head shot round at the sound. Galileo's insides turned to ice. He pushed himself to his feet and straightened his tunic top. As the Vatican envoys escorted him from the room, he realised that he was not giddy any more. His mind was clear and focused.

The room he was taken to in the Vatican was smaller than he expected. Just three people waited inside: a secretary, here to transcribe the interview, and two clerics sitting on a small dais. One was
sharp-faced
with a Roman nose, perhaps not much younger than Galileo. Blue eyes stared from either side of the prominent bridge. ‘I am Fra Vencenzo Maculano da Firenzuola.' His boots peeped out from beneath his flowing robes. They were polished so brightly they reflected the room.

‘Father Maculano.' Galileo bowed his head.

‘This is Cardinal Pippe,' Maculano indicated the man on his left.

Pippe had a blunt face with a high cliff of a forehead. He looked as if he had swallowed his upper lip and his chin was heavily dimpled. Galileo disliked him on sight. Neither acknowledged the other.

Maculano cleared his throat. ‘Now then, Signor Galileo, do you know or perhaps can you guess at the reason for your presence here today?'

‘I imagine that it is on account of my recently published book.' Galileo kept his voice neutral.

‘What about the book requires your presence here?'

‘It is a dialogue about the two systems for understanding motion in the heavens.'

‘Would you recognise your book if it were shown to you?' asked Pippe.

Galileo favoured him with a long look. ‘I would hope so.'

Pippe handed Galileo a copy. ‘Do you acknowledge this is your book? That every word in it is your own?'

What a farce
, thought Galileo. This confirmed everything he had heard about the Holy Office since Bellarmine's death.
What hope for Catholicism with these people policing it?

He returned the book and lifted his eyes to trace the line where the ceiling joined the wall. He could sense Pippe's impatience, so delayed answering for as long as he dared. ‘Yes,' he said finally.

Maculano fired another question. ‘Have you been to Rome before, in 1616, perhaps? If so, what was the occasion for the visit?'

Galileo spoke at once, with confidence in his voice. ‘I was in Rome during 1616 to clarify certain points about the opinions of Nicolaus Copernicus, in order to assure myself that I was not holding anything but holy and Catholic opinions. So, I came to hear what was the proper opinion to hold on the matter.'

‘And what is that opinion?' asked Pippe.

‘That it is repugnant to Holy Scripture and is to be taken only as a hypothesis, in the way that Copernicus does.'

‘Who notified you of this?'

‘The Lord Cardinal Bellarmine'

Pippe glanced at Maculano with barely disguised smugness.

‘We have a written version of that injunction.' Maculano dangled a yellowed sheet of parchment. ‘It states that you were forbidden to hold, defend, or teach the said opinion in any way whatever.'

A written injunction!
Galileo was not expecting this. Bellarmine had never mentioned that it was to be placed in writing. The cardinal had only met with Galileo in the cloisters to tell him of the outcome. Galileo hid his surprise with a shrug. Now was not the time to deviate from his strategy. ‘I do not remember being given this in anything other than verbal form. I remember Lord Bellarmine informed me that I could not hold or defend – maybe even that I could not teach – but I do not recall that the phrase “in any way whatever” was used.'

Maculano raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you obtain any permissions to write your latest book?'

‘I did not seek permission to write my book because I did not think that I was contradicting the injunction.'

‘Really?' Maculano let the slightest hint of boredom enter his voice.

Galileo seized on it. This was just a formality: they would ask him their tiresome questions; he would give them a few pat answers. Then his testimony would be filed away and forgotten. Why else all the
prevaricating
in calling him to the Holy Office? It was clear to Galileo now; he just needed to say the right thing and he would be on his way home.

‘The edict stated that I was not to hold, defend, or teach the said opinion – and I wasn't. Rather, I was refuting it in my book.'

‘You were refuting Copernicus?'

‘Utterly. I have not defended the view of Copernicus in any way. Rather I have shown the opposite, that the Copernican opinion is weak and inconclusive.'

There
, thought Galileo,
it is said. A lie to serve a higher purpose; someone has to save these people from themselves
.

Maculano turned his head slightly but continued to look at Galileo. Pippe remained seated, his expression hidden behind a hand.

‘We have him now. He has lied to us, demonstrably so. Perjury!' With so much energy running through him, Pippe found it difficult to contain his gesticulations. He paced in front of Grienberger's desk, his thoughts turning to Bellarmine. The calmness with which his old
mentor had approached the Giordano Bruno case had bordered on prevarication, and Pippe was determined not to make that mistake with Galileo. ‘What more evidence do we need? Why the indecision?'

Maculano frowned at Pippe and turned to the elderly Jesuit behind the desk. ‘What do the reports say, Father Grienberger?'

Grienberger's hair was now entirely white and he had cultivated the jaw-line beard favoured by Clavius, his predecessor as the head of the Roman College. Age had set fast his hangdog expression. He shuffled some papers in front of him. ‘I have the reports here. We have again examined the book of Galileo and we have again found that it teaches the Copernican error of Earth's motion through space. This is now beyond all doubt in our eyes. Being written in a book also signals to us the desire to teach this work not just to the present generation but to future ones too.' Grienberger inclined his head with an air of
disappointment
. ‘Had he intended to extend his ideas to learned men of different nationalities for discussion, he would have written in Latin. Yet he writes in Italian to entice the common people who sadly lack the education to judge his ideas, and in whom errors can so easily take root.'

Maculano wrung his hands. ‘Why does he deny the obvious? What can he achieve by treating us as fools?'

‘He's trying to save his own skin,' said Pippe. ‘He treats us with contempt and must be punished accordingly.'