The old one glanced at him, lifted the cup again.
Galileo took it, slurped down hot coffee. ‘What happened?’
‘I can’t say. You were struck by a syncope for an hour or two in the night.’
‘But only after I looked through your master’s spyglass?’
‘I can’t say.’
Galileo regarded him. ‘And your master, where is he?’
‘I don’t know. He’s gone.’
‘Will he return?’
‘I can’t say. I think he will.’
‘And you? Why are you here?’
‘I can serve you. Your housekeeper will hire me, if you tell her to.’
Galileo observed him closely, thinking it over. Something strange had happened the night before, he knew that for sure. Possibly this old geezer could help him remember. Or help him in whatever might come of it. Already it began to seem as if the ancient one had always been there.
‘All right. I’ll tell her. What’s your name?’
‘Cartophilus.’
‘Lover of maps?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you love maps?’
‘No. Nor was I ever a shoemaker.’
Galileo nodded, frowned, waved him away. ‘I’ll speak to her.’
And so Cartophilus came into the service of Galileo, intending (as always, and always with the same failure) to efface himself as much as possible.
In the days that followed Galileo slept in short snatches at dawn and after dinner, and every night stayed up to look through his spyglass at Jupiter and the little stars circling it, his typical intense curiosity now tweaked by an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. He marked the four moons’ positions each night using the notation I, II, III, and IV, with I being the closest in the orbits he was now untangling, IV the farthest away. Tracking and timing their movements gave him an increasingly confident sense of how long each took to circle Jupiter. All the expected signs of circular motion seen edge-on had manifested themselves. It was getting clearer what was going on up there.
Obviously he needed to publish these discoveries, to establish his precedence as discoverer. By now Mazzoleni and the artisans had made about a hundred spyglasses, and only ten of them were capable of seeing the new little planets; they became visible only through occhialini with magnifications of thirty times, sometimes twenty-five when the grinding was lucky. (What else had been twenty-five or thirty times larger?) The difficulties in making a device this powerful reassured him; it was unlikely someone else would see the Jovian stars and publish the news before him. Still, it was best not to be slow about it. There was no time to lose.
‘I’m going to make those bastard Venetians really regret their skinflint offer!’ he declared happily. He was still furious at the senators for questioning his honesty in representing the spyglass as his invention; he took pride in his honesty, a virtue he wielded so vigorously as to make it a fault. He also hated them for delaying their measly raise until the new year. And really, through all the years in Padua, eighteen now, he had kept in the back of his mind the possibility of a return to Florence. He had spent many recent summers back in his home city, some of them tutoring the young prince Cosimo, so he had laid the groundwork for a return.
Now it was time to build on that foundation. Ignoring the little awkwardness that had developed the year before with Belisario Vinta, he wrote another of his florid notes. It was to accompany the finest spyglass he had: a gift to his most beloved student ever, now the grandissimo Grand Duke Cosimo. The red leather was embossed in gold with typical Florentine and Medici figures; even the transport case was beautiful. In the letter Galileo described his new Jovian discoveries, and asked if it would be permissible to name his newly discovered little Jovian stars after Cosimo; and if so, if the Grand Duke would prefer him to name them the Cosmian Stars, which would merge Cosimo and Cosmic; or perhaps to apply to the four stars the names of Cosimo and his three brothers; or if they should together be named the Medicean Stars.
Vinta wrote back thanking him for the spyglass and informing him that the Grand Duke preferred the name Medicean Stars, as best honouring the family and the city it ruled.
‘He accepted the dedication!’ Galileo shouted to the household. This was a stupendous coup; Galileo hooted triumphantly as he charged around, rousing everyone and ordering that a fiasco of wine be opened to celebrate. He tossed a ceramic platter high in the air and enjoyed its shattering on the terrace, and the way it made the boys jump.
The best way to announce this dedication to the world was to insert it into the book he was finishing about all the discoveries he had made. He pressed hard to finish; the combination of work by both day and night left him irritable, but it had to be done. He had the spirit for it and more. At night, working by himself, he felt enormously enlarged by all that lay ahead. Sometimes he had to take a break and walk around in the garden to deal with the thoughts crowding his head, the various great futures looming ahead of him like visions. It was only during the day that he flagged, slept at odd hours, snarled at the household and all that it represented. Scribbled at great speed on his pages.
He wrote in Latin so that the book, titled Sidereus Nuncius, ‘The Starry Messenger’, would be immediately comprehensible across all the courts and universities of Europe. In it he described his astronomical findings in more or less chronological order, making it into a narrative of his discoveries. The longest and best passages were on the moon, which he augmented with fine etchings made from his drawings. Of the stars and the four moons of Jupiter he wrote briefly, only announcing his discoveries, which were startling enough not to need embellishment.
He told the story of his introduction to the idea of the occhialino with some circumspection: About ten months ago a rumour came to our ears that a spyglass had been made by a certain Dutchman by means of which visible objects, although far removed from the eye of the observer, were distinctly seen, as though nearby. This caused me to apply myself totally to investigating the principles and figuring out the means by which I might arrive at the invention of a similar instrument, and I achieved that result shortly afterward on the basis of the science of refraction.
A few strategic opacities there, but that was all right. He arranged with a Venetian printer, Tomaso Baglioni, for an edition of five hundred and fifty copies. The first page, an illustrated frontispiece, said in Latin:
THE STARRY MESSENGER
Revealing great, unusual, and remarkable spectacles,
opening these to the consideration of every man, and especially of philosophers and astronomers;
AS OBSERVED BY GALILEO GALILEI
Gentleman of Florence
Professor of Mathematics in the University of Padua,
WITH THE AID OF A PERSPICILLUM
lately invented by him,
In the surface of the moon, in innumerable Fixed Stars, in Nebulae, and above all in FOUR PLANETS swiftly revolving about Jupiter at differing distances and periods, and known to no one before the Author recently perceived them and decided that they should be named THE MEDICEAN STARS Venice 1610
The first four pages following this great proem of a title page were filled by a dedication to Cosimo Medici that was exceptionally florid, even for Galileo. Jupiter had been in the ascendant at Cosimo’s birth, it pointed out, pouring out with all his splendour and grandeur into the most pure air, so that with its first breath Your tender little body and Your soul, already decorated by God with noble ornaments, could drink in this universal power…Your incredible clemency and kindness…Most Serene Cosimo, Great Hero…when you have surpassed Your peers You will still contend with Yourself, which self and greatness You are daily surpassing, Most Merciful Prince…from