Chapter Text
This was sure to be the most difficult time of Kepler's life. Last month, he caught a cold on his way to a nearby bank one morning, which soon coupled with his inability to pay medical bills grew into a bigger problem; for a while he thought his condition would evolve into some variations of lung failure, and he would die right there. He would've died cursing God — you know, like a recently excommunicated Protestant — because he would have died the only vocal supporter of truth (namely Copernicanism) having not another ten years to wait for a letter from that damned Italian, Galileo Galilei.
However, it seemed like his very musical, very harmonious communications with God had moved things in his favor, after all. When he was in bed thinking about all the times he’d been ill and consolating himself with the dark humor that this would be the last time, two things happened.
First, one of his debtees finally paid his due, which afforded him several doctor appointments that significantly reduced his pain. In January he got out of bed and was able to resume the work on his Tabulae Rudolphinae based on Tycho Brahe’s astronomical data. His economic situation had only improved since. It had been a while since he heard from his friends in high places, but as soon as the news of his recovery got out, his email was flooded with horoscope requests. It seemed as if for the world to remember his good, all he had to do was to die.
Now for the other thing; at first Kepler was filled with joy upon hearing about it, but soon things took a turn for the worse. His dear Galileo — who had been ghosting him since the COVID outbreak as if no computers were allowed in quarantine — published a beautiful little book by the name of Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems, in which he finally gave his word about heliocentrism, coming out formally as a Copernican.
Kepler had wanted to immediately write another Conversation with this new work, partly to add fuel to this starting fire of universally acknowledged Copernicanism, partly to remind Galileo of the existence of Kepler himself and his seven unreplied emails. God, the man might have been his ally and probably the only person as smart as him on this planet, but he sure was an obnoxious egoist in treating Kepler as some kind of disposable tool.
For personal reasons already clarified, he had decided to let this second Conversation wait a little; like last time, Galileo must be the first one to reach out, probably with a tremendous amount of guilt and regret that they had not been in touch enough to be on friendly terms.
He hoped Galileo would come to him with ten pages of flatteries like those he had showered those rich Medici bastards with. The best Galileo had called him was a lover of truth. Lover of truth! One would at least expect some poetics about the stars; and where was Galileo’s due compliment when he helped him explain the inner workings of the telescope — when he fiercely defended the Italian to his unbelieving colleagues despite his distaste for unfavorable arguments?
…Why, again, was Kepler currently on a plane to Florence? His gaze swept over the iceburgs of clouds and he shivered, gripping his blanket tighter. Galileo in his reply was always complaining about the lack of freedom of speech, so why did he say nothing to Kepler’s suggestion that he just fucking move to Germany?
Anyways, Kepler was bitter, ok, and put off the work until he almost forgot about it. Until he was legally forbidden from writing it. Despite his youth, he was of weak constitution and the winter illness had depleted his health so significantly that he had barely left his house in fear of catching a cold again. And he was advised off social media by his doctor; he left the internet mostly after some tabloid wrote irresponsibly about his mother. As a result, he remained for a long time unaware of the controversy surrounding Galileo’s Dialogue, and didn’t catch wind of the recent dispute he had with the Vatican church until it was too late.
“They put Galileo, a philosopher and associate of the Medici, on trial for his Copernicanism?” Kepler had practically dropped his phone when his friends updated him on his colleague’s recent misfortune.
“I’m afraid this is more due to a thoughtless move on Mr. Galilei’s side.” Wacker von Wackenfels said not without caution, “The Pope was his friend, yet he parodized him in that book. Learn your lesson, dear Johann, I know you are not immune to jesting, especially in a similar nature.”
“Mind you, my jokes always aim to please, and never anger the Church so much they decide to silence me and put me under house arrest.” Kepler shot back half-heartedly, for he was already calculating in his head the fastest way he could get to Galileo. Emails were out of option, and of course he didn’t have his number. Strange to think that they had never met, and yet Kepler had been tempted to count Galileo among one of his favorite allies. It was not like he had many, so the Italian physicist had an easy competition. But still.
Well, bless modernity for giving him one last means to reach a person who had been determined to ghost him for the past four years. In three hours, nevertheless. Kepler had never spent hundreds of Euros so fast. It was fine. He had one hour of flight to regret his decision.
Bless modernity for Uber as well, because he only realized that he didn’t know where Galileo lived when he got off at the airport, coughing and worrying for his life. Apparently, the latter was famous among the locals, less for his genius in various academic fields than for his extravagant house and his generous purchase of wine. Kepler found it rather hard to imagine Galileo drunk; would he then see three Saturns in his telescope?
Frankly speaking, he didn’t know what to make of the Tuscan, his less-than-decent penpal and strangely quiet friend among the stars; you could only know someone so much from their mathematical musings; so he ended up gushing out one question after another in the backseat.
“…He was never married, that’s for sure. He was also made into some sort of icon during Pride, because he got into trouble with the church. That’s all I know.” His Uber driver, who luckily happened to love gossiping, gave him a weird look in the rearview mirror. “Why do you want to know his dating preferences? What are you, his stan or something? I’d never know how a guy with that kind of temper got so many fans.”
“What kind of temper?” Kepler asked. “I’m not his fan,” he didn’t forget to add, “it’s a career thing.” As if he didn’t loathe the title of an astrologist. “Relationships reveal a lot about people.”
“Well, if you’re visiting his house, you’ll know soon.” The car took a turn and slowed down, “People say he isn’t even receiving his students these days. Good luck.”
Kepler hopped off the car, muttering his thanks, a bit dizzy but light on his feet. A two-story mansion appeared looking over the distant cloudy ridge, no less grand and imposing than the mountains on the moon his colleague once took such efforts to describe; Kepler’s mind went blank as its splendid shadow enveloped his slender form.
Galileo, that people-ghosting, favor-currying, self-boasting bastard. He was rich. While Kepler was dying to make ends meet. And Kepler worked under royalties.
Forget the cardinals, maybe it was Kepler who should’ve moved to Italy.