“It was constructed for Pope Gregory VIII so his astronomers could track the movements of the sun and stars and plot the weather. Of course, the findings were twisted to validate the Ptolemy view of the heavens revolving around the earth.
When they reached Meridian Hall, quite out of breath, Quinn and Katrina were captivated by the beautiful frescoes that graced the thirty-foot high walls.
“What is the scene?”
“An apt question, Dr. Alpert. The Shipwreck of St. Paul in Malta, considered an act of divine meteorological intervention.”
The vivid blues and greens of the swirling ocean were in contrast to the grey of the sinking ship. Katrina was drawn to the holy spirit hovering over the craft.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Eccleston commented. “The work of Nicolo Cirignani, as is the fresco on the south wall, Jesus Calms a Storm and Heals the Gerasene Demonic and on the corner of the south and west walls, The Angel Seals the Forehead of the Saved.”
The ceiling reinforced the purpose of the Tower. It was painted with stars. Eccleston continued his explanation noting a small opening at the top, which at noon every spring equinox shoots a ray of light directly to the center of the marble floor.
“A vaulted place from which to study the stars, even if the conclusions were false,” he admitted. “Today, the Vatican has two observatories, one at the Pope’s summer home at Castel Gandolfo outside of Rome and a second housed at the University of Arizona in Tucson. I’ve worked at both. The tradition, now different, does underscore that the Vatican remains one of the oldest astronomical research institutions in the world, though too late for poor Giordano Bruno who I told you about. He embraced the strictly heretical position that the sun was another star and that the universe contained infinite possibilities of other worlds, perhaps even some that could be inhabited. Acceptable from a poet waxing philosophical about infinite points of light; unorthodox and heretical for the Dominican friar, mathematician and astronomer that he was. Bruno was convicted of heresy and burned to a crisp in 1600. But because of his death, the Inquisition determined it might be too politically risky to put Galileo to death. They wanted to demonstrate they had the power to do so, but they’d advanced in the thirty-three years since Bruno’s trial.”
Katrina asked if it was leniency or political expediency.
“A bit of both. Pope Urban VIII was an early ally of Galileo’s. According to some papal records, he personally agreed with the scientist, but had to uphold scripture and the beliefs held throughout the world, not just by Christians. That could explain why Galileo was permitted to write for so long.”
“An amazing history,” McCauley said. But he was getting eager to bring the research full circle to their own quest.
“Yes, and hopefully we’ll find more today, but only if we request the right documents. You see, no browsing is allowed. Shall we get to work?”
Outside, it was sweltering hot and humid. Inside, it was actually chilly. Katrina shivered.
Fr. Eccleston put two bound books of Galileo’s correspondences on the table; the result of his initial request. Then he removed his black blazer and covered Katrina’s shoulders. “They keep it cool here. Even more so down in the subterranean vaults. They say it’s cold enough there to discourage the devil from doing any research.”
“Thanks. Must be the real reason they want women to wear long dresses,” Katrina added lightly. “Are there any full length black blankets around in my size?”
“I’ll see what I can scout up,” Eccleston said. “In the meantime, start looking for anything that’s dated 1601 or shortly thereafter. Keep your eyes open for words like thermometro, caverna, and lo sconosciuto or l’ignoto. It’s Italian, not Latin. Unlike Copernicus who wrote in Latin, primarily to be read by scholars, Galileo used Italian, the language of the people.”
McCauley understood the first two words, not the rest. “Lo sconosciuto and what?”
The Welsh priest stopped at the door of the reading room. “Lo sconosciuto and l’ignoto. The unknown.”
They were humbled by the contents; collections of letters assembled in oversized scrapbooks. The documents were not glued or taped. Rice paper separated historic parchment letters and essays.
They were required to wear gloves to prevent them from getting oil on the documents. However, upon seeing Galileo’s actual signature, Katrina was compelled to run her finger over his name. McCauley, too felt the impact of the moment. He gave Katrina a knowing glance. The powerful experience and the sense of bonding with the great scientist, removed them from the surroundings and transported them more than four hundred years into a cruel past.
Katrina tried to read the Italian as best she could. McCauley scanned for the recommended words and any others that might jump out.
“Sorry, no blanket,” Eccleston said.
“I’m doing fine now. But sit with us. We need help.”
The priest definitely speeded up the process, describing Galileo’s friendly correspondence to university colleagues in Pisa, formal letters to cardinals and bishops in Rome, and simple but heartfelt notes to his wife.
Through the next hour, Quinn and Katrina swapped volumes. When finished, they made sure Eccleston always had a pass at each.
“We’re in the right time period, but nothing relevant in these. I’ll get more.”
Eccleston returned the first volumes to the Secret Vatican archives and brought three more to the table. Like the others, they were bound in dark brown leather with the official papal seal on the cover. Again, they found nothing.
At two hours, even the excitement of seeing Galileo’s signature had faded. Two-and-a-half hours in, McCauley called Father Eccleston and Katrina to his side. “Look at this.” He slowly turned the pages, all in chronological order, many day-by-day; others week-by-week through May and June, 1601. McCauley pointed to the dates on each document with his gloved hand.
“All chronological. Right?”
“Right,” Fr. Eccleston replied. “One after another.”
“Well, look at July 1601. The first week is here. More for the second. Then eleven pieces of rice paper, but nothing between them. The next dated page isn’t until the beginning of August. Three weeks are missing.”
“Do you think someone pulled them out?” Katrina asked.
“Clean, empty pages where there should have been letters?” Eccleston responded. “Yes.”
He leafed through the last entries. Then forward, then back again. He read the final documents before the lapse, two enthusiastic letters to men named Luigi Pino and Roberto Santori. “Here! Right here!” the priest said excitedly. “Galileo is talking to friends, inviting them to meet him in Le Marche. There were….”
Katrina saw the phrase, montagne con climi variabili. “Mountains with variable climates, right?”
“Yes,” the priest replied. “A perfect place to conduct experiments on a thermometer, especially if you believe you might find locations to chart extremes.”
“Like a cave.” Eccleston concluded.
“Which Galileo likely found and wrote about.” He tapped the blank pages.
They were suppositions. Only suppositions, but logical ones to make.
“What kind of man was Galileo, Father?” McCauley asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“Paint a picture for me. Methodical?”
“To a fault.”
“Thorough?”
“He was a scientist in an unscientific period. So, yes.”