Dedication

FOR SAM, ABI, AND BEC,

and all the years they have to come.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

CHAPTER ONE: Pushing Back Shadows

CHAPTER TWO: Forgotten Wisdom

CHAPTER THREE: A Small Town on the River Scheldt

CHAPTER FOUR: Among the Brethren of the Common Life

CHAPTER FIVE: At the College of the Castle

CHAPTER SIX: Doubts and Dangers

CHAPTER SEVEN: Gemma’s Globe

CHAPTER EIGHT: Craftsman and Cartographer

CHAPTER NINE: The Greatest Globe in the World

CHAPTER TEN: In the Hands of the Inquisition

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Two New Arrivals

CHAPTER TWELVE: A New Life

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Our Europe

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: A Mysterious Commission

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: In the Forests of Lorraine

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Tragedy

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: The Sum of Human Knowledge

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The World Hung on the Wall: The Projection

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Presenting Ptolemy to the World

CHAPTER TWENTY: A “Thick Myste of Ignorance” Dispelled

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: The Geography of the World

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: The Gathering Dark

Afterword

Keep Reading

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

ONE OF MY earliest memories is of myself as a small boy sitting on a wide window ledge, with my whole world laid out around me. As I turned my head, I took in the comfortable, familiar room behind me, the door into the kitchen, and the wooden sideboard up against the wall, while outside I could see down the yard toward the joiner’s shop, which I knew was filled with sawdust and sharp blades. I could also see the familiar stone steps up to my front door, and another house across the way, where an old man used to sit in the doorway for hours on end, dozing.

That was about as far as my world stretched. I was aware, of course, of other worlds beyond, worlds I had heard about, half understood, or imagined for myself. Scattered among them were a few familiar islands that I had visited and knew fairly well – the stone-flagged floor of the greengrocer’s on the corner, for instance, the high wall on top of which I could walk up to the church, or the little vegetable garden where I used to watch my father as he worked – but for all intents and purposes, they were surrounded by darkness. Good things occasionally came in from those shadows outside – bars of chocolate brought by a kindly aunt, perhaps, or my mother’s shopping – but they were on the whole mysterious and unwelcoming, and if I occasionally peopled them with monsters, that was no more than any child does.

The story of discovery and mapmaking is one of pushing back shadows. The great explorers brought back undreamed-of riches and stories of unknown lands and peoples that were barely believable – the discovery of America, for instance, has been described as the greatest surprise in history – but their claims and discoveries had to be evaluated, laid out on paper, before they could form a coherent picture of the world. Much of that work was carried out by unknown figures, whose maps are lost, forgotten, or remembered only by passing mentions in ancient documents. Some were sailors or traders themselves, trying to prepare reliable charts for their own use and for those who came after them, but many were scholars who never went to sea. A few became famous and produced individual maps that stand out as landmarks in the history of the understanding of the planet. But none, in the last two thousand years, achieved as much as Gerard Mercator in extending the boundaries of what could be comprehended.

Mercator saw himself as a scholar in the ancient tradition, an uomo universale in the mold of the Renaissance – a seeker of truth to whom the whole of knowledge was a single book to be opened. His achievement was nothing less than to revolutionize the study of geography and redraw the map of the world.

Born near Antwerp in 1512, he lived through almost the entire turbulent sixteenth century – an age in which the known world grew year by year as new voyages made new discoveries, but one which also saw the Catholic Church and Europe itself torn apart by Martin Luther and the Protestant reformers. The sacking of cities, the smashing of statues by reformist zealots, and the religious savagery of Church authorities were all part of the temper of the times. This was the age of the Inquisition, whose power, as Mercator was to discover firsthand, extended across the Low Countries: The judicial torture and burning of the unfaithful were commonplace. But it was also an age of intellectual upheaval. Almost halfway through the century, the Polish astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus published his revolutionary theory that the Earth revolved around the Sun – an idea that was confirmed some sixty-five years later by the observations of Galileo Galilei through his telescope. The Church, still clinging to the old idea of the Earth at the center of the universe, could make Galileo recant, but it could not erase the new thinking.

By the time Mercator was born, the printing press had made books readily available across Europe, but the language of religion and intellectual debate was the same as it had been in the days of the medieval copyists toiling over manuscripts in the monasteries. Not just the Bible but also scientific, medical, and philosophical texts were written in Latin. At the University of Leuven and later in Duisburg, Mercator’s conversation and correspondence were also in Latin. However, by 1594, the year he died, Bibles in the daily language of the people were commonplace. Galileo’s writings appeared in clear and lucid Italian. This signified more than a change of vocabulary or language; scientists, by the turn of the century, were gaining the confidence to rely on observation, measurement, and reasoning rather than looking into the past for inspiration.

Gerard Mercator

Science Photo Library, London

Mercator’s own life reflected the era of change in which he lived, being full of apparent contradictions and opportunism, and extending over one of civilization’s major crossroads. In many ways a child of the past, he was born into poverty and owed his first chances in life to the wealth of the traditional Catholic Church; yet his surviving letters are those of a tolerant reformist with Protestant leanings, who kept his religious views to himself. Like the artists of the Italian Renaissance, he relied on the favor of princes, dukes, and high dignitaries of the Church, but he also built a commercial business which depended on the new prosperous middle class that economic growth had created.

Mercator studied and created maps with a passionate attention to detail that would have been familiar to any of the scholars or artists of the Italian Renaissance. In his studies, he showed unswerving respect for the authority of Claudius Ptolemy of ancient Alexandria, who had proposed his own map projections – ways in which the Earth might be flattened out onto a sheet of paper. At the same time, Mercator did more than any other geographer of his day to demonstrate that Ptolemy’s classical ideas of the world were outdated, misleading, and often simply wrong. As a cartographer, Mercator spent his lifetime collecting, collating, and assessing the latest reports from explorers whose discoveries rendered Ptolemy’s ideas inadequate to describe the new world that was emerging; as a mathematician, he answered the problem of projection with his own solution, which has lasted for more than four hundred years.

There are few reliable contemporary descriptions of Mercator, few clues to the personality of the scholar who did more than anyone in the last two thousand years to turn mapmaking into a precise science. Moreover, many of his letters are lost. A number of the letters that do survive are appeals to dukes and princes of the German city-states, to dignitaries of the Catholic Church, even to the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V himself for support and sponsorship, for Mercator well understood the advantages of influential backing. Throughout his life, he was a driven man: Long hours at his desk as a student gave way to long hours at his workbench as he built the business that was to make his fortune, and the habit of study never left him. In the infirm years before his death, he would urge his children to carry him, chair and all, to his books.

Fear is an overpowering emotion in those of his letters that do survive – fear of death and damnation, fear of not completing the work he had begun, fear of failure. Orphaned at an early age, sent off to the harsh rigors of a monastic school, he knew little of maternal love or family stability, and his difficult childhood left him cautious and circumspect. In his business life, he was assiduous in appealing for official copyright protection for his maps and globes, and the careful investment of his profits in property and forestland showed his awareness of the importance of security.

He was also aware, as he had to be, of the value of silence. In the religious conflicts of his time, his principles were those of a reformer, but his arrest and imprisonment at the hands of the Inquisition clearly reinforced his instinct for caution. Even after he moved from Leuven to the more relaxed environment of Duisburg, in Germany, he avoided any involvement in religious argument. Rather than the perils of theological disputation, he enjoyed his reputation in the town as a good host and dinner guest. The handful of contemporary accounts speak of him as a witty and entertaining conversationalist, and gifts of food and wine from the city authorities suggest a man who was known to enjoy good company and a well-stocked table.

But more than anything else, he was a scholar. Though he never traveled beyond the well-known towns of northern Europe, never, so far as we know, even boarded a ship, his work, together with that of sea captains and explorers, allowed people of the sixteenth century and the generations who followed them accurately to imagine the world beyond the horizon.

He created his projection almost in passing and showed few signs of appreciating the importance of what he had done – and yet it has defined the shape of the world in the modern age. There is no doubt that it produced a distorted image, as any flat map of the spherical world must. As a result, Mercator himself has often been accused in the last few years of racism, because his projection makes the continent of Africa seem smaller than it really is, or of imperialism, because it appears to exaggerate the size and importance of Europe – accusations that a scholar of the sixteenth century would not even have understood. The challenge of spreading the globe out flat on a desk, of presenting the known world in a way that could readily be seen and comprehended, was one with which philosophers, travelers, and geographers had been struggling for thousands of years. By Mercator’s day, the time was ripe for a solution.

Chapter One Pushing Back Shadows

MERCATOR WAS BORN barely twenty years after Christopher Columbus first crossed the Atlantic. Yet even though the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries are considered the great age of discoveries, an astonishing amount was known, or at least rumored, about North, South, East, and West before any of the memorable voyages of exploration ever left port.

Nearly two thousand years earlier, the Greek historian Herodotus was told of Phoenician sailors who claimed to have sailed around the southern tip of Africa.* A hundred years or so after his death, during the fourth century BC, another Greek explorer, Pytheas of Massilia, sailed into the far northern seas, to a country he called Thule, where he said the Sun went to sleep.† Still farther north, he said, land, sea, and air coalesced into a mixture on which people could neither walk nor sail. Ancient Norse sagas spoke of journeys to “a new land, extremely fertile and even having vines” that lay far to the west, beyond the setting Sun.¹ Claudius Ptolemy, the Alexandrian librarian and scholar of the first century AD, had heard about the island of Taprobane, or modern Sri Lanka.²

Commercial ambition drove travelers on over new horizons. From as early as 500 BC, trading caravans from China made their way along a variety of routes through central Asia, bringing bales of fine silk to be bartered for Persian warhorses or Arabian spices, frankincense, and myrrh. Lines of heavily laden camels followed secret and well-guarded tracks through the deserts of Arabia, carrying gold, ivory, rare woods, and the spices of Yemen to the trading centers of the Mediterranean. Elsewhere, Phoenician ships journeyed beyond the Pillars of Hercules at the mouth of the Mediterranean to the very edges of the known world, bringing back tin from the Scilly Isles off the southwest coast of Britain. The prophet Ezekiel described the goods carried by the Phoenician traders, and the towns to which they traveled. “Tarshish was thy merchant, by reason of the multitude of all kind of riches, with silver, iron, tin, and lead, they traded in thy fairs. Javan, Tubal, and Meshech, they were thy merchants: they traded the persons of men and vessels of brass in thy market. They of the house of Togarmah traded in thy fairs with horses and horsemen and mules.”³

The Phoenician capital Tyre, on the coast of what is now Lebanon, had trading links that extended through the entire eastern Mediterranean and far beyond. The places Ezekiel named in these verses as the Phoenicians’ trading partners in the sixth century BC were in central Asia, southern Arabia, Armenia, and the coast of Spain, and his list of the merchandise – slaves, animals, manufactures, luxuries, and other goods – that appeared in their marketplaces lasted for more than twenty biblical verses. Travel and its commercial benefits were common enough; from the earliest times, explorers and adventurers had returned with exotic cargoes, but the stories they brought back were confused and unreliable. The island of Taprobane that Ptolemy described was said to dwarf the Indian peninsula that lay to its north, while the great medieval map of the world, dating from the late thirteenth century and still on display at Hereford in England, shows two distinct Niles, one running into the eastern Mediterranean, the other snaking across almost the whole width of the African continent. The accounts of the early adventurers were neither more nor less believable than the grotesque creatures with which ancient Greek and Roman authors loved to people the unknown places. There was no agreed view of the world; anything was possible. Travelers had no reliable or accurate way to record what they had found, to set it out for people to see. To become part of a shared image of the world, their stories had to be written down, described, and mapped.

Today, the oldest so-called maps look like little more than a few carved scratches, their meaning lost with the civilizations that created them. About four thousand years ago, craftsmen near the present-day village of Bedolina, some ten thousand feet high in the Italian Alps, set about carving the rock with rough bronze or iron tools. They drew pictures of animals, daggers, and suns, much as their cavemen ancestors elsewhere in Europe had done ten thousand years earlier. But the artists of Bedolina also produced one of the first known maps. The Mappa di Bedolina is approximately four yards wide and six yards high, an ambitious patchwork of carved lines and symbols, with a series of crudely drawn rectangles, most of them filled with carefully spaced dots and linked with snaking irregular lines. They seem to represent fields with paths, rivers, or irrigation canals running between them – a graphic illustration of a cultivated landscape in the Valley of Valcamonica below. Their carvings could have had some religious or magical purpose, but after four millennia, we can only guess at what it might have been. Armed figures, huts, and shapes like ladders were added to the map hundreds of years afterward, maybe adapting it for new mystical or ceremonial rites in a mixture of religious faith and straightforward observation that was to characterize mapmaking through the ages.

The Mappa di Bedolina in Italy.

Centuries later, merchants and travelers who were pushing farther and farther afield in the search for new markets brought back garbled reports of the mighty Rivers Don and Nile running south out of Asia and north out of Africa to form a T-shape with the well-traveled waters of the Mediterranean. The waters of the ocean were then thought to surround the world in a gigantic O, leading to the creation of the so-called T-O maps, which represented for ancient Greek, Roman, and even Arab seamen an agreed image of the outline of the world.

A T-O map from Etymologiarum by Isidore of Seville

British Library, London, Rare Books and Maps Collections

THAT WAS THE WORLDVIEW Claudius Ptolemy inherited as he worked in the great library of Alexandria around the middle of the second century AD. His name appropriately linked the Greek-Egyptian Ptolemy with the Latin Claudius, for Alexandria was a cosmopolitan place, more than five hundred miles from Greece, under Roman rule, and yet at the heart of Greek civilization. The city, with its port and its great lighthouse, was a triumphal expression of Greek civilization and Roman power. Like Antwerp in Mercator’s day, it was one of the world’s great cultural and commercial crossroads, with mineral ores and spices ferried down the Nile from the depths of Africa and along an elaborate network of canals, then traded along the waterfront with the day-to-day cargoes that had been brought into harbor from the busy eastern Mediterranean. Sailors and merchants brought with them tales of distant lands like Taprobane, half-digested stories that might conceal a thin vein of truth for scholars trying to extend their grasp of the unknown world. Busy ports have always been the mines of geographers; travelers’ gossip was the unsmelted ore of exploration for Ptolemy, as it was to be for Mercator.

The merchants brought wealth to Alexandria as well. In the days of its greatness, the story went, the buildings contained so much glistening marble that a tailor could thread his needle by the reflected light of the Moon. The library where Ptolemy worked, with its collection of some seven hundred thousand manuscripts in Hebrew, Greek, and Egyptian, was one of the most obvious expressions of that wealth. Just as the merchants in the port haggled and bargained over the commerce of the mightiest empire the world had ever seen, so Alexandria’s scholars swapped ideas and theories in the library and the museum associated with it.

There are no surviving original manuscripts of Ptolemy’s work, and hardly any facts known about his life, but it would be hard to exaggerate the effect of his books on the generations that followed him. For centuries after his death, they were largely forgotten in the West, but to Mercator, the writings of Ptolemy represented the fount of ancient knowledge, the standard by which new discoveries and theories should be measured. Apart from the eight books of the Geographia, the Almagest set out Ptolemy’s views on astronomy and the place of the Earth at the center of the universe, while his various other writings encompassed mathematics, music, and history.

Other writers had concentrated on stories of the wonders that lay at the farthest reaches of knowledge, but Ptolemy’s main interest lay in establishing a reliable and coherent system for showing the spherical Earth on a flat sheet of paper. Philosophers could only suggest what form the Earth took, while travelers either by land or by sea could do little more than estimate distances – in both cases, their contributions were merely elegant guesswork. The generally accepted image of the land surrounded and limited by the ebbing and flowing waters of the sea suggested a comfortingly finite world. Ptolemy raised the possibility of a world beyond those boundaries, basing his conclusions not just on the arguments of the philosophers and on the reports of travelers but also on exact astronomical measurements.

Ptolemy saw geography as a mathematical enterprise, a matter of measurement and calculation rather than the simple telling of stories. Like Mercator some fourteen centuries after him, he designed and made instruments for measuring angles and altitudes in the heavens; his Geographia includes descriptions of a brass astrolabe and a quadrant for calculating the height of the Sun in the sky.

Ptolemy knew the true location of a place could be fixed by taking precise sightings of the stars. The Geographia therefore included a catalog of some eight thousand place-names, rivers, mountains, and peninsulas, each of them with its position defined by degrees of latitude and longitude. It is a work of staggering ambition and exactitude – the first time anyone had attempted to use coordinates in such a precise way. Many of the observations Ptolemy needed to make the calculations had already been taken, but to place cities in remote or unexplored parts of the world, he had no choice but to rely on traditional accounts and the estimates of travelers. In such a case, he said, the mapmaker should use his judgment as to what figures to use, “deciding what is credible and what is incredible.”⁴

It is impossible to know whether Ptolemy drew any maps to go with his Geographia. The illustrations that adorned medieval versions of his books were additions by later copyists working to his descriptions and coordinates, but in them his worldview, with the traditional three continents of Europe, Asia, and part of Africa, can clearly be recognized. Taprobane is grotesquely out of proportion in comparison with the half-formed India that lies to its north, and the coastline of the Far East is clearly drawn largely from imagination, but the Arabian peninsula and the whole of the Mediterranean basin are presented in some detail.

Perhaps most important of all, though, Ptolemy left open the possibility that there were more lands to be discovered beyond the extent of his own knowledge. Where the Romans and Greeks who came before him had been content to keep their studies inside the limits of the habitable world, his interest was in the Earth as a whole, and geography, for him, was no more or less than the art of making maps. “It is the prerogative of Geography,” he said, “to show the known habitable earth as a unit in itself, how it is situated and what is its nature; and it deals with those features likely to be mentioned in a general description of the earth, such as larger towns and great cities, the mountain ranges and the principal rivers.”⁵

The circle of seas that surrounded the Earth in the early T-O maps was one way of suggesting a round world, but Ptolemy’s was the first serious attempt to deal with the problem of projection. He described two possible solutions, based on a simple rectangular grid that ancient Greek philosophers had already devised, but adapting it to take account of the fact that the Earth was curved, not flat.* The systems he suggested were, as they had to be, a compromise, and one which worked satisfactorily enough within the limits of the known world. Even in the sixteenth century, most maps were still produced on grids that were simple adaptations of Ptolemy’s projections. Mercator’s greatest achievement would lie in rethinking these fifteen-hundred-year-old proposals.

Ptolemy’s geographic writings are filled with errors of fact, many of them, as he engagingly admitted himself, due to a lack of basic information. Some, such as the “great southern continent” that he believed must balance the world on its axis, would endure, like the fabulous creatures described by Herodotus and other Greek writers, for centuries after Mercator.

For all its shortcomings, though, the rediscovery and publication of the Geographia in the West laid the foundations for the work of the great cartographers of the sixteenth century. The book traveled with Columbus to the New World; when Mercator compiled his great world map of 1569, he began with Ptolemy’s calculation of the position of Alexandria. The Geographia was still being treated as the ultimate authority fourteen hundred years after its author’s death. It shows a man trying to apply scientific methods to achieve a precise, objective representation of the world in a way that was unique in his time, and remained so until Mercator’s day.

IN THE EAST, the scanty records and remains of the work of the Chinese suggest that they had their own impressive tradition. Around the third century AD, a government minister of works named Phei Hsiu set out official principles for the making of maps under the Chin Dynasty. The most important of these was that they should be constructed on a rectangular grid in order to create a consistent scale and locate places accurately. There is no evidence that Ptolemy’s thinking had reached the Far East – a grid system had been introduced in China some two hundred years before Phei Hsiu by Ptolemy’s near-contemporary Chang Heng, an astronomer royal of the Han Dynasty.* He wrote of a spherical world suspended in infinity, like a yolk in an egg, and the system he introduced of building up a map by equal squares – “casting a net over the Earth,” in a contemporary phrase – was the basis of Chinese cartography for centuries.

Chang Heng’s grid made no allowance for the curvature of the Earth, and it is hard to know from what is left of ancient Eastern cartography whether his image of a spherical world had any effect on current thought. There are no indications that early Chinese mapmakers realized the world was a sphere, that the lands they were mapping were consequently curved, nor whether the challenge, which still fascinates cartographers, of representing such a three-dimensional world on a flat surface had even occurred to them as a problem.

In the Islamic world, Arab mapmakers drew on the ideas of Ptolemy and the Greeks to develop their own traditions. By the eighth century, they were compiling maps for overland diplomatic missions to China, military campaigns, and trading expeditions; the tales of Sindbad the Sailor, dating from some two hundred years earlier, are ample evidence of their seafaring traditions. Unlike the work produced by medieval monks in Europe, their maps seem to have been designed for use as much as for study, but they were still based mainly on copies of older European originals. There are early versions of the T-O maps, with south at the top and Mount Sinai in the center and, slightly later, more distinctively Arab interpretations in which a disk-shaped world, surrounded by water, is pierced from the east by the Arabian Gulf and the Red Sea, and from the west by the waters of the Mediterranean.

Later mapmakers of the tenth and eleventh centuries were often slave dealers or traders, making their way north to the shores of the Caspian Sea and up the Volga River deep into the heart of Asia. Asian tribesmen, Russians, Norsemen, and Arabs would meet on one of the medieval world’s great trading routes, exchanging goods, knowledge, and ideas.

One account, by the writer Ibn Haukal, author of The Book of Roads and Kingdoms, which contained a map of the Islamic world as it was then known, described a meeting toward the end of the tenth century with the great Arab cartographer al-Istakhri. “He showed me the geographical maps in his work, and, when I had commented on them, he gave me his work with the words, ‘I can see that you were born under a lucky star, therefore take my work and make such improvements as you think fit.’ I took it, altered it in several particulars, and returned it to him.”⁶

There was cooperation not just between individuals but between cultures. One of the greatest of all the Arab cartographers, Muhammed al-Idrisi, was born in Morocco, studied at Cordoba in Islamic Spain, and worked at the twelfth-century court of the Christian king Roger of Sicily. There, he produced several world maps that drew directly both on Ptolemy and on the observations of Arab travelers, and which were still being used as models by Islamic cartographers four hundred years later. Among them were a large rectangular map in seventy sheets, and a smaller, circular map, similar to the T-O maps of the West, but incorporating curved parallels, which suggest that al-Idrisi was aware of the spherical shape of the world. The maps and sources that he used are lost, but the geographic detail he provided was far in advance of anything that was being produced by the copyists in Europe’s monasteries. Al-Idrisi’s representation of Spain, for example, with the northern coast of Africa, the Straits of Gibraltar, and Bay of Biscay all clearly discernible, is far more detailed than the stylized version presented around the same time by European mapmakers. When Al-Idrisi described Britain as “a great island, shaped like the head of an ostrich,” and the peninsula of Cornwall as “like a bird’s beak,”⁷ he had evidently been studying more accurate maps than anything available in Europe.

DESPITE ITS ULTIMATE INFLUENCE in Europe, for hundreds of years after publication of the Geographia, Christian scholars turned their backs on Ptolemy’s knowledge. With the fall of the Roman Empire, the original manuscripts that Ptolemy had written in the second century were lost and forgotten. For the medieval scribes of the early Church, the old T-O maps compiled in the centuries before Ptolemy had the great advantage that they could easily be adapted to place the holy city of Jerusalem at the center of the world, as the Bible itself decreed.⁸ For them, as for the Greek philosophers, the sea was a fitting symbol to represent the mysteries that bounded man’s little area of knowledge on every side. What had not been established by exploration was supplied by imagination or faith; the maps that the medieval Christian scholars drew were therefore inaccurate, impressionistic expressions of belief, not descriptions of fact.

Some of these great mappaemundi, the medieval pictures of the world, were also works of art of staggering beauty. Most of them are lost, but in the English cathedral city of Hereford, it is still possible to glimpse the vision of the world that was in men’s minds on the eve of the age of discoveries. The great Hereford mappamundi dates from the last years of the thirteenth century.⁹ Even after a visitor to the cathedral has puzzled out the fact that, as on almost all early maps, east is to the top, and has spotted the outline of the Mediterranean Sea that divides the world down the middle, the coastlines and landforms are almost unrecognizable. There is no mistaking the traditional T-shape of great waters surrounded by the O of the ocean, although the lands are threaded with rivers. The British Isles clutch grimly to the perimeter of Europe, twisted and misshapen; instead of the familiar boot shape of Italy, there is a bloated peninsula, dotted with apparenty random cities and ribbed with unknown rivers. The names of Europe and Africa are transposed, probably a mistake by the copyist. Indeed, the map as a whole seems to be sketched more in hope than in conviction. Any modern classroom could produce a dozen more realistic views of the world. Ptolemy would have scoffed.

Yet the Hereford mappamundi has its own confidence, as befits the only complete wall map of the world known to have survived from the Middle Ages. It speaks the language of another age. What were once its bright colors are faded and browned into a dull ochre that challenges the eyes, while the drawings that crowd the map seem almost to jostle each other aside; it takes a while to focus on them individually, to see the delicacy and precision with which they are sketched in. Carefully drawn towers and turrets mark some of the cities of which the map-maker had heard: The familiar names of the Bible are clustered around Jerusalem, and, closer to home, Paris, Ghent, and even Hereford itself are marked. But it is a work to be interpreted, rather than simply consulted; a statement of belief.

Medieval library catalogs show that there were few monasteries or noble palaces without such maps in their stores of manuscripts. Charlemagne, at the end of the eighth century, had plans of Rome and Constantinople engraved on silver tablets among a comprehensive collection, and most great libraries would have included maps of the Holy Land as well as the great mappaemundi – triumphs and baubles for the rich and mighty, and reminders for the humble poor of their place in the great scheme of being. Few survived. A sister-map of the Hereford mappamundi, the Ebsdorf map, was rediscovered in a Benedictine monastery in the German town whose name it bears after being lost for six hundred years, only to be destroyed by Allied bombing during World War II. Now it survives only in modern copies and photographs. The history of cartography is the tantalizing study of what has been left behind.

The Hereford mappamundi

Hereford Cathedral Library, Hereford, England

The worldview of the mappaemundi encompassed the soul as well as time and space. The Hereford map, for example, shows not only the towns of the Holy Land but also the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden and Noah riding on the waters of the Flood. It admits no conflict between geographic accuracy and religious faith: The holy city of Jerusalem stands unchallenged at the center of the world, while Paradise itself is shown far away in the apparently unreachable East, a round island circled by flames that warn the importunate traveler not to dare too much.

The mappaemundi may have been used for planning journeys from town to town across Europe – marks over the great central city of Paris on the Hereford map suggest that fingernails may have traced a route through it at various times – but it mattered little to the mapmaker that the shape of the coastlines should be so inaccurate, or that the whole map should have been shoehorned so ruthlessly into an all-embracing circle of ocean. Much more important, from his standpoint, God had to be shown overseeing the whole of his kingdom, and the fabulous creatures described by the ancients, such as the bonnacan, with its bull’s head, horse’s mane, and ram’s horns, the screaming mandrake plant, and the death-dealing cockatrice, needed to be faithfully represented to demonstrate the awesome variety of his Creation.

The Hereford mappamundi laid out a world at once mysterious and threatening, where the only hope of safety was to be found in the majestic figure of Christ that dominates the map. To criticize it for inaccuracy would be as foolish as to find fault with Picasso’s famous painting as a street guide to Guernica. Yet for the rapidly growing world of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the mappaemundi were quickly proved inadequate. A new geography was needed to enable sailors to plot a reliable course across the oceans and to represent the world they were revealing.

Three events in the half century or so before Mercator’s birth made his achievement as a cartographer both possible and necessary. The first was the rediscovery of the geographic writings of Ptolemy, brought back into Europe after hundreds of years; the second was the development of printing, which meant that Ptolemy’s ideas could be spread more quickly and efficiently than the monks who had copied them by hand could ever have dreamed; and the third was the voyage of Christopher Columbus, who, looking for Asia, discovered America.

Other explorers had made great discoveries around the coast of Africa and in Asia about lands that were already dimly known about, but Columbus’s voyage proved that there really was a world elsewhere. The looming shadows that had marked the boundaries of geographic knowledge ever since man first looked about him were beginning to part, to reveal a reality far different from anything the ancient scholars had imagined.

Chapter Two Forgotten Wisdom

FOR THE SCHOLARS of fifteenth–and sixteenth-century Europe, who looked on the past with reverence, the rediscovery of Ptolemy’s writing in the early fifteenth century was a revelation and an inspiration. The task of translating the Geographia into Latin from an original Greek manuscript in Byzantium was begun by the Byzantine scholar Manuel Chrysoloras and finished in 1406 by his pupil Jacobus Angelus in Tuscany.

In the Arab world, the Almagest and the Geographia had both been known by then for some five hundred years, and practically every Islamic cartographer either mentioned, quoted, or silently borrowed from what they called the Kitab gagrafiya (Book of Geography). However, not until the fall of Byzantium to the Turks in 1453 did refugees bring the manuscripts to the West in any numbers. Monks in Florence translated them from Greek into Latin and wrote them out painstakingly by hand, making copies available over the following years, first without maps, then with regional maps, and finally with world maps drawn according to Ptolemy’s recommendations. At the time of Mercator’s birth, they were still fresh and exciting – a philosophical framework into which the new discoveries about the extent and shape of the world could be incorporated.

Ptolemy’s books had been copied and copied again in the Arab world for centuries prior to the time they resurfaced in Europe; by then, they almost certainly included the additions and amendments of generations of nameless and unknown thinkers. Nonetheless, however much or little of them had actually been written by Ptolemy himself, they were a virtual synthesis of classical scientific knowledge.

The Geographia concentrated on the arts and skills of mapmaking, discussing the comparative merits of flat maps and globes, and arguing through the mathematics of how a map should be constructed and how the world could be divided into the three continents of Europe, Asia, and northern Africa. The great undiscovered continent that Ptolemy believed lay to the south turned the Indian Ocean into an inland sea, and in the East, the known world petered out in the unexplored lands beyond the Ganges. West of the Pillars of Hercules, at the mouth of the Mediterranean, of course, he described nothing but sea and a few scattered islands.

Fresh versions appeared year by year, with cartographers adapting and expanding Ptolemy’s work. An edition was printed in Cologne in 1475 without maps; only two years later, the interest and the technology existed to prepare a version in Bologna that included twenty-six copper engravings based on Ptolemy’s text. By the time Mercator was working, the book’s reputation was established among scholars, even though the great voyages of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were already demonstrating its limitations.

For all the dedicated work of the monastic copyists, it was the development of printing that allowed Ptolemy’s work to be widely read in Europe. The impact of Johannes Gutenberg’s first press with movable type in the 1450s is hard to exaggerate. In the Low Countries alone, more than four thousand different books were produced in the first decades of the sixteenth century; there were in excess of 130 printers there, half of them in the thriving city of Antwerp.

Ptolemy’s Geographia was only one of a range of classical works that flooded off the new presses to feed the public’s apparently insatiable appetite. As these books were shipped around the continent, they invigorated and inspired learning not just in the palaces, monasteries, and great houses that had always collected rare and expensive manuscripts, but also in the studies of poor students. Without the explosion of printing, Mercator would never even have seen many of the books that enthused him at Leuven. He would certainly never have gathered around him the personal library in which he delighted in the German city of Duisburg.

However, for all the excitement that the rediscovery of Ptolemy’s Geographia stirred up, his three continents soon could no more be accepted as they stood than could the old T-O maps or the mappaemundi. There had been rumors for centuries of scattered islands far away to the west, but no one had any idea of the vast extent of the newly discovered land. Just twenty years before Mercator was born, the discovery of America had revealed a new world of which Ptolemy and his predecessors never dreamed, confounding the ancient view that the Earth was limited to the three continents of Europe, Asia, and the strange and mysterious Africa.

While the actual extent of the world would have astonished the ancients, its round shape had been known since well before Ptolemy’s time. Various early Greek philosophers had produced detailed arguments to prove that the Earth was cylindrical, disk-shaped, or rectangular, that it was cushioned in compressed air, or that it was floating on water. Yet by 250 BC, Eratosthenes of Cyrene, one of the scholars who devised a rudimentary grid of latitude and longitude, had not only accepted the idea of a spherical world but had studied the stars to calculate its circumference.¹

Strabo, another Greek geographer and historian, who worked before Ptolemy in the library of Alexandria in the last century BC, had a severely practical turn of mind. The world could be represented on a globe, he declared, but the globe would have to be ten feet across to show all the necessary detail. The work of Ptolemy himself a century or so later in devising projections shows that he had no doubts either about the curvature of the Earth. For accuracy, he concluded, there was no substitute for a globe.

Ptolemy had described in great detail how it should be done, with the globe suspended between two poles connected by a semicircle, which should almost touch its surface. Such an arrangement, he wrote, had advantages and disadvantages when compared to his own efforts at working out a way of projecting a map onto a flat surface: “It preserves the world’s shape, and avoids the need for any adjustment of it, but it hardly provides the size needed for containing most of the things that must be marked on it, nor can it allow the entire map to be shown from one vantage point.”²

Like his books, Ptolemy’s endorsement of the globe was lost to Europeans in the Middle Ages. There are tantalizing mentions in classical literature of various globes, including small representations of the Earth enclosed within glass spheres which showed the constellations, like the pair Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, would later demand from Mercator. But if the Greeks or Romans ever made large detailed models of the spherical Earth, in line with the recommendations of Ptolemy and Strabo, none of them survived. European craftsmen produced armillary spheres in which concentric metal rings would demonstrate the supposed motion of the planets around the Earth, but they showed no interest in the idea of a terrestrial globe.

The Arabs, on the other hand, turned Ptolemy’s words into reality. Many of them used his Almagest rather than the Geographia and showed the stars, not the Earth, in their work. In Florence’s Museum of the History of Science, there is an engraved metal sphere about eight inches in diameter, with 1,015 stars marked on it according to Ptolemy’s descriptions, made by Ibrahim ibn Said al-Sahli al Wazzan with his son Muhammed in Valencia, in Moorish Spain, in the late eleventh century.

Such magnificent celestial globes were often carved on brass or silver, intended for a study rather than the navigator’s desk, but the Arabs must have made terrestrial globes as well. None survives today, but Christopher Columbus said in his ship’s log that he had seen globes of the world on which the island of Cipangu, or Japan, was marked.

The Arab globes were also studied by Martin Behaim, a Nuremberg traveler and adventurer who set out to copy the technique and manufacture a globe of his own toward the end of the fifteenth century. Behaim claimed to have sailed the coasts of Africa with the Portuguese explorers, and to have seen the globes at the Royal Observatory, which had been established in about 1420 by Portugal’s Prince Henry the Navigator at the southern port of Sagres.³

One advantage that neither Strabo, Ptolemy, nor their Arab imitators had mentioned was that the globe offers a dramatic way of demonstrating the circularity of the Earth to a layman – an investor, for instance, who might be persuaded to put money into an expedition. The Portuguese had demonstrated that there were riches to be won in the East, and in order to show the wealthy financiers of Germany how easily the Indies could be reached by sailing west, Behaim constructed the first modern globe known to have been produced in Europe. It was intended not for scholars or sailors but for bankers.

Behaim, the son of a German nobleman, had been packed off to Portugal as a young man to gain experience as a businessman, but had spent more time there among the sailors and navigators around the docks than in import and export. He had a healthy disrespect for authority – in his youth, he was said to have served a month in prison for dancing at a Jew’s wedding during Lent – but he also had a shrewd commercial eye. He was fascinated not only by what he had seen of the voyages of discovery but also by Prince Henry’s Arab globes.

None of those globes is known to have survived, but the Arabs had proved that Ptolemy’s theory worked. A globe to show how the western ocean lay between the continents of Europe and Asia was clearly the way to impress a skeptical audience with the practicality of sailing west to reach the Spice Islands in the East. The Portuguese controlled the passage around the southern coast of Africa, and huge costs were involved in the ancient overland trails from Asia through Arabia to the Mediterranean. The globe – which Behaim called his erdapfel, his earth-apple – was a striking demonstration of another route.

Today, Behaim’s brainchild is the most famous exhibit in Nuremberg’s Germanisches Nationalmuseum,⁴ darkened by age and scarred by the attentions of well-meaning “restorers” in the nineteenth century – the oldest terrestrial globe in the world. It was a scientific wonder, an artistic triumph representing the best thinking of Behaim’s age about the shape of the world – and a commercial dead end. Unlike the globe manufacturers who followed him in the sixteenth century, Behaim could not profit from selling examples of his creation; his globe was, unavoidably, unique. He lived before the development of printing techniques enabled artisans and mapmakers to create limitless copies of their work, and his map had to be painted by hand onto sheets of thin, fine leather after they had been stuck to a twenty-inch papier-mâché shell and mounted on an elegant wooden stand. It was never designed for navigation. Apart from the equator, a single meridian, and the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, there were no longitudes and latitudes marked on it, although Behaim did include the constellations of the zodiac and an array of forty-eight flags of European nations and noble families, fifteen coats of arms, and forty-eight portraits of kings and rulers. The globe was a tool of commerce, and to catch the interest of the Nuremberg merchants, Behaim incorporated lengthy descriptions of what merchandise could be purchased in the various islands of the Far East, and how trade should be conducted. For the artist Behaim paid to paint his globe, it was a miniature masterpiece. But however much the burghers of the town admired the piece, it could never be reproduced, except by starting from scratch with a new map.

BEHAIM’S TIMING, though, was unfortunate from an even more important point of view. As he was completing his model of the world, the world itself was changing beyond recognition. In Spain, the armies of Ferdinand and Isabella finally drove the Moors out of Grenada, breaking their last fingerhold in Europe and ending an Islamic presence that had lasted nearly eight centuries and enriched the country with art, literature, science, and trade. The king and queen had united the great kingdoms of Aragon and Castile with their marriage in 1469, starting an era of increasing royal prestige and power, and the departure twenty-three years later of Muhammad XI, or Boabdil, the last Moorish ruler on Spanish soil, reflected a new confidence for Christendom and the end of any lingering Arab dreams of further European conquest.

Some years later, a by then noted traveler of the day looked back to record the scene in Grenada as Boabdil left. “On the second day of the month of January, I saw the royal banner of Your Highnesses raised by force of arms on the towers of the Alhambra, which is the fortress of the said city, and saw the Moorish king come to the gates of the said city and kiss the royal hands of Your Highnesses.”⁵ He could tell that he was witnessing one of history’s defining moments. This same traveler had several names during a seafaring life which took him from country to country in the west of Europe, seeking support and financial sponsorship to fulfill the dream that was to turn into the second great event of this annus mirabilis. To his Genoese parents, he was Cristoforo Colombo; to the Spanish who eventually supplied him with money and ships, he was Cristóbal Colón; and to English-speaking historians, he later became Christopher Columbus.

By comparison with the defeat of the Moors, his exploits in the Ocean Sea, the Atlantic, attracted little immediate attention; but they rendered Martin Behaim’s globe out of date almost before its paint was dry. Behaim’s masterpiece had not even been unveiled to the Nuremberg merchants in 1492, when on August 3 three small ships set sail from Palos de la Frontera in southern Spain on a secret mission to an unknown destination. Seventy days later, Columbus and the captains of his little fleet stood on the shore of an island he named San Salvador in honor of the Holy Savior he believed had blessed his voyage.

In theory, maintaining a course due west by keeping the Sun at a constant height in the sky was simple enough, but the voyage had tested contemporary seamanship and navigation to the limit. Columbus had found it impossible to record how far he was going, let alone log his course. In fact, the devious captain kept two logs, one to reassure the crew, by understating the distances the ship had traveled, and a second, secret one for his own use, which recorded how far he believed they had really gone.* Yet even his supposedly accurate private calculations of the expedition’s position were often wrong. His observations of flotsam, the behavior of birds and fishes, and the seaweed in the Sargasso Sea all seemed to indicate that the ship was coming close to land, but the helmsman failed to find bottom first with one plumb line, then with two tied together. The flotilla was still in deep water, far out at sea.

Navigation devices were notoriously untrustworthy, and the traditional astrolabe with which Columbus tried to take sightings of the Sun above the horizon was almost impossible to use accurately on the pitching and tossing deck of a ship. As the flotilla headed west into the unknown, even the compass seldom showed true north, and its increasing inaccuracy added considerably to the panic among his crew. “The pilots took the north, marking it, and they found that the needles declined north-west a full point, and the sailors were alarmed and depressed,” Columbus noted in his journal on September 17.⁶ Mariners had been aware for some time of the phenomenon of magnetic deviation – the way variations in the Earth’s magnetic field cause the compass needle to diverge from true north depending on the position of a vessel on the Earth’s surface – but they had no idea why or how it happened. The effect was much more pronounced as they headed west; even their instruments were betraying them. None of the old rules learned in years of sailing near to the coasts of Europe and Africa seemed to apply.

Christopher Columbus

Science Photo Library, London

The areas in which Columbus had complete and unquestioning faith proved to be even more deceptive. He was sailing with all the preconceptions of a medieval Christian – the same preoccupations as the creators of the outdated mappaemundi. Many of the maps he had consulted as he planned his journey not only showed the lands that the cartographer believed existed, but also related them to the faith of the Catholic Church; the Bible was as much a source of geography as Ptolemy or the accounts of ancient travelers. Their reports were woven together with biblical tradition, so that, for example, the Rivers Ganges, Nile, Tigris, and Euphrates were identified as the four rivers said by Genesis to flow from Paradise. None of the maps Columbus consulted gave any hint of a vast new continent over the horizon.

Columbus, a devout Catholic who believed that he was on a special mission from God, never saw any reason to doubt the authority of the Bible. The medieval mapmakers, on the impeccable authority of St. Augustine, had placed the earthly Paradise in the farthest east of Asia, and when in 1498, on the third of the four voyages he made across the Atlantic, he found freshwater, not salt, out at sea off the northeast coast of South America where the Orinoco River pours into the ocean, his mind was made up. He declared that he was approaching the four heavenly rivers. “I say that if this river does not originate in the Terrestrial Paradise, it comes and flows from a land of infinite size to the south, of which we have no knowledge as yet. But I am completely persuaded in my own mind that the Terrestrial Paradise is the place I have described,” he wrote to Ferdinand and Isabella.⁷

Such a huge outpouring of freshwater could only come from a vast area of land, and he was convinced by this time that he had reached a stretch of the mainland that had never before been discovered by Europeans. His argument was faultless, but his conclusion was wrong. The Bible had said nothing about a great and unknown continent to the west, and Columbus found it easier to believe that he was approaching the gates of Paradise than that he was standing at the threshold of a new world.

He had the same misconceptions about the world as Martin Behaim, although there is no evidence that they ever met or corresponded. “This is the island of Cipangu of which so many marvellous tales are told,” Columbus declared confidently in his journal, as he sailed northwest from San Salvador to Cuba. “On the globes which I have seen, and on the drawings of mappamondes, it is in this region.”⁸ It is still there on Behaim’s globe. Halfway across the great Ocean Sea is shown St. Brendan’s Island,* the “Promised Land of the Saints” that fascinated generations of mapmakers, and about the same distance farther on, the island of Cipangu, or Japan, with its temples and palaces of gold. Between them the globe shows nothing but sea.

In planning his original voyage, Columbus relied heavily on the mistaken observations of Marco Polo, who had reached the court of Kublai khan by traveling overland through Asia more than two hundred years before, but had exaggerated the distance he had covered. Columbus’s logic was faultless – the longer the journey by land to the east, the shorter the route by sea to the west – and it led him to underestimate the circumference of the world by about 25 percent.

Once he left the well-charted waters east of the Canary Islands, he had guidance, and probably a roughly drawn map, from a Florentine physician, astronomer, and geographer named Paolo Toscanelli dal Pozzo. Toscanelli, like Columbus, had studied the travels of Marco Polo, and had a thorough knowledge of the writings of Ptolemy. He had talked to European travelers to India and the Far East, and also to at least one ambassador from India who had visited Pope Eugenius in Rome. All his researches led him to the conclusion that the landmass of Europe and Asia spread across nearly two-thirds of the globe, so that the western route across the ocean to Asia could cover no more than 130 degrees of longitude. If Ptolemy’s estimate of 500 miles for each degree was correct, the journey to the land of the great khan should have been no more than 6,500 miles.†

THE KNOWN WORLD was expanding in other directions as well in the years shortly before Mercator’s birth. Four years before Columbus’s first voyage, the Portuguese navigator Bartholomeu Dias had rounded the southern tip of the African continent, overturning the accepted Ptolemaic wisdom that the African mainland was connected to a great southern landmass. As the fifteenth century drew to a close, the new Portuguese king Emmanuel – Manuel o Venturoso, the Fortunate – called on Dias to help with the construction of a flotilla of three ships to open a new trade route to India. Leadership of the new expedition was to have been offered to a military commander and government official named Estevão da Gama, but he died before the preparations were complete. Emmanuel turned to Estevão’s twenty-eight-year-old son, who had already distinguished himself in naval engagements with the French in the defense of Portuguese settlements on the coast of Guinea. Vasco da Gama was entrusted with the voyage, which the king hoped would establish Portuguese trading supremacy for generations.

If the magnitude of Columbus’s discovery was initially unappreciated, news of da Gama’s return to Lisbon in September 1499 from Calicut on the west coast of India, more than two years after he had embarked, shook the commercial houses of Europe to their foundations. The Italian merchants who had made fortunes out of their control of the overland trade routes into the eastern Mediterranean faced imminent disaster. “In this I clearly see the ruin of the City of Venice,” declared the wealthy Venetian banker Girolamo Priuli in his diary,⁹ and he was not mistaken: The prosperity of Venice, which had controlled the European end of the great caravan routes across Asia and Arabia, was one of the casualties of a series of discoveries that continued over the following decades.

The expeditions were driven partly by religion – by the desire to find more Christian communities to counterbalance the growing threat of militant Islam, whose soldiers still lined the southern and eastern borders of Christendom even after the expulsion of the Moors from Andalusia. But the prospect of trade, the quest for wealth, lay behind everything. King Emmanuel himself, writing to Ferdinand and Isabella after Vasco da Gama’s return, declared that the motive of the voyage had been “the service of the Lord our God, and our own advantage” – about nutmeg and the spice trade rather than knowledge.

For someone drawn to cartography, Mercator could hardly have been born at a more propitious moment in the history of geography and exploration. In the east, Dias and Vasco da Gama had shattered the old assumptions by sailing into a sea that should have been surrounded by land, while to the west, a new continent of undreamed-of size and wealth had been discovered, even if it was not yet appreciated.

For centuries, Europe had seemed, to Europeans at least, an oasis of certainty in a vast and unfriendly desert of ignorance. Following these voyages, the continent engaged in an unprecedentedly outward-looking period of exploration; where men had once dreamed of dragons and sea monsters, they found elephants and giraffes. A scramble for land, wealth, and influence that was to double the size of the known world within a few decades had begun.

Practically every voyage added more knowledge of new lands. Progress was faster to the east and in the Indian Ocean, where there was already a network of established trade routes and a ready supply of local guides and pilots, but along the coasts of America, too, the map began to take shape. In 1500, for instance, the Portuguese explorer Pedro Alvares Cabral set out to follow da Gama’s route to India but, in pushing even farther west in search of good winds, became the first mariner to sight the coast of Brazil.¹⁰

Europe was buzzing with gossip and speculation about the new discoveries, but the maps drawn during the early sixteenth century show how gradually geographic knowledge accumulated. The German clergyman-cartographer Martin Waldseemüller produced a world map in 1507 in which the coastlines of Europe, Africa, and the Middle East are all instantly recognizable today – but to the east and west, those confident outlines faded into guesswork and supposition. Waldseemüller drew the Far East with little more accuracy than Ptolemy had managed fifteen hundred years earlier, and America clings to the map’s left-hand edge, a long narrow strip of land that is evidently sketched in with only the skimpiest knowledge. For all the lack of detail and the unfamiliar outline, though, America is there – a separate continent, divided from Asia by the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Waldseemüller’s map was the first to suggest that what had been shown before as a collection of islands off the coast of Asia was actually a single landmass.

Parts of the eastern coast of North America had been surveyed and mapped by the turn of the century, particularly by the Florentine explorer Amerigo Vespucci, and the title Waldseemüller chose for his map indicates the two sources on which he relied. It was drawn, he said, “secundum Ptolomei traditionem et Americi Vespucii aliorumque lustrationes” (according to the account of Ptolemy and the voyages of Amerigo Vespucci and others). By then, Vespucci had led several expeditions down the east coast of the vast new land, seeking financial backing wherever he could find it, and sailing sometimes under the Spanish flag, sometimes under that of Portugal. He had none of Columbus’s obsessions with Cathay or the terrestrial Paradise, and declared that the lands far to the west were a discovery which “it is proper to call a New World.”¹¹

No European had yet seen the west coast of the Americas, and in this section of the map, Waldseemüller’s guesswork was amazingly accurate. Not until 1513, six years after it was published, did the Spanish explorer Vasco Núñez de Balboa become the first European to set eyes on the Pacific Ocean from the famous “peak in Darien,”¹² and another nine years passed before Ferdinand Magellan’s expedition arrived back in Spain after sailing across that ocean. The presence of the then-unknown Pacific on Waldseemüller’s map is one of the great mysteries of cartographic history. Perhaps he had access to more information, now lost, from Vespucci’s expeditions, or, more likely, perhaps he simply drew his conclusion from Vespucci’s belief that America was a completely new world. Whatever his motive, Waldseemüller named the continent America on his map in Vespucci’s honor. “I do not see why anyone should object to calling it after Americus the discoverer,” he declared in the book that accompanied his map.¹³ Waldseemüller sold more than a thousand copies of his map and his book – enough to establish the name America in people’s minds, though when he realized his mistake a few years later, he tried to give Columbus the credit he deserved.*

Martin Waldseemüller’s World Map, 1507

Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

Fifteen years after Waldseemüller’s map, the first known circumnavigation of the globe was completed¹⁴ – the crucial final proof, if any were needed, that the world was round. Ferdinand Magellan left Seville in late September 1519 with the commission of King Charles I – later to be the emperor Charles V – and a ragtag and bobtail fleet of five aging ships, crewed by the sweepings of the Spanish docks. As a young man, according to some reports, he had been a pupil of Martin Behaim; if so, the return of his expedition after a full three years at sea proved both the strengths and the shortcomings of his teacher’s ideas. Behaim had been right about the shape of the world – but disastrously wrong about the lands that lay on its surface. Magellan had sailed around a continent that Behaim never dreamed existed. He died shortly afterward in a skirmish with natives on a Pacific island, but the return in 1522 of the Victoria, sole survivor of his flotilla, was the inspiration for a succession of Spanish probes up the western coast of South America.

WHEN MERCATOR was born in 1512, the known world was, thus, still surrounded by shadows. By the time he died eighty-two years later, merchants and bankers were making vast fortunes by bringing regular cargoes back from the East Indies by sea,* while the apparently limitless gold and silver† plundered from the ancient civilizations of the New World to the west had turned the economies of Spain and Europe upside down. During his lifetime, the traders, financiers, and businessmen of Europe took control of the new lands that had been revealed, and they did so because mariners gradually took control of the seas.

In the Middle Ages, there had been no sense that knowledge could be outdated, that the wisdom of the ancients could be challenged by experiment, observation, or reason. Religion, too, had been buttressed by that same sense of stability. Suddenly, such challenges seemed to be happening all the time. Reflecting the frenetic pace of discovery, George Beste, who sailed the northern seas later in the sixteenth century with the English explorer and sometime pirate Martin Frobisher, would write with a mixture of awe and excitement: “Within the memory of man, within these fourscore years, there hath been more new countries and regions discovered than in five thousand years before; yea, more than half the world hath been discovered by men that are yet (or may very well for their age be) alive.”¹⁵ Within eight decades, in other words, the size of the known world had doubled.

FOR MORE THAN two hundred years, European mariners had prepared sketch maps to show the coastlines and the approaches to ports in Europe. But the maps that were available were virtually useless for long-distance navigation. The so-called portolan¹⁶ charts were often produced as an accompaniment to written descriptions of the coastal features, compiled by sailors for themselves or their close associates and based largely on their experience of the coasts that they illustrated. They were drawn by detailed observation and with careful reference to the mariner’s compass, but they had generally no lines of latitude and longitude, no learned references or legends. They took no interest in interior features; river mouths or distinctive skylines visible from the sea might be noted, but cities, inland roads, even mountain ranges were almost always omitted. They were maps by seamen, for seamen – tools of the trade. Rough mapping was the stock-in-trade of any experienced mariner. The only surviving map drawn by Columbus himself, showing northwest Hispaniola, now the northern coast of Haiti, demonstrates how accurately a skilled seaman could make a running survey of an unknown coastline. But the sailors’ rough sketches, like the portolan maps, made no allowance for the curvature of the Earth.

Even Waldseemüller’s groundbreaking world map was constructed on a projection originally devised by Ptolemy in the second century AD. Mariners knew that any accuracy in following the traditional maps with which they were provided over great distances was impossible, and cartographers understood why. Michiel Coignet, a chartmaker of Antwerp, pointed out later in the century¹⁷ that there was simply no point in laying off a course according to compass bearings as they appeared on a traditional map; the straight lines on the flat sheet of paper, transferred to the curved surface of the globe, would produce a series of spiral curves that would take a ship drastically off course.

The solution to this problem, navigators found, was a combination of dead reckoning – estimating their position by judging the distance the ship had sailed along a known compass bearing – and keeping as much of their course as possible due east or west. By “sailing the latitudes,” the parallel lines around the Earth’s surface, they could avoid the distorting effects of the curvature of the Earth. The traditional sailing directions for reaching the West Indies from Europe were “south until the butter melts, then due west into the sunset.”¹⁸

In practice, ships sailed miles out of their way, aiming far to the east or west of their chosen destination in order to find the correct latitude. The unreliability of navigational instruments, the difficulty of taking sightings to check latitude on the rolling deck of a ship, and the need for frequent tacking in contrary winds all made matters worse; but the underlying problem was that neither sailors nor scholars had tackled the problem of reproducing the curved surface of the spherical Earth on a flat map. While voyages were short and close to land, the problem of projection could be more or less ignored; following a line ruled straight on a map would simply result in a small navigational error. As the ships ranged farther from the well-known waters of the Mediterranean, though, the effects of this failing became more dramatic. Men could sail the seas of the world with greater confidence than ever before, but they could not map them accurately.

Chapter Three A Small Town on the River Scheldt

THE RESEARCHES OF SCHOLARS and geographers, the work of printers and booksellers, and the discoveries of hard-bitten sailors and explorers had combined to make the early sixteenth century the most favorable time in which a man of Mercator’s talents and interests could have been born. But the land in which he grew up was riven by political factions and smoldering with religious hatreds.

At the start of the new century, the birth in 1500 of the future Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in the ancient merchant city of Ghent in Flanders marked the climax of more than 150 years of schemes, machinations, and marriages among the ruling families of Europe. While the adventurers of Spain and Portugal were discovering new worlds abroad, in Europe the dukes of Burgundy had been busily laying their hands on as much of the old one as they could, marrying their way into a realm that eventually stretched across the prosperous financial heartland of northern Europe. They turned marriage from a sacrament to a strategy. During a century and a half of buying, inheriting, and most of all marrying into new possessions, they could have taught the rest of Europe a lesson, had anyone thought to heed it: War could be profitable, but well-planned matrimony was infinitely more so.

Philip, one of the dukes of Burgundy, was a member of the powerful Habsburg family, who had been building up their own lands in Germany with similar determination throughout the fifteenth century, and he married Joanna of Spain, the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, whose own marriage in 1469 had already united the Spanish kingdoms of Aragon and Castile. Charles was the son of Philip and Joanna’s triumphal dynastic marriage, and he steadily inherited individual titles and honors throughout his childhood to make up a patchwork empire that would eventually stretch over more than half the known world.

He was shy and awkward, an unprepossessing figure with the long lower jaw and bulging eyes of the Habsburg line, but when his father died in 1506, he became ruler of the Netherlands and the rest of the Burgundian inheritance. He was just six years old, and his paternal aunt, Margaret of Austria, acted as regent. By the time he was sixteen, Charles’s inherited lands stretched not just through Spain and parts of Italy but also across the apparently limitless Spanish possessions in the Americas. Three years later, in 1519, the death of his paternal grandfather, Maximilian, pushed the borders of his realm farther to the east, where his Habsburg ancestors were the most powerful dynasty in central Europe, ruling lands in Austria, Carinthia, Slovenia, and the Tyrol.*

The Habsburgs also held a virtually hereditary position in Germany as Holy Roman Emperors, but although they had occupied the imperial throne for nearly eighty years,† on his grandfather’s death Charles still had to win the support of the seven electors, the German princes who formally approved the succession of the Holy Roman Empire. The successful but expensive campaign of bribery with which he secured the imperial crown left him crippled by debt throughout his reign,‡ and he faced a constant struggle to raise money to pay the massive armies on which his grandiose campaigns to maintain his authority depended.

The empire was vast and unwieldy, and his possessions were too far-flung to be governed. When Charles traveled to his Spanish kingdom to secure the succession there in 1517, he was thought of as a foreign interloper surrounded by boorish Flemish advisers who trampled over the country’s aristocracy, while in the Netherlands he was reviled as a lover of Spanish luxury with an intolerable train of arrogant Castilian grandees. Had they ever heard it, his Netherlands subjects would have been less than amused by his famous boast, “To God I speak Spanish, to women Italian, to men French, and to my horse, German.” His native Flemish was not even on the list.

There was constant feuding in Spain, and near anarchy in Germany, where the great inheritance of the Holy Roman Empire was largely ruled by lawless and belligerent knights who accepted no authority but their own. The disparate duchies, counties, and cities of the Netherlands were racked with ancient feuds. The Hoeks of Holland, the Kabeljaws of Zeeland, and the Lichtenbergers and Lockhorsts of Utrecht wrangled in a constant round of shifting alliances, betrayals, victories, and defeats. In Guelderland the Heckerens fought the Bronkhorsts, and in Friesland the Schieringers were the sworn enemies of the Vetkoopers. The great free cities of Ghent, Bruges, Antwerp, and Brussels zealously guarded their ancient privileges against any attempt to impose central authority.

In addition to this internecine violence, over the next half century Charles would face recurrent international wars with the French, and with the armies and navies of the Ottoman emperor Suleiman the Magnificent, massed on the eastern and southern borders of his empire. His reign was an endless round of revolts, rebellions, wars, and betrayed alliances.

The imperial crown also involved him inextricably in the bloodletting of the Reformation. Bitterness over corruption in the Catholic Church had existed for as long as anyone could remember; to the reformists, the popes in Rome seemed more concerned with worldly show than piety. In the late 1470s and early 1480s, Sixtus IV built the Sistine Chapel; then Julius II and Leo X supported the work of Michelangelo and Raphael; in the following years, the supposedly celibate Alexander VI used bribery, corruption, and murder to advance the interests of his children, Lucrezia Borgia and Cesare Borgia. None of them seemed interested in the reforms for which many in the Church and among the laity were crying out. During Charles’s reign, these demands developed into not only a religious challenge to the Church but also a political challenge to the Holy Roman Empire itself. Charles V – “God’s standard bearer,” as he grandly called himself – saw his duty as defending the Catholic faith not just from the Muslim Ottoman Empire across his borders but also from the reformists and Protestants within. In 1523, when Gerard Mercator was a boy of eleven, two young monks, Johann Esch and Heinrich Voes, were burned alive as heretics in the central square of Antwerp, the first of tens of thousands to go to the stake over the next half century as the Inquisition sought to root out heresy wherever it hid. The legacy of the complex genealogical maneuvering that had created Charles V’s empire was one of political chaos and human misery across the Netherlands and the rest of Charles’s domain.

Charles V by Titian

Museo del Prado

IN THE YEAR 1512, the artisan Hubert de Cremer was one of Charles’s struggling subjects. His was the misery of poverty: His father had made the journey east from his native Flanders to Gangelt, in the German duchy of Jülich, many years before, filled with hope and ambition for the future, but Hubert had become a cobbler scrabbling to find enough money to feed his wife and family. He already had five children, and his wife was expecting their sixth, but though he was willing to work, he had found few opportunities in Gangelt. His best hope of staving off poverty lay in returning to Rupelmonde, where his father’s family still lived.

The port of Antwerp, just a few miles downriver from the town of Rupelmonde, was one of the most affluent centers in the Low Countries, one of the largest cities of its day, where eighty thousand people lived in houses that were the envy of the rest of Europe. Antwerp had been a busy port on the River Scheldt for centuries – its name comes from the Flemish aan-de-werfen (on the wharves) – but the bales and baskets piled high on the docks were not just a sign of its prosperity; they were tangible evidence that the world was growing faster than it had ever done before. The ships that maneuvered for position brought cargoes not only from the Baltic, England, Spain, and Germany but from farther afield as well, from lands that were so distant, so newly discovered, they still seemed almost mythological to the laborers who sweated to unload the merchandise.

Not many years before, the ports of Venice and the other Italian city-states had been crowded with cargo ships, linking with the ancient overland routes from the East to bring spices, precious stones, silks, and finery to Europe. For centuries, all roads really had led to Rome. But by 1512, ships could follow Vasco da Gama’s route to India around the southern tip of Africa and bring their cargoes straight back to the north and west of Europe. The rapidly growing trade with the New World, too, could be carried out more easily from western Europe than from Italy. The pattern of commerce was shifting: More than 2,500 ships might be crowded into Antwerp’s port at any one time, and 500 vessels would come and go in a single day.

With the cargoes came stories of new expeditions, and of the fresh discoveries that were being made in the New World and in the farthest reaches of Asia. Such talk, true and false alike, was devoured by the educated citizens; but the bales, bundles, and boxes were the real stimuli to anyone with imagination and curiosity about distant lands. The waters of the Scheldt flowed for hundreds of miles through a continent hungry for the goods that the ships had unloaded. Along the docks of Antwerp, the age of discoveries was a daily reality.

When he arrived there late in February 1512, Hubert had four sons, a daughter, a pregnant wife, and no real prospects of employment. His one advantage was an uncle in the Catholic Church. Several years before, in Gangelt, Hubert had named his firstborn child after his father’s brother, and he turned to that same Uncle Gisbert, the chaplain of Rupelmonde’s Hospice of St. Jean. Gisbert was not wealthy but comfortably off, and he used his influence to find Hubert and his family a place in the monastery guesthouse. It would have been a simple, even spartan home, but still a welcome shelter for a family on the brink of penury. There, at six o’clock in the morning on March 5, 1512, only a few days after she had arrived in Flanders, Hubert’s wife, Emerance, gave birth to their sixth child, Gerard. The anxious cobbler made a precise note of the date and time, as he had done for the birth of his other children.

The town’s tax records show Hubert, Emerance, and their six children lived on top of each other in a lodging half the size of the house his single uncle Gisbert kept for himself.* Gisbert, a busy, energetic priest, filled with ambition for himself and his family, was the key to whatever future they would have. For him as for many others, the Church had been a route to worldly security as well as to salvation, and his post as chaplain at the hospice gave him financial independence, respectability, and a degree of influence. Well educated himself, he determined to do what he could for the rest of his family. Within a few months, his nephew Hubert was using his skills to produce shoes for the hospice and steadily building up his business in the town, while the older boys, with Gisbert’s encouragement and influence, had started on careers of their own in the Church. Rupelmonde’s church records show that Hubert’s second son, Dominic, eventually followed his great-uncle into the post of chaplain at the hospice, while the eldest boy, Gisbert, named in his great-uncle’s honor, became a priest in the nearby village of St. Nicholas. There was no doubt that they and the other two boys would do well, while their sister, Barbe, was being carefully prepared for the marriage that would secure her future.

Gerard, like his brothers, received his education on the hard wooden benches of the local village school. The few hundred houses in Rupelmonde were huddled around the church, a short way from the river and the imposing black fort that glowered down upon it. Nearby was the ancient water mill where grain was brought from the surrounding fields, its great rough limestone grinders making the wooden structure groan and vibrate as they turned under the power of the rising and falling tides. Farmers brought their produce to a regular market on the riverbank, while barges would tie up to sell cheeses from Brussels, or herring, imported cloth, and ironware from the wharves of Antwerp. Bigger, seagoing ships often moored at the wharves, pausing on their journeys upriver to Brussels. Outside the village, the landscape stretched away for miles, flat and open.

Rupelmonde

British Library, London, Rare Books and Maps Collections

With its fields, mill, market, school, and church, the little town provided for every aspect of life, but the fort, with its high stone walls and seventeen towers, overshadowed everything. Built by Norman invaders in the eleventh century to overawe and terrify the local people, it was no mere monument to past brutality. Behind its bleak walls there still languished criminals, dissidents, traitors, and forgotten men.

The young Gerard was apparently drawn to the sheer variety the landscape offered, for he developed a love of nature that would stay with him throughout his life. From his earliest days, at least according to the stories that grew up around him later, the schoolmaster had little need to encourage his pupil to greater effort in the classroom. Much of the work in the single schoolroom was learning by rote, the children chanting the Latin of the Lord’s Prayer or the Creed, or the questions and answers of the catechism. Every lesson, every moral precept, was based upon the Bible. At home, there was neither leisure nor privacy in the crowded and hardworking household, but the young boy usually managed to find a place to hide away with his books. Often, he would be huddled with them long into the night, forgetting to eat or sleep, and his potential was clearly recognized by his uncle.

In 1526, Hubert de Cremer died suddenly, and the family was threatened with disaster once again. (There is no record of what killed him.) Emerance was able to survive on the little money he had saved, and five of their children were almost old enough to look after themselves. However, Gerard was just fourteen, and if he had had to work in order to earn his keep, his family’s hopes for his future would have been dashed. An apprenticeship could have led only to a life of unremitting toil like his father’s; there would have been no time for learning.

Once again, they had to rely on Gisbert. Three masses a week at the hospice brought him a regular income of some forty-three pounds a year – enough for him to have acquired two small farms as well as his own house, and enough, if he chose, to provide for the education of his great-nephew. The young boy was taken from his family and went to live with his great-uncle, who became not only his benefactor but also his adoptive father and his tutor. Yet if Gerard, like his two elder brothers, were to follow Gisbert into the Church, he would need more than a smattering of Latin grammar picked up at home and on the benches of Rupelmonde’s school. The boy would have to be educated.

Chapter Four Among the Brethren of the Common Life

THE ARTIST ALBRECHT DüRER, journeying through the Netherlands from his native Germany, described ’s Hertogenbosch, stranded on the windswept and unwelcoming plains some seventy-five miles northeast of Antwerp, as “a fair city, with an extremely beautiful church and a strong fortress. …”¹ The Gothic ramparts of the Cathedral of St. Jan might have impressed a traveler, but the town itself was a bleak and forbidding place, a long way from the riverside idyll of Rupelmonde. Here, fifteen thousand people lived behind high stone walls, which would surround the young Gerard for the next three years.

The town’s name means “woods of the duke,” and the harsh guttural of the Flemish pronunciation reveals its sixteenth-century soul. It was already one of the oldest towns in the Low Countries when Gerard arrived – no balmy country retreat, but a fortress set up by Duke Henry I of Brabant more than three centuries earlier to protect the remote northern borders of his dukedom. The grim stone walls could keep out foreign enemies, but inside them, ’s Hertogenbosch seethed with religious and political discontent that occasionally erupted in violence, as occurred in many Netherlands towns. ’s Hertogenbosch, the Netherlands, and most of Europe were in ferment. The trouble had been building for decades.

Ten years earlier, when Gerard was still a young boy, stories had begun filtering back from Germany of a young priest who had issued a direct challenge to the Catholic Church on the need for reform and an end to corruption. In nailing his list of ninety-five theses to the church door in Wittenburg, Martin Luther had ignited the first flames of a conflagration that would engulf much of Europe.

Martin Luther

Science Photo Library, London

Only God, he declared, and not papal authority, could forgive sin; the selling of indulgences by which divine forgiveness could supposedly be guaranteed in return for the payment of cash was a corrupt and cruel deception. Luther called for reform rather than revolution. “If the Pope knew the exactions of the pardon-preachers, he would rather that St. Peter’s church should go to ashes, than that it should be built up with the skin, flesh and bones of his sheep,” he declared in one of his theses. Yet the whole of Christendom, not just the Catholic Church, threatened to go to ashes: Political dissatisfaction and growing national feeling in the Netherlands, Germany, and much of northern Europe had prepared the ground for a conflict that would tear the continent apart, leaving it split irrevocably between Catholics and Protestants.

Johannes Gutenberg’s first presses produced massive runs of printed papal indulgences, but they also turned out seemingly unlimited editions of non-Latin Bibles on which the faithful could rely. Alongside them were other religious texts, mystical books, and lives of the saints, many of them written in the day-to-day language of the people, breaking forever the Catholic Church’s monopoly on Holy Writ. The anxieties of kings, emperors, and the Church itself could do nothing to hold back the rapid spread of movable type.

Printed tracts showered from the new presses like sparks, lighting a thousand fires of heresy – fires that were fed among the German princes and nationalists in the Low Countries by resentment of the emperor’s power. There was already bitterness over the harsh taxes with which Charles tried to claw back the massive debts he had incurred. Despite the treasure that was starting to flow into his coffers from the New World, he relied largely on the merchants of the Netherlands to finance his wars: For every hundred florins in gold and silver that fell into Charles’s lap from the New World, four hundred were squeezed from the taxpayers of the Netherlands. The Venetian ambassador Antonio Soriano described the Low Countries as “the treasures of the King of Spain, his mines, his Indies which have sustained all the Emperor’s enterprises.” Others, more crudely, saw them as a cow to be milked to exhaustion.

The merchants’ pockets were not bottomless, though, and their goodwill was easily exhausted. Every new demand for tax was met by angry resistance, which often mingled with religious dissent and spilled over into fighting on the streets of towns in the Netherlands.

In ’s Hertogenbosch, angry crowds rampaged through the narrow streets while Gerard was at school; but the discontent was more often sullen and unspoken. The town had been home to the artist Hieronymus van Aken, better known today as Hieronymus Bosch.² His wild, tortured depictions of the sufferings of Hell were well known, apparently orthodox enough, and greatly appreciated by the Church authorities – Bosch had painted several altarpieces for the Cathedral of St. Jan in his hometown – but they had a subversive and less conventional secondary meaning.³ Bosch was a reformist, possibly even an out-and-out heretic who saw the Catholic Church as Satan’s embassy on Earth. The evidence is there in Bosch’s works, a telling example of the double-edged, evasive atmosphere of the town where Gerard was growing up.

Many of the symbols in Bosch’s paintings seem now to be consistent with heretical thinking, and his anger over the corruption and avarice of the Church is even clearer. His massive triptych, The Haywain,⁴ shows a nun cradling the head of a sick or dying beggar in a conventional representation of the Church’s Christian care for the poor. Elsewhere in the same painting, though, other nuns are sweeping the peasants’ crop of hay into their own bags; in another vignette, one of them seems to be making sexual advances toward a musician. The Ship of Fools5 shows a nun and a monk picking over a dish of cherries, a common image of sexual gratification. Seen together, the symbols are unmistakable, but individually they are subtle enough not to offend.

Bosch led a perilous double life, because he was also a leading member in ’s Hertogenbosch of an orthodox and solemn religious fraternity, the Brotherhood of Our Lady. He was a respected figure in the town, as his father and grandfather had been before him, and even took the city’s name for his own. He married a local woman, owned a house, and died. Little else is known about his life, but that is the point: He had avoided attracting attention.

The school Gisbert chose for his young charge in ’s Hertogenbosch revealed the private thoughts behind his own daily life. Like Hieronymus Bosch, he had taken care not to provoke the Church authorities, but the hardworking Gisbert de Cremer had been leading something of a double life as well, building his career within the Church while discreetly supporting the agitation for reform. He handed Gerard over to a religious community known for their reformist zeal, the Brethren of the Common Life.

The Brethren had a long tradition as teachers, but they were not a comfortable institution. For themselves, they had renounced the possession of property and embraced a life of simple obedience; their rule was self-denying and ascetic, and they expected the boys in their care to abide by it as well. One famous former pupil gave a glimpse of the harsh life the pupils could expect: The humanist Erasmus of Rotterdam, who had written his own biting satires on Church corruption, In Praise of Folly and Colloquia, spoke of beatings and bullying at the school by overzealous teachers who wanted to direct their young charges toward the priesthood. His own youthful love of learning had been thrashed out of him for a time by their merciless severity, he said; his time at the school was nothing more than two years lost from his life. “Their chief care, should they see any youth of unusually high spirit and quick disposition ... is to break his spirit and humble him by blows, threats, scoldings, and other devices,” he told a friend.⁶

’s Hertogenbosch, from Civitates Orbis Terrarum, 1572

Historic Cities Research Project http://historic-cities.huji.ac.il, The Jewish National and University Library of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem

The Brethren were not monks and took no vows, but they were loyal to the memory of their fourteenth-century founder, Geert Groete, who had drawn crowds with his impassioned preaching against lax ecclesiastical discipline and the corruption of the clergy. They observed a rule of sobriety and chastity that was at least as strict as that in many monasteries. More than a thousand pupils were housed in separate dormitories according to social rank and economic status, ranging from rich to poor. Gerard de Cremer was numbered straightaway among the poor students, making their way each day from the domus pauperum to the school beneath the twisted cathedral gargoyles that Hieronymus Bosch had known so well.

There he encountered the traditional three-branched humanist trivium of grammar, rhetoric, and logic, all of which looked resolutely back toward the certainties and inspiration of the past. Poetry and philosophy came from Homer, Ovid, Plato, Aristotle, and other pagan authors, and theology from Christian divines such as Augustine, Origen, and St. Jerome. Geography, too, came from the distant past: In an age when knowledge of the world was increasing faster than ever before, Gerard and his classmates were pointed sternly toward the learning of Ptolemy and Pliny. All of it was sandwiched between two, sometimes three, daily celebrations of the Mass, and all of it was in Latin. That, not the crudity of workaday Flemish, was the language of the churchman and the scholar.

Among Gerard’s teachers was the grandly named author and playwright Georgius Macropedius – a man already with a dangerous reputation of his own for sympathizing with reformers. Macropedius’s character fitted well with the stern philosophy of the school. In his plays, which were often performed by his pupils for the townsfolk, only the rod and the lash saved boys from willfulness, whoring, theft, and a shameful death on the gallows. To the general approval of the rest of the cast, recalcitrant pupils were soundly whipped until they screamed, and when their mothers tried to intervene, much the same treatment was meted out to them.

That would have been the regime in many schools, at least as far as the pupils were concerned. There was little room for sympathy or consolation. Thus, when news came that Gerard’s mother had followed his father to the grave, the boy had to cope with it on his own. Her death, like that of her husband, did not merit any official record of its cause; death, like sickness, poverty, or disaster, was an ever-present threat. Within the space of two years, Gerard had lost both his parents, and Gisbert’s generosity and his own talents were all he could rely on.

He had clearly fitted in during his time in the ascetic world of the Brethren. Unlike Erasmus, he never complained later in his life of their harshness, and the rules that the Brethren applied to their traditional task of transcribing manuscripts show how diligently he learned their lessons. “You ought to attend in your copying to these things: that you make the letters properly and perfectly, that you copy without error, that you understand the sense of what you are copying, and that you concentrate your wandering mind on the task,” said their rulebook. The art of copying was virtually destroyed by the new flood of printed books by the time Gerard was studying at ’s Hertogenbosch, but as an adult he would become known throughout Europe for the precision of his engraved lettering and his obsession with accuracy, as well as for the single-minded concentration with which he applied himself to his books. He thrived on the traditional emphasis on ancient learning. Ptolemy, introduced to him by the teachers in the cathedral, would remain his scholastic guide and mentor throughout his life.

Gerard also drew some lessons from his great-uncle and from his own earlier life: that the Church had always been a source of support and stability in the confusing world in which he was growing up, and that Gisbert’s prosperity showed the material rewards that could come from not challenging the system openly. The Brethren were always careful to keep the sympathy for the reform movement which they had inherited from their founder within bounds that were acceptable to the Church authorities. In a town where dissent and dangerous opinions were common, Gerard no doubt saw the importance of discretion and the value of security. Inside the walls he had found scholarly disputation and strict discipline, symbolized by the monkish uniform of gray hooded gowns that the boys wore, “after the ancient usage of the Brethren,” but he had also found stability.

The old world of the Catholic Church had given him security, and for all the reformist leanings, the innovative thinking, and the fascination with new skills and techniques that would mark his adult life, he never lost his instinctive sense that stability would be found in the past, in the way things had always been.

Unlike many of the Brethren’s charges, however, Gerard still had no ambition for a prosperous and honorable career in the Church like his great-uncle’s. The small boy remarkable for the dedication with which he closeted himself with his books became a serious and sober eighteen-year-old, with the prospect of a life dedicated to study. University life, just as much as that of the cloister, could offer support and a place to belong. The rich endowments and charitable foundations of the forty-three colleges of the University of Leuven meant that, as an impoverished but talented student, he could be excused payment of any fees there.* Although there were no formal requirements for admission, a prospective student would have to convince the doctors of his college that he was adequately prepared for the demanding course of study that the university would provide.⁷ Gerard’s record of study at ’s Hertogenbosch, together with the patronage and recommendation of his uncle, would have been enough to do that. He was ready to take a place in the ancient university.

Chapter Five At the College of the Castle

JOINING THE UNIVERSITY of Leuven was a solemn moment, a commitment like joining a monastery. On August 29, 1530, Gerard de Cremer knelt before the rector, Pierre de Corte – a man who would later prove his courage and friendship by standing up to the Inquisition on his former pupil’s behalf – to take the oath of matriculation, the pupil’s hands clasped between the master’s in prayer and supplication. The university was a cosmopolitan place, with more than five thousand students and scholars from France, Germany, England, Scotland, and the farthest reaches of Europe – enough to create their own distinct community. The Faculty of Arts, which Gerard joined, was divided into four colleges scattered through the town. The Colleges of the Pig, the Lily, and the Hawk were all named after ancient houses in Leuven, while the College of the Castle, in the street that led up to the duke’s old residence, was where Mercator received his board and lodging and most of his tuition.

When Duke John IV of Brabant had applied for papal approval to found the university early in the fifteenth Century, Leuven, some twenty-five miles southeast of Rupelmonde, was in decline. Many of the weavers whose labors had made it prosperous had left for England, frightened by the latest spasm of riots and fighting, and attracted by the lure of better profits in the growing English wool trade. Other cities had flourishing universities: Bologna, Paris, and Oxford had been attracting students for two centuries or more, and similar institutions were opening all over northern Europe. France had twenty universities in the fifteenth century, and the German-speaking countries about the same. A new university in Leuven brought not only prestige to the duke but prosperity to the town.

By the early sixteenth century, its reputation was growing. Its former rector, Nicolas Vernulaeus,¹ wrote a history of the university that described a peaceful academic town, with quiet fields and vineyards sheltered from the north winds by the hills around, and with well-swept and respectable houses – the very place, he enthused, for students seeking calm to pursue their studies. Even Erasmus had found it more congenial than the grammar school at ’s Hertogenbosch. Its students, he observed, were well taught, courteous, and mature. “No-one could graduate at Leuven without knowledge, manners, and age,” he declared. He had written to assure a friend: “Its agreeable and healthy climate is conducive to quiet and peaceful study; no other university can rival its intellectual life, nor the number and quality of its academic staff.”²

The establishment of the university, by attracting scholars and businesses, had played its part in the rejuvenation of Leuven, and there was clearly much life in the town beyond the college walls. The university authorities took the possibility of youthful high spirits seriously enough to set down formal statutes banning students from bearing arms, dicing and gaming in public taverns, or even walking the streets after eight o’clock at night, and their rules were stricter still inside the college. Gerard apparently reveled in the austere, contemplative life of fasting, abstinence, and strict obedience to the pater of the college. The sole official record of his time at Leuven is his inscription as a “poor student” in the books of the College of the Castle, but his friends and contemporaries all spoke of a dedicated and high-minded academic, concentrating almost obsessively on his work.

In that society, at least, there should have been no shame in his poverty. But even if the somber, monkish gown, which all the university’s pupils wore,³ disguised the differences between rich and poor, there was little fraternization between them. They all ate in the same hall, but the rich took the high table, while the poor sat at the far end of the hall; the rich students lived in private rooms, while the poor shared the dormitory in the College of the Castle. Few friendships crossed such a divide, but Mercator would have known the names of his rich colleagues, and one in particular would resonate for the rest of his life: Antoine Perrenot de Granvelle, the son of Charles V’s trusted chancellor, Nicholas Perrenot de Granvelle, was starting on his rise to power.

It was customary in scholastic circles, even among poor students, to add dignity to one’s name by translating it into Latin. Gerard’s schoolmaster at ’s Hertogenbosch, Georgius Macropedius, had started life as Joris van Lanckvelt. Gerrit Gerritszoon had already become known as the humanist Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus, and Mercator’s near contemporary Andries van Wesel would win fame as the anatomist and humanist Andreas Vesalius. The sonorous, Latinized Mercator, or merchant, suited Gerard’s own ambitions much better than de Cremer – pedlar in the vulgar Flemish. In choosing his new name as he started on his career at Leuven, he looked back to the place of his birth and the formative years of his childhood: Gerardus Mercator Rupelmundanus was born.

The rigid timetable of his days was punctuated, as it had been in ’s Hertogenbosch, by celebrations of the Mass, and ran from dawn to dusk, with a brief rest period in the afternoon. His course of studies in the university’s Faculty of Arts was essentially the same logic, physics, metaphysics, mathematics, rhetoric, and moral philosophy that students had tackled for centuries, with attention fastened as firmly on the learning of hundreds of years ago as it had been at ’s Hertogenbosch. Observation, measurement, and independent thought were all dangerous steps on the road to heresy. First among the ancient masters was Aristotle, and it was expressly forbidden even to question his teaching.

The eighteen-hundred-year-old writings of the pre-Christian Greek philosopher were used expressly to bolster and justify the position of the Catholic Church as guardian of thought and theology. The statutes of the university were strict and unambiguous about how religion, philosophy, and natural science should be approached: “You will uphold the teaching of Aristotle, except in cases which are contrary to faith. ... No-one will be allowed to reject the opinion of Aristotle as heretical ... unless it has previously been declared heretical by the Faculty of Theology.”

That official position was strictly enforced by the university authorities, with the sinister power of the Inquisition always in the background. The university had done more than bring prestige and prosperity to Leuven; it had given the dukes of Brabant and their heirs – by then, the emperor Charles V – a powerful tool of religious and political repression. Though it had a degree of independence – one condition of the papal bull by which Pope Martin V had originally consented to its establishment had been that the rector should have full criminal and civil jurisdiction over its members – the university authorities nonetheless worked closely with the imperial government. There was no home within their walls for the reformist agitation so popular in ’s Hertogenbosch. In 1522, Charles V had established a state-run Inquisition to work alongside the Church in quashing the reform movement, and the university authorities took an active part in its investigations. Leuven’s Faculty of Theology was given the task of censoring and approving all newly printed books on behalf of Charles V, and various university officials took their places in the ponderous, awe-inspiring public processions in which the Inquisition’s victims were led to punishment or public repentance. At Leuven, Mercator was studying in one of the greatest strongholds of anti-Reformation learning of the sixteenth century.

At the same time, the university boasted some of the finest teachers in Europe, who were making discoveries of their own while avoiding any direct confrontation with the authorities or the Inquisition. Erasmus had been a professor there, helping to found the Collegium Trilingue for the study of Hebrew, Latin, and Greek, and Adrian of Utrecht, one of the tutors of the young Charles V, had held the chair of philosophy, theology, and canon law before being elected pope in 1522.⁴ The renowned mathematician, astronomer, and physician Gemma Frisius, who taught Mercator about the movement of the planets and helped him as he grappled with classical geometry, was no backward-looking medieval scholar.

Gemma was a sallow, thin-faced, lame, and asthmatic genius, who had taken his name from the windswept plains of Friesland where he came from, alongside the sandbanks and marshes of the Waddenzee. Like Mercator, he came from a poor family, and his parents had died during his childhood. Though only four years older than Mercator, by the time the latter arrived at Leuven, Gemma had already established a reputation across Europe as the leading mathematician and cosmographer of the Low Countries. A contemporary engraving shows him in his academic robe and bonnet, his long face impassive, with sunken cheeks and a slightly hooked nose. His eyes stare fixedly, challengingly from the frame, and his bony fingers, wrapped casually around a globe, are heavily ringed like a nobleman’s – a picture of a man beyond riches, a scholar literally holding the world in the palm of his hand. While still a student and barely out of his teens, he had produced his own corrected edition of the Cosmographia published five years earlier by the German scholar and sometime tutor of Charles V, Petrus Apianus. The book drew on traditional ancient sources but also, through Martin Waldseemüller’s world map of 1507 and the writings of other German scholars, on the transatlantic voyages of Amerigo Vespucci and the explorers of the previous forty years. The new edition had Gemma’s name on the title page alongside that of its author and was widely accepted as the most authoritative account of the known geography of the world, appearing in some thirty different editions over the next eighty years.

Gemma’s own writings on astronomy and cosmography, De principiis astronomiae et cosmographiae, were published in 1530, the same year that Mercator joined the university. He was working on the practical application of mathematics to surveying and mapmaking, while at the same time following his medical studies, which would lead eventually to his appointment to the university’s medical faculty. He was a role model for the young Mercator, not just a scholar and polymath but a man who combined ancient learning with the most up-to-date research. Gemma was dedicated in particular to the practical application of his studies, the union of mathematics and geography. He had already started to produce the mathematical and scientific instruments for which he would become famous, and he was putting the finishing touches on his new technique of triangulation, the art of defining the location of a place by taking two separate sightings. His planimetrum, a flat wooden disk marked in degrees and fitted with a revolving pointer, could be aligned with magnetic north so that its user could take sightings of different towns across the flat Low Countries. The cathedral at Antwerp, he suggested, was an ideal place to start. First he would settle on a second fixed point nearby and walk the distance between it and the cathedral to check its measurement. Then, using his planimetrum, he would establish the angle between imaginary lines drawn from the cathedral to his observation point and from the observation point to a point of reference, such as a tower, in the distant town. He thus knew the size of one side and two angles of an imaginary triangle drawn between the cathedral, his fixed point, and the distant tower; working out the length of the other two sides, and thus the position of the distant tower, was then a matter of simple geometry. This proved the key to accurate surveying for centuries to come, and a technique which Mercator would master for his own mapmaking.

Gemma Frisius

Science Photo Library, London

Gemma had also found time to tackle the problem of calculating longitude, which had troubled mariners for centuries, and particularly since they had started making long journeys across the Ocean Sea and to the Far East. In theory at least, working out a ship’s latitude was relatively easy – instruments could measure the height of the Sun or other heavenly bodies above the horizon, and sets of tables would give a fairly accurate reading of latitude – but sailors had no accepted way of finding how far east or west they were. Gemma suggested in De principiis astronomiae et cosmographiae that it might be done with a combination of astronomical observations and the use of a reliable clock. Since the Earth was a sphere of 360 degrees that revolved once every twenty-four hours, each fifteen degrees of longitude would make one hour’s difference to the time. First, Gemma advised, the navigator should take an accurate reading of the time and a sighting of the Sun when he set off. If, when he was out at sea, he then marked the time when the Sun was in the same position in the sky, the time difference measured on the clock would tell him how many degrees east or west he had traveled.* “By this art can I find the longitude of regions, although I were a thousand miles out of my attempted course and in an unknown distance,” he declared.⁵ There were no clocks accurate enough for such a technique – it would be more than two centuries before John Harrison’s chronometer solved that problem – but the theory was impeccable. The technique was simply two hundred years ahead of the technology.

Leuven, from Civitates Orbis Terrarum, 1572

Historic Cities Research Project http://historic-cities.huji.ac.il, The Jewish National and University Library of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem

Despite the hard work of his childhood, Mercator found he lacked basic knowledge in his early days at the university. He struggled at first in Gemma’s lectures on astronomy, he admitted later, because he lacked the mathematical knowledge to grasp the arguments, so he went off alone with his geometry textbooks to follow through the logic of the classical mathematicians.

He started by teaching himself elementary geometry from the books of Gemma’s Friesland countryman Johannes Vögelin, which he said he easily mastered. He then tackled the first six books of Euclid, beginning with the simple, basic definitions – that a line has length but no breadth, for instance, or that a surface has only length and breadth – and gradually building up his understanding of Euclid’s theoretical arguments about lines, points, circles, triangles, and the relationships between them. Mercator’s method was to take a complex geometric proposition and follow it logically, stage by stage, continually referring back to earlier theorems as he went. In Book IV, for instance, he worked painstakingly through Euclid’s seventeen-hundred-year-old instructions for fitting a straight line into a circle, and in Book VI, he followed through the proof that a straight line drawn through a triangle parallel to one side will cut the other two sides in equal proportions. Each proposition built upon the ones before it, so that by the time he had finished, he had mastered the technique of theoretical reasoning to the point where he could follow Gemma’s lectures and understand the principles of triangulation. Mercator shrugged off this minor achievement: “In a few days, I got to the point where there was nothing in the six books that I had not diligently studied and learned,” he wrote later.⁶

He worked alone but turned to Gemma for help and advice whenever he found himself puzzled by Euclid. In a mark of singular favor, he was invited for private tuition in Gemma’s house as one of the familia of students who sat at his feet. Gemma’s scholarship had won him the regard and friendship of Johann Flaxbinder, the ambassador of the king of Poland to the court of Charles V, and Flaxbinder had tried unsuccessfully to persuade him to leave the lowlands for a post as Polish court cosmographer. The books he published, which supported him during his years at Leuven, were dedicated to such figures as Charles’s advisers Maximilian Transylvain and Jean Obernburger, and to Jean Khreutter, a senior councillor to the queen of Hungary. The emperor himself summoned Gemma to his court in Brussels on occasion for discussions on matters of science and geography. Gemma Frisius was Mercator’s first introduction to the eminent circles on whose support his prosperity would be built.

His influence over the young student went farther. Euclid was entirely theoretical – the study of logical argument as much as lines, triangles, and circles – but Mercator’s interest, like that of Gemma, was engaged from the start in its practical use. “In geometry, I only pursued those studies that were to do with measuring, the location of places, the laying out of maps, the dimensions of territories, and finding the distances and sizes of celestial bodies,” he reminisced when he was sixty-nine years old in a letter to a Swiss Protestant pastor, offering advice on how a child might be taught geometry. “In mathematics, I directed my studies to cosmography alone.”⁷ His aim throughout was to improve his skills as a geographer, surveyor, cartographer, and astronomer.

He had other interests as well – interests that went far beyond the apparently innocent theories of geometry and took him into areas on which Aristotle and the Church had laid down unshakable rules. Ever since his boyhood in Rupelmonde, Mercator had been fascinated by the natural world, but at Leuven his interest was piqued by nature in its widest sense – not just in plants and animals but in the shape of the world and the universe. He built on his studies of Euclid to understand the movements of the stars and planets, as he described years later: “The contemplation of Nature delighted me marvellously, because she teaches us the causes of all things, the sources of all knowledge. But I delighted particularly in the study of the creation of the world, which shows us the beautiful order, the harmonious proportion, and the singular beauty which is there to be admired in all created things.”⁸ He saw no clash with his religious belief; to study Creation was a way to understand and appreciate its wonder, not a challenge to divine power.

The university authorities, though, were not as confident that such contemplations were free of heresy. For them, the Earth was the focus of the universe, the unequivocal center of everything, and arguments about order, proportion, and beauty were at best irrelevant and at worst a direct challenge to Holy Writ.

Aristotle had also taught that the oikoumene, the habitable world, was limited to the regions of Europe, Asia, and North Africa that lay between the frozen northern zone and the blistering heat of the “torrid zone.” There was, he said, a symmetrical arrangement to the South, although the southern temperate zone remained uninhabited. Since the first centuries of the Christian Church, philosophers and theologians had pointed out that only descendants of the animals in Noah’s Ark – safely in the northern zone – could have survived the Flood. That was a view which the church of Mercator’s day supported, studiously ignoring the fact that sailors over the previous hundred years had encountered both animals and human beings around the equator and farther south.

For several hundred years, the physical reality of Aristotle had been accepted as fitting most closely with the Christian belief in an all-powerful, eternal Creator; experimentation, measurement, and empirical questioning that might throw Aristotle’s conclusions into doubt were not allowed by the Church. The challenge to Aristotle was as much part of the Reformation as were the attacks on corruption in the Church. Luther’s delight when he declared triumphantly, “Aristotle is going downhill, and perhaps he will go all the way down into hell,”⁹ reflected Aristotle’s position as one of the Catholic Church’s central pillars against reform. Revolution was no less threatening to the authorities because it was in the mind; pull one brick from the towering building of medieval philosophy, faith, and theology, they believed, and the whole structure might come tumbling down.

FOR TWO YEARS Mercator continued quietly with his studies, avoiding any clash with the authorities, until he was awarded his magisterii gradum. The master’s degree would have allowed him to progress from the Faculty of Arts to further studies in medicine, Church law, civil law, or theology, as Gemma had done. Instead, as he stood on the threshold of the academic career he must have dreamed of, he gave the first sign of the inner turmoil he was suffering. He remained a member of the university, subject to its rules and regulations and – crucially, as he would discover – entitled to its protection, but he abandoned his formal course of study. He left Leuven in 1532 for nearby Antwerp.

Many years later, Mercator admitted that as a young man at Leuven, he had begun to have his first doubts about the wisdom of the philosophers, and to believe that the contemplation of nature, science, and the natural world might offer a better insight into God’s will. “When I understood how the world of Genesis and Moses did not agree in many ways with Aristotle and the rest of the philosophers, then I began to doubt the truth of all the philosophers, and to test it against the mysteries of nature.”¹⁰ Those words about his youthful doubts, taken from a treatise on Genesis published after his death, seem calm and judicious, but his actions at the time suggested that they hid an agonizing mental struggle.

Almost certainly, it was with these cogitations on the incompatibility of Aristotle and Genesis that the first seeds of Mercator’s lifelong interest in synthesizing the various ancient and medieval accounts of history were sown. Whether his thoughts were written down for eventual publication or not, they were to develop more than thirty years later into his Chronologia and Cosmographia.

The reasons behind his decision to leave Leuven will never be known for certain, nor will the reaction of his great-uncle, who had spent so many years building his own career in the Church and keeping quiet about his reformist ideas. Mercator was not expelled – he claimed later¹¹ that he left “alone, and of my own volition” – and he kept open the option of returning to the university. Perhaps he had no clear idea at the time of what he would do or how he would live outside the walls of the College of the Castle. Yet in choosing Antwerp as his destination, he threw his religious belief, his academic future, even his life into jeopardy.

Chapter Six Doubts and Dangers

THE ROAD TO ANTWERP took Mercator through the town of Mechelen, about halfway from Leuven. There is no way of knowing whether he broke his journey then and even stayed for a brief while, but once he reached Antwerp he would certainly have heard about the books, maps, and ideas that were emanating from the town. Mechelen buzzed with intellectual life. The great port city of Antwerp was unchallenged as the mercantile and commercial center of the region, and Leuven was the finest academic institution of northern Europe, but fate and the whims of mighty families had made the little town of Mechelen, under its massive thirteenth-century Cathedral of St. Rombout, a hotbed of intellectual debate and creativity. There, away from the dead hand of the university authorities, the challenging ideas of a new world found expression.

In the early years of the sixteenth century, the town had gone through a brief period of glittering prosperity, home to the court of the young Charles V’s regent, Margaret of Austria. Charles himself, though born in Ghent, spent the first sixteen years of his life in Mechelen, surrounded by artists and philosophers such as the German engraver Albrecht Dürer, the humanist thinker Erasmus of Rotterdam, and Sir Thomas More, future chancellor of King Henry VIII of England. There were also spies, sending back information to their masters in the various courts of Europe about the humanist and occasionally anti-Catholic ideas that were expressed in the town. The composer and copyist Petrus Alamire* worked as a musician at the court and at various times supplied secret reports to Charles’s advisers and to King Henry in England.

Even though Mechelen’s glory was fading by the time Mercator traveled there in the early 1530s, the prosperity that came with such fame remained. Many businesses had been attracted to the town – among them, the burgeoning trade of printing. Mechelen was known as one of the most important centers in the Low Countries for the rapidly developing technology, and that in turn had encouraged geographers and mapmakers, giving it a widespread reputation as a place of geographic study.

Gemma Frisius and his circle were in touch with some of the town’s brightest intellectual flames, among them Frans Smunck, or Franciscus Monachus. If one of them sent Mercator to meet him, it would have been done discreetly, because Franciscus was a marked man; but it seems likely that the young student paid him several visits during his months in Antwerp. Franciscus was one of a religious community known as the Minorite Friars, who believed that by practicing complete self-denial, poverty, and humility, they would lead the world back to pure Christianity. They had been outspoken in their criticism of corruption in the Church for more than two centuries, and at various times, some of their leaders had gone so far as to question the legitimacy of the papacy itself, so that members of the order had been harassed, excommunicated, even burned at the stake. Such a history meant that, at best, the Friars were regarded with suspicion by the Inquisition and the university authorities – but Franciscus had a dangerous reputation of his own as well.

A few years before, he had constructed the first globe to be seen in the Low Countries, along with a short book and a world map. The globe has been lost, but his map shows that he was one of the most advanced geographic thinkers of his day. When it was produced in 1526, the American continents had gradually taken shape after Magellan’s voyage around the southern tip, and Franciscus had done his best to incorporate the latest discoveries of the expeditions that had been pushing northward up its western coastline. North America floundered in a blur of guesswork, depicted as an outgrowth of Asia, and a narrow channel was shown cutting the isthmus to South America, almost foreshadowing the Panama Canal 375 years later. Petrus Apianus had shown such a channel in his world map of 1520, but he had achieved nothing like the accuracy of Franciscus Monachus’s depiction of South America.

Franciscus Monachus’s worldview

British Library, London, Rare Books and Maps Collections

Franciscus’s thoughts ran in more perilous channels as well. By the time Mercator met him he was in his midforties and was known as a critic of the Aristotelian ideas that were at the center of religious orthodoxy, a believer in the importance of observation and measurement, and a man who challenged accepted wisdom. The message of his map had been that exploration, pushing westward to the Indies, was a profitable enterprise, while in his book he had derided “the rubbish of Ptolemy,” and by implication denied the truth of Aristotle’s view of a five-zoned world.

The jumble of fact, rumor, report, and conjecture that surrounded the emerging Americas, let alone Franciscus’s contemptuous view of the great Ptolemy, might have been meat enough for discussion between the two men, but their meetings seem to have ranged over the whole story of the Creation and the history of the world. These were more controversial studies by far than consideration of the coastline of the Americas.

For obvious reasons, Mercator never spoke about his time at Mechelen. How often he traveled there, when or even whether he saw Franciscus, how long he stayed if they did meet, who else might have been with them, were all secrets he took to his grave. Despite the dangers involved, the two men did write to each other, though their letters have been lost. Events a decade later suggest that the religious authorities, at least, believed that their contents would have been enough to damn Mercator as a heretic.

IN ANTWERP, days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months, and still Mercator stayed away from the university. He seems to have been deep in study, agonizing over the conflicts between the world he saw and the world Aristotle described, between reason and the Bible, no doubt debating whether he could return to an institution that stifled original thought as Leuven did. The pleas of the doctors and professors, instructing him to return, were all ignored. It is a mark of how much he was valued as a scholar that when he did eventually go back, they swallowed their pride and readmitted him into the university.¹

The practicalities of making a living from his knowledge soon took hold. Even with the support of the University of Leuven, a delight in nature and in the order and proportion of Creation would never put bread on his table. Philosophy, as his friend and first biographer Walter Ghim put it, “would not enable him to support a family in the years to come.”² By contrast, geography – globes and maps, like those he had probably seen in Franciscus’s cell among the Minorite Friars – was of continuing interest to wealthy sponsors. Mercator’s religious anxieties, his fascination with new ideas, his interest in the developing picture of the world were all genuine enough, but his later business career showed that he had a shrewd idea of where his own material interests lay – and it was not with the study of philosophy.

Mercator had been granted a license by the university to teach his own classes to young students, but private tuition was never more than a temporary way to support oneself. Through Gemma Frisius, he began to establish contacts and friendships of his own, developing his acquaintance with the young Antoine Perrenot de Granvelle, who was clearly a valuable patron for the future. Mercator needed little instruction in how to make himself agreeable to such an influential figure. “Your Grace,” “Your Reverence,” and “most reverend master” are among the phrases with which his correspondence with the young bishop of Arras was larded. Throughout his career, the effusive dedications of maps, globes, and books to powerful sponsors like Granvelle and his father would bear witness to Mercator’s passion for developing a network of influential friends. Such contacts were invaluable to a talented and ambitious man with a career to find and no wealth on which to establish it.

Gemma, with the help of a local goldsmith, Gaspard van der Heyden, had established a workshop in Leuven several years before, to design and make scientific instruments and globes, and in the early 1530s he invited Mercator to join them. Such an invitation was immensely flattering, a mark of considerable respect from someone whose good opinion was valuable, and Mercator had no hesitation in accepting it.

Chapter Seven Gemma’s Globe

UNDER THE INFLUENCE of the painters, philosophers, and thinkers who thronged his aunt’s court in Mechelen, the awkward young Charles V grew into a cultured and sophisticated patron of artists and craftsmen, with his own collection of paintings and works of art. Other leading figures in the Low Countries followed his example. Antoine de Granvelle built a collection in the archbishop’s palace in Mechelen that eventually included at least seven paintings by Peter Brueghel, already one of the most popular artists of his day.¹ Prosperous local merchants and government officials bought paintings as well: The royal tax collector Niclaes Jonghelinck² outdid even Granvelle with a collection of sixteen or more Brueghels, and when Jean Noirot, a former minister of the mint, was declared bankrupt in 1572, his creditors were able to auction off dozens of paintings by leading Flemish artists. Art was a flourishing business: The guild lists in sixteenth-century Antwerp show no fewer than 300 artists and 124 goldsmiths living and working in a city of around 150,000 people.

The emperor and his acolytes had, following decades of exploration, developed a passionate interest in science and discovery. Charles was fascinated by scientific and surveying instruments, partly for their practical use in assessing the contours of a battlefield, and partly as beautiful artifacts in their own right. Gemma and Gaspard had been making such instruments for several years. Gemma’s planimetrum for surveying the flat lowland landscape worked on very similar principles to those of the traditional astrolabes such as Columbus had used to measure the elevation of the Sun or the planets above the horizon, and thus calculate his latitude, and their workshop turned out both devices. Gemma also produced his own version of the astrolabe, known as the Catholicon, which simplified the calculations, as well as quadrants for telling the time by the Sun or the stars, various tools for mariners and surveyors, and armillary spheres, whose concentric rings around a central globe could be used to demonstrate the great circles of the heavens.

These were practical tools for navigation or study but also articles of intrinsic beauty. Manufacturing them, finely detailed and embellished as they were, was a job for highly skilled craftsmen capable both of precise engineering and delicate artistry – a challenge to goldsmiths and engravers, for the finest examples would command a high price from scholars and collectors alike.

Charles was also one of many wealthy collectors to keep a library hung with maps. The patent he granted to protect the first globe to come from the new workshop, and to prevent unauthorized copying of Gemma, Gaspard, and Mercator’s work,* noted with some satisfaction that it would record for the admiration of future generations “our own kingdom which, by the grace of God, encompasses many islands and territories practically unknown to any previous century.” Where the emperor and aristocracy led, the newly prosperous middle classes were eager to follow. Geography had captured the popular imagination, and the prosperity of Flanders meant there was money to be spent.

Hans Holbein’s famous picture The Ambassadors (1533) shows Jean de Dinteville, ambassador to London from the French king Francis I, posing grandly with his colleague, the bishop of Lavour. On the desk between them lie a terrestrial and a celestial globe, one depicting the Earth, the other the stars and the planets – incontrovertible evidence of their own wealth, power, and wisdom. The globe was as much a fashion statement as the ambassador’s richly furred gown, demonstrating the growing control of the environment that the maritime discoveries embodied – confident symbols of the outward-looking spirit of the age.

Hans Holbein the Younger’s The Ambassadors

National Gallery, London

The idea that the Earth was round had been widely accepted for centuries, but the full significance of it was just beginning to dawn as the trading implications of Vasco da Gama’s voyage to India and Ferdinand Magellan’s rounding of Cape Horn became plain. It was no longer a matter of abstract theory; vast fortunes could be and were being made by exploiting the fact that the Earth was a sphere.

Gemma and Gaspard both had some experience in the manufacture of globes. Gemma had produced one on his own in 1529 and included a sketch of it as the frontispiece to one of his textbooks of astronomy, while Gaspard had engraved the globe that Mercator’s friend and mentor Franciscus Monachus had designed in Mechelen. The first globe that the three men produced together in 1535 was a delicate structure of papieren bert, or cardboard – a flimsy sphere just over thirty-six centimeters in diameter, barely three millimeters thick, and coated with a thin layer of plaster for strength and smoothness. Onto that was pasted a map that Gemma had created, drawing, he said, on the works of Ptolemy, Marco Polo, and the Portuguese explorer Gaspar de Corte-Real, who had traveled along the coast of Newfoundland early in the century searching for slaves.

There was more than geography to the map. Gemma knew it would need the approval of Charles’s imperial court before he could offer it for sale, and he took care that Tunis, conquered by the emperor’s forces only a year earlier, should be clearly marked within his domains. That was a detail, a small piece of political flattery, but across the world, Gemma was anxious to draw on the latest information. It is clear from the one surviving copy of the globe, now in Vienna’s Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, that he consulted the reports of the Portuguese explorers in the East, so that the Indian peninsula, shriveled and flat on Ptolemy’s maps, showed its true triangular shape, and the island of Ceylon, whose size was so exaggerated by Ptolemy, was almost the correct shape and size. The outline of Africa, which only a few decades before had been a matter of conjecture, stretching southward to join the “great undiscovered land” around the South Pole, had been fixed by years of Portuguese trading. Where once had been tracts of empty space, dozens of islands, rivers, and countries were engraved by name – the Sinus Barbaricus (Bay of Savages), off the northeast coast, or the Trogloditica Regio (Land of the Troglodytes), stretching inland. The island of “Zandibar,” known by repute for centuries because of the spices that were transported by camel through Arabia to Europe, carried a regretful note – “This island not yet certainly explored” – and lay far out in the Indian Ocean, hundreds of miles from its true position.

Ferdinand Magellan’s voyage had brought back more details of the islands of Southeast Asia, although that area is so damaged on the Vienna globe that much of it is obscure. To the west, Gemma accepted the amazing piece of guesswork – if that is what it was – by Martin Waldseemüller, supported by more recent Spanish vessels sailing regularly to the west coast of the Americas, and drew in a wide Pacific Ocean separating an abbreviated America from the Asian landmass. Gemma’s map was a marked contrast both with the bulging Asian-American coastline of Franciscus Monachus and with Martin Behaim’s America-less world.

THE NEW TECHNIQUE OF PRINTING, as much as advances in geographic knowledge, had rendered Behaim’s unique, hand-painted globe of 1492 obsolete. By the early sixteenth century, most of the scores of printing houses scattered across northern Europe were producing not only typescript but also pictures and maps; the printed globe, like the book whose technology it had adapted, was sweeping across the continent. The roots of Mercator’s future commercial success lay in mastering this rapidly developing medium.

Printing had established itself in Leuven within twenty years after the first books came off the presses in Germany,* but the change from woodcuts to the more delicate copperplate in the mid – sixteenth century transformed the Netherlands into Europe’s unchallenged center for mapmaking and map publishing. The jewelry trade, which had developed from Antwerp’s traditional commerce in gold and precious stones, had attracted the finest line engravers in the world to the city. Gaspard was only one of many goldsmiths who had adapted his traditional skills to the rapidly expanding and profitable business of printing.