The Family - Mario Puzo [166]
Cesare grew sicker as Dr. Maruzza, fascinated by both his leeches and his own skill, continued. “We must give them time to feed. They will suck the bad blood from your father’s body, and help him to recover.”
When Dr. Maruzza felt sufficient blood had been let, he removed the leeches, declaring, “I believe His Holiness is already better.”
Indeed Alexander’s fever seemed lower, but now he was cold, clammy, and deathly pale.
Maruzza then turned to Cesare. “And now for you, my son,” he said, holding forth more leeches. But Cesare found the process disgusting, and so he refused. But what did he know of modern medicine? Besides, he felt so sick he was beyond caring.
By evening, despite the doctor’s optimism, it was plain that Alexander was becoming sicker; some feared he must be nearing death.
Upstairs, in his own apartments, Cesare was informed by Duarte that his mother, Vanozza, had visited the Pope and was seen leaving his room weeping. She had stopped by to see Cesare, but did not want to wake him.
Now Cesare insisted that he be brought to his father’s bedside. Unable to walk, he was carried on a litter down to the musty sickroom, where he slumped weakly into a chair beside Alexander’s bed. He reached out and took his father’s hand, kissing it.
Pope Alexander, lying on his back, his belly fermenting with toxins, his lungs filled with thick fluid, found it difficult to breathe. He fell in and out of a dreamlike sleep, his mind often cloudy, but occasionally clear as a bell.
He looked up to see his son Cesare sitting beside his bed, his face drawn and pale, his auburn hair dull and lifeless. He was touched by the concern he saw on Cesare’s face.
He thought about his children. Had he taught his sons well enough? Or had he corrupted and disarmed them by exercising too much power, both as their father and as the Holy Father?
No sooner had he asked the question than the sins he had visited upon his children seemed to pass before his eyes, in separate images of such clarity, dimension, and emotion as he had never seen before. And suddenly he understood. All his questions had been answered.
Now Alexander looked up at Cesare. “My son, I have wronged you and I beg your forgiveness.”
Cesare watched his father with a mixture of compassion and wariness. “What is it, Papa?” he said, with such tenderness that he almost brought the Pope to tears.
“I spoke of power as evil,” Alexander said, struggling to breathe. “But I fear I never explained it fully. I warned you of it, rather than encouraging you to examine it more closely. I never explained that the only good reason to exercise power is in the service of love.” His breath made a hissing sound.
“How does that follow, Papa?” Cesare asked.
Suddenly Alexander was light-headed. He felt young again—a cardinal sitting in his quarters, discoursing with his two sons and daughter while the baby played. He felt his breath come easier. “If you love nothing, then power is an aberration, and more important still a threat. For power is dangerous, and can turn at any moment.”
He slipped back into a dream, it seemed, and now imagined his son as papal general, imagined the battles fought and won, saw the bloody woundings, the brutal killings, and the devastation of the people he had conquered.
He heard Cesare call to him. He heard his son ask, as though from long ago and far away, “Is power not a virtue? Does it not help save the souls of many?”
“My son,” Alexander mumbled. “Power for itself proves nothing. It is an empty exercise of one man’s will over another’s. Not something of virtue.”
Cesare reached for his father’s hand and held it tight. “Father, speak later, for it seems to draw strength from you.”
Alexander smiled, and in his mind it was a brilliant smile, but Cesare saw only a grimace. Sucking in as much air as his sick lungs could bear, he spoke again. “Without love, power places man closer to the animals than to the angels.” The Pope