The Family - Mario Puzo [175]
That night he was determined to rid himself of his passion for Lucrezia and to live an honorable life with Lottie and his daughter, Louise. If he ever escaped his present fate—if he was granted grace by the Heavenly Father.
Cesare remembered then what his father had said years ago, when Cesare told him he didn’t believe in God, the Virgin Mary, or the saints. He could hear his father’s voice. “Many sinners say they don’t believe in God, because they fear punishment after death. So they try to renounce truth.” The Pope had taken Cesare’s hands in his own and continued fervently. “Listen, my son, men lose their faith. The cruelties of this world are too much for them, and so they question an everlasting and loving God; they question his infinite mercy. They question the Holy Mother Church. But a man must keep faith alive with action. Even the saints themselves were men of action. I think nothing of those holy men who scourge themselves and ponder the mysterious ways of mankind while hidden away in their monasteries. They do nothing for the living church; they will not help it endure in this temporal world. It is men like you and myself who must do our own particular duty. Even though,” and here Alexander raised a commanding papal finger, “our souls may rest for a time in purgatory. When I say my prayers, when I confess my sins, that is my consolation for some of the terrible things I must do. It does not matter what our humanists say, those believers in the Greek philosophies who think that mankind is all that exists. There is an Almighty God and he is merciful and he is understanding. That is our faith. And you must believe. Live with your sins, confess them or not, but never lose faith.”
At the time the Pope’s speech had meant nothing to Cesare. Now, though he struggled with faith, he had confessed to whatever God could hear. But back then the only words he heard were these: “Remember, my son, you are my brightest hope for the future of the Borgia.”
One night, after midnight, Cesare saw his cell door swing quietly open. Expecting a guard on some late mission, he saw instead Duarte Brandao carrying a coil of rope.
“Duarte, what in heaven’s name are you doing here?” Cesare asked, his heart beating wildly.
“Rescuing you, my friend,” Duarte answered. “But hurry. We must leave at once.”
“What about the guards?” Cesare asked.
“They have been handsomely bribed—a skill I mastered long ago,” Duarte said as he uncoiled the rope.
“We’re going to climb down that?” Cesare asked, frowning. “It looks too short.”
“It is,” Duarte said, smiling. “I have it here only for show, to protect the guards. Their commander will believe that is how you escaped.” Duarte tied the rope to an iron bracket in the wall and threw it out the window, then turned to Cesare. “We will take a much easier route.”
Cesare followed Duarte down the circular staircase of the castle, and out a small door in the rear of the building. No guard was in sight. Duarte ran to the spot where the rope he had thrown was dangling from the window, far short of the ground. He reached in the pocket of his cloak and pulled out what looked like a terra-cotta flask.
He said, “Chicken blood. I’ll spread some on the ground below the rope, then in a trail leading south. They’ll think you were hurt jumping from the rope and limped off in that direction. But in truth you are going north.”
Cesare and Duarte made their way across a field and climbed to a hilltop where two horses were waiting, held by a small boy.
“Where are we going, Duarte?” Cesare