“He was then sixty-two years old, an age by which most men are in the grave or at least occupying a chair in Death's antechamber.”

“Who are you?''My name is Francesca Giordano.'Il re dei contrabbandieri paled. He pressed himself into the high back of his chair and stared at me in disbelief.'You can't be her. She's old and has warts.''Because she is strega? Ask yourself, why would any self-respecting witch go about looking old and with warts?”

“A few old men might cling to their mitres and mumble their prayers, but they were a dying breed. It was men like Borgia who were the Church now. They had transformed it into a mimers' play filled with posturing and pretense, a performance to distract the rabble while they went about their worldly business out of sight.Where was the sheperd to stand against such wolves?”

“Della Rovere knows," I said, "or at least he suspects." "What makes you say that?" "I saw him in the passage a short time ago. He looked. . . upset." "You know he is prone to constipation? Perhaps it was that.”

“Who is Nando?" Cesare asked. "Rocco's son," I replied. "A child." Make no mistake, Cesare was a selfish and ruthless man. The entire course of his life proves this. But for all that, he could on ocassion actually be a man - and by that I do not mean that he possessed scrotum and penis, as does the rudest hog rooting in a sty. He had an instinct to care for those weaker than himself, especially children, whom he liked and valued far more than he did most adults. But just then he was very young and lacking in the thin - in Cesare's case, extremely thin - veneer of civilization that most men manage to acquire as they pass through life. That being the case, he gave voice to what was, in all honesty, my own instinctive response to Rocco's news. "Merda." I could not have put it better.”

“He turned his head just then and for a moment, our eyes met. I would like to tell you that I saw the face of evil when I looked at the Grand Inquisitor, but in fact he seemed like so many men who serve Holy Mother Church: a bureaucrat for whom the suffering of humanity is of no account compared to his imagined visions of the will of God. It is said that the Devil enters through back doors and in disguise, but men such as Torquemada never seemed to consider that. He is dead now, as I tell this tale. I wonder how warmly the One he served welcomed him into eternity.”

“Men prickle for so many reasons it is often impossible to know what provokes them on any given occasion.”