I also felt a shamed kind of relief: nobody here knew the wooer was a friend of mine. Brabantio had just made it plain that in these rarefied circles I had stumbled upward into, Roderigo’s efforts were fit for mockery, not sympathy. How should I interact with him when our paths next crossed, as they unavoidably would, at some social event? I found him increasingly tiresome as the years went by, but the ties of childhood instilled a very deep loyalty.
A FEW NIGHTS LATER, Othello and I were invited once again to Senator Brabantio’s for supper. Emilia was not invited, and Desdemona did not join us—but several other senators did, as well as Zuane da Porto, Othello’s lieutenant, and Marco Salamon, Othello’s civilian counterpart.
Military and civilian have always been rigorously intermeshed in Venice. The commander in chief must answer to a committee of twenty civilians, all patricians in various government committees. The army is lousy with senior senators and retired military men, all functioning as “commissioners,” who constantly watch over all things military. To prevent disgruntled officers from surreptitiously forming private militias capable of threatening the state, patrician superintendents are designated to shadow every officer, from captain general to paymaster. Remarkably, this baroque arrangement has always worked well for Venice, and over the course of nearly a millennia nobody has ever managed, or even seriously attempted, a coup. When the army, Senate, nobles, and richest merchants are all in bed with one another, it creates a marvelous unanimity of purpose. However, it also creates a stupefaction of endless meetings.
The subject today was the refortification of Zara against a Turkish incursion. Zara, just across the northern Adriatic from Venice, was the linchpin of the Dalmatian coast. If the Turks were to seize it, they would be in an alarmingly secure position to attack Venice, the Italian peninsula, and Hungary. It was a very small city, but its famed defenses and location gave it enormous strategic significance. Giulio Savorgnan, who governed there, had sent a long list of what the city required to withstand a Turkish siege. So we would be taking with us lots of explosive devices, artillery, munitions and other arms, baskets and buckets and bricks and carbon and iron, masons, physicians, and of course plenty of hangman’s rope to deter deserters.
“Where is our young Florentine?” I asked, pleased by his absence. “Is not this sort of reckoning his specialty?”
“Cassio’s servant sent word that he was indisposed tonight,” Brabantio said.
“We have no real need of him,” Othello said. “This is not an abstract conversation but the making of specific plans, involving real men and real oceans and real stones.”
Cassio’s servant? I wondered. Michele Cassio had a servant, staying with him in the enlisted men’s barracks? Even if he were from a wealthy family, I found this arrangement odd, but nobody else around the table noticed. So I said nothing and joined the conversation with full attention, as we established the size of the force Othello would be taking with him to Zara, and which officers—in addition to da Porto and myself, of course. We pulled out charts and maps and diagrams, and discussed what specific part of the fortress wall required amendment; we established from where the rock would come; what best route to take to get there; whom to hire for carving and whom for smithing. We attended to details that went unnoticed in Michele Cassio’s meticulous arithmetic: the political leanings of the local masons and their guilds, the religious tensions between Catholics and the Orthodoxy, which families with direct kinship ties to Venice lived on the landward side of the walled city. . . .
THE MEETING ENDED LATE. It had been too long since I had been entirely in male company attending to military matters, and even if the senators were not military men themselves, they understood and appreciated the three of us who were.
Othello, da Porto, and I went by gondola through the close canals of Castello, debarking near the Salizada dei Pignater Bridge. We had then only a short walk along a street that was (thanks to its proximity to the Arsenal) almost as redolent with brothels as was the Rialto. Othello was preoccupied with the results of the meeting, and wore silence like a cloak.
I walked to Othello’s left, da Porto to his right; as we passed beneath one open balcony full of laughing half-dressed women and drunken half-dressed men, something caught my eye, and I glanced up over my left shoulder. One of the brunette whores, her nipples plum-colored in the lamplight, was wearing a soldier’s cap with a bright blue ostrich feather stuck into it.
I looked away shocked, and then looked back again.
The tall, broad-chested young Adonis who was fingering the plummy nipples was none other than Michele Cassio.
He was far too drunk to have recognized me—or so I thought, until our eyes met. My own eyes widened in amazement, and I stopped abruptly. Othello took another preoccupied step or two before realizing he had lost his ensign. He stopped, turned to face me, da Porto behind him.
“Iago?”
I snapped my eyes away from Michele and down onto the cobbled street. “I’m sorry, General, I thought I lost a buckle. I heard something clatter on the pavement. It must have been a noise from within.” Before he could look up and notice Cassio, I began to stride purposefully in the direction of the Arsenal gate. “That was a very useful evening,” I said.
“Indeed,” Othello said. (Da Porto almost never spoke.) “Now we need only establish a departure date, and debate whether or not you will bring your charming wife with you.” He grinned and in the dark, nudged me playfully. “I am sure you do not want to leave her here with the likes of that Cassio around.”
“Oh, General,” I said pleasantly, unruffled. “I may be a jealous husband, but I am confident Emilia is not Michele Cassio’s kind of woman.”
THE NEXT MORNING, I entered Othello’s office in the Sagittary unannounced, a privilege I’d earned. I surprised young Michele Cassio in earnest whispered conversation with him. Their conversation ended abruptly, almost guiltily, upon my entrance. I felt a twinge of unease as I realized something was being hushed, but I assumed Cassio’s embarrassment was due to my seeing him on the whorehouse balcony.
“Good morning, General,” I said. And nodding to the other, “Sir.”
“Iago,” Othello said, welcoming. “Cassio and I have been adjusting some figures for the packing of supplies on the ships to Zara. Your arrival is fortuitous.”
“My arrival is predictable,” I said, trying to sound offhand. “This is when I appear every morning except Sundays. It is my duty to oversee the provisions of the ships, so I am very glad you did not go too far into your discussions without my presence.”
Othello looked bemused. “You are peevish this morning, Ensign. Did you not sleep well?”
“What new information have you got for me, General?” I said. “If there are extra supplies to be ordered, I must delegate my staff to obtain them at once.” I made no attempt to smile at Cassio. “Are you coming with us, sir?”
“No, no,” Othello said. “Michele is staying here, he has some bit of his training to finish yet—funnily enough, Iago, it is his artillery he must improve upon. I would leave you here to train him if you were not so indispensable to me, but as it is, of course, you are coming with me.”
The pleasure and relief I felt at this declaration almost embarrassed me. “Thank you, General,” I said at once; sensing something more was needed, I turned to Cassio and added, “Artillery practice requires precision, which seems to be your strength in many ways, so I am sure you will excel at it quickly enough. And by the time we return, I believe you shall be an officer. But what has happened to your feather, sir?”
Cassio automatically reached up toward his cap for the blue feather. The quill was broken two-thirds of the way up, and the end of it flopped over like a wounded limb. “It was a dancing accident,” he said smoothly. With his Florentine elegance he managed to say this without sounding ridiculous.
“How does one break a feather in a dancing accident?” asked Othello, amused.
After a blink, Cassio explained, “I doffe
d it to a lady I was partnered with, and it was crushed by the gentleman beside me losing his balance and falling against me suddenly. The feather gave way under his weight but was pinned at such an angle that there was some damage done. I have replacements, of course.” He said this with a reassuring smile, as if we might be concerned he didn’t.
“Why haven’t you replaced it, then?” I asked. “You are point-device in your accoutrement, it seems unlike you to let a broken feather linger in your cap.”
This time the hesitation was longer. “To be honest, I have not been back to my quarters since the accident occurred,” he said.
“Oh, ho!” Othello said with a hearty chuckle. “I thought I smelled stale wine upon your breath when you came in. You have a secret life as a carouser, do you not, Michele?”
Cassio reddened. “Nothing interferes with my duty or my commitment here, General,” he insisted.
“Your clothes are very neat for having been out all night,” Othello commented, with a gesture.
“Perhaps they were not on him for much of the evening,” I postulated dryly.
Realizing he was going to be merely teased, not punished, Cassio reddened further and allowed himself a small sheepish smile. “The gentlemen are astute in their observations,” he said.
Othello turned to me with a grin, his gesture still pointing toward Cassio. “This Michele is a strange fellow,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “He is so careful to appear proper but then he has nude dancing accidents when none of us are looking. Ha!”
“I would attribute it to his bachelor life,” I said. And with a meaningful look at Michele, I added, “I am sure his blue feather has survived plenty of dancing accidents before this one.”
“I am a bachelor and I don’t have that life,” Othello said.
“Or that feather,” I pointed out.
“That must be it.” Othello chuckled. “Michele, get rid of the feather and do not replace it. It encourages uncouth behavior for an officer, and you will be an officer very soon.”
Cassio instantly snatched the feather from his cap, pulling the cap off his head along with it. “Of course, sir,” he said awkwardly and fumbled to pull the feather loose. It was the first time I had ever seen a Florentine fumble. Venetian despite myself, I enjoyed bearing witness to it. He replaced the cap.
“Give it to me,” Othello said sternly, of the feather. Cassio did so.
With a sudden grin, Othello reached up and poked the damaged quill into his own curly hair. “Let’s see if it brings me your luck with ladies.” He laughed.
I smirked; Cassio managed a nervous little chuckle. Othello pulled out the quill and tossed it on his desk. “Enough of this silliness,” he said. “Michele, you will observe and honor every detail of what we discussed?”
“Of course, General,” Cassio said, immediately the smooth and polished Florentine again.
Again I winced with a twinge of unease. I longed to know what they were referring to, but I was too proud to ask.
Chapter 25
EMILIA, BY OTHELLO’S DECREE, was to remain in Venice. He announced it would be a brief but tedious posting, and surely a lady as lovely and lively as my wife had better ways to spend her time. I cannot say I appreciated this sentiment.
We had an unremarkable sea crossing to Zara. Once encamped there, the enlisted men did nearly all the work. It was hard labor, without glamour: doubling the thickness of one segment of the city wall surrounding the city. Zara is a virtual islet lying snug against the Dalmatian coastline; it is connected to the mainland by a narrow land bridge. The wall of the land gate too was to be fortified.
I could not tell what purpose there was to Othello’s presence. This undertaking seemed unworthy of his attention. There was nothing for him or us, his staff, to do. The other officers liked the calm; the general and I both chaffed at it. At least I had access to the library, in the mayoral palace where the officers were housed. I practiced reading Greek. My weekly letters to Emilia must have been a bore; each week I simply told her what I had been reading.
But Othello was distracted and spent hours a day alone in his office. My duties required me to keep record of what supplies were used; he went through a remarkable amount of paper, quills, and ink. I waited for him to tell me what he was using them on, but he shared nothing with me.
I was not used to that from him.
THERE WAS A regular sea-courier service between Venice and Zara. About once every ten days, a vessel would arrive in port, discharge cargo and messages, take on new forms of each, and sail out the next day.
One day I saw Othello’s domestic page carrying a small packet out of the palace, heading in the direction of the nearest harbor gate. I was curious; Othello had mentioned nothing that required reporting back to Venice—nor had he given me a hint about his newly forged writing habits.
I followed the lad; he went down to the ship bound for Venice and handed the packet to a red-bearded mariner. The mariner gave him a similar packet in return. I tailed the boy back up the slope, toward the palace, and saw him head to Othello’s office. A moment later, he came back out, now empty-handed.
I wondered what was in both packets, of course. But more than that, I wondered why the general never mentioned either to me.
Several weeks in a row went by this way: the boy, with the packet; the red-bearded mariner, the other packet. Never a word from Othello.
And so one day when I followed this page boy from the palace toward the harbor, I overtook him in a narrow street, in such a manner that I most unfortunately tripped him; in tumbling, he dropped the packet.
“How very clumsy of me,” I apologized effusively and reached at once for it, to hand it back to him; my sole purpose was to read the label on it.
For Michele Cassio, it read, The Dolphin Inn, Castello District. Confidential.
THE BOY, NOT noticing my distress, accepted the package and hurried down toward the harbor gate.
I stood a moment in the alleyway, willing the sun to continue warming me, for I was suddenly cold all over. There was some collusion between my general and that intruder, some secret I was being excluded from, some intensely significant secret that was operational right now. The thought dismayed me on several levels, but mostly it was personal. Whatever it was, I was excluded from it—and far worse than that, a womanizing Florentine who could not hold his drink, but could keep his hair immaculately coiffed—he somehow deserved Othello’s confidence. About what, for the love of all saints? In what arena of life that Othello valued could Cassio possibly provide a service I could not better provide?
My distress was so severe I felt dizzy. I wished Emilia were with me now, to gently tease away my uneasiness, give it some practical interpretation, or at least distract me with a loosened bodice.
I WENT BACK to the mayoral palace. Fencing practice was still on, and Othello was in the yard. I kept my displeasure to myself, geared up, and for only the second time since I had known him, bested Othello at the sword. He was very pleased for me.
We dined in private that evening, and it was as it had ever been between us, our conversation familiar, lively, far ranging, and comfortable.
And as was always true of our discourse, army matters intermingled with the personal.
“The captain of the refectory,” Othello said—his preferred way of referring to the head cook—“he tells me we must requisition more wheat, the laborers are going through it as if . . . as if they were laboring.”
“I will add it to the list of supplies,” I said. “I must requisition more paper as well; your office is going through an enormous amount of leaves.”
“Really? The calamari is very good tonight, no?”
“Excellent. It reminds me of a recipe Michele Cassio described once.”
“Perhaps he has been to Zara himself.”
“We’re also using a lot of ink,” I said.
“Is ink expensive?” Othello asked disinterestedly.
“Not the kind we use.”
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p; “That’s good,” he said, looking up from his dinner with a smile. “Then it should not be hard to get it, eh?”
“It’s strange that we are going through so much ink and paper.”
He shrugged. “You know the Senate is obsessed with forms and inventories—”
“Yes, of course, but for some reason, during this posting, that proclivity of the Senate’s is suddenly using more paper and ink than before.”
Othello sat back in his chair and smiled at me admiringly. “ ‘Proclivity,’ ” he echoed. “You are very good with words, Iago.”
“Michele Cassio thinks I use too many of them.” I gave him a very direct stare.
He met my gaze unflinchingly, looking warm and open as ever. “That’s because he is Florentine, and they are always jealous of how superior Venetians are. Eh? You taught me that, brother,” he said with a grin. “You are teaching me to be an excellent Venetian.”
“Not if you’re modeling yourself on me, General. I am a terrible Venetian.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, reaching for the wine.
“Venetians lie. They lack candor. They keep secrets from their closest friends.”
Othello grimaced thoughtfully. “Then I would have to say, you are much better than most Venetians. Would you like some wine?”
Not even the tensing of an eye muscle.
“Is this wine from Florence?” I asked, holding up my glass.
“No, in fact, it is the last of the stock from Rhodes,” he said. “The excellent wine I promised you as we prepared to retreat? I could not give it to you on the ship. This is it. This is the last bottle. You are the only person I know who deserves to share it with me.”
How could he be so openhearted, and yet so full of guile?
“I thank you,” I said. When he had poured me a glass, I held it up for a toast. “To bad Venetians. May neither of us ever be one.”
I, Iago Page 19
