“What is going on?” I asked, slowly and deliberately.
“There is a banquet and ceremony tonight in the Doge’s Palace,” Othello began.
“I know that, General, I am actually here to talk to you about that very—”
“And after the banquet, Iago, after the banquet . . .” He rubbed his hands together again despite himself, looking away. Then he raised his head and looked straight at me, his black eyes brighter than I had ever seen them before. “After the banquet, I am eloping with Desdemona.”
Chapter 29
A MOMENT OF total silence as I tried to find my voice. “What?” was all I could manage.
“There is no other way for us to be together, and I can no longer bear this secrecy and furtiveness. Her father will be at the banquet with us, so she will be able to slip away from his house. When he returns home, he will assume she is already in bed. She will come here to my rooms in the Saggitary and wait for me, and then a priest will marry us. Tomorrow morning, we will go to her father and reveal ourselves, and he will have no choice but to accept us. Iago, why do you look so shocked? You were the first to know of my feelings for the lady.”
“You . . . you said you would not shame her,” I said. I chose these words because they were the only ones I could string together; there was so much more I wanted to say, to protest, but such words failed me.
“And I won’t,” Othello said. “A priest—one of your own Catholic priests—shall marry us before I lay a hand on her.”
“Her father will disown her,” I said.
“Then she will have to make do, being the wife of Venice’s chief general. She is content with that.”
I was dizzy trying to think straight. “I . . . why are you telling me this?” I finally demanded, a fury rising within me.
He laughed nervously. “Because you are my closest friend and I wanted to take you into my confidence.”
“Really?” I demanded sharply. “You might have done that months ago.”
He sighed. “I knew you were concerned about this. And I knew how inexorable it was. I wanted to spare you from the distress of anticipation, of watching it bud. I decided to wait to tell you until it was in bloom. It happens tonight. It is now in full bloom.” Seeing my expression—still dazed and wary—he said soothingly, “Iago, you are free from any blame here, but I would have your blessing on it.”
I had to stop this from happening. For his sake—for hers too, but I hardly knew her. But Othello . . . good heaven, he had made me what I was. I was honor bound to protect him, even from himself. Perhaps they were drawn to each other by the exotic allure of their differences, or perhaps they had some relatively innocent flirtation that the licentious Florentine had encouraged and nurtured, to give himself a way to insinuate himself into Othello’s confidence . . . whatever it was, it was a madness, it was a promise of catastrophe, and I had to stop it.
But then he said: “I love her with my life, Iago.” He spoke with innocence and hopefulness and tenderness, and a little nervousness too. His eyes shone. I realized he meant it deeply, as I had meant it for Emilia, and I knew I would not stop him. Jealousy aside, it is hard to begrudge one’s best friend a joyful heart.
“I will happily give you my blessing once you have accomplished it,” I said tentatively. “In front of her father, even, if you wish it.”
His smile brimmed with fondness and amusement. “There’s my gentle Iago,” he said. With an abrupt change of pace, he crossed toward the door. “Come, travel with me, we will be late for the ceremony.”
“I have a matter I wish to discuss with you, General, before we go—”
“Let it wait until tomorrow, there is no time now,” Othello said. He reached for his cloak on a peg.
“It has to do with the feast tonight,” I said.
“The feast tonight! Ha! I think I will hardly be able to concentrate on the feast tonight!” Othello laughed. He opened the door and gestured me out of it. The guard at the door saluted. “We require transport to the Doge’s Palace,” Othello said to the man, who turned and yelled this request up to a guard on the Arsenal Bridge, who in turn yelled it to somebody outside in the canal.
The porter turned back to us, awaiting new orders.
“Come with us,” Othello said to him, for no reason I could discern. It was irritating, as it meant I had no privacy to speak to Othello about the lieutenancy. “Yes, it will be most challenging to focus at the feast tonight, I am sure my voice will quaver and my hands shake as I announce who are my good men and true.” He was walking quickly now toward the gate; I was almost breathless trying to keep up with him, and our one-man honor guard was almost running. Othello gave me a sideways grin. “Of course you know you shall be called up.”
Yes. Good. A tension I had grown too accustomed to released. Thank heaven, I thought, thank heaven. That would satisfy Emilia and also show her the irrelevance of the strategy she had tried to foist upon me; she would get over her recent superciliousness, and I would have harmony at home again.
“I assume there will be others singled out for service,” I said, attempting to sound casual.
“Oh, of course,” Othello said, with a brief and almost bitter laugh as we were let out of the gate. “Da Porto is to receive a pension that he has hardly earned, and I will present it tonight. There are others to be puffed up too. And not always for their military merit. Michele, for example, requires a bit of back scratching—greetings!” he called out to da Porto, who was approaching us at the wharf. The wave of disgust that almost choked me—literally almost choked me—had to be hidden as we each saluted da Porto.
Here we were, the original three, who had been through so much together over the years. We were now to be sundered. And then with a shocked sinking feeling, I realized what Othello meant: I would replace da Porto as lieutenant, but Michele Cassio would—undeservedly—replace me. I would get what I wanted, but I would be saddled with the presence of the Florentine fop for the rest of my soldiering days. I swallowed a groan of protest.
Surely after the delirium of his romance had subsided, whether he remained married to Desdemona or not, surely in time Othello would realize the rashness of this action and judge Michele Cassio on his own worth as a soldier, which was: nil. If I could be patient, justice would be served. Ultimately—in time—I would have the life I merited: happy in career, happy in marriage, happy in friendships. I held my heart out and offered it that happy future day, to calm its clamoring within my rib cage.
A gondolier offered a hand to Othello. When we were all in the boat, the gondola moved down the short Arsenal Canal, swept out into the lagoon and then, turning right, stopped at the Piazzetta before the Doge’s Palace. It was a short trip. We pulled up and debarked. General Othello and I strode beside each other into the magnificent stone building. Before I left this place tonight, I would be Othello’s first lieutenant. I gave the gods of Rome a thousand thanks and forgave them for every headache and heartache they had put me through these past few months.
THE FEAST BEGAN with an oddly unsatisfying air, though it had all the pomp of a traditional Venetian festival: there were acrobats and jugglers and magicians as we assembled; there were pretty women dancing along the narrow pathways between the rows of trestle tables. The Great Council chamber is enormous, larger than the largest ballroom in the city many times over. It was very crowded, accommodating at table all the senators and other patricians, all the military and civil leaders of all the branches of the military, and all the officers and enlisted men who would tonight be in some way acknowledged, thanked, promoted, or rewarded for their service to the Republic.
I was seated so that I faced across my own board to the next one, at which sat Othello and Senator Brabantio, side by side and facing me. Brabantio was carrying on to Othello about the irritating persistence of one of Desdemona’s suitors: a spice merchant named Roderigo. Othello was chuckling sympathy.
The tenderness I’d felt for Othello’s predicament when we were alone togeth
er, when I saw his vulnerability—it vanished watching him speak to Desdemona’s father. That camaraderie was fake: Othello was chatting with the man as if he were not about to rob him of his only child. Brabantio suspected nothing. I was furious at Othello’s duplicity and almost as furious at Brabantio’s obliviousness. And I was furious at myself for my impotence to act on my fury.
AFTER WHAT SEEMED to be months, supper was over. The trestle tables were cleared away, and most of us collected along one long side of the Great Council chamber. I found a place to stand near the corner doorway to a stairway landing. This was the same landing to which I’d dragged Othello several years ago, to conceal his epilepsy from the Great Council.
A dais was set up opposite the crowd, along the other long wall. The aging, long-bearded doge, Girolamo Priuli himself, serving as a master of ceremonies, introduced in turn the leaders of the artillery, the navy, the cavalry, and finally the infantry. Each leader rattled off a brief yet still tedious speech about the glory of their particular branch of the military and their appreciation for their men, both Venetian and condottieri. Then each in turn called up to the dais a stream of men who served under them, presenting ribbons, gold, sealed parchments—all manner of recognition and acknowledgment.
Othello was the last leader to present. The ceremony itself thus far had taken close to three hours, and the meal before that, two. By now, there was no doubt, Desdemona was securely in the Sagittary. Othello must have had the same thought, for his face was beaming with an excitement I had never seen before, not even in the throes of battle. “It is late,” he began, “so I shall be brief.”
“BRIEF” IN THIS CASE did not feel brief. Othello began among the enlisted men and worked his way up through the ranks, thanking various infantry and offering certain soldiers rewards for valorous or long-standing contributions to the army. When he reached the officers, I was acknowledged for my general excellence, honesty, and steadfastness. Michele Cassio received an even more vaguely worded citation for strategic assistance, which he accepted with a fresh blue ostrich ribbon bobbing from his cap.
By this point the temperature in the Council chamber was unbearably hot, and the polite applause that accompanied each name was fading nearly to silence. Finally Othello called Lieutenant Zuane da Porto up to the podium. He explained that da Porto was the longest-serving soldier in the Venetian army, and dutifully began a summary of his life service, which I had written for him after interviewing Zuane. Zuane stood beside him, looking extremely grateful to be done with military life.
I suppressed a yawn, but yet my stomach began to flutter in anticipation of what would follow this. I deliberately turned my thoughts in other directions. I thought of Emilia, with conflicted emotion. Even with a lieutenancy, I would not—could not—become the sycophant she seemed to suddenly want me to be. I anticipated rows ahead, if she ceased to be the woman I had married.
The thought of marriage led me to thoughts of what Othello was doing after this event, and that soured me. From now on, my general would be a married man; that would change everything. He would have a new confidante; I knew that, because I knew marriage. Emilia, not Othello, had always provided the most sympathetic ear for me; I had played that role for Othello but I was now to be supplanted, by a deceiving young woman whose deceit delighted my wife. Everything about that was severely disagreeable to me. And besides these unfortunate inevitabilities, Michele Cassio was about to become a fixture in my daily life.
But I would be Othello’s lieutenant.
It was an immense accomplishment, and rightly earned. In time, the rest would sort itself out. Emilia was not really the creature she seemed to be right now; it was a passing silliness that would fade as the honeymoon giddiness of the new marriage faded. I did not know what to make yet of Desdemona, but I knew Othello’s character well enough, and despite the recent upset of his love affair, I knew him. We were closer than family. Everything would somehow come out all right.
HIS VOICE CHANGED TENOR, and I turned my attention back to the dais. Exhausted, limp applause began around the chamber. Othello saluted da Porto and then bowed deeply to him; da Porto did likewise, accepted a sealed scroll from the general, and descended from the dais, to fade into the fading crowd. I saw him being congratulated and embraced by those around him, but most everyone else’s attention turned back to the dais, wanting Othello to finish so the evening could be over.
“And finally,” Othello said, with a quick grin to acknowledge how desperate we all were for the end, “finally there is the matter for the army of replacing da Porto as my first lieutenant, and without further trying everyone’s energy with flowery introduction, I will immediately announce the deserving man.” He gestured to a place in the crowd nowhere near where I stood and declared, “Michele Cassio!”
Chapter 30
SHOCK, HUMILIATION, AND RAGE blinded me and muted me. I needed to get out of that room before I harmed somebody or made a fool of myself; being near the doorway, I slipped out to the stairs unnoticed and closed the door behind myself. I stood in the darkness of the stairway, onto the very same platform where I’d dragged Othello earlier to save his career. I retched. Had I actually managed to eat anything during supper, I would have covered the landing with vomit.
Unable to put coherent thoughts together, slapping myself in a bootless attempt to wake up from the nightmare, I managed to get down the stairs to the ground floor. The anteroom I staggered into had servants in it; they assumed I was sloppy drunk from the feast upstairs. They had no idea who I was but politely helped me to get out of doors. I wished to heaven I were as drunk as they thought I was. Drunker, really. I wanted to be permanently too inebriated to understand what was going on around me—I could not understand it sober, and sobriety has fangs when life is chaos.
SOMEHOW, STILL LITERALLY REELING and still unable to form a clear thought, I found myself walking toward the Grand Canal near the Rialto. It was very late now, so late it was early, and the streets and canals were unusually empty and quiet. Out of habit, I had wandered to the area near Senator Brabantio’s house, just on the other side of the Grand Canal. I stood there, staring at Ca’Brabantio, fascinated, knowing Desdemona wasn’t there because Othello was about to claim her as his bride. Or perhaps he already had. Suddenly I felt empathy for Brabantio with a clarity I had not had before, even at the banquet. Othello the Moor was a man of guile. I did not want to face that, but still it was true. He was rewarding a boozing womanizer for helping him to deceive one of the most powerful men in all of Venice—and to do that, he was robbing me of something I had taken years to earn. There was no justice in the world. There was no justice for me, certainly—and so there should, there must, be no justice for Othello either.
I heard a heavy sigh some dozen paces to my left. Startled, I pulled out my dagger and turned to see who was there. I recognized the forlorn figure instantly, and sheathed my blade.
Roderigo stood on the embankment, staring sadly across the Grand Canal at what had been, until tonight, Desdemona’s bedroom window. That poor besotted fool. For a moment, I was disgusted with him.
Then I changed my mind.
“Roderigo, my old friend,” I called out, as jovially as I could muster. “It has been far too long since you and I have enjoyed each other’s company. Come, walk with me and tell me why you’re sighing so.”
Roderigo
Chapter 31
“STOP TALKING!” RODERIGO demanded. Accusation suddenly lit his face. “Why did you not tell me this before it happened, when we might have prevented it? I trust you as a brother—how could you have failed me in this?”
“Listen to what I am saying,” I repeated. “I. Knew. Nothing. Do you understand? Nothing. I knew he wanted her. But I never dreamed this could happen.”
Roderigo considered me for a moment, finally calming.
“And now you say you hate the fellow?” he demanded. “The man who made you, the man you have worshipped for years?”
“I know my worth,” I
said. “I deserve to be lieutenant, and Michele Cassio, that . . . Florentine arithmetician, does not deserve it.” I knew Roderigo was too preoccupied with his own upset to care about mine, but the bile spewed out: “He has never been in the field, he’s never seen battle, everything he knows is theoretical, from books! I served with Othello at Rhodes and Rovigo, and what is my reward? To be kept exactly where I am!”
“I wouldn’t follow him, then,” Roderigo said. Momentarily distracted, he smiled. “Shall I employ you instead?”
I ignored this well-intentioned but preposterous offer. “Believe me, Roderigo, if I stay with him now, it is not out of love. I will not be one of those dutiful fools who spend their life doing as they’re told out of love.” I spat out the words as I felt my craw tighten; until this night, I would gladly have been such a dutiful fool in Othello’s service. “I’d sooner throw in my lot with the Cassios of the world,” I declared contemptuously. “The ones who seem to serve dutifully only as a feint to gain their own advantage. This is the time for unjust men to thrive.”
I glanced at Roderigo, wishing him to ask about my stratagem, like when we were children. But the poor fool was still staring across the canal at the darkened house.
“As heaven is my judge, Roderigo, he’ll be sorry for treating me like this.”
Still nothing from Roderigo. I sighed and tried to calm my spleen. I had no idea what to do; I did not even know what I wanted to do. An hour after the appalling surprise, I was aware of nothing but a desire to punch Othello in the gut. But of course I would never do that, and in truth, I wanted something else: I wanted my lieutenancy, for heaven’s sake.
I swore to myself that I would have it. Somehow. Even if I did have to follow the model of Michele Cassio, who had brokered for himself such undeserved success. “I will be dutiful, but not for duty’s sake,” I carried on to Roderigo, who was still not listening. “Not anymore. Now it will be a means to an end: my end, not Othello’s, not the army’s, not the Serene Republic’s. No more the honest, blunt fellow too stupid to see he was going to be passed over!”
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