The Serpent of Venice

by Christopher Moore

  “Your father is dead,” said Iago.

  “Oh, my lord,” said Desdemona, who began to swoon. Othello caught her and held her fast to his chest.

  “When?” asked Othello.

  “A month ago, a little more perhaps. He died in the wine cellar—his heart—while the lady’s sister was away in Florence. The servants did not find him for several weeks.”

  Desdemona sobbed on Othello’s shoulder.

  Cassio had been standing at the back of the room, a large chamber full of tables spread with charts and maps, from which Othello ran his command. The captain pushed Jessica and me forward.

  “Lady, a sister of mercy has come to give you comfort.”

  I bowed my head and said, sotto voce, “Let us go to a quiet place to pray, child.”

  Othello nodded and gave Desdemona into Cassio’s arms. Cassio embraced us both and guided us out of the room, Desdemona smothering her grief against my nunly bosom, Jessica following close behind. Once we were out of the command room and Cassio had left and closed the door between us and Iago, I threw up my veil and said, “Don’t shed too many tears. Your father was a murderous fuck-toad, wasn’t he?”

  “Pocket?” Her grief turned to confusion.

  “A right scurvy wretch, ’e was,” said Jessica. “Not fit for shark chum.”

  “Don’t mind her, love, she’s just being piratey.”

  “She?”

  “Aye,” said Jessica. “I’m a bloody split tail in disguise, ain’t I? Wench bits from stem to stern, innit?” She gestured to those spots where her various wench bits lay hidden.

  Desdemona nodded slowly, as if she understood, when clearly, grief had made her loopy. “And you are now a purple-and-green nun?”

  “Sewed his habit me-self,” said Jessica. “Only had the purple and green to work with. Told everyone ’e’s in order of St. Crispin, patron saint o’ fried snacks.”

  “We heard you’d gone back to France,” said Desdemona.

  “Oh, that? That was a rumor started by that dog-fucking scoundrel Iago,” said I. “No, lady, thanks to your father, I am quite dead. As will you and the Moor be if you do not heed my warning.”

  “I didn’t know that Iago even liked dogs,” said Desdemona, missing the point somewhat.

  FIFTEEN

  What Wicked Webs

  CHORUS:

  Plots in dark Iago’s mind,

  Like spiders’ wicked webs unwind,

  In every glance he finds a slight,

  A mark for vengeful arrow’s flight,

  Schemes unveiled by waxing moon,

  Reveal the knave a barking loon,

  He vows by all that’s Hell and night,

  To bring this monstrous birth to light.

  Once installed in their quarters at a local inn, Iago paced before Rodrigo as the innkeeper, who was quite deaf, swept the stone floor around them.

  “Did you see him? Did you see him? Did you see him? Oh, the counting clerk, the arithmetician, the bookish theorist—no soldier is he?”

  “Othello?” inquired Rodrigo, who was into the spirit of the rant, but not quite clear on the subject.

  “No! No, not Othello—though the spirits know I despise him more—the Florentine Michael Cassio. Did you not see him, his arms wrapped round Desdemona like some tentacled monster?”

  “He was giving comfort to the lady. You had just told her of her father’s death.”

  “Oh, so says the most rejected suitor. I tell you, Rodrigo, Cassio is a base opportunist, comfort is his doorway, but lust his domicile—even now I’ll wager the Florentine makes love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms. He is so disposed, you know? I suspect him of having done manly duty between the sheets with my own wife. Did you not see how she looked at him?”

  “Really? Cassio? With Emilia as well? Is that why you’re staying here at the inn and not in her quarters?”

  “Oh, I do not pine over my faithless wife. Did you not see her let the Florentine bow over her hand like a rutting animal? Of all the ill will I hold for him, none is for his damp deeds with Emilia, for she is a devious prick-pull, like all of her sex. That Cassio took my commission, for this I hate him, but that he took my wife, and now takes Desdemona, for this weakness I am grateful, for we shall use it to our own ends and his undoing.”

  “How so?” asked Rodrigo. “Did you not see Desdemona treat me like a stranger today, even before she knew of her father’s death? And after so much of my treasure that you have given to her to show my affection. Now Cassio stands in my way as well as the Moor?”

  “Don’t whinge, Rodrigo. Desdemona will never shag you if you whinge.”

  “Sorry. But all the treasure, and she knows me—I had called upon her at her father’s house upon several occasions.”

  “Several was it? Several before you began bonking her maid?”

  “Well, yes, but Nerissa has exquisite bosoms and . . . You’re right, Iago, women are devious tricksters. Am I whingeing again?”

  “Never fear, good Rodrigo. Desdemona is young and spirited, she’ll tire soon enough of Othello, and the handsome Cassio shall be the bar we use to pry her from the arms of the Moor.”

  “How will that help? She runs from Othello to Cassio, and I am still out in the cold with no Desdemona and no money.”

  “Why, then we simply remove Cassio, and the lady, her marriage broken, shunned and ashamed, shall find comfort in your arms. The Moor, aggrieved from the betrayal of his slag of a wife, will need a second in command and I will have the position that was rightfully mine before the Florentine stole it.”

  “I’m not clear on what you mean by remove Cassio?”

  “We will discredit him. Stage an incident where he shames himself, a fight. I know that having spent a little time in the field and at sea with him, he does not well hold his drink. I will persuade him to drink with me, as a brother-in-arms, in celebration of the recent victory over the Genoans and of Othello’s marriage, then it will take little to push him into unwise action. Go now, find Cassio, but don’t let him see you. Follow him. Find his nightly habits, and therein look for the trap that we will set.”

  “Find him? Where do I find him?”

  “He is posted at the docks. Othello always has a senior officer at the docks to keep sailors and ships ready to launch at an instant. Remember the building from where he emerged to greet us? Find him there, and when his watch is ended, follow him.”

  Rodrigo stood, buckled his swash, and prepared to leave. Paused. “Some money for dinner, perhaps?”

  “You have none?”

  “I’ve given all to you for Desdemona.”

  “Very well,” said Iago, flipping him a silver coin. “And, Rodrigo?”

  “Yes?” said Rodrigo, tucking the coin in his belt.

  “She shall be yours. Adieu.”

  “Adieu,” said Rodrigo with a smile as he left.

  Iago turned to the old innkeeper, who now busied himself stirring the contents of a great black kettle hung over the fire.

  “Thus have I made the fool my purse—for without fortune, would I spend time with such a sniveling snipe? I think not! Of all of Rodrigo’s fortune from his lands and his contracts called in, Desdemona has seen not a penny, but my own fortunes have been well-padded, for a time when I shall need finery that well fits my position: commanding general of Venice.

  “Oh, the Moor will be undone, but my ascent to command is not assured with Cassio in my way. Rodrigo will clear him from my path by shaming him with a drunken brawl, thus will his downfall begin, and soon the Moor will follow him, dragged down by his darling Desdemona. Although Rodrigo is a dolt, he is a fair swordsman, and Cassio is of a steady nature and will not join a fight unless drunk, and therefore diminished. No, before the fight I will give Rodrigo some of the tarry potion that Brabantio used on the English fool—just enough to make him slow and dreamy, and if Cassio kills him, well, he will have served his purpose.

  “The plan is engendered! My hatred takes life.”

&n
bsp; CHORUS: And so did Iago yammer madly on into the night, oblivious to the innkeeper’s deafness and complete lack of interest.

  “I need a ship,” I said to Othello. We stood atop the fortress overlooking the harbor, I the vision of the perfect windblown sister of St. Crispin in my nun suit, he in the flowing white robes of his homeland, the waves of white fabric flowing off him as if he’d caught a catapult loaded with fresh laundry full in the face.

  “You can’t have a ship,” said the Moor.

  From the wall of the Citadel we could see Othello’s galleys, out past the breakwater, practicing attacks on a large raft they had towed into the sea. Each of the smaller, faster galleys had a catapult on a rambata, a firing platform at the bow. Each ship would row in at top speed, a great drum beating rhythm for the oarsmen, then just as it came into range, fire would be applied to the missile, often a tightly woven ball of willow, saturated in oil and pitch, and the catapult would fire. The oarsmen on either side would stand and lean on their oars to bring the ship around, then a line of archers along the length of the ship would let loose a volley of arrows at the target while the ship ran back and reloaded the catapult. One after another, like dancers in some great marine waltz, they charged, fired, turned, and retreated just at the edge of the catapult’s range. In battle, the archers would duck beneath shields until the missile had exploded on the deck, scattering the enemy crew, then they would stand and skewer any man who rose from cover to fight the fire or shoot back. This was the tactic that had allowed Othello to turn forces larger than his own. When most naval battle was simply lashing your ship to another and hacking away at each other until you were the only one left standing on a blood-soaked deck, Othello had perfected the thrust and feint, nearly destroying an enemy’s ship and putting its men in the water before ever getting close enough for melee combat. Today they were coming in by oar and sail, then dropping the sail as they made the turn.

  “Like poking a bear with a stick and running, really, innit?” said I.

  “When I was a pirate, we used less fire,” said the Moor. “The catapults were loaded with stones. To save the cargo.”

  “What do you do when there’s a whole flock of ships?”

  “Fleet, not flock.”

  “What then? Some give chase, I reckon . . .”

  “I have four tall merchantmen, like you came here in, only fitted for war. We tow them just out of range. They are too tall to easily board and too slow to attack, but the wide decks hold many archers and many catapults. If the enemy ships pursue, death is rained down upon them from above. If they attack the merchantmen, our galleys return to defend them.”

  “So your secret is that you practice?”

  “We practice and I feed my men well. A man rows harder when he is fed and when he is paid. There are no slaves in my ships.”

  “I was a slave,” said I.

  “As was I,” said Othello. “Chained to an oar for three years, was I, until my ship was sunk by pirates and I floated away, saved by the broken oar that I had been shackled to.”

  “Not so much rowing for me. Greasy fuckload of juggling and jesting, but very few nautical bits.”

  “I don’t think you would do well at sea, friend Pocket. Men on a ship, unable to escape your chatter, might try to kill you. Have you heard of keel hauling?”

  “Ha! I’ve been to sea and survived. And I was quiet the whole time, but for some retching and a wee bit of complaining.”

  “Why do you need a ship?”

  “You remember my monkey, Jeff?”

  “A horrible creature—”

  “He needs rescuing. From Genoa. As does my enormous apprentice, but I thought Jeff would evoke more sympathy.”

  “And what of your puppet? Does your puppet not need rescuing as well?”

  “Jones? You know he’s not real, right? I give him voice. He’s not a living creature, you know?”

  “Yes, this I know,” said the Moor, dazzling a grin at me that veritably shimmered with self-congratulation. “I was making a joke.”

  “Excellent point. I’ll need a ship and a pilot and a crew.”

  “How did I make that point?”

  “With your joke, I have seen my folly in thinking that I, an unskilled sailor, could take a ship to Genoa without help.”

  “It was a good joke,” said the Moor.

  “When it comes to crafting jape, thou art a soldier indeed.”

  “You think because I am a soldier and you are a joker that you can make sport of me, but I am a strategist, too, Pocket of Dog Snogging, and I know when someone feints, then tries to outflank me.”

  “If not for me you’d not have your Desdemona.”

  “If not for me you’d be drowned,” said the Moor.

  “That’s not a fair trade. I am but a wisp of a fool, a used and broken one at that, with no reason to live but revenge. Desdemona is worth a hundred of me.”

  “She is my soul’s joy,” said the Moor.

  “A thousand of me.”

  “You shall have your ship.”

  “And crew and pilot?”

  “Yes, yes, but you cannot just sail into the harbor at Genoa. We are at war with them. The ship will have to put you into a longboat down the coast, out of sight, and you can row in. Do you even know where they are?”

  “Yes. Well, somewhat. The Genoans are holding them for ransom. In prison, I reckon.”

  “With a fair wind it will take four days to sail there, half a day for you to row in. The ship will wait two days for you, then they will leave and you will have to make your own way. I cannot come rescue you, Pocket. The harbor at Genoa is the most fortified in the world.”

  “I’ll be back in little more than a week.” I slapped the Moor’s shoulder by way of thanks; he scowled at me. Really, I preferred the grin, despite the dreadful joke that preceded it.

  “What of the girl?” asked the Moor.

  “She’s waiting for her fiancé.”

  “Who is dead, you said.”

  I had told Othello of Lorenzo’s demise, although I said he’d died by my blade in a fight, not that he’d been done in by Vivian. It was quite enough to run through the whole story, from my walling-up to Antonio and Iago’s plot to take Brabantio’s seat on the council so they could start a bloody Crusade for profit without adding the complication of a bloody mermaid having me off in the dungeon and murdering Jessica’s betrothed.

  “She doesn’t know that. I’ll take her with me to keep her distracted.”

  “You are going to have to tell her.”

  “I thought I’d just share in her dismay when he didn’t show up.”

  “Take her, but tell her.”

  “She’s forsaken her father and her home, now to find out that I killed her lover, even if he was an appallingly devious bastard, it would be cruel. I am all she has.”

  “You must be cruel to be kind.* You are all she has.”

  “That’s a flaming flagon of dragon wank, if I’ve ever heard one. She’ll be fine, waiting. When you’re waiting the world is full of promise.”

  “Tell her, or no ship.”

  “I’ll tell her, after we’ve rescued Drool. I may need her gold to pay ransom.”

  “Promise you will tell her. Color it how you may, Pocket, but tell her.”

  “I will promise to tell her if you promise to throw Iago in chains.”

  “I will be cautious of Iago, but he has fought by my side in many battles and been true; I must see evidence of his betrayal before I take action.”

  “He killed my Cordelia, recruited the spy that poisoned her.”

  “So you say.”

  “So said Brabantio. Iago is a traitor, you night-browed ninny. You cannot trust him.”

  “I will keep my back to the wall in his presence and I will look for proof of what you say, but Iago is as clever as you in the way of words, subtle fool, and if I confront him on only your word, he will evade me and I will appear a tyrant. This force is mine to lead because I am steady, not rash.�
��

  “So I don’t have to tell Jessica that Lorenzo is dead.”

  “You do,” said Othello. “Do you know the names and routes of the ships that Antonio has at sea, the ones he used to guarantee his bond to Jessica’s father?”

  I pulled the parchment that Shylock had written out for me from my nun’s habit and gave it to the Moor. “They are here, and a schedule of when they are expected to return to Venice. But these do not guarantee the bond. For that Antonio promised a pound of his flesh.”

  “Surely that was meant as a jest.”

  “That is part of the job, but no.”

  “Why are you still in nun’s clothing? Without your motley and puppet stick, I forget that you are a deeply silly man. It’s unsettling.”

  “I’d make a fit nun, wouldn’t I? That’s the problem, innit? You fancy me in this nun suit, don’t you, you bloody great stallion?”

  “You need to shave,” said the Moor.

  “But then, eh?” I winked, tarty teasing nun that I was.

  “You are silly and you make a homely nun! I will go arrange for your ship. Watch the exercises; maybe you will learn something, thou irritant fool.”

  So I did watch, watched the great aquamarine slate of the Ligurian Sea laid out before me to the horizon, scored with the wake and churn of a dozen ships, but it was not the smoke and warships that drew my eye, it was that shadow just under the surface by the breakwater, waiting for me to return to the sea.

  “Oh dear, Nerissa,” said Portia. “I am so distressed, I’ve scarcely had time to think about shoes.”

  “And shoes surely wither with your neglect, lady, but the Duke of Aragon awaits. Shall we make our entrance?”

  “I don’t look too beautiful, do I?” Portia primped as if Nerissa were a looking glass and she would know when everything looked just right by the look on her maid’s face.

  Nerissa smirked. Three thousand ducats just to have a go? You’re a country villa and a lifetime of blow jobs short of being too beautiful, love, Nerissa thought. But she said, “You are perfect.”

  They made their way down the stairs, Portia gliding ahead, Nerissa bouncing behind, as was their habit, to find the Duke of Aragon, a dazzlingly handsome young man with a waxed mustache and coal-blackened eyelids, waiting with a pair of manservants in the foyer.