The gondolier had dropped to a crouch on his platform as the gondola lurched sideways with the dragon’s impact, then righted itself. He stood and stared at the red stain in the water, like all of those on the shore, not believing what he had just seen.
“You’ll want to paddle in this way, mate,” I called to him. “Before she comes back.” He leaned into his oar and the gondola shot toward us.
I looked around, caught Shylock’s eye. “Drool will help you wash the blood off your gold and carry it home.”
I turned to look for Jessica and saw Bassanio, hiding his face in Portia’s shoulder as she embraced him. I went by him, squeezed his shoulder. “He loved you, lad. Truly. He was a bloody villain, but that was the one true bit about him.”
The crowd gave me a wide berth for some reason, and I moved through them until I spotted Jessica, sneering at me from under the boy’s hat she was wearing to hide her hair.
“Bit gaudy, innit? I suppose that wet and shiny type has a tawdry appeal to certain lowlifes.” She grinned.
Iago could hear another prisoner down the corridor moaning and shouted for him to shut up.
They’d put him in one of the cells in the Bridge of Sighs, which linked the doge’s palace to the prison, three stories above the canal. He was chained to the wall, but by only one leg iron, the chain long enough to allow him to pace his entire cell. The chain was unnecessary, he thought. There was only one small window above the level of his head, too small for a man to fit through, and then a cupola with four vent windows at the center of the arched ceiling, large enough for a prisoner to fit through, but entirely too high for even an unfettered man standing on another’s shoulders to reach.
When, on his third day of incarceration, the guard announced that he had a visitor, he half-expected it to be Othello, there to curse him in person, perhaps even one of the men of his barracks, but when a pretty dark-haired woman appeared outside the cell, her green silk gown a respite for the eye in this gray stone world, he was taken aback.
She carried a basket, the neck of a bottle of wine protruded from a nest of linen, and the smell of freshly baked bread was tall in the air.
“I know you,” said Iago. “You were at Belmont the day they found Brabantio in the cellar.”
“You remembered,” Nerissa smiled. “I had been seeing your friend, Rodrigo.”
“Oh yes, of course. Nerissa.” Iago’s mind was a blaze looking for fuel. How could he use this to his advantage?
“I do not know you, signor,” said Nerissa. “But Rodrigo always spoke highly of you, and how you had helped and advised him.”
“Ah, Rodrigo, a good mate. He is missed.”
“Well, I thought I would bring you some food, comforts from the outside. And because of Portia’s favor with the doge, they allowed it.”
She looked to the guard who had been standing by. He unlocked the door and let Nerissa hand the basket in.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” said the guard. “There’s no blade concealed in there, and when the wine is finished you’ll hand that bottle back through the bars before this door opens again. Weren’t for the command of the doge, we’d not allow that nonsense.”
“You are very kind, lady,” said Iago. “Rodrigo was a lucky man to have earned your attention.”
“I was very fond of him,” said Nerissa.
The guard signaled with a nod that it was time for her to go and she smiled. “I do hope you enjoy this. The wine seller said to drink the wine last. He says it will somehow best complement the cheese and sausages in that way.”
“I will, lady. Again, thank you.”
Iago retreated to the stone platform that served as his cot, and searched the basket. As the guard promised, there was no knife, only a wooden paddle for spreading soft cheese on the bread. The bread and salt, sausages and cheese, dried fruit and fish tasted of the outside, of freedom, which he had never craved before, not knowing he had enjoyed it. All of it reminded him of defeat, of shame, of infamy, and all brought about at the hands of the annoying little fool.
As the light through the windows turned pink with the sunset, he pulled the seal from the wine. The cork was flared and could be removed by hand, but had been sealed on with lead foil, which he tore off with his fingernails. Even so, the thin lead clung to the bottle, adhering to the sticky resin that smelled of pitch. No matter, he wiped his hands on his trousers, flung the cork to the corner of the cell, and drank. The wine was fortified, strong, and warmed him going down, smoothing the jagged edge of his anger, but sending him into a morose self-pity as he drained the bottle.
He was dozing when he heard the rustling on the roof. His head ached and his mouth tasted of tar, the cell was cold and he reached for the wool blanket they had left him. Shadows were breaking the cold blue moonlight streaming in from the cupola and he looked about for the source of the noise.
His mouth tasted of tar. The wine bottle had smelled of pitch . . .
He watched as liquid night filled the window, then slid down into his cell.
CHORUS: Piteous screams did fill the night, out the windows and over the canals, for no quick death was gifted to Iago with his basket. The screams were ignored, as always were the calls of fear and sorrow that give the Bridge of Sighs its name. She lingered there, in the cell, much of the night, toying with him like a cat with a mouse, careful to keep him active by not using her dreamy venom, eating one part of the scoundrel and then another, slowly, until just before dawn, her belly full, the serpent of Venice slipped out the cupola window, down the wall, into the canal, and away.
In the morning, when the guard came, he found only Iago’s high boot chained to the wall, his foot and leg to the knee still inside, and nothing else but a great red slick and a serpentine smear of blood painted up the wall and leading out the high windows.
Drool and I were sleeping on the floor in Shylock’s great room, before the fire, when she came to me. I had no doubt, this time, whether she was dream or ghost as I felt her touch on my cheek. My Cordelia. Her hair was down and she wore a silver-and-black silk shirt from my motley, nothing else.
“It’s you?”
“Well done, fool,” she said.
“You from the start, wasn’t it, pulling the strings with Viv? Directing her, keeping me safe.”
“You know what they say, ‘There’s always a bloody ghost.’ ”
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
“The symbolism is bloody ominous, innit?” She grinned, giggled.
“But you’ve no knickers on.”
“Imagine that. Do you think me wanton?”
“Not for me to say, but one hopes.”
“Oh, that’s right, you’ve never shagged a ghost, have you?”
“Well, a few who would go on to be ghosts, but strictly speaking, no.”
“Then get your kit off, fool. Queen Cordelia is going to have her otherworldly way with you.”
“If you insist, but we’ll have to be quiet so as not to wake up Drool. Ghost bonking unsettles him.”
“This will be good-bye then, puppet. I’ve ticked everything off my spirity list.”
“I’ve missed you. I miss you. I am inconsolable.”
“Just as well then that I’m not here to console you, but to shag the bells off of you.”
“I’ll always miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too, love, but you can carry on now. You’ve got Jessica.”
“But you said don’t shag the Jewess.”
“I didn’t want her to distract you while you were avenging me. She’s lovely. Take care of her.”
“Then you don’t mind?”
“Jettison the codpiece, you rascal, there’s squishy haunting to be done!”
TWENTY-SIX
Off Jolly Rogering!
We stood at the dock, duffels full of gear at our feet, a longboat with sailors at the oars waiting to take us to the ship.
“My daughter cannot marry a Christian,” said Shylock.
“I’m not
a Christian,” said I. “Heretic of convenience at worst.”
“I’m not marrying him,” said Jessica. “We are simply sailing off to do dread deeds and have drunken debauchery beneath the mizzenmast. I’d not marry such a small and irritating pest of a man.”
“Despite my puckish charm and enormous knob?” said I.
“Both soundly imaginary,” said Jessica.
“You agreed yourself, in front of this very father of yours, that I had an enormous knob.”
Shylock moaned and cradled his head in his hands as if it might explode any moment.
“I thought I was agreeing that you were an enormous knob,” she said.
“Oh, well then, now you’ve hurt my feelings,” said I. “I’ll be in the longboat, sulking, when you are ready. Farewell, Shylock. I will take good care of her, despite her sour disposition.”
“This is a punch to my heart,” said Shylock, by way of a good-bye.
“Well, don’t blame me, you’re the one that raised her. Might have added a soupçon of human kindness to all the guilt and kvetching if you didn’t want her to run off to be a pirate.”
“You, you, you, you, you—you do not talk this way of my daughter. You give me my ducats, but you take my daughter.”
“I am not taking your daughter. Your daughter is seeking her own adventure.”
“Pocket,” said Jessica. “Please, wait in the boat. I’ll be along in a bit.”
“Adieu, Shylock,” said I. I took my duffel, went to the end of the dock, and handed it down to the sailors.
There was much embracing and many tears and when Jessica finally joined me in the longboat, Shylock stood and watched us until we were all the way out into the harbor, and his dark figure, topped by his yellow hat, was still there, even as we raised anchor and set sail.
Drool was standing at the bow, letting the wind wash the stink off his hulking frame, and Jeff was cavorting in the rigging, chattering and shrieking with glee that he had been so sly as to have tricked us into building all this smashing monkey-climbing equipment for him. Nerissa had decided to join us on our travels, and she stood by the helm with Montano, whom Othello had appointed as our captain and pilot.
After he took his seat on the council, the Moor had given us the ship and crew in thanks for our service to him and Venice. Desdemona, as mistress of the estate, had rescinded her father’s instructions and saw that half of Brabantio’s fortune, along with the villa at Belmont, went to her sister, Portia, on the one condition that she never let her handsome, yet terribly thick husband, Bassanio, manage the money.
In Corsica, after an appropriate half-hour of mourning upon finding out she had been widowed, Emilia married Michael Cassio, and was now installed, quite comfortably, in the Citadel at Bastia, the new Baroness of Corsica.
“I worry about Papa,” Jessica said.
“He will be fine. He has his spectacles, so he can do his own accounts, and that widow Esther is taking care of him at the house. She has a healthy laugh and won’t put up with his bollocks. Shylock had nearly smiled when he met her. The possibilities are as dazzling as they are disgusting.” Tubal had hired the woman to look after his friend. It turned out that it had been Iago who had hired the two huge Jews to kill us, not Tubal, and the two old moneylenders had resumed their friendship with new frontiers of resentment and envy to help it along.
“Can you even get to China by sea?” asked Jessica, as we stood at the rail at the rear of the ship, watching Venice recede into the horizon, and the shadow of the black dragon following behind just below the surface of the water.
“No idea. I thought we agreed when we decided to go pirating that you will learn the nautical bits and I will compose bawdy songs of our legendary adventures. Marco Polo says it may be possible, but he also said that we may have to take her overland to get her home.”
“Montano thinks there may be a river to China from the Black Sea.”
“If not, we can sail back the other way.”
“South,” she provided.
“If you say so. We will get her back to her own kind, if there are any left, even if we have to sail the Serpent of Venice o’er all the seven seas together. There are seven seas, right?”
“It’s a shit name for a ship,” she said.
I’d had the name of our ship emblazoned on her stern in great gilt letters, and an effigy of Vivian carved in ebony graced her bow.
“Well, we aren’t going to call the ship the Dread Pirate Jessica. That, my dear, is a shit name for a ship.”
“Arrrrr,” she arrrrrred.
AFTERWORD
I’m sure, by now, you’ve thought, “I’ve read Othello and The Merchant of Venice, and try as I may, I do not remember the part about a fool knobbing a dragon; perhaps I should give them another look.” If you decide to go in that direction, and there are certainly worse ways to spend your time, you may be somewhat disappointed to find that Shakespeare left that part out. The Serpent of Venice was inspired by and draws upon three works of literature: The Cask of Amontillado, a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, and The Merchant of Venice and Othello: The Moor of Venice, by William Shakespeare. Also, there is no little contribution from Shakespeare’s King Lear, which was the inspiration for my previous novel Fool, in which Pocket, Drool, and Jeff first appear. I’ve also quoted or paraphrased lines from about another dozen or so of Shakespeare’s plays; right now I couldn’t tell you from which. Trying to reconcile a story built from so many diverse sources, while also trying to accommodate history, can lead, I’m sure, to some confusion, so I hope I can clear up a few details about history, characters, and attitudes here . . .
HISTORY
As the preface states, The Serpent of Venice is set in a mythical late thirteenth century. This was necessary to continue Pocket’s story, which ends in the same period in Fool, so I set Serpent several hundred years earlier than the source materials. Othello is set during the time when the Venetian Empire is at war with the Ottoman Empire, which was throughout much of the sixteenth century. In the play, Othello is sent to Cyprus to thwart an invasion by the Turks (Ottomans). The Turks took Cyprus from the Venetians in 1570, so I assume that Shakespeare is working in a time contemporary to his own. It’s estimated that Othello was written around 1600–1601. The Merchant of Venice (approximately 1596–1598) is also set in a time contemporary to Shakespeare’s, and one assumes that the conventions and mores of his time would at least resonate with his London audiences. (More about that later.)
The Serpent of Venice is set around 1299, when Venice’s dominance of trade in the Mediterranean was still being established, and the city-state had, indeed, been at war with Genoa for most of the last part of the century, a war over maritime superiority that would continue through most of the fourteenth century as well. I moved the action taken from Othello, from the island of Cyprus, which was strategically valuable to the Turks in the 1500s, to the island of Corsica, which is almost literally in Genoa’s backyard, in order to facilitate the travel to Genoa and back in a time frame that would fit the story. Here the story was driven by history, as much as by the influence of plays or stories. The Cask of Amontillado specifies no particular time, but one infers that it takes place sometime in the eighteenth century, easy enough to reconcile, since Carnival time in Venice seems to have remained constant for hundreds of years.
Venice had been established on an archipelago of islands in a salt marsh in the Adriatic Sea by refugees from Tuscany who were fleeing the invading forces of the Lombards and later Attila the Hun. Protected by a natural moat on the land side, and barrier islands, called the Lido, on the sea side, Venice grew into a powerful trading city with a representative republic as its government. The senators were elected by the neighborhoods, and a doge, or duke, was elected by the senators, and was advised by a council of six senators who ascended by seniority and election of their peers. (Different sources I found said the number of the council varied from six to twelve at different times, so I chose six for the story to give th
e position more power.) This representative republic was maintained in various forms until 1287, when Doge Giovanni Dandalo proposed that eligibility for the council be limited only to those whose fathers had been on the council. By 1299 it had become law and the republic became more of an inheritable oligarchy. This is the law that Iago and Antonio attempt to exploit by trying to arrange the marriage of Bassanio to Portia and eliminate Othello, who, by the circumstances I have created in the story, has been awarded Brabantio’s seat on the council. Venice, despite the attempt in the thirteenth century to turn it into an oligarchy, did remain, in some form, an independent city-state until it was overthrown by Napoleon in 1797.
It should probably be noted that Venice had, indeed, profited greatly by being the transport hub for soldiers and supplies during the Crusades, particularly the Fourth Crusade, when they were paid a hundred thousand ducats to build ships and transport knights, horses, and supplies to the Holy Land to take the city of Acre, and eventually, Jerusalem, from the Mameluke Saladin, who had beat nine shades of shit out of the occupying Crusaders a few years before, basically expelling them from the holy city. The Venetians would use their influence, and the Crusader soldiers, to attack their trade competitors on the Dalmatian coast (Croatia now) and take the Christian city of Constantinople, for which the pope would eventually threaten to excommunicate the entire city. (Venice also maintained some trading relationship with the Mamelukes, a practice forbidden by the pope—as with Antonio in Serpent, Venice sold materials to build war machines.) In all cases, Venice built the ships that were paid for by the crusading nobles of Europe, but were also able to keep the ships, as well as the fees they contracted for the transport. The Crusades, despite the war with Genoa, were the glory days for the Venetians, and established them as a world power, despite the carnage, suffering, death, and destruction their actions facilitated.
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