“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 . . .”