The Serpent of Venice

“Ah, she knows him. Look, a friendly embrace. He kisses the air by her cheek in the manner of the Florentines. He kisses the tips of his fingers in salute to her perfection. Ah, he knows her.”

“I said he knows her.”

“And surely he has good reason to s

eek her counsel, now.”

“You think his intentions not honest?”

“Honest?”

“Aye, honest? Forthright. Honest. Don’t parrot what I say. Speak your thoughts, Iago.”

“Please don’t make me say, General. Cassio is an honest man, for the most part, so if my suspicions are wrong, and they probably are, I would wrong him to speak them. All men are subject to moments of weakness: Cassio said he did not drink, and for the most part, he does not. One slip. A single indiscretion. So may the case be here.”

“A case of what, Iago? For I swear if I find you know something and do not tell me, I will throw you off this very wall.”

“My wife, Emilia, she said that Cassio came to her, asked her to plead his suit to Desdemona, and ask that she would grant time alone with him. I’m sure his intentions are honest. I am suspicious by nature, sir, and I often see offenses where they do not exist.”

“But Emilia is there, with them, as you can surely see.”

“As you say. She was there. For me to speak full my suspicions would only destroy your peace of mind, and for what? I would not besmirch a man’s good name on my habit of mistrust. A man’s good name is the immediate jewel of his soul. He who steals my purse, steals trash, but he that filches my good name robs me of that which enriches him not, yet leaves me poor indeed.”

“Cassio was found out of his mind with drink, vomiting on the mutilated corpse of your officer, Iago, with no recollection of how any of it had come to be. His reputation is ash. Speak.”

“Well, he is very handsome, and there is a certain smooth charisma to him, and your lady is, well, young, and fair, as is he.”

“Fair?”

“I’m not saying that his intentions are dishonorable, nor the lady vulnerable to his oily Florentine charm, but it is better to know, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be? If I may suggest, watch your wife. Look for evidence that her attention is wandering. I have had to do so with my own wife—what soldier, in the field for months at a time, has not felt suspicion? But do not crush that gentle trust with accusation. Watch her, I say.”

“You give me good counsel, Iago. That I will do. Let us finish the work and I will go to her, look for signs.”

“O, beware of jealousy, my lord. It is a green-eyed monster which mocks the meat it feeds on. But better to know than suspect.”

“Monster? Ha! Your infernal spinning of words gives power to enemies that are but specters of imagination, Iago. Let us finish our inspection and I will go slay your green-eyed monster with a single kiss from my sweet Desdemona.” The Moor climbed to the highest wall and did not look back to see if his lieutenant followed.

“Not enemies,” whispered Iago. What was Emilia doing laughing at the Florentine’s jokes? And why was he joking, did he not know he was ruined? If not now, soon.

I contemplated a bold prison break, with many disguises, much bloodshed, and buckling of swashes, but as I am small, and had neither my puppet nor my monkey at hand but instead a cracking big bag of gold, I decided to approach freeing Drool’s cellmate by means of ransom.

About the bit of paying the ransom: As it turns out, there is a good reason most kingdoms never turn the key to the treasury over to the king’s fool. The reason is, of course, we are, by nature and training, foolish, and consequently cannot be trusted with money. A lesson Jessica would not have had to learn were it not for the besotted git who guarded the side gate at Fortress Genoa, and the blistering toss-toad who was his commanding officer.

The guard appeared to have sobered up some, since we’d ransomed Drool, but he was no less miserable.

“Can’t do it,” said the guard, holding his spear as if he was hiding behind it while he looked about. Drool was hiding just around the corner of the great fortress, as I could not convince him to stay in the boat, due to his fear of Viv and water in general. “Even at twice the price. This one’s a real prisoner, a merchant and a gentleman, and a ransom demand’s already been made to the family. The big one was just his servant. You want this one, you got to talk to the captain.”

“I’ll give you twenty ducats and you can just say the big one fell on this one when he succumbed, killing him. Or plague? You can’t beat a good plague to explain mysterious death.”

“I’ll fetch the captain,” he said. He disappeared through the gate and presently returned with an unctuous and overpolished young officer with the suggestion of a mustache, the downy promise of beard, and the willowy wan look of a boy who has never, and shall never, do a day of work in his life. He was too young to have earned his command—born or bought into it, no doubt. If this was what Genoa was putting into the field, it was no wonder that Othello had thrashed them like ripe grain.

“I am told you wish to ransom the prisoner Marco Polo?”

“That would be true,” said I.

“Come in to the command chambers and we can negotiate the terms of his release. Monsieur Polo is an important prisoner.”

“Monsieur? Are you speaking fucking French at me?”

“Oui,” said Captain Fuzzcheek. He clicked his heels.

“Oh, très pretentious, signor. I presume you can take me to a proper officer now, so I don’t have to trade terms with a mossy-chinned little wanker whose father bought him a jailer job to keep him from buggering the help?”

As it turned out, I would be dealing with the aforementioned wanker, who felt it was his duty, I suppose, to extract every grain of gold I had before he would release Marco Polo into my care, so insulting him had worked in my favor. He thought he’d won, of course, but since it was not my gold, I had bested him. Ha!

Thus the explorer collected his kit and we led Drool back to the boat to await Jessica’s return. I agreed to row, as Drool wanted to sit in the bow of the boat and keep an eye out for Viv, while Marco Polo sat on the stern bench, levered upward somewhat by Drool’s stonking density at the front of the boat.

“You seem rather well-kept for someone who has been in prison for two months,” said I. He was a fit, sharp-featured Venetian of about forty, his beard starting to gray, with more lines and color to his face than most of his merchant counterparts. This one had done more than eat rich food and bargain on the Rialto.

“Except for the children playing in the harbor calling my name all day, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The Genoans knew my family has means. I was confined to quarters that had once housed a duke. I just could not leave. I thought I would take the time to write my memoirs.”

“Marco!” called Drool in the voice of a small boy. “Polo!” came the response in another child’s voice, as if it were coming from a different spot.

“Yes, like that,” said Polo, wincing at the sound. “I had discovered your friend’s incredible gift before our ship was taken, and since our captors would not provide me with the parchment and ink I needed to write my tale, I told the Genoans he was my valet; he was brought to my quarters and I began to recite my story to him.”

“Which kept him from being chained to an oar on a war galley?”

“Since there had been no response from Venice to ransom him, there was talk among the guards he would be sent that way, yes,” said Polo.

“I thank you for that,” said I. I really had been terribly worried about the great ninny, and kindness is so uncommon in these dark ages.

“It is more than repaid by your ransoming me. I have had the good fortune to encounter the miraculous in my travels, and I feel duty bound to try to preserve it.”

“Yes, Drool’s a bloody miracle, innit? You know he can fart the chorus to ‘Greensleeves’?”

“I can give ’er a go, Pocket,” said the dim giant, from behind me.

“No! Not necessary, lad.” Three out of four tries, Drool produced a trumpeting raspberry of “Greensleeves,” but every fourth time or so, he shat himself in the harmony. “I would like to know about another miracle you rescued on your travels. Drool said you brought a serpent back from the Orient. A dragon?”

Polo’s eyes went wid

e. “I suppose I never thought about how that would sound when my story was heard. I wouldn’t blame you if you thought I was a loon. They are rare creatures, even in China. But I wanted to show it in Venice, show people that the wonders of the Orient are real. It is no matter. The creature slipped out of my rucksack into the canal when I was climbing out of the boat at a dock near Arsenal. After surviving a trek across the great desert, too. A tiny thing, no bigger than my forearm it was. I’m sure it perished in the foul water of the canals. They live in the great rivers of China. I tried to draw it back to the dock using a balm they are attracted to, made from their venom, but it was no use. The creature was gone.”

“Perhaps not,” said I.

“Pocket shagged a dragon,” said Drool matter-of-factly.

“I did not shag her. I was cruelly abused while chained in a dungeon.”

Marco Polo raised an eyebrow. “Signor?”

“I was taken captive, as well, but in not so comfortable circumstances as you.” So, for the second time in the day, I told my tale: of being drugged, chained in the dungeon, of the creature coming to me in the dark, doing the dark deed upon me, and its subsequent murders and mutilations. I left out the bits about being able to project my thoughts to the serpent, to receive what appeared to be return messages on the dark canvas of my eyelids, and my plans for revenge.

When I finished my tale, Polo said not a word, but dug into one of the two rucksacks the Genoans had allowed him to keep, and pulled out a small, red-lacquered Chinese box. He removed the lid and held it under my nose. It was full of a dark, tarry substance. “Smell. Was this the taste of your amontillado?”

“Aye,” said I. “I remember it well. And when Viv sunk her claws in me, I would taste it in the back of my throat for hours afterward.”

Polo closed the box and replaced it in his rucksack. “This is the substance the little dragon was attracted by. It has a dreamy effect on someone who eats it, a stronger painkiller than even the milk of the poppy.”

“I know its effect,” said I. “I very much know its effect.”