The Serpent of Venice

Polo looked at the well of the boat, as if ashamed. “I sold another such box to a merchant on the Rialto.”

“Antonio Donnola?”

“He said his father was dying with a tumor and was in great pain.”

“His father has been dead for years.”

“I am sorry,” said Polo. “I didn’t know.”

“Not to worry,” said I. “No way you could know. Nor that your creature had grown up. I expect we may be seeing her soon.”

Polo shuddered. “Do you wonder why she didn’t slay you?” Then, before I could answer, his gaze strayed over my shoulder. I heard a rhythmic slapping sound coming from the bow and I looked over my shoulder to see Drool standing in the boat, his back to us, twitching and laughing in a low, breathy giggle.

“Drool! What are you doing?”

“Havin’ a bit of a wank.”

“In the middle of your bloody rescue?”

“Just a wee one,” said the oaf.

“It was a constant the whole time we were captive,” said Marco Polo.

“You had yourself off for three months solid?”

“There weren’t nothing to read.”

“You don’t know how to read.”

“Yeah . . . ,” said Drool.

I turned to Polo. “Why didn’t you just tell him to stop?”

“In my travels I have learned to be respectful of other peoples’ cultures.”

“What culture?”

“Well, he’s English, isn’t he?”

“Nonstop wanking is not part of English culture.”

“It helps if you tell him a story,” said Polo. “Distracts him.”

“It helps if you beat him about his great empty melon with a puppet stick,” said I. “Drool, stop that and sit down. You’ll fall in the water and Viv will eat you.”

With an alarmed tremor, Drool sat down. “Proper threat works, too,” I said to Polo.

“You’re English as well, no?” asked the explorer.

“Full blood, noble-born bastard of Blighty, I am, at your service.”

“Hard to tell with everyone having the same accent. I can row for a while, if you need a respite.” Polo again raised the inquisitive eyebrow. “Some time to yourself . . .”

“That is not part of English culture!”

“Of course not.”

“Oh, right, part of the national health, innit? ‘Here’s a leech and two tosses a day, and the bloody queen thanks you for your loyalty.’ ”

“Apologies,” said the Venetian. “I only know your apprentice, and he—”

“Look, there’s Jessica on the breakwater,” said I. “Drool, put that away and take the oars.”

CHORUS: The Moor, a storm of suspicion conjured in his mind by Iago, did burst into his lady’s bedchamber to confront his enemy—fear—the fear of losing his love to another. And Desdemona, the only one who had ever brought that sweet, soft calm of love upon his warrior’s brow, could only his solace deliver.

“Lady! Desdemona!” said the Moor, throwing the door open and back on its hinges. “I would have words with you!”

CHORUS: When he spied the veiled figure reclining on the bed, he screamed, a yip most manly and not at all like the sound that might chirp from a small dog that’s been trod upon. The general, in that instant, hopped back through the door, his sword rattling against the doorjamb as he went, and became the very model of a man ready to bolt.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, brash general, I am but a helpless nun at the mercy of your rough barbarian ways.”

“Desdemona?”

She tossed the purple veil back. “Well, who else would it be, silly?”

“What are you wearing?”

“It’s Pocket’s nun suit. He said you’d find it saucy.” She put wrist to forehead and leaned back on the pillows in feigned distress. “Oh no, thou rough pirate, please do not ravage me and have your dread and disgusting pleasures on my nubile body.” She squinted in fear, and thrashed her head in denial, while sneaking a bit of a peek to see how her nun bit was playing.

“I do not find this saucy. The fool knows nothing of my desires.”

“Not wearing any knickers . . . ?” She pulled the hem of her gown up a bit. “Helpless nun, no knickers . . . ?”

“There are no purple-and-green nuns. The fool made that up.”

“But the no knickers bit is true.”

“No.” Othello crossed his arms, resolute.

“Totally naked nun . . . ?” And in two deft moves, but for the wimple and veil, she was.

“No.”

“Fine, then, what did you want to have words about?” She sat up, cross-legged on the bed, elbow on her knee, chin in hand. “Well?”

“I don’t remember,” said the Moor.

“Well, close the door and come to bed, love, you’re tenting your robe, the servants will be scandalized. Emilia will be jealous.”

“Jealousy!” said the Moor. “That was it! A green-eyed monster!”

“Oh no, thou raging lunatic, I am but a helpless nun,” said Desdemona, quivering in her most naked distress, since apparently this was how Othello wanted to go with the bloody game.

Bested, the Moor shrugged, closed and latched the door, and went over to the bed.

“A green-eyed monster that mocks the meat it feeds upon . . . ?” Othello mumbled.

“Why not?” said Desdemona, taking her turn to shrug. “We can do that.”

NINETEEN

Well Met in Corsica Once More

Jessica stood at the rail of the poop deck in her white blouse, canvas sailor’s trousers tucked into her high boots, and the red silk scarf she’d bought in Genoa tied around her head, her dark curls spilling down past her shoulders. I must admit, she made for the most fair and fit pirate I had ever seen, despite her surly mood. We were two days from landing back at Corsica and she had not spoken to me since we’d retrieved her from Genoa and she’d found out about my spending her father’s gold.

I approached her cautiously, but not so quietly I would startle her. Truth be told, I did not like her standing so close to the rail, for although I had not seen her since she presented herself to Drool and me, I could feel the dragon out there, following. I’d tasked Drool to look after Jessica, and he had followed her around the ship like an enormous slobbering puppy. He sat with his back against the rail, watching her, his gaze as vacant as the cloudless sky above.

“It was my only recourse, Jess. Polo saved Drool, kept him alive, no doubt. And his family will repay you the ransom when he returns to Venice. It is little more than a loan.”

“And will he repay my mother’s ring, which I had to give for your fucking monkey? My father’s turquoise wedding ring.”

“To be fair, you are not blameless, you did steal the treasure first.”

“What will I tell Lorenzo when he comes to Corsica? He may be waiting for me even now. That money was for our life together.”

“Viv eated him,” said Drool.

“What?” said Jessica.

“Nothing,” said I.

“Viv eated Lorenzo,” said Drool. And then, before I could stop him, in a perfect imitation of my own voice, the natural recited the story of how Viv had taken Lorenzo and Salarino, word for word as I had told the tale to Marco Polo.

Jessica turned to me, tears welling in her eyes. “What is this?”

“Well, the ninny has the story all wrong. He was wanking the whole time I told it.”

She took me by the shoulders and shook me. “What is this? Where is Lorenzo?”

Tears poured down her cheeks and my heart broke again for her, for it was that hope in her eyes that I had so dreaded, that she was casting on me like the leaden yoke of the one-eyed guilt swan. Is it the fault of a girl bright with the light of romance that she falls in love with a rascal? Is the love any less pure? Any less heartfelt? Any less painful when lost? It would serve no purpose to paint Lorenzo as the scoundrel I knew him to be. “Drool has that bit wrong, love. Lorenzo is