I, Iago Read online

  “I will drink to that, brother!” The general laughed, and drained his glass.

  Somehow this open, trusting, and trustworthy man was suddenly so skilled at keeping secrets that he could lie by omission to me, all day, every day, without a shred of guilt. I was almost sickened thinking of it. And yet, before supper was over, he had taught me the Egyptian lullaby his mother used to sing to him; I reduced him to gasping fits of laughter, describing the incident with Galinarion’s hen; we arm wrestled, and although his arms are twice as broad as mine, I won, because I knew a trick—which I showed him, to his delight.

  By the time I went to bed that night, my alarm at the secret correspondence with Michele Cassio had almost abated.

  ALMOST. BUT NOT QUITE. I was unnerved by how unlike myself I managed the situation: for some reason I did not dare to ask Othello about it directly. I was frightened of what the answer might be. But I was burning with anxious curiosity to understand. So—very much unlike myself—I took a route indirect.

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK, the day before the next courier ship was due in port, I let myself into Othello’s office while he was at fencing practice. Zuane da Porto was napping somewhere. Zuane spent more and more of his time napping; I was eager for him to retire so I might officially take his place, as I was already performing most of his duties (in addition to my own).

  I went to the desk, determined if necessary to search every drawer—even the hidden drawers, which I knew about and had access to—to discover what Othello was writing to Cassio.

  But I did not have to search at all. Lying plainly on the leather desktop was a letter filling three sheets of paper with Othello’s square, inelegantly clear handwriting. I was startled by frightened elation as I realized the secret correspondence was right here, I could read it now and know now what conspiracy with Cassio was being kept from me . . . but as I regained my wits and prepared to read, I heard the door open. I had time to glance at only the first line before looking up to see who’d entered.

  That first line read: My beloved Desdemona.

  “Iago,” said the general from the doorway.

  Chapter 26

  WE WERE BOTH acutely ill at ease, and silent for a moment.

  “General,” I said at last, and pointedly turned away from the desk.

  “Iago,” Othello said again, with a tone almost of pleading in his voice now. “I see you have discovered my Achilles heel.”

  “Do you refer to your epistolary romance with Senator Brabantio’s daughter?” I said, still turned away from him.

  He laughed, but there was discomfort in the laughter. “I am in love with the lady, Iago, and she with me.”

  “But you cannot have her, and so you are torturing both yourself and her with an exchange of letters,” I said coldly. “Torture yourself if you must, but you are being unfair to the lady.”

  “Iago, when you met Emilia, could you help but express your feelings to her?”

  I turned to meet his gaze. “General, forgive me, but it is not a fair comparison. I courted her because I knew she would be a suitable and obtainable wife.”

  Othello stared at me levelly. “Iago, remember for a moment how it was when your heart first fell for Emilia.” He paused.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Take a moment—this is an order from your general—take a moment and tell your logical, practical mind to shut the hell up. Ask your heart what it knows— remember exactly how it felt.”

  I did, because I respected him and wanted to continue to respect him. I did not want a beautiful patrician whelp to spell the ruin of a friendship that meant so much. And yes, remembering that first moment with Emilia was a pleasant memory, a very pleasant memory, and I enjoyed the flood of emotion that came with it. Othello, seeing the shift of mood on my face, nodded with satisfaction.

  “If she had suddenly said to you, I am the daughter of a senator, and you can never have me, would you have turned and walked away from her?”

  I tried to answer sharply, but could not. “My heart goes out to you, that you have these feelings,” I said. “I do understand, completely, the impulse to indulge them. But there can be no happy ending to this romance.”

  “If it must end in heartbreak, let the heartbreak come later,” he said evenly.

  “How do you communicate with her?”

  “I send the letters, sealed, to a friend.”

  So he was not going to tell me of Cassio’s involvement.

  “Ah,” I said.

  “A friend who dines quite regularly at the senator’s home. He always finds a way to give my letters to Desdemona and to receive letters from her, which he then sends to me.”

  My confused, baleful emotions got the better of me. “What you are doing will be considered an outrage if you are ever found out. You are too useful to the state to be demoted, but everybody else will suffer for it. Desdemona will be shamed, Brabantio labeled a laughingstock, and Ca— your friend whipped or even jailed for his conspiring with you both.”

  Othello froze for a moment, then took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “As always, Iago, I appreciate your bluntness and your honesty. Your advice, almost without exception, is unerring and useful to me, from military concerns to Venetian table manners. But in this case, I must make my own judgment.” I stared at him in disbelief, and he added, with an attempt at levity, “You are not going to reveal me, are you?”

  “Of course not,” I said impatiently. “I am not upbraiding your actions in themselves; I am warning you that they will come to an unhappy end.”

  He smiled the familiar, soothing Othello smile that said we were brothers under the skin. “I appreciate that, Iago.” He took another deep breath and sighed. “I do know, of course I must know, that this is folly. It cannot end in marriage, and I would never besmirch her by taking her as mistress. But indulge me in simple enjoyment of a few hours’ secret forgetfulness each week, will you not? You have Emilia’s letters to distract you. Allow me my own distractions.”

  “What happens when we return to Venice?” I asked. “Have you thought that far ahead, great strategist that you are?”

  “When we return to Venice, it shall be just as it is now,” he assured me, relaxing as he sensed my anger abating. “I shall send her letters from a chaste distance, and she shall return letters chastely to me. And we shall do that until it grows old and ceases to entertain us, regardless of whom her father marries her off to. If it is an arranged marriage, surely her arranged groom cannot begrudge her having an admirer who never even touches her. Consider my conduct toward her in person, Iago. The Florentine Michele Cassio has touched more of her person than I have, by kissing her along the hand and wrist. And that spice merchant Brabantio dislikes, he has pressed his suit in ways I would never dream of.”

  “So this is a harmless flirtation? You will not shame the lady, nor bring trouble on your own head?”

  He smiled. “You are a good man to care about these matters, Iago. Yes, I promise you, happily I promise it, I will not shame the lady. And now please come outside with me and let us exorcise, with exercise, the tension we have built up in this room just now.”

  I followed him out into the bright Zaran sunlight, knowing he was lying to me. To me only. Not to Cassio or to Desdemona. He was, in fact, lying to me with Cassio and Desdemona. Two people we had never heard of six months ago were now in collusion with my general and closest friend. The duplicity with Desdemona I could understand—that was sex. But Cassio? Why Cassio? What was Cassio to him, or he to Cassio, that he should lie to me?

  Chapter 27

  WE RETURNED TO VENICE within three months. As I disembarked I took an appreciative deep breath of mild Venetian springtime air, which did not smell like vinegar and filthy men, but instead like all the scents I’d missed without ever thinking of them. I was very glad to be home.

  As soon as I was off the boat, before I had even gotten my land-legs, I stationed myself at the trestle table set up on the tar-smudged dock, to oversee the tedious ta
sk of releasing each soldier from service. All I could think about, as the paymaster and I worked through the rolls, was the scent of Emilia’s skin. Three months without her had been so difficult. I could hardly focus on the ritual of paperwork and leave-taking required of me. Two hours later, finished with the clerical drudgery, I went directly to Othello’s office at the Saggitary for official leave.

  Here I found Othello, frowning in disbelief at Lieutenant da Porto.

  “Tuscany?” he was saying as I stuck my head in. “Come in, Iago, come in.” And back to the lieutenant: “What on earth is there to interest anyone in Tuscany?”

  “I have a daughter there, and I have missed her growth and the birth of my grandchildren,” the man said peaceably. “I will sit under olive trees and drink wine and watch children play, and then I will die. It will have been a good life.”

  It was the longest statement I had ever heard the laconic fellow utter.

  I knew the Moor’s face so well, I intuited what he was thinking: such a man had been a mercenary? Had risen to first lieutenant? Othello had not so promoted him and never would have. Da Porto had been assigned to him in the midst of a political crisis; he had accepted da Porto without appraising him. Indeed, Othello had hardly noticed him. Da Porto had made himself so entirely replaceable that in function if not title, he had consistently been replaced—by me. I did not dislike da Porto but still my heart leapt as I understood his meaning. He was retiring. This meant my advancement. That I should be first lieutenant to the general of the entire army! If only my father could have known.

  THE GENERAL DISMISSED da Porto and was about to begin a final review of the Zara project with me, but a rap on the door interrupted us. The boy minding the door stepped inside and solemnly announced the arrival of Michele Cassio. Before he could control the instinct, Othello glanced at me. I looked away. If he would not admit to having a secret with Cassio, then I would not admit to knowing about it.

  With Othello’s permission, Cassio stepped into the room and saluted us both with his right hand. In his left, he held a now-familiar parcel. I felt my stomach tighten.

  “Greetings, Michele,” Othello said with his usual warmth. “It is good to see you in person after so long an absence.”

  “As it is to see you, General, Ensign,” Cassio said, now bowing like a courtier. The gesture brought his right hand down toward his bent knee and his left hand up behind him. I could not contain myself: I reached, as if playfully, for the packet of letters and plucked it from his hand. “And what is this?” I asked.

  Fast as a whip, Cassio straightened, looking at me and then at Othello in alarm.

  Othello was absolutely calm. For a long moment, he examined me, making no move to get the parcel from me. In fact, he clasped his hands behind him. “I appreciate your attentiveness to my well-being, Ensign,” he said. “I also appreciate how much you trust my judgment in certain matters.” Smiling, he released his hands from behind his back and held out one of them toward me.

  Unhappily, I handed him the letters. There was nothing else I could have done with them but show them to Brabantio, which I would never do. I did not want to reveal Othello’s weakness; I wanted it to go away. I particularly wanted it to go away if it gave Cassio a special tether to Othello that I did not have.

  “Thank you, Michele,” Othello said. “Please return tomorrow for instructions in this matter. And congratulations upon becoming an officer. We will celebrate at the great feast of San Marco.”

  Cassio’s Florentine cheeks flushed as mine paled. Yes, he had finished his training; yes, he was now an officer, albeit of nothing in particular. This untested gallant was now technically my equal in the army. I found this annoying, but allayed the annoyance with the cheering thought that a lieutenancy loomed before me.

  CASSIO DISMISSED, OTHELLO and I finished our work, and I left at last well after dark had fallen. I hoped Emilia would be waiting for me with a loosened corset and clean sheets. Losing myself in her arms, her thighs, her smile . . . my limbs shivered with anticipation.

  And there she was, even more wonderfully prepared for a homecoming than I’d fantasized, in nothing but her shift, her long auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. I slammed the door behind me and lifted her so high in my arms, her breasts pressed against my chin. Without a word, I carried her to our bed, and it was hours before our mouths said more than our bodies. We could have children now, I thought as I entered her the first time. With a lieutenant’s salary, with a lieutenant’s quarters, we could manage it. Little Emilias and little Iagos running around as visible proof of our love for each other—I almost fainted with pleasure and passion at the thought. I kissed my wife ferociously. This beautiful, clear-eyed, charming woman—my wife. How could a man be so lucky?

  THE NEXT MORNING, as we prepared to go to breakfast, I was not feeling so enamored of her. She told me, with a sparkle in her eye, that she knew about the letters being passed between Othello and Desdemona—who now considered her a bosom friend, because she was the only woman to whom Desdemona could safely share her delight about the secret correspondence. As wife of Othello’s closest confidant, Emilia was trustworthy, sympathetic, safe.

  “So everyone except Othello’s closest confidant had been taken into confidence on this matter,” I growled.

  “That is a silly way to look at it,” Emilia said. “You sound jealous, Iago. Are you jealous of me? I am sure Desdemona would be happy to gush about her faraway paramour to you as well.”

  “I do not much want to hear about it,” I said. “And may I point out, Emilia, that he is no longer far away. They are in the same city now. They will frequently be at the same house, dining at the same table. How do you expect that will go?”

  “I think that will depend on how discreet everyone chooses to be,” Emilia retorted, and added pointedly, “including you.”

  I sat up straighter, nearly huffing. “Are you implying I would give them away?”

  “Not deliberately,” Emilia said in a placating voice. “But subtlety and nuance are not your strengths, Iago. I know how you feel about secrets and lies, and I understand if this situation discomfits you.”

  “You were never an admirer of secrets and lies, either, yet you seem quite taken with the whole thing.”

  She paused, and then nodded. “I admit that over the past few months, I have grown to appreciate that society may be not only mocked but undercut. I know both Othello and Desdemona. A good man, and a good lady. They are very fond of each other. They are not allowed, by the conventions of our society, to even attempt an open courtship.”

  “I agree with you that is most unfortunate for both of them,” I said impatiently. “And I agree it is the fault of our ridiculous culture that they are suffering for that.”

  “But you see, Iago, they need not simply rail against the injustice of it,” Emilia said, moving to stand before me, and then kneeling down so she could look up into my face. “They may at least express their regard. They relieve their hearts in words, if not actions. Thank heaven there is another outsider who is willing to defy the conventions of Venetian society.”

  My stomach clenched. “What do you mean, another outsider?” I demanded, sitting up straighter.

  “Michele Cassio, of course,” Emilia said. “He and Othello are both foreigners here. It is only natural one of them should have a sympathy for the other’s plight.”

  I shook my head and stood up; she rose with me. “Emilia, Michele Cassio is a Florentine. He is every bit as attached to class distinctions and noble exclusivity as any Venetian, perhaps more so. He and Othello have nothing in common.” I pushed her away gently and went to stand by the window, looking down onto the campo outside the Arsenal gate. “If Cassio is passing notes for them, it is not out of sympathy for Othello’s plight. The man goes whoring almost every night. He does not appreciate what Othello feels for Brabantio’s daughter.”

  “Iago!” Emilia laughed. “What makes you say something so appalling about one of y
our fellow officers?”

  “Please do not refer to him that way,” I said through clenched teeth. “The man is a fop. He is an intemperate, womanizing, Florentine fop. Oh, yes, he puts on a very elegant show of being proper and gallant, I know, I remember, I have seen it,” I said. “I have also seen him on the balcony of a bawdy house, half-undressed, with a naked whore in his arms, and I’ve seen him the next morning with wine on his breath—”

  “He does not even drink, Iago!” Emilia said with a sharp laugh. “Are you so threatened by this gentleman that you feel the need to fantasize about him?”

  “He does not drink in good society, because he cannot handle it,” I corrected her sharply. “He is a sot, I’m telling you. He refrains from drink at dinner parties because he knows he would make a fool of himself once he started.”

  “Has he confessed this to you?” Emilia demanded, amused, and took my seat.

  “I deduced it within a week of meeting him,” I said. “Allow me some credit for observation, Emilia.”

  “Iago,” Emilia said. She took a breath and then spoke in the lower tones of her mellifluous voice. “Be reasonable for just a moment. I too am a native of this place that is so full of artifice. I recognize insincerity a canal’s length away. And Michele—”

  “You recognize Venetian insincerity,” I interrupted. I could not bear hearing my wife speak sweetly of that man. “He is not Venetian. He has his own language of duplicity, at which you are not fluent.”

  She sighed again, stood up, and made a gesture of frustration. “There is no talking to you, then. I do not know what has caused you to have such a terrible feeling toward the gentleman. He is unfailingly pleasant every time I have encountered him. He has been a constant breath of fresh air here in your absence, and he is the only agreeable male to sit at Brabantio’s table these past three months. He is doing a favor to your friend and to my friend, and we should be grateful to him for that, we should not defame him.”