I, Iago Read online

  WHEN I WAS not with the ladies, I would usually lie in my tight berth, staring at the berth above mine, in search of a fantasy to watch the waning of my enemies, the bugs and goblins in my life; a fantasy that would strike just the right satisfying note of vengeance in my soul.

  The requirements for this fantasy were: it must disquiet Othello; it must humiliate Cassio; it must give me my lieutenancy.

  But how to accomplish all of this? And without putting Emilia in harm’s way, or casting any further aspersions on her? She deserved defilement of character no more than Desdemona did. In fact, Emilia was more innocent than Desdemona yet currently suffered a worse reputation.

  Desdemona. The beautiful little creature who was, at the core of it, responsible for all the intrigue, all the mischief—all my troubles. I felt no particular grudge toward her, but neither did I feel protective—and if my wife was to be slighted, then why not his wife too, who was so much more guileful?

  So, although I was a gentleman, I permitted myself the liberty to include Desdemona in my furious deliberations.

  That turned the key.

  Suddenly, it was obvious and easy: I would make Othello fear that he’d been cuckolded by Cassio.

  They had all set their own traps: Cassio, the charming ladies’ man, was known by Othello to be capable of intrigue. Othello likewise knew that Desdemona was capable of deceit—their wedding had depended on it. There was nothing far-fetched to the notion that the familiarity between Cassio and Desdemona was more familiar than either had let on. If she was going to carry on with foreigners, of course she’d marry the army general—but wasn’t the Florentine fop abler at pitching woo?

  The plan was clear as a cloudless sky: if I could put into Othello’s mind even the vaguest fear that Cassio had seduced Desdemona—or merely had designs on her—he would want to distance Cassio. He would decommission the Florentine and finally give me the lieutenancy. With, no doubt, a heartily embarrassed apology for his misguided ways. If my anger was abated, I might embrace him back as friend, although never with the guileless trust of early days. Cassio would be sent away, which meant (among other things) my wife would stop admiring him. Desdemona would risk a reputation like Emilia’s, but nothing worse; Emilia would face no risk at all.

  It was a marvelous scheme. Desdemona was beautiful, sweet, and rich: why wouldn’t Cassio fall in love with her? He was handsome and gallant: why wouldn’t she respond to him? There was plenty of opportunity for them to have been lovers. There was no proof it had not happened. Even virginal blood on wedding sheets could be faked, if Desdemona did not want Othello to know she’d already caroused with Cassio.

  Othello was so trusting, he could easily be led to believe that all this had happened right under his nose without his suspecting it until his loyal ensign, honest Iago, warned him of it.

  This plan was much more comprehensive, and much more plausible, than the fantasy I had prescribed for Roderigo.

  In fact, it was so plausible as to be realistically attainable.

  I would do it. Not just sit and seethe and fantasize. This was a plan that I could reasonably act on. And get results.

  Suddenly I couldn’t wait to get to Cyprus.

  Chapter 36

  WE SKIRTED A SQUALL as we neared Cyprus. If you have had this experience of the wind and the rain, you know how miserable it was; if you haven’t, find someone else to describe it to you; I do not care to dwell on it. Desdemona was sick for a few hours, with Emilia nursing her tenderly. When she recovered, she was robust as ever. That young lady had a spine to her.

  FAMAGUSTA IS A panoply of man-made defenses, which begin before one even reaches the city: an enormous rock jetty delineates the harbor, beginning at the southern edge of the walled town and arching out into the water until it bends back toward the seawall at the Citadel, near the northern end of the city. The Citadel looms above everything; on the seaward side it thrusts out a wall that almost meets the jetty, the narrow harbor opening between them defended by a chain. On the landward side, the Citadel is the castle-keep from which extend the thick walls and towers surrounding the city. An enormous moat hugs the three city walls that are not seaward, a moat so deep that spring tides can reach it and turn the moat floor into brackish mud.

  Incongruous with this martial aspect, the port lies outside the harbor, undefended, on the north side of the Citadel tower. It is nothing more than a paved beach, to which visitors and cargo are rowed in longboats from outlying ships. From there they ascend a broad paved slope, to a small terrace between the Citadel gate on the left, and a passageway to the city on the right.

  There were soldiers mounting cannon along the seawall, and the harbor chain was raised, but we were given leave to moor and row to shore in longboats. Waiting beside the ladies for a longboat, I saw one galleass and several galleys already in the harbor.

  Only one galleass.

  Othello and Cassio had left on separate galleases. One of them had not arrived yet. A fearful thought shot through me; from the corner of my eye I saw Desdemona press her lips together fretfully.

  Desdemona, Emilia, and myself, with several soldiers guarding, took the second longboat to the shore. The ladies were each carried like cargo by enormous dockworkers to dry land; the soldiers and I took off our boots and splashed the last few yards to shore with drenched stockings.

  Desdemona immediately fell prey to land-legs: she had grown so used to shifting her weight with the movement of the boat, that now she could not balance and fell against me; I grasped her elbow and held her up. “That’s normal,” I murmured reassuringly, with a smile; Emilia and I were wobbly ourselves, but we had known to expect it. “You will be steady again in moments.” She gave me a grateful smile; a wave of regret washed over me for bearing hostility toward her innocent sweet self.

  The air was dry and warm, the southern sun baking us as it never did in Venice. The smells of bread and livestock wafted down from the city walls—civilized smells, far preferable to the stench of vinegar that was used to clean the innards of the galleys. Looking up, we saw the entire Citadel population, including maids and stableboys, staring down at us in worried curiosity. Some of the army had already arrived . . . but why would Venice send fragile ladies to a land of war?

  More longboats deposited three dozen soldiers and some trunks. We made our way up the slanting roadway under the beating sun, toward the gateway of the Citadel. Emilia put a steadying, soothing arm around Desdemona. Cassio or Othello—one of them had not arrived. None of the port workers said anything to us, but all of them looked grim. I wanted to ask for information but dared not in Desdemona’s hearing.

  It must be Cassio who was lost; Othello had about him an aura of invincibility that not even Neptune could destroy.

  We arrived at the gate, in the shadow of a large square tower. The lintel of the gate bore a huge winged lion, for this was Venetian territory. From the tower above, soldiers and servants stared down at us in glum silence, as if they believed we were bringing them the plague.

  The gate opened; a cornet sounded, and a dozen men in military dress marched grimly out of the gate. Leading them was a tall, leathery-faced man in white; this must be Montano, the rector of the city.

  Then, with a sick feeling, I saw bobbing behind the soldiers a bright blue ostrich feather. Cassio was here. Which meant Othello wasn’t.

  An airy, almost soundless cry escaped Desdemona when she saw Cassio; Emilia clutched her tighter, and I moved closer to them both to catch her if she fainted.

  Cassio, wearing the lieutenant’s sash across his body, approached as if it were a day of celebration. I felt ill seeing him dressed that way—seeing him at all, given Othello’s unexplained absence.

  As if rehearsed, the honor guard parted and allowed him to stride ahead until he was standing beside Montano. With his usual Florentine flourish he bowed deeply over one bent leg and spoke to the Cypriots and army men around him rather than to the lady herself. “The greatest riches of the ship have come ash
ore! All kneel now and greet the lady Desdemona.” He went down on one knee, and everyone behind him awkwardly did likewise.

  Desdemona forced a polite smile. “Thank you, Cassio.”

  Cassio stood quickly, unobtrusively wiping off his stockings at the knee as the men behind him also rose. “And here is Montano, who governs in Venice’s name,” he added. Desdemona and Montano exchanged formal greetings.

  An awkward pause.

  “Where is my lord?” Desdemona said at last.

  Montano pointedly took a step back, leaving Cassio responsible to give the news: “His ship has not arrived yet, my lady. But I’m sure he’s well and will be here presently.”

  Desdemona stiffened slightly. “But . . . your ships were traveling together.”

  Cassio gave her a patently fake smile. “A tempest surprised us, and we were separated in the storm. He had the more experienced pilot, so I am sure he is well, just blown off course and—”

  A row of guns blasted from above, and a host of guards on the walls began to halloo and point toward the harbor. The curving slope had led us up behind the Citadel; we couldn’t see the water from here, but voices began calling down to us that a Venetian galleass was in view. A cannon sounded from the vessel in response to the Citadel’s greeting.

  Desdemona clutched Emilia’s hands. Cassio smiled with relief. “You see, my lady,” he said, “that’s surely his ship now.” He turned to one of the guards. “Run down to the port and get the news.” As the man raced past me, Cassio’s eyes followed him, and only then did he notice me. He smiled benignly. “Good ensign! Welcome!”

  Desdemona stepped aside as Cassio approached; I saluted him as I must, and he returned it. I disliked being on display like this. His face lit up when he turned to Emilia.

  “And the lovely mistress Emilia.” He took her hand and bowed over it to kiss it. I glared. He looked up and winked at me. “Oh, come now, Iago, I’m a Florentine, do you really expect me to greet your beautiful wife in any other manner?”

  He was growing cocky now he had his lieutenancy. My lieutenancy. I stood there without speaking, and having straightened, Cassio—as if mocking me—pecked my wife briefly on the lips. Emilia blinked in shock. I trembled from the effort of not instantly punching him.

  “Well, sir,” I managed to chuckle. “If she gives you as much of her lip as she gives me of her tongue—”

  Desdemona laughed nervously. “Iago, be kind. Her tongue is always very good to you.” She was innocent of how filthy her words sounded.

  I heard tittering behind us, and turned around. The passageway leading from the city was crowded with amber-skinned locals. We now had an audience. I had to keep my humor.

  “Her words may be good in your presence, my lady,” I said, “but trust me, her thoughts chide me enough that I can hear them.”

  “You know that’s not true,” Emilia scolded affectionately, and used the moment to step away from Cassio.

  “Oh, come, Emilia,” I scolded back. “Speaking as a man renowned for his honesty, I am pained to inform you that you—and all ladies, if her ladyship will excuse me—you are three kinds of dishonest. In public you’re the very pictures of innocence, but at home you nag and complain, and then in bed, of course, as every married man knows—”

  “Iago,” Emilia said warningly, smiling despite herself.

  “You slanderer!” Desdemona said over her laughing.

  “I am but speaking plain and honest,” I insisted.

  Emilia put her hands on her hips with a saucy affectation, as she had the first evening I ever met her. “Heaven forbid you ever praise me in public,” she said.

  “I don’t need to praise you anymore, you’ve already married me,” I retorted cheerfully. “Now I may take you for granted.”

  Desdemona smiled and charmingly took one of my bare hands in both of her gloved ones. “You cannot take me for granted,” she said. “So tell me, what would you say in praise of me?”

  I gently broke her grip, holding my hands up in surrender. “Do not ask me that, lady, everyone knows how barbed my tongue is.”

  “Oh, but give it a try,” she insisted, grabbing my hands again. Her face grew serious a moment and she whispered, “Someone’s gone down to the port, yes?”

  “Yes, lady,” I assured her.

  Her smile returned, but her voice stayed low. “Everyone is watching us, Iago, and I would not have them see me distressed. Help me seem merry until my husband joins us.” She raised her voice to a normal speaking level. “Come, tell me how you’d praise me.”

  Emilia nudged me in encouragement. With a heavy, put-upon sigh, I nodded—not displeased that Cassio was being left out of the banter his unseemly action had set off. “I will attempt it, lady, but praise does not come easily to me. My inner muse must labor hard to think of anything fair and witty to say.” Emilia stepped on my toe with her heel, and shifted her weight there. “But in this case, of course, it is no labor, since the creature I am to praise is already so fair and witty herself.”

  Emilia smiled and removed her heel from my toe.

  “Very nice,” Desdemona replied archly. “But do you mean, then, it would be harder labor to praise a lady who is witty but dark?” Her eyes floated toward Emilia’s deep auburn hair, then returned to meet my gaze, pointedly.

  “The dark and witty lady has a dark wit all her own,” I said, and took my wife’s hand to kiss it.

  Desdemona smiled, as Emilia immediately challenged me: “Well then, how would you praise a woman who was fair but lacked wit?”

  “Oh, no need to praise her,” I said. “If she’s fair enough, trust me, somebody will want to sleep with her.”

  The townsfolk behind us cackled. The Citadel men looked horrified that I was speaking with their general’s wife this way.

  Desdemona, however, was delighted. “You are quite abominable,” she said approvingly. “What do you make of his wit, Lieutenant Cassio? Is he not a scoundrel?”

  Cassio, the elegant Florentine, was pink-faced. He said, apologetically, “He is a soldier, my lady, not a gentleman. He doesn’t always know the proper way to address a lady. As I do. If I may speak in private with the lady?” He held out a hand and led her some half dozen paces away from the group. He began to whisper to her, smiling politely and kissing her hand.

  I watched, as a fencing master watches his pupils to see if their form is correct. He may have been imparting some confidential information to her, but he was also, by my lights, flirting with her. The three-fingered Florentine kiss was a gesture I was now used to; but I’d seen him use it on prostitutes as well as ladies. Go ahead, I thought, kiss her and kiss her and kiss her again. Later if Othello hears from me how you’ve been kissing her, I won’t even be lying, you fool.

  Cassio was going to make this very easy for me. He was going to hand me my lieutenancy on a platter.

  Chapter 37

  A TRUMPET SOUNDED down the slope—three short notes then two longer ones: Othello’s signal.

  “The general’s here!” I called out sharply; Cassio instantly released Desdemona’s hand and moved back to the collection of officers.

  “You’re right,” he declared unnecessarily, and gestured them to stand at attention—which they were already doing on their own. “How could he be here so quickly? We’ve just seen his ship on the horizon.”

  “He must have lowered a longboat,” I offered. Bowing to Desdemona: “He was that eager to be reunited with his bride.”

  “Let’s go down to the water and meet him,” she said.

  Cassio gestured down the slope and saluted sharply; we all turned in the same direction and did likewise.

  Othello, his pale clothes splashed with seawater and his hems soaked with it, was striding briskly, if wobbly-kneed, up the incline, four attendants scrambling after him, and a small clutch of fascinated port workers trailing after them. My heart jumped at seeing him: here was the human face of the friend I had been demonizing. The two Othellos, colliding, confused me.


  His face brightened when he saw Desdemona, who gave a shout of joy and ran down the slope toward him; he broke into a jog to reach her, grabbed her, and pulled her against him as if he would use her body for a breastplate. No couple in Venice would have greeted each other so in public; no military leader I could think of in all history would greet his wife this way before his officers.

  It was the first time most anyone present had seen the two of them together; a few had not even heard the general was married, and there was startlement among the soldiers. The quiet woman and the rough-spoken general were fairly dripping in poetry, virtually making love in front of us, before finally Othello turned his attention to the rest of us and gave us the extraordinary news that should have been the first words from his mouth:

  “There will be no battle,” he shouted out. “The great tempest that separated my ship from the rest has destroyed the entire Turkish fleet! Cyprus is safe.”

  Stunned silence. Then we were all shouting, shouting loudly with relief and joy. The townsfolk began dancing together; the cheekier ones sashayed toward the guards with arms outstretched in greetings, and the guards whooped and danced with them. Emilia and I, clutching each other tightly, laughed and jumped around like children. No enemy! No danger! Safety and serenity! All is well and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well . . .