I, Iago Read online

  “Of course, General,” I said, saluting smartly. I lowered my arm but stood at attention as the entire congregation filed into the keep, or out along the wall walk to their guard positions. Othello wrapped a large dark arm around his small pale wife, and ushered her back inside.

  There was nobody left out here but Cassio and myself.

  Chapter 39

  HE SAT SLUMPED OVER, head resting in hands, so pathetic I was almost moved for him.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you hurt, Lieutenant?” Ah, the delight of calling him lieutenant when he no longer was one.

  “Past all surgery,” Cassio mumbled in a miserable voice.

  “God forbid,” I said, and rushed to him, pushing him upright, as if to search for wounds on his torso. It reminded me of being a small child playing War with Roderigo.

  Cassio pushed me away and intoned in a mournful voice, “I’ve lost my reputation!”

  I laughed dismissively and smacked him on the shoulder. “Is that all? I swear to heaven, Michele, I thought you’d received some bodily wound!”

  “I have lost the immortal part of myself. My reputation, Iago!”

  Leave it to a Florentine to wax rhapsodic even at a time like this.

  “Reputation is a meaningless nicety,” I argued. “Half the time it’s gotten unjustly”—here I refrained from referring to a certain previous lieutenancy—“and half the time it’s lost unjustly too.”

  “Othello,” Cassio mumbled, miserable.

  “Calm down,” I said. “There are ways to get back in his good graces. He was making an example of you in front of a crowd of new soldiers, that is all—he wanted to show them what he’d do to his most exalted, so they would all know better than to push him. But now he’s made his point. Appeal to him and I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”

  Cassio shook his head. “I would not forgive me, in his position. This all happened because I was drunk. Men behave like idiots when they’re drunk. There’s a reason drink is called the devil, it brings out the devil in all of us.”

  I ignored the moralizing. “Who was that fellow you were following? What did he do to you?”

  Cassio shook his head despondently. “No idea.”

  “Really? None?”

  He curled his hands around his head again. “I remember a mass of things, but nothing clearly. I remember a quarrel, but not what it was about. Oh God,” he groaned, rubbing his face. “We put an enemy in our mouths and it steals our brains! Why do we do that? We transform ourselves into beasts and act as if it were something to celebrate!”

  “You seem fine now,” I observed.

  “Yes, I am just sober enough to hate myself for being drunk,” he lamented. “Another thing the devil does well.”

  I liked him more this way—not just that he was humbled, but also that he was sincere. “Michele, you’re being too hard on yourself. It was a rough night for you, but since it has happened as it has, face it like a man. It should not take much to mend the situation.”

  He gave me a disbelieving stare and said tersely, “I’ll ask for my place again; he’ll say I am a drunkard. He’ll be right! End of discussion!” He made a disgusted sound. “To go from sensible to foolish to beastly—only the devil can do that to a man—”

  “Enough of that,” I cut him off. “Will you stop obsessing on the evils of liquor and trust me with some advice?”

  “Of course. Ach, I can’t believe I got drunk,” he moaned.

  “Everyone gets drunk,” I said, barely keeping my patience. “Let that go. Do you wish to get your office back?”

  “Of course,” he whined.

  “Here’s what you need to do, then. The general’s wife is now the general—we’ve all seen that. Go to her. Ask for her help to put you in your place again. She is a generous soul, and she’d do anything for those she treasures. Ask her to splint this broken joint between you and her husband. Just as a bone mends stronger than it was, I wager Othello’s regard for you will grow stronger too.”

  He thought this over for a moment, his hangdog expression leaning puppyward. “That’s good advice.”

  “No more than you deserve,” I said. Oh, how I meant that. I patted him on the arm. “Dear Lieutenant, I must carry out my orders, so I’ll wish you good night now.”

  “Good night, Iago,” Cassio said, with a weak smile in my direction.

  I watched him walk unsteadily toward the door that led down into the keep. My heart smiled, but I kept my lips from showing it, even to the darkness.

  Now: if I could put the slightest worry in Othello’s mind that there might be something impure in Desdemona’s regard for Cassio, then the more fervently she spoke on his behalf, the more she would be damning both of them, and tormenting Othello in the bargain. That suited me. I took satisfaction in the perverse irony that Desdemona’s good intentions would turn on all three of them—just as my good intentions to all of them had turned on me. An eye for an eye, a turn for a turn, a measure for a measure.

  I DECIDED TO follow the wall walk over to the next tower and descend from there to pick out a few guards and begin my rounds of calming all the townfolk. But as I took a step along the parapet, I saw a shaved head capping a familiar face, gasping for breath and glowering at me in the dark.

  “Roderigo!” I said as cheerfully as I could. “Excellent work!”

  He stood up; his face was close to the torchlight, and I could no longer pretend to not see his expression.

  “Whatever’s wrong, brother?”

  He took a step closer to me. “I was exceedingly well cudgeled tonight,” he said. “And while being chased as if I were a hare—not a fox, but a hare—the absurdity of what I’m doing here was suddenly extremely clear to me. I’ve thrown pearls at Desdemona and all I have to show for it are some bumps on my head and a little experience. I am going home to Venice.”

  I was so delighted with my own abilities, I wanted him to be delighted too; I could not brook the notion that he should be displeased with my advice. “Patience, Roderigo,” I said with the confidence of my childhood. “We only arrived today; we cannot accomplish everything at once. Go to the barracks and get some sleep.” He looked uncertain. “There is no easy transport to Venice anyhow, so you may as well give me a few days more to change your circumstances. Go to sleep. Just down that way.” I pointed to the door of the keep. “The barracks are on the ground floor, across the courtyard. Trust me. Is it not better than having drowned yourself?”

  Frowning, he left me alone on the parapet.

  Desdemona

  Chapter 40

  A WEEK WENT by. One little week. One entire, endless week, without rain, without an opportunity to speak alone with the general, as the grass in the courtyard grew daily browner. Magistrates held meetings with the general. Soldiers practiced their arms. The ladies did embroidery all day, shopped in the town, dressed well for dinner. Roderigo sent me, by boys well paid to remain discreet, a pocketful of jewelry every other day—strands of pearls, large rubies, emeralds, opalescent stones I did not recognize. These I stored in my wardrobe. If ever I envied Roderigo, it was that week. How could a man have so much moveable wealth that he could so heedlessly hand it over to another? My work in the world was as significant as his, my mind sharper, my determination steelier . . . but I could not yet afford to provide my wife a home, let alone rubies.

  I chose not to dwell on this confounding outrage. More urgent matters required my full attention.

  CASSIO, DESPITE HIS desperation to restore his reputation, did little but send meek notes to Othello asking for an audience. I intercepted several of these messages and made sure the general did not receive them—but even those he did receive, he did not answer.

  This reassured me, but not enough, because the lieutentant’s sash lay folded neatly on the corner of his desk. Othello had not yet offered it to me. There was no pressing military business to distract him.

  “Why won’t he just present it?” I fumed to Emilia one evening as we lay together
in our small room. We were being housed in this suite not because of my standing with Othello, but because of Emilia’s with Desdemona. The larger, nicer room that would have been Cassio’s, had he lasted longer than a day—the room that should now have been mine—remained unoccupied.

  “He is not thinking like a general, for a change,” Emilia said, her head nesting on my shoulder and her hand stroking my chest. “He is completely preoccupied with love, and the world is not requiring him to do otherwise. When circumstances shift a bit, and he once again puts his mind to work, trust me, he will give you the sash. And deservedly so. It is a pity about Michele, though.”

  “I told you he had that weakness back in Venice, and you didn’t believe me.”

  I felt her head move as she nodded. “Yes. Funny how an attractive face can warp a girl’s judgment.” She tipped her chin up just as I turned my head, and we were eye to eye. She grinned. “Your attractive face warped me right into a marriage.”

  “Flattery will get you . . . somewhere,” I said, satisfied. I reached over to stroke her collarbone. And other things.

  DESPITE MY NEARLY effortless success at decommissioning Cassio, I could not rest easily. Cassio was still around. I heard a rumor he had spent several days and nights in a whore’s house in Famagusta, but then he returned to the Citadel, hoping to reenter Othello’s graces. Until that lieutenant’s sash hung over my left shoulder, Cassio was still a threat.

  Having too much time on my hands during that brief, unending week, I ruminated on ways to prevent the Florentine’s re-ascent. My scheme had worked so swiftly, I had not fully exploited it: the implied infidelity with Desdemona, for example, had not even been broached.

  That, then, would be my emergency plan: if Cassio showed any signs of regaining favor, then I would worry Othello into suspicions about his wife’s interests in the Florentine.

  How to do this? Or more specifically: how to prepare to do this, if required, without drawing undo attention to my plans if they were not enacted? I needed a prop. I needed something small enough to plant on Cassio, if necessary; something that could have only come from Desdemona.

  “You know the handkerchief of Othello’s that he gave to Desdemona?” I asked Emilia the next night, in a falsely casual tone.

  “The one with the strawberries?” she replied absently, combing her hair.

  “Yes, that one. Do you fancy it? Would you like one like it?”

  She smiled. “How very un-Iago-like, to want to ply me with gifts. It makes me wonder what you’ve been up to that you think you’ll need to buy my favor.” But then she grinned.

  “Do you like it?” I repeated. “Do you think she’d let you borrow it, to get the pattern copied?”

  She stopped combing, settled the comb in her lap, and looked at me appraisingly. “You mean that?” she said. “You want to give me such a gift? Why?”

  Despite my recent forays into deception, I still was not an able liar, and I most certainly could not lie to this woman. “I cannot give you a reason,” I said. “But I think you should, ahem, borrow it from Desdemona.”

  She smiled, in the mysterious way that women do when men are being dense about Things Female. “She never lets it out of her sight,” she said and raised the comb to continue working on her hair. “I doubt she would part company with it for an hour, even. She sleeps with it tied around her wrist.”

  “That seems a bit extreme.”

  “Love does that to people.” She laughed.

  “Well, if she ever decides she can survive without it for a day or two, please alert me. I might have a wife who deserves a trifle of a gift.”

  She beamed at me, lowering the comb again. “You win points just for desiring to please me,” she said, and gestured toward the bed. “Would you like to redeem them right away?”

  TWO MORNINGS LATER, Cassio emerged from his shamed, bawd-laden hermitage and finally took my advice to approach Othello through Desdemona. So much for my lieutenant’s sash, then; Desdemona really did hold enormous sway over her husband’s sentiment, and if she argued on Cassio’s behalf, Othello would give her whatever she asked for.

  So I was not happy to see Cassio, in full red-and-white military regalia, blue ostrich feather bobbing, approach along the lawn from the gate. Two musicians, young men in native costume, followed him, playing a dirgelike tune on mandolin and lute. In this courtyard, protected from both the sea breeze and the town noises, their mediocre playing carried loudly. Oh, heaven, I thought, he may as well be courting her.

  “Good morning, stranger,” I said, making myself smile. I rose and crossed to meet him, giving him a hearty slap on the arm.

  “Good morning, Ensign,” he said, with a salute. He gestured to the two musicians, and they stopped playing. “I’m tardy in taking your advice, but now is my last hope for it.”

  “Never a last hope,” I insisted. “Othello will surely hear you out.”

  He grimaced. “I was coming here to ask your wife if she would ask her lady to come out to speak to me.”

  Lo, how the mighty had fallen. Cassio, when useful to Othello, had had free access to Desdemona . . . now he was asking my permission to speak to Emilia, to whom he would then ask permission to speak to Desdemona. I found that delicious.

  “I was just headed inside,” I said, luxuriating in my ability to go where now he could not. “I’ll send Emilia to you. However,” I added, with a helpful smile, “I think the sad-eyed musicians are a bit much. Pay them for their troubles, and send them off.”

  “Do you think so? Thank you, Iago.” He looked so touched by my offering advice, I almost felt bad for him. “Even among my fellow Florentines, I’ve never met a kinder fellow.”

  “That’s high praise indeed,” I said. “I’ll send Emilia to you.”

  I let myself into the cool, shady rooms where the women were keeping themselves occupied, on the north wing of the fortress. Emilia and Desdemona were doing embroidery together, near an open door that faced out into the courtyard. I knew Emilia disliked embroidery (I suspected Desdemona did as well), and I felt sorry for it. They both looked up eagerly for a distraction. I gestured with a finger, and Emilia happily set her hoop aside and rushed over to me. Desdemona watched her, looking almost envious.

  Emilia approached me, leaned in for a kiss; I gave her one on the cheek and whispered, “Michele Cassio is outside the door.” In an even quieter voice, I added, “He wants the lady to help him get his commission back.”

  Her eyes widened, and she pulled back to meet my gaze. “Oh,” she whispered, after a moment. “That’s a bit awkward for us, isn’t it?”

  Thank God she understood. “He has asked me to ask you to go out to him, so he can ask you to ask Desdemona to go out.”

  “How Florentine,” she said. “I do not suppose I can refuse to see him? Or refuse to carry the message to her?”

  In that remarkable moment, I had to make a choice: either let her in on everything I thought and planned, or promise myself she never had an inkling of it. I chose the latter. I loved her too much to enmesh her in any unsavory scheme. And on a less noble note, I wasn’t sure I trusted her not to give something away.

  So despite my impulse to say Do exactly as you please, I said instead, with a paternal frown, “Emilia, I appreciate your impulse, but the man deserves to have his appeal.”

  “Why cannot he have it after you’ve been made lieutenant?” she shot back. I could see Desdemona out of the corner of my eye sit up a little straighter and cock her head with curiosity.

  I kissed Emilia’s cheek. “The best Cassio can hope for is a reinstatement as an officer. Othello will never consider him for lieutenant again.”

  “When will he consider you for lieutenant?” she asked.

  I pulled away from her. “That is a different conversation,” I said. “Attend to present business.” I walked toward the interior door of the room. Here I paused and looked back. When I knew I had Desdemona’s full attention, I concluded to Emilia, “Attend to this matter honorabl
y and honestly, wife.”

  She saluted me. “You’ve a nobler heart than I have, husband,” she called out, in a tone of admiring sincerity. I bowed my head to Desdemona and departed through a curtain to a corridor.

  Chapter 41

  AS I HAD ALL WEEK, I attended to Othello in his office. Daily he was briefed on the military and civic concerns of Cyprus, and particularly of Famagusta. Most of it was boring, dreary, officious paperwork and committee meetings, not at all what he was used to or cared for. Throughout the week, Marco Salamon, the paunchy Venetian patrician who was Othello’s civic commissioner, was there, and by the end of the week, Montano was well enough recovered from his wound to sit in as well. The meetings were airless and pointless, and as soon as business was attended to, Othello would excuse himself, with me following him, and spend the rest of the morning with his officers training in arms in the courtyard of the fortress. We all shared mess together in the refectory, and the afternoon was variably spent each day.

  THIS MORNING AFTER Cassio’s appearance, the meeting and the boredom were no different. As always, Othello tried to rush through it, and as always, the gentlemen attending him seemed to want to slow the process down, perhaps because they had nothing more interesting to do with their day. And, as always, I eyed the lieutenant’s sash and wondered when he would present it to me.

  As it was the end of our first week, I scribed dictation on a summary of events thus far (nothing to report beyond Cassio’s decommissioning, but taking seven pages to do so). Othello signed it; it was sealed; he gave it to me.

  “Iago, give this to the pilot of the ship. Send him back to Venice, with our regards to the Senate as we await further orders from them. I believe the army’s presence is useful here, but I do not know that mine is, now that the Turkish threat is past.”

  I saluted and took the packet from his hand. Why was he calling upon me to do these trivial tasks? Had he not, back in Zara, sent a page boy to deliver messages to the ship? But, of course, those had been secret missives; this was a matter of state. So perhaps it was an ennobling gesture, to show all the officials of the island that I was his right-arm man. The best way to show them would be to give me that sash.