I, Iago Read online

  “And how exactly do you know this?” I asked, cutting the overcooked lump of goat meat on my plate.

  “I was among the several fellows waiting for her to open up, so to speak.” He chuckled. How charming to know Bucello was unchanged from adolescence. “Finally we all gave up and went on to a proper brothel. And then,” he added, with an almost nostalgic laugh, as if this had happened long ago, “when myself and another, seeing him returned here, went to Bianca’s, she said she would not have us, that she was in love with Michele Cassio and was saving herself for him!” He slammed his fist on the table and almost choked on a chuckle.

  “Really?” I asked in surprise. “And does Michele know she feels this way?”

  “Course he does.” Bucello grinned, downing a huge mouthful of watery ale. “He’s proud as a cock about it, but I doubt he returns the devotion. He just likes knowing he can move her. She gives it to him free now! And it’s her only means of income!”

  “So he talks about her,” I said, chewing on the goat meat and hoping for Emilia’s sake that she received better midday victuals than I did.

  “Talks? Boasts, really,” Bucello said. “Laughs and brags about it. I suppose when you have ruined your chance to be Othello’s right arm, you need something to feel smug about.”

  “Where does the lady live?”

  He gave me the leering look again. “You want a little action? Your wife . . .” He saw the look in my eye and immediately dropped that thought. “I can recommend some skirts at a couple of the brothels,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Bianca will not take in anyone but Cassio now, at least until she figures out he’s playing her.”

  I did not need reassurance of my moral rectitude in destroying Cassio’s career—but it was still pleasing to hear new reasons for it. The fellow was a cur. To a war widow.

  “I am quite satisfied with my own lady, thank you, but I want to speak to Cassio, and if he’s not here, I bet he’s dining at her house.”

  BUCELLO GAVE ME directions to the place. I finished eating as quickly as I could, and headed out of the fortress gate, down to the broad paved road and through the passageway, into the township itself. I had only done this twice over the past week and did not have a very clear sense of direction yet. Bianca lived near the central market, not far from the palace—where Montano lived, and where Othello and Desdemona would probably move within the week, hopefully taking Emilia and myself with them.

  Bianca’s house was very small. I doubt it’s where she lived while her husband was alive. A war widow. Emilia risked that fate; I could not bear to think she risked this consequence of it. It made Cassio that much more disgusting to me that he took advantage of this woman.

  I rapped on the door, and a petite, sharp-featured woman opened the door. She was unexpectedly attractive and vibrant, nothing bloated or weary or resentful as so many prostitutes are. Her face was tinged just slightly with cosmetics, something I was not used to, as neither Emilia nor Desdemona used any. She gave me a disdainful look. “Who are you and why’ve you come?” she asked.

  “I’m seeking a Lieutenant Cassio,” I said. “I understand he might be here?”

  She blushed—with pleasure, anger, or embarrassment, I could not say which. “Normally he would be,” she said, “and I’m pleased to hear his fellow soldiers know to look for him at my house. He practically lives here.” Given we’d only been on Cyprus for about a week, that struck me as presumptuous, but I kept my counsel. “However,” she went on, “I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. If you see him, tell him . . . never mind, I’ll go find him and tell him myself.” She gave me a tight smile. “Excuse me, if that’s all?”

  “Yes. Sorry to have bothered you.” I touched my chest in a wan salute, and turned back toward the fortress.

  I had walked halfway through the market square when I almost literally bumped into Cassio, who looked extremely grim.

  “Ensign!” he said in surprise, pulling up abruptly.

  I smiled benignly at him and did not correct him. In fact, I greeted him heartily: “Lieutenant! I have just been seeking you out!”

  He registered mild surprise. “Here in t— Oh, did you go to Bianca’s?” he asked, with a sheepish yet saucy grin that very nearly made me slap him.

  “Rumor had it you might be there.”

  He reddened slightly, and yet looked pleased with himself. “Wine and women. The ancient weakness of the Florentines,” he said.

  “Quite,” I said. “Come back with me to the fortress. Impress upon Desdemona how important it is for you to speak to Othello. I’ve tried telling him myself, but he won’t listen, he thinks I am too partial to you.”

  “I already asked her this morning,” Cassio said. “You were there. You sent Emilia out to me. I’m sure the lady is already doing all she can.”

  “She might be, but you’re not. Do you recall how you left her? You snuck away, as if you were guilty of a crime. Othello saw that and did not like it, so no matter what she said, you left a bad taste in Othello’s mouth.”

  He grimaced. “Oh.”

  “Exactly. Oh. So come back with me now and try again. Your lady friend can wait; she seems entirely devoted to you.”

  A lascivious grin as I’d never seen before spread across his face. “Oh, yes,” he said, and chuckled. Truly. A Florentine, chuckling. “She’s devoted.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Poor thing’s besotted, actually.”

  “As besotted as you were your first night here?” I demanded crisply.

  He wilted in reply.

  “I’m only trying to keep you focused on your goal,” I said. “I assume your goal is to be reinstated in Othello’s good graces, and not to burrow yourself into a widow’s nether regions?”

  Now he reddened. “I forgot myself, Iago, forgive me. I embarrass myself.”

  “I’m only after your good name,” I said, softening slightly. “So come back to the castle with me and help me to help you get it back.”

  TOGETHER, WITHOUT FURTHER conversation, we walked back up to the fortress, and straight to the scraggly lawn in front of Desdemona’s dayrooms.

  Here we found Desdemona and Emilia standing in the afternoon sun, staring into the darkness of their parlor with unhappy expressions.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked on approach. The women turned toward us, and Cassio instantly went down on one knee, doffing the ostrich-plumed hat.

  “My husband . . . ,” Desdemona began, still staring into the building. She was paler than usual, and looked frightened. “My husband is not pleased just now. With me, I think.”

  “Is he angry?” I asked with stunning disingenuousness.

  “He was just with us,” Emilia said, sounding equally shaken. “He left, he went inside, and he seemed . . . very strange. Unsettled. He spoke rudely to her. Angry, yes, maybe.”

  I shook my head. “I did not know that man could get angry. It must be serious, perhaps a message from Venice? I’ll go find him and see what’s wrong.”

  Desdemona took a deep sigh. “Thank you, Iago, do so.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” I said to Cassio and went inside. I did not even exchange glances with Emilia; I could not risk her reading anything amiss in my expression.

  “DO KEEP IN MIND,” I urged, “that there are acceptable circumstances for a man and a woman to be alone in private, and kiss each other—”

  “This would not be one of them!” Othello snapped. “This would be an unauthorized kiss.”

  “But we do not know that such a thing even happened. You should ask your wife! I would ask Emilia, if I suspected anything. You have seen no proof at all, and I have only seen a handkerchief. And if I give my wife a handkerchief . . .”

  We were standing almost exactly where we had all met up the day of arrival in Cyprus, on the small stone piazza between the Citadel, the passageway to town, and the harbor road.

  After delivering Cassio back to Desdemona, I had sought Othello out within the walls of the fortress. I had not found him; I ha
d gone into the town, and not found him; I had gone down to the port and seen him standing on the slope, staring out to sea. And so I had gone down to him and was coaxing him now back toward the fortress.

  Lying by commission was uncomfortable and distasteful to me, and so I decided to sail a different tack, which I thought of as “the Venetian approach.” Unlike outright lying (which I had previously thought of as the Venetian approach), this one pecked and clawed while pretending to massage and soothe. Just like the backhanded compliments and veiled slurs so common among the better circles of Venetian society.

  “ONCE I GIVE the handkerchief to her, it’s hers,” I concluded. “And since it is hers, she may give it to anyone she likes.”

  “Her honor is hers too; does that mean she may just give that away?” he snapped.

  I shook my head. “That metaphor does not hold. Honor is abstract, it’s an unseen essence. You cannot tell by looking if somebody still has it or not,” I said, dismissing him. “Whereas a handkerchief—”

  “He had my handkerchief,” Othello growled, his hands curling into fists.

  “So what?” I demanded. “You do not know what that means.”

  He glared at me. “It means more than just his having my handkerchief, you know that, Iago, do not play the fool with me.”

  “You haven’t seen it for yourself,” I argued. “You’re just going on what you’ve heard me say. What if I am lying to you? What if I am mistaken? What if I said I had seen him do you wrong? Or if I said I’d heard him say—I don’t know, the things men say when they’re having an affair—”

  “Has he said something?” Othello demanded, eyes wide.

  I released a reluctant sigh. “Even if he has, General, of course if he’s put to it, he’ll swear he never did.”

  “What has he said?” Othello demanded.

  “Well, he said . . .” Oh no, more outright lying. I much preferred to tell the truth deceitfully. “I have no idea what he said.”

  He grabbed my arm and shook it. “What did he say? What?”

  “Something about a lie, about lying—”

  “With her?”

  “With her, on her, something like that.” I sounded flustered, and it was not greatly an act. My whole body rebelled against the act of lying, just as it thrilled happily at all these other newfound skills. In contrast to the other ways I had of getting a result, actually lying by commission was so crude.

  Othello started breathing heavily. A sweat broke out on his face, and he waved his hands in small, nervous flutters, pacing around me. His anger turning inward, he muttered to himself more than to me. “Lie with her! Lie on her!” he growled. “And the confession . . . and the handkerchief . . . he’ll confess, I’ll make him confess all right, and then I’ll hang him for it . . .” He smashed his hands together, as if smashing Cassio’s brain between them.

  I realized what was happening a heartbeat before it began: he was falling into another fit, as he had that day back in the Senate, years ago. By his own reckoning, I had saved his career then. I felt, among the growing morass of other emotions, a strange nostalgia for those early days.

  I grabbed him to offer physical support; he was down a moment later, his body twitching, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  I stepped back to take a look at him. Suddenly I felt exhausted. I wanted him to wake from this fit with no memory at all of what had happened over the course of the day. Good heavens, was this all one day? Had all this madness, all this dangerous ecstasy, happened over the course of this one day?

  It was not even sunset.

  “Othello!” I shouted. “Othello, can you hear me?”

  At that moment, Cassio appeared.

  IN MY ABSENCE, Cassio must have repetitioned Desdemona and then gone straight back into Famagusta to sweeten his woes in the arms of Bianca. Given how little time had passed, I surmised he had been sweetened very rapidly. “Michele!” I cried out, desperately trying to think of a way to prevent Cassio and Othello from meeting face-to-face, especially at this moment.

  Cassio gawked to see Othello in this state. He ran close to us, crying out, “What’s the matter?”

  I held out an arm to restrain him going closer. “The general has fallen into an epilepsy.”

  Cassio grimaced awkwardly. “Should we do something? Rub his temples?”

  Oh, he wanted so badly to be useful. He wanted to be present, the concerned healer, as Othello opened his eyes. Not for your life, I thought. Aloud, I replied, with casual authority, “You mustn’t touch him, it has to run its own course. If you try to help him, it makes him worse, he foams at the mouth and rants.”

  That worked; Cassio backed right off. Othello groaned a little on the ground.

  “Look,” I said. “He’s recovering already. I’d disappear if I were you, he’ll wake in a moment, but you will not advance your cause by gaping at him when he’s like this. I’ll get him back inside to safety, but then I want to talk to you, so stay nearby.”

  He looked around worriedly. “I’ll walk down to the bottom of the hill and then come back when he’s gone—will that do?”

  “Go just around the bend. I’ll whistle for you when it’s safe.”

  As he hurried down the roadway, I turned my full attention on Othello. His eyes were open; he was drenched in sweat. “How are you, Othello? I tried to break your fall—I hope you haven’t hurt your head?”

  He stared up at me. “Are you mocking me?”

  “Am I mocking you? Me? Of course not,” I said impatiently, helping him to sit up. “But with all respect, I wish you’d learn to take your fortune like a man.”

  “Did he say those things you said he said?” Othello demanded.

  I sighed impatiently. “Be a man, sir! Do you know how many thousands of cuckolds have no idea they’re cuckolds? Wouldn’t it be better to know? I’d rather know, then at least I could take action.”

  “Smart man,” Othello said grimly as I helped him to stand. He sighed heavily, straightened his clothes, and glanced back up to the fortress.

  “Do not go back in yet,” I said, on an impulse. He gave me a questioning look. “While you were lying here, Cassio came by. I convinced him to leave and made excuses for you. Honestly, it bothers me that you’d let your passion get the better of you so severely, but never mind,” I added, when he glared wearily. “Anyway, I told him I wanted to speak alone with him once you were gone. I want to determine if he is having an affair based on a conversation with him while he is awake, not talking in his dreams, which does not count. So hide yourself over there”—I pointed to the gate where Roderigo had hidden, the day of our arrival—“and watch him as he talks to me about your wife.”

  “You cannot be serious,” he said, appalled. “Do you think he will do that? Just . . . talk openly about how he is cuckolding me? The whoreson! The damned whoreson!”

  “Calm yourself, General,” I said sternly. “I do not know that he will do it. I would like, for your sake, to find out. But I can’t do that if he knows you’re here. Keep control of your emotions. Are you a man or a spleen?”

  He shook his head with annoyance. “Only you have the allowance to talk to me that way, Iago.”

  “Well I’m glad somebody does, because you need it.” I pointed at the gate. “Go over there, Cassio will be right back. Watch him. However much you trust me, you should not be relying on my word. I might be mistaken, or misunderstanding. You must only take as proof what you see with your own eyes. Yes?”

  He nodded.

  “So be patient, and just watch.”

  “I’ll be patient, but when the time comes, Iago, I’ll be murderous as well.”

  This was no temperament for an army general. It scared me to imagine what would happen—not right away, but over years, as this hidden serpent grew within him—if the army remained under the control of such a man. I had never seen this side of him. I did not believe that I could have drawn from him, so quickly and effortlessly, what was not already there within him. He was fai
ling the test of character.

  Perhaps it would be merciful of me to let him see that for himself. I would push him a little harder. This morning, he had declared himself unfit to rule the army—perhaps he had been right. If he continued in this vein, then he was definitely right—and it was a service to everyone, including him, to make that plain.

  “Do everything as it is timely,” I said vaguely. “Will you withdraw?” I pointed to the opened city gate behind which Roderigo must have spent the better part of three hours just yesterday. Othello crossed to it and disappeared between it and the wall.

  I whistled through my teeth. A moment later, I saw Cassio’s tall, stately form appear around the bend as he walked briskly toward me. For some reason I thought of the first moment I had seen him, back in Venice. It had been annoying then, how very handsome and dapper he looked. He still looked handsome, but no longer dapper. Even the ostrich feather seemed to droop at its master’s fortunes. Well, he should not have had those drinks. He was too weak-willed, and he paid the price for it. The revelation of that too I now considered my duty to the army and the state.

  “Lieutenant!” I called to him as he approached. “How are you?”

  “I feel even worse for being called lieutenant, when I’m not one,” he replied, moping beside me now.

  “Push Desdemona and you’ll be sure,” I advised.

  “I doubt she’s trying very hard, and I cannot blame her,” he muttered.

  I lowered my voice and whispered to him, slyly, “Too bad it’s not up to this Bianca of yours to plead on your behalf.”

  He smiled then, in that knowing way a man smiles when he knows a woman wants him. “That’s true enough, poor thing. I think she’s in love with me.”

  “I heard a rumor in the officers’ mess yesterday that she’s telling everyone you’ll marry her. Is that your intention?”