The Serpent of Venice (22 page)

“I have four tall merchantmen, like you came here in, only fitted for war. We tow them just out of range. They are too tall to easily board and too slow to attack, but the wide decks hold many archers and many catapults. If the enemy ships pursue, death is rained down upon them from above. If they attack the merchantmen, our galleys return to defend them.”

“So your secret is that you practice?”

“We practice and I feed my men well. A man rows harder when he is fed and when he is paid. There are no slaves in my ships.”

“I was a slave,” said I.

“As was I,” said Othello. “Chained to an oar for three years, was I, until my ship was sunk by pirates and I floated away, saved by the broken oar that I had been shackled to.”

“Not so much rowing for me. Greasy fuckload of juggling and jesting, but very few nautical bits.”

“I don’t think you would do well at sea, friend Pocket. Men on a ship, unable to escape your chatter, might try to kill you. Have you heard of keel hauling?”

“Ha! I’ve been to sea and survived. And I was quiet the whole time, but for some retching and a wee bit of complaining.”

“Why do you need a ship?”

“You remember my monkey, Jeff?”

“A horrible creature—”

“He needs rescuing. From Genoa. As does my enormous apprentice, but I thought Jeff would evoke more sympathy.”

“And what of your puppet? Does your puppet not need rescuing as well?”

“Jones? You know he’s not real, right? I give him voice. He’s not a living creature, you know?”

“Yes, this I know,” said the Moor, dazzling a grin at me that veritably shimmered with self-congratulation. “I was making a joke.”

“Excellent point. I’ll need a ship and a pilot and a crew.”

“How did I make that point?”

“With your joke, I have seen my folly in thinking that I, an unskilled sailor, could take a ship to Genoa without help.”

“It was a good joke,” said the Moor.

“When it comes to crafting jape, thou art a soldier indeed.”

“You think because I am a soldier and you are a joker that you can make sport of me, but I am a strategist, too, Pocket of Dog Snogging, and I know when someone feints, then tries to outflank me.”

“If not for me you’d not have your Desdemona.”

“If not for me you’d be drowned,” said the Moor.

“That’s not a fair trade. I am but a wisp of a fool, a used and broken one at that, with no reason to live but revenge. Desdemona is worth a hundred of me.”

“She is my soul’s joy,” said the Moor.

“A thousand of me.”

“You shall have your ship.”

“And crew and pilot?”

“Yes, yes, but you cannot just sail into the harbor at Genoa. We are at war with them. The ship will have to put you into a longboat down the coast, out of sight, and you can row in. Do you even know where they are?”

“Yes. Well, somewhat. The Genoans are holding them for ransom. In prison, I reckon.”

“With a fair wind it will take four days to sail there, half a day for you to row in. The ship will wait two days for you, then they will leave and you will have to make your own way. I cannot come rescue you, Pocket. The harbor at Genoa is the most fortified in the world.”

“I’ll be back in little more than a week.” I slapped the Moor’s shoulder by way of thanks; he scowled at me. Really, I preferred the grin, despite the dreadful joke that preceded it.

“What of the girl?” asked the Moor.

“She’s waiting for her fiancé.”

“Who is dead, you said.”

I had told Othello of Lorenzo’s demise, although I said he’d died by my blade in a fight, not that he’d been done in by Vivian. It was quite enough to run through the whole story, from my walling-up to Antonio and Iago’s plot to take Brabantio’s seat on the council so they could start a bloody Crusade for profit without adding the complication of a bloody mermaid having me off in the dungeon and murdering Jessica’s betrothed.

“She doesn’t know that. I’ll take her with me to keep her distracted.”

“You are going to have to tell her.”

“I thought I’d just share in her dismay when he didn’t show up.”

“Take her, but tell her.”

“She’s forsaken her father and her home, now to find out that I killed her lover, even if he was an appallingly devious bastard, it would be cruel. I am all she has.”

“You must be cruel to be kind.
^*
You are all she has.”

“That’s a flaming flagon of dragon wank, if I’ve ever heard one. She’ll be fine, waiting. When you’re waiting the world is full of promise.”

“Tell her, or no ship.”

“I’ll tell her, after we’ve rescued Drool. I may need her gold to pay ransom.”

“Promise you will tell her. Color it how you may, Pocket, but tell her.”

“I will promise to tell her if you promise to throw Iago in chains.”

“I will be cautious of Iago, but he has fought by my side in many battles and been true; I must see evidence of his betrayal before I take action.”

“He killed my Cordelia, recruited the spy that poisoned her.”

“So you say.”

“So said Brabantio. Iago is a traitor, you night-browed ninny. You cannot trust him.”

“I will keep my back to the wall in his presence and I will look for proof of what you say, but Iago is as clever as you in the way of words, subtle fool, and if I confront him on only your word, he will evade me and I will appear a tyrant. This force is mine to lead because I am steady, not rash.”

“So I
don’t
have to tell Jessica that Lorenzo is dead.”

“You do,” said Othello. “Do you know the names and routes of the ships that Antonio has at sea, the ones he used to guarantee his bond to Jessica’s father?”

I pulled the parchment that Shylock had written out for me from my nun’s habit and gave it to the Moor. “They are here, and a schedule of when they are expected to return to Venice. But these do not guarantee the bond. For that Antonio promised a pound of his flesh.”

“Surely that was meant as a jest.”

“That
is
part of the job, but no.”

“Why are you still in nun’s clothing? Without your motley and puppet stick, I forget that you are a deeply silly man. It’s unsettling.”

“I’d make a fit nun, wouldn’t I? That’s the problem, innit? You fancy me in this nun suit, don’t you, you bloody great stallion?”

“You need to shave,” said the Moor.

“But then, eh?” I winked, tarty teasing nun that I was.

“You are silly and you make a homely nun! I will go arrange for your ship. Watch the exercises; maybe you will learn something, thou irritant fool.”

So I did watch, watched the great aquamarine slate of the Ligurian Sea laid out before me to the horizon, scored with the wake and churn of a dozen ships, but it was not the smoke and warships that drew my eye, it was that shadow just under the surface by the breakwater, waiting for me to return to the sea.

“Oh dear, Nerissa,” said Portia. “I am so distressed, I’ve scarcely had time to think about shoes.”

“And shoes surely wither with your neglect, lady, but the Duke of Aragon awaits. Shall we make our entrance?”

“I don’t look too beautiful, do I?” Portia primped as if Nerissa were a looking glass and she would know when everything looked just right by the look on her maid’s face.

Nerissa smirked.
Three thousand ducats just to have a go? You’re a country villa and a lifetime of blow jobs short of being too beautiful, love,
Nerissa thought
.
But she said, “You are perfect.”

They made their way down the stairs, Portia gliding ahead, Nerissa bouncing behind, as was their habit, to find the Duke of Aragon, a dazzlingly handsome young man with a waxed mustache and coal-blackened eyelids, waiting with a pair of manservants in the foyer.

The lawyers made their statements and Aragon bowed grandly over Portia’s hand.

“Nerissa, please show the duke to the caskets.”

As she passed, Nerissa whispered, “Fear not, lady, he may choose the same casket as did Morocco. The odds do not favor him as much as you suppose.” If the duke did pick the casket with Portia’s portrait, Nerissa might gain security by remaining at her lady’s side and perhaps even relieve her of some of her wifely obligations. Aragon was no stingy republic or Islamic caliphate dripping with competitive wives; Aragon was a proper feudal kingdom, with an aristocracy, and an enterprising wench possessed of a royal bastard might find leisure there for life.

The lawyer unlocked the terrace door and bowed out of the way.

The duke walked slowly around the table, reading each of the inscriptions, squinting at the caskets’ exteriors as if some of the promise within might be leaking from the seams. Finally, after several revolutions, when the lawyers had begun to cough, politely, the duke paused in front of the silver casket.

“ ‘
 Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves
,’ ” read the duke. “I would have the key to this one.”

The lawyer came forth and handed Aragon the key.

The duke opened the box and stood aghast. “What is this? This is shit!”

“There will be a rhyme to explain it,” said Nerissa.

“No, it is real shit,” said the duke.

“But look, tis glitter sprinkled upon it,” said Portia.

“Perhaps this means you have won your prize,” said Nerissa, unable to help herself. “A symbol. The Montressor was ever so fond of symbols.”

Portia growled, slightly, even as she grinned at the duke’s misfortune.

The lawyers tittered and thought this might be just the sort of thing old Brabantio might do to a noble from whom he had just swindled three thousand ducats.

“It’s a turd. Three thousand ducats, for a turd?” The duke was waving wildly at the offending object, and in doing so bent one side of his splendid mustache. “Three thousand—”

“You gave your word,” said Portia. “Please do go, good sir, and make suit no more.”

Humbled by his oath, the duke turned on a heel, tossed back his cape, and strode out without another word.

“Aren’t you going to chase after him?” Portia said to Nerissa. “Flaunt your bosoms at him?”

“I would, but I’m curious about the rhyme your father left for this one.”

Portia peered into the casket with its odiferous brown passenger, but saw no parchment like Morocco had found in the gold casket. She looked to the lawyers, who shrugged.

“There’s no poem.”

“Nothing rhymes with silver, does it?” said Nerissa.

^*
Hamlet, Act III, Scene 4: “I must be cruel only to be kind.”

SIXTEEN

A Nasty Piece of Work

I
am not so sure of this, Iago,” said Rodrigo. “Cassio seems lovely.”

“He is not lovely. When he drinks he is a devil, as you shall soon see. I despise him, I loathe him, I dislike him in the extreme. My hate for him is to hate as is hate to love. He is a pestilent and complete knave. You may not say he is lovely.”

“I didn’t mean lovely, but he seems a gentleman.”

“A gentleman who will shag your Desdemona cross-eyed. What chance will a gangling hedgehog like you have with her once she’s been with a handsome rascal like him? Now drink your wine to fortify you for the fight.”

“But it tastes of pitch.”

“Drink it. It will warm you against the night until I bring Cassio to you.”

“Which will be where?”

“At the foot of the Citadel’s walls, in the narrow alley there, you will see a lantern with a red lens in the window, the house of the courtesan Bianca. Wait in the dark, three doors from there. After he is well drunk, which will be a short time, I will put the notion in Cassio’s head that Bianca has sent for him, and the rogue will stumble that way in search of her charms. I will follow behind, out of sight. Have your sword at the ready, but make a fight of it. Once you have engaged him, I will cry havoc and bring down the watch to witness Cassio’s knavery and attest that he attacked you unprovoked.”

“So I am to slay him?”

“If it happens, it happens, all the happier for us, but you must make a fight of it. Suffer a light wound before you deliver the killing thrust.”

“A light wound?”

“Or if you fail, as your friend, I will wound you for appearances.”

Rodrigo started to speak, then paused as the old innkeeper tottered by them with an armload of wood for the fireplace.

“Speak your mind,” said Iago. “He’s deaf.”

“I think it best not to trust that he is as deaf as he appears.”

“Ah, good thought. His gait is feeble, but there’s a randy mischief in his gaze. I suspect him of doing the dark deed with my wife in my absence.”

“Really? The innkeeper, too? Friend Iago, pardon if I speak out of turn, but you should have words with her.”

“Later. Now you must find your place near Bianca’s house. I have seen Cassio drink before, and after but one cup he will be wobbly and mad for a night’s slippery adventure. Go, be there, and I will go to the officers’ post at the harbor with a fresh jug of wine.”

“I go,” said Rodrigo, making for the door, hand on the hilt of his sword. He turned and took two steps back, as if drifting with his momentum. “I am heady for the fight, Iago. I move as if in a dream.”