“I LIED TO YOU about the wine,” Othello said. “It is not excellent. In fact, it’s swill.”
“It is the swill of the gods,” I said heartily, and downed the contents of the wooden cup in one huge swallow that burned the back of my throat. The whole cabin reeked nauseatingly of valerian, used as a disinfectant on my arm. “And is this indeed your cabin, General?”
We were not on his ship; his ship had gone down at Rhodes. We were in the captain’s cabin of another galleass—the largest surviving ship in the fleet, with the largest captain’s quarters, which Othello and the captain were sharing. All officers were crammed together into cabins and all enlisted men into the berths. There were enough surviving soldiers that the surviving ships—packed tight to start with—could hardly carry them home. The Turks were not pursuing us; word had reached them that we were merely a decoy, that the city fortress was under attack from the ships of the Holy Roman Emperor.
On our nightmare retreat down to the ships, I had learned what it feels like to rip apart a man’s body with my sword, to have a man’s entire life in blood spurt at my face and seep into my clothes; I learned that such horror does not dampen the thrill of victorious survival, that the rush of winning the battle to live comes by forcing someone else to lose. I learned the pain of an unbated blade tearing into my own flesh, although the wound was on my left arm and not deep. I had more than seven things to report to Othello; I easily had seventy, and each one was known to him already.
“This is the soldiers’ life,” he said, almost dismissively, pressing his favorite scented kerchief under his nostrils. “The mercenaries know this. Few Venetians really understand. Now that you do, son of a merchant, will you continue in the service?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. What we had lived through was a nightmare, but such a vivid one as made any other kind of life a pallid daydream.
“Do you see why your lovely wife could not come with us?”
“Yes.”
“And do you think you can go home to your lovely wife and remain a gentle husband to her, knowing what you now know of the real nature of a soldier?”
This time I hesitated. Othello gave me a compassionate but knowing look.
“Yes,” I said.
Othello considered me a moment in the swaying lamplight, and then he smiled. “I believe you, Iago. I do not mean I believe you’re right, but I believe you mean it. You will never view a masked ball the same way again.”
“I never liked those balls, I told you that,” I said, adjusting the pungent bandage over my wound.
“Yes, you sneer at all the Venetian gentility. But now, Iago, besides sneering, you will be jealous of them.”
“Are you jesting, General? I’ll scorn them more than ever.”
“No,” Othello said, philosophically smiling. “Most men in your position would, my friend. But, Iago, you are made of different stuff. You and I have the same ore. We earn our lives, we earn our dignity, and we are very proud of that—but sometimes it is tiring. We know,” he said, sitting up now and looking more animated, “we know that we deserve the feather beds and eager mistresses and fine puddings and private chamber music and beautiful clothes and furniture and palaces. We know we deserve it better than any of those who actually possess those things. But we will never have those things, Iago, because it is not in our nature to pursue them. We do not really want them. We want to want them. We know, you and I, we know that if we really wanted those things, they would be ours. Somehow. We would get them. We know that we are men of such integrity and strength and drive, if we wanted something enough, we would find a way to get it. This I know about myself, and I sense it about you too, as I have sensed it about no other Venetian I have met. If only I wanted feather beds, they would be mine. And life would be so easy. But I do not want them, I cannot want them, I cannot”—here he made a contracting gesture—“I cannot make my soul small enough to be content with them. The soldier who pines for a feather bed, he will just be scornful and resentful. But the soldier who cannot pine for the feather bed, he will be jealous of the ability to pine.”
I sat up, startled. “You’re right,” I said. I had never thought that about myself until he had said it, but the moment that he said it, I realized I’d known it all my life.
“Of course I am right.” He grinned. “I told you, the same ore, you and I.”
I shook my head, hardly comprehending that. “Until this battle, my life has been very sheltered compared to yours.”
“I am not talking about experience, I am talking about the ore,” Othello said, shaking a clenched hand to emphasize the last word. “The very elemental essence of your soul. Now we will go back to Venice, and of everybody in this army, you and I, the two of us alone, will never be at peace.”
I dearly hoped that wasn’t true. “I intend to be at peace as soon as I am in Emilia’s arms again,” I told him.
He made an impatient gesture. “I do not mean that.”
“I am not bloodthirsty, General. I may not crave the feather bed, but neither do I crave another battlefield.”
“But if you had to pick between the two, Iago—which would it be? If you say the feather bed I know you are lying.”
“That does not mean I crave a war,” I argued.
“Then what do you crave?” he challenged.
“I crave my wife,” I said, feeling my cheeks grow hot. “And not just the way you think I mean.”
Othello gave me a thoughtful smile. “In that case,” he decided, “I am jealous of you. And, Iago, let me assure you, I am not a jealous man.”