AT DINNER, I learned three things about Michele Cassio. First: he was good at math, something he wanted all of us to know. Second, he did not partake of wine, something he did not want us to notice—but his glass remained untouched all evening. Third, he embodied every stereotype I’d ever heard about the men of Florence: he was an attractive, charming fop.
His face was handsome, in a classic, even rugged, Roman-soldier way. He had excellent teeth and beautiful long lashes. He was tall, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted; his carriage was immaculate; his dress was amended with niceties far more expensive than a soldier’s purse could probably afford. He was exceptionally charming to Emilia and Desdemona, holding Desdemona’s chair for her and offering a discreet comment on the sweetness of her perfume. He greeted both ladies by pressing three fingers to his lips and then opening his hand toward them; he then kissed both ladies’ hands in an extravagant, Florentine manner and smiled at them both within an inch of decency’s limit. I did not know Desdemona well enough to read her, but Emilia—Emilia, of all women, who was never charmed by any gallant of Venice—seemed charmed by him. He uttered Florentine small talk with a Florentine accent and it made my wife—my wife—giggle. Perhaps her giggle was politely veiled mockery, but perhaps it wasn’t. And anyhow, when had I last elicited a giggle from her? What could I do to make her giggle that way later, more intensely than her passing giggle now? For a moment I was distracted, worriedly inventing an answer.
Michele was not a soldier masquerading as a fop, but quite the other way around: the man, at twenty-three years, had never seen battle. He had only served in a sleepy garrison along the borders of Terraferma. Yet I cannot deny it: when he entered the room, his whole bearing suggested grandeur; his jerkin looked sculpted onto his body, and his sword hung at his side with some inexplicable extra gallantry (until Brabantio’s majordomo requested he remove it).
Othello had heard from me, for years now, of the rivalry between Venice and Florence. Even as political allies, we enjoy hating each other: Florence is the only city-state in Europe that comes close (but not very close) to the cultural richness of Venice, and naturally feels the need to demean La Serenissima, as if that could somehow make them superior. We return the favor by demeaning them. Over decades this has calcified into absurdity. In Venice we have “fool Florentine” jokes, and I am sure the Florentines have “fool Venetian” jokes, although no doubt those are not as funny. Lest you think my nativity gives me bias, consider this: Florentines from Machiavelli right up to Giannotti have been preoccupied with the study of Venice, while no Venetian writers of note have expressed the slightest interest in examining Things Florentine (except for Marco Foscari back in ’27, who didn’t like them anyhow). The men of Florence all were prissy, overdressed, effeminate, lacking manly valor despite their pretty looks, and valuing their tailors above their armorers. Even more than the Venetians, I mean. The extra feather in Michele’s hat—a long, curling ostrich feather dyed bright blue—was to me the embodiment of his native frivolity. On the other hand, he was proper, almost stiff, within his gallantry, as if he were playing an overwrought part at which he was very familiar and well rehearsed.
IT WAS INTERESTING that he did not touch the wine. More precisely, he put his glass to his lips at just the right moments—toasting our host’s health, and so on—and even wet them, but took in so little that the serving boy never once refilled his glass.
“Michele has come to us to assist in strategy against the Turks, in our Cyprus defense,” Brabantio explained. He said this directly to me. I realized, with a shock of displeasure, that he was explaining it only to me because Othello already knew it. How, and why, did the general know something I did not? I was his constant aide, far more than was Lieutenant da Porto; he made no decision without at least thinking aloud in my presence. And now Venice had imported some Florentine to work beside the general, and I knew nothing about it?
I smiled tightly. “The general did not mention it,” I said.
“Surely I did, Iago!” Othello said, about to ladle some soup into his mouth. He set the spoon back down in the bowl. “Do you not remember we were talking about needing new defenses in Famagusta? And moving men back there, now that our Terraferma border is more secure again?”
“Of course I remember those discussions, General,” I said, trying to sound casual, and trying not to obviously pitch my volume in Michele’s direction. “I was your chief adviser in these matters. But I do not recall your wanting to bring in a specialist for anything. What are you, sir, an engineer?” I asked the Florentine.
“A strategist,” Michele corrected me with a complacent smile. “I studied under Marco Sapegno and wrote a text that has been quite highly regarded, on the matter of transporting men and materiels most efficiently over land, as compared to over water.”
I almost laughed out loud; Othello, recognizing the expression on my face, gave me a warning scowl in which I sensed some shared amusement. “How remarkably useful to our particular scenario,” I said. “May I assume you wrote this text specifically in the hopes of gaining General Othello’s attentions?”
Michele sat even more upright than he already was, and his face registered surprise. “Not particularly; what makes you ask?”
“There are few armies but Venice’s that need such a particular accounting of resources,” I said. “It is not as if you were, say, writing a manual on the use of cannons, which could be of use to nearly every army in the world.”
“I was aware that Venice might find my talents useful,” the young man said, with that same smile. “But Genoa would too, as well as Spain. I did not write the article for Venice, but I am very happy to present it to Venice.”
“So. You are a theoretician,” Othello said congenially. It’s a good thing he said it then, or else I would have done so in a less congenial tone. “You study and comment on what you have learned by studying, and then you pass the information on to men of action like myself and Iago here, to act on it.”
Michele’s face reddened, hearing in the words a slight that Othello did not mean (but which I would certainly have meant, were I the speaker). “That is one way to look at it,” he acknowledged. “Although I pride myself on being a disciplined soldier as well. I am in fact finishing my training here in Venice.”
“So I have heard,” Othello said. Another thing I myself had not heard. “Well, Iago and I will look over your text tomorrow, and I am sure when you are ready for actual soldiering, I would be happy to have you in my unit. Although you will not be able to dress like . . . that.” There was a gesture toward the ostrich feather. As an outsider, Othello said it without malice, as a simple statement of fact; as Venetians, the rest of us around the table exchanged barely suppressed snickers. Even Brabantio, bless him.
“I want to read this article as well,” declared Brabantio. “Then I can report to the Senate. Tomorrow we shall all four convene to review it. I work from home tomorrow, so come at ten, and we will examine it then.”
MICHELE WENT WITH US back toward the Arsenal; like myself and Emilia, he was staying at the Dolphin. His departure from our hosts was elaborate and full of complicated gestures involving both of his wrists, most of his fingers, and at one point an elbow; he showered so many compliments on Desdemona’s beauty that she looked embarrassed by the time the gondola finally pulled us away from the beautifully sculpted water gate.
“You know she will wed a member of the Venetian aristocracy,” Othello informed Michele as soon as we were out of earshot of Ca’Brabantio.
“Who?” Michele said absently, then immediately smiled and bowed his head. “Ah, the lady Desdemona. Yes. I am from a titled family myself and I know how these things work.”
“She cannot marry you,” Othello insisted conversationally, with satisfaction. “Even if you are good stock. You are not good Venetian stock.”
Michele gave the general a quizzical, polite smile. “But I have no interest in the lady,” he said. “I hope I did not appear to be paying court to her.”
“No more than you were courting my wife,” I said archly.
“Your wife?” Cassio’s eyebrows shot up.
“Iago!” Emilia laughed and batted me with her fingers. Emilia was not the finger-batting type. “Pay no mind to him, sir. He is jealous of me.”
“I would be too, if I had such an exquisite lady to call my own,” Cassio said gallantly. “But please know, Ensign Iago, I have no designs on the lovely Emilia, and I admit I did not realize she was your wife.”
In the gondola’s shimmery lamplight, Othello, Emilia, and I all tried to read one another’s expressions without being read ourselves.
“You thought she was the general’s mistress,” I said, with a rueful smile. “Did you not?”
“I apologize if I have offended somehow,” Cassio deflected and turned his attention solely to Emilia, kissing his fingers and then gesturing toward her with them. “In Florence we take enjoyment in the presence of attractive women.”
To my immense gratitude, in the wavering torchlight from the bow of the gondola, Emilia gave me a knowing look, and kissed me on the cheek.
Our lovemaking that night was exquisite.