EMILIA, BY OTHELLO’S DECREE, was to remain in Venice. He announced it would be a brief but tedious posting, and surely a lady as lovely and lively as my wife had better ways to spend her time. I cannot say I appreciated this sentiment.
We had an unremarkable sea crossing to Zara. Once encamped there, the enlisted men did nearly all the work. It was hard labor, without glamour: doubling the thickness of one segment of the city wall surrounding the city. Zara is a virtual islet lying snug against the Dalmatian coastline; it is connected to the mainland by a narrow land bridge. The wall of the land gate too was to be fortified.
I could not tell what purpose there was to Othello’s presence. This undertaking seemed unworthy of his attention. There was nothing for him or us, his staff, to do. The other officers liked the calm; the general and I both chaffed at it. At least I had access to the library, in the mayoral palace where the officers were housed. I practiced reading Greek. My weekly letters to Emilia must have been a bore; each week I simply told her what I had been reading.
But Othello was distracted and spent hours a day alone in his office. My duties required me to keep record of what supplies were used; he went through a remarkable amount of paper, quills, and ink. I waited for him to tell me what he was using them on, but he shared nothing with me.
I was not used to that from him.
THERE WAS A regular sea-courier service between Venice and Zara. About once every ten days, a vessel would arrive in port, discharge cargo and messages, take on new forms of each, and sail out the next day.
One day I saw Othello’s domestic page carrying a small packet out of the palace, heading in the direction of the nearest harbor gate. I was curious; Othello had mentioned nothing that required reporting back to Venice—nor had he given me a hint about his newly forged writing habits.
I followed the lad; he went down to the ship bound for Venice and handed the packet to a red-bearded mariner. The mariner gave him a similar packet in return. I tailed the boy back up the slope, toward the palace, and saw him head to Othello’s office. A moment later, he came back out, now empty-handed.
I wondered what was in both packets, of course. But more than that, I wondered why the general never mentioned either to me.
Several weeks in a row went by this way: the boy, with the packet; the red-bearded mariner, the other packet. Never a word from Othello.
And so one day when I followed this page boy from the palace toward the harbor, I overtook him in a narrow street, in such a manner that I most unfortunately tripped him; in tumbling, he dropped the packet.
“How very clumsy of me,” I apologized effusively and reached at once for it, to hand it back to him; my sole purpose was to read the label on it.
For Michele Cassio, it read, The Dolphin Inn, Castello District. Confidential.
THE BOY, NOT noticing my distress, accepted the package and hurried down toward the harbor gate.
I stood a moment in the alleyway, willing the sun to continue warming me, for I was suddenly cold all over. There was some collusion between my general and that intruder, some secret I was being excluded from, some intensely significant secret that was operational right now. The thought dismayed me on several levels, but mostly it was personal. Whatever it was, I was excluded from it—and far worse than that, a womanizing Florentine who could not hold his drink, but could keep his hair immaculately coiffed—he somehow deserved Othello’s confidence. About what, for the love of all saints? In what arena of life that Othello valued could Cassio possibly provide a service I could not better provide?
My distress was so severe I felt dizzy. I wished Emilia were with me now, to gently tease away my uneasiness, give it some practical interpretation, or at least distract me with a loosened bodice.
I WENT BACK to the mayoral palace. Fencing practice was still on, and Othello was in the yard. I kept my displeasure to myself, geared up, and for only the second time since I had known him, bested Othello at the sword. He was very pleased for me.
We dined in private that evening, and it was as it had ever been between us, our conversation familiar, lively, far ranging, and comfortable.
And as was always true of our discourse, army matters intermingled with the personal.
“The captain of the refectory,” Othello said—his preferred way of referring to the head cook—“he tells me we must requisition more wheat, the laborers are going through it as if . . . as if they were laboring.”
“I will add it to the list of supplies,” I said. “I must requisition more paper as well; your office is going through an enormous amount of leaves.”
“Really? The calamari is very good tonight, no?”
“Excellent. It reminds me of a recipe Michele Cassio described once.”
“Perhaps he has been to Zara himself.”
“We’re also using a lot of ink,” I said.
“Is ink expensive?” Othello asked disinterestedly.
“Not the kind we use.”
“That’s good,” he said, looking up from his dinner with a smile. “Then it should not be hard to get it, eh?”
“It’s strange that we are going through so much ink and paper.”
He shrugged. “You know the Senate is obsessed with forms and inventories—”
“Yes, of course, but for some reason, during this posting, that proclivity of the Senate’s is suddenly using more paper and ink than before.”
Othello sat back in his chair and smiled at me admiringly. “ ‘Proclivity,’ ” he echoed. “You are very good with words, Iago.”
“Michele Cassio thinks I use too many of them.” I gave him a very direct stare.
He met my gaze unflinchingly, looking warm and open as ever. “That’s because he is Florentine, and they are always jealous of how superior Venetians are. Eh? You taught me that, brother,” he said with a grin. “You are teaching me to be an excellent Venetian.”
“Not if you’re modeling yourself on me, General. I am a terrible Venetian.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, reaching for the wine.
“Venetians lie. They lack candor. They keep secrets from their closest friends.”
Othello grimaced thoughtfully. “Then I would have to say, you are much better than most Venetians. Would you like some wine?”
Not even the tensing of an eye muscle.
“Is this wine from Florence?” I asked, holding up my glass.
“No, in fact, it is the last of the stock from Rhodes,” he said. “The excellent wine I promised you as we prepared to retreat? I could not give it to you on the ship. This is it. This is the last bottle. You are the only person I know who deserves to share it with me.”
How could he be so openhearted, and yet so full of guile?
“I thank you,” I said. When he had poured me a glass, I held it up for a toast. “To bad Venetians. May neither of us ever be one.”
“I will drink to that, brother!” The general laughed, and drained his glass.
Somehow this open, trusting, and trustworthy man was suddenly so skilled at keeping secrets that he could lie by omission to me, all day, every day, without a shred of guilt. I was almost sickened thinking of it. And yet, before supper was over, he had taught me the Egyptian lullaby his mother used to sing to him; I reduced him to gasping fits of laughter, describing the incident with Galinarion’s hen; we arm wrestled, and although his arms are twice as broad as mine, I won, because I knew a trick—which I showed him, to his delight.
By the time I went to bed that night, my alarm at the secret correspondence with Michele Cassio had almost abated.
ALMOST. BUT NOT QUITE. I was unnerved by how unlike myself I managed the situation: for some reason I did not dare to ask Othello about it directly. I was frightened of what the answer might be. But I was burning with anxious curiosity to understand. So—very much unlike myself—I took a route indirect.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, the day before the next courier ship was due in port, I let myself into Othello’s office while he was at fencing practice. Zuane da Porto was napping somewhere. Zuane spent more and more of his time napping; I was eager for him to retire so I might officially take his place, as I was already performing most of his duties (in addition to my own).
I went to the desk, determined if necessary to search every drawer—even the hidden drawers, which I knew about and had access to—to discover what Othello was writing to Cassio.
But I did not have to search at all. Lying plainly on the leather desktop was a letter filling three sheets of paper with Othello’s square, inelegantly clear handwriting. I was startled by frightened elation as I realized the secret correspondence was right here, I could read it now and know now what conspiracy with Cassio was being kept from me . . . but as I regained my wits and prepared to read, I heard the door open. I had time to glance at only the first line before looking up to see who’d entered.
That first line read: My beloved Desdemona.
“Iago,” said the general from the doorway.