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“See to it.”
“See to what?”
“You’re clever, Pocket. Be clever. Help the Moor.”
“Brabantio will never allow it. And I am but a wisp of a fool, drunk and weak, and vice versa, with no will to live.”
“Yet you conquered a kingdom and handed it to me.”
“Aye, but that was a piece of piss, wasn’t it? Only had to wrench it loose from a feebleminded family of inbred deviants.”
“My family, you mean?”
“Well, not you, obviously. But the rest of them. Point is, I am small and heartbroken.”
“Yes, you are. Help the Moor.”
“I’ve lost all influence in Venice.”
“Not all. The doge still has some affection for you. You can still move in higher circles for a while. Help the Moor.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Promise.”
“I promise to help the sodding Moor.”
“And promise not to off yourself.”
“You mean kill myself?”
“Yes.”
“I promise.”
“And don’t shag the Jewess.”
“What Jewess? I don’t know a Jewess.”
“You’re a love, Pocket. Now wake up, you’re about to wee the bed.”
I awoke. Too late.
Two days after the dream, I pursued the task my Cordelia had set me: Help the Moor.
The priest was surprised that Othello answered his own door. The monkey and the great imbecile expected there would be sweets. The Moor wore a belted dressing gown of white linen and held his sword in its scabbard in one hand.
“Why, he’s not dying,” said the priest.
“He are black,” said Drool.
“Moors are black,” I explained to the ninny.
“You said he was dying,” said the priest.
“Pardon, General,” said I to the Moor. “The only way I could get him here was to tell him that you needed last rites.”
“Pocket?” said the Moor. “You do not look well.” He was surprised that I had arrived at his door at the supper hour with an entourage, but he was not angry.
“Get into some dressy togs,” said I. “Bit of gold braid and a right fancy hat if you can manage; we’re taking you to be married. One of those pointy Saracen helmets would be smashing, if you have one.” I breezed past him into his house, which, although near Arsenal, was appointed more in the finery of a duke’s home rather than the Spartan utility of a soldier’s. “You three, stay out there.”
The priest tried to address me around the Moor. “I’m not going to perform a marriage. You said last rites?”
“You’ll do as you’re told or I’ll tell everyone your lot stole the bones of St. Mark from a temple in Egypt.”
“That was four hundred years ago. No one cares about that. Tell them. I’m going home.” The priest turned on his heel to leave.
“Stop him, Drool,” said I.
The great oaf snatched the priest up by the cowl of his robe and made to lift him like a kitten by the scruff of the neck, but only succeeded in pulling the priest’s robe up over his head until the scrawny padre stood bare from the waist down.
“Put him down, put him down. Just sit on him.”
Drool dropped the priest’s robe, pushed him to the ground, and sat on him.
“You can’t do this! The bishop will—”
The priest closed his mouth rather abruptly when monkey Jeff squatted over it.
“Well done, Jeff. Don’t let Drool suffocate him, and you, priest, you should wear knickers when you’re out. People will think you wanton.
“Come, Othello, we shall have conference.” I reached past the Moor and closed the door on my retinue.
“What are you saying about marriage? Who do you think I shall marry?”
“Why the fair Desdemona, of course. You love Desdemona, and you are confident the lady loves you, correct?”
“This I know better than anything I have ever known. But to take her from her father, without permission or blessing; I could not steal her away like a thief in the night.”
“First, you are not stealing her, she goes with you freely, of her own will, and second, be not so disparaging of thieves in the night. Were you not a pirate before coming to lead the forces of Venice?”
Othello, and his twenty ships of pirates, had been hired as mercenaries to help the Venetian Navy in their war against the Genoans, to take down Genoan ships in the Black Sea. When word came that the general of the navy, Dandalos, had been devastatingly defeated at the island of Curzola, losing a hundred ships, Othello was tasked with protecting the Venetian homeland against a Genoan attack, to avert a siege and surrender. The Moor had performed brilliantly, turning back the entire Genoan Navy, and allowing Venice to rebuild her navy, which was put under the Moor’s command.
“But I am a pirate no more.”
“Why is that, Othello? Why bollix up your profession for Venice?”
“I like that there is something to do beyond pirating. Service. To sink a ship, plunder a cargo, these are deeds in service of self, where the prizes are wealth and power, but to save a city, spare the children, these are larger deeds, which serve the soul.”
“And yet by saving the city you have attained greater wealth and power than ever.”
“There may be flaws in my philosophy, Pocket.”
“They’re all selfish, underhanded, greedy twats, with no consideration for anything but their own comfort anyway, aren’t they?”
“I think your misfortune has darkened your eye on Venetians. They are not all so bad.”
“I was talking about humanity in general; wouldn’t give a fetid firkin of fuck-all for the lot of them.”
“And yet you are here, with a priest, to what end?” The Moor dazzled a grin at me, as if he’d scored touché while fencing.
“There may be flaws in my philosophy, Othello,” said I. “And the bloody ghost of my wife entreated me to help you.”
“Ah, I have oft heard it said that there is always a bloody ghost.”
“Othello!” came a woman’s voice from the stairs. “Who is it, darling?”
Desdemona rounded the balustrade and floated into the foyer, her gown flowing around her bare legs, her long hair down and playing about her shoulders and back. She was green-eyed and as fair as her sister Portia, but a bit more round of cheek, with a spark in her eyes that warned of a smile that might break out at any moment. She reminded me of my Cordelia, not so much in countenance as in bearing, strong yet gentle. Lovely.
“Thou squidgy tart!” said the puppet Jones, who had remained at my side, ever on the lookout for banality or the low-hanging fruit of comedy.
“Oh, it is the royal fool,” she said, clasping Othello’s arm. We had met at a ball at the doge’s palace and I had twice been a dinner guest of her father at Belmont. She knew me. I had made her laugh. “Sir, I was so sad to hear of your queen. My deepest condolences, and if I or my family can offer any comfort, you need only ask.” She turned her head and there was such sadness, such kindness in her pity for me, that I knew at once how the bold Othello, pirate and soldier—that hard, scarred, killing thing—had lost his heart. And beyond a doubt, I knew what had to be done.
“Othello, you must, with fearful vigor and utmost alacrity, marry this bitch.”
“What?” asked
Desdemona.
“He has brought a priest,” Othello explained. “He is held hostage outside.”
“I was going to bring Othello to Belmont, spirit you away to the garden, have the priest do his dread deed before your family knew the better of it, but now, here, it must be done.”
“But my father—”
“What will your father do? You will be married, your union blessed by the church, to the man who saved Venice. Would your father, with all his power, dare challenge the church? The doge? You will have at once made your love your lord, and in the making, infuriated your father forever. Two birds, love. What say you, lady?”
The smile blossomed and she gripped Othello’s arm. He looked in her eyes and fell to one knee.
“I am unworthy,” he said. “But if you would so honor me—”
“Yes!” she said. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, my sweet Othello, yes!”
“Fucking French call that the little deaf,” said the puppet Jones.
“The little death, you Cockney knob,” I corrected. “And I don’t think that’s what all the yessing was about.”
“Sounded like she was having it off to me. Fine, let’s fetch the vicar from under the ninny, there’s bound to be sickening amounts of snogging in here soon.”
I grasped the door latch, then turned back to them. “Lady, where does your father think you are now?”
“He thinks I’ve gone to Florence, to buy shoes.”
“Clever. Then you have gold? To bribe the priest for his service—it’s unseemly to force him at the point of a dagger, although I’m not entirely against the idea.”
“I have gold,” said Othello.
“Fetch it,” said I. “I’ll revive the priest. He looked weak. He’ll have passed out by now.”
“Stronger men have succumbed from being monkey-fucked in the nostril for this long,” said the puppet Jones.
“Pardon?” asked Othello.
“He jests,” said I, shoving the puppet stick down my back.
“I’ll run put on some knickers,” said Desdemona.
