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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.”
“Go!”
“I go!”
He went.
Iago was quickly up the stairs to hide the tiny, red-lacquered box taken from Brabantio’s body that held the last of the tarry potion. Only a small bit remained, less even than they had put in the fool’s amontillado, but he would save it. Use it on the Moor, perhaps, or better yet, Desdemona. It would be wasted on Cassio—for it was the one true thing he had ever told Rodrigo—Cassio would be nearly helpless after a cup or two of wine.
He polished the box on his sleeve, and the black serpent set in the red lacquer shone green-eyed under the lantern. A curious Oriental thing. He kept it tucked beneath a pair of gloves in his trunk. A most curious thing.
CHORUS: Under a waxing crescent moon did two dark creatures lurk by the harbor’s edge, one walked into the warm lamplight of the officers’ station under the guise of friendship and good cheer, the other lay like an inky shadow among rocks at the shore, watching.
Iago put the jug down upon the table where Cassio was seated, quill in hand, over a ledger.
“Come, Captain, fetch cups, I have a stout jug of wine and we have not celebrated our victory by storm over the Genoans and the health of gallant Othello and his new wife.”
“Oh, not tonight, good Iago,” said Cassio. “I have poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.”
“But they are our friends, for which we must celebrate life, and our enemies, whose deaths save our friends from peril. To life, one cup?”
“I have had one cup tonight already with supper and the figures dance on the page like scattering ants.”
“One cup! One cup and I will tell you good news, a message, just for you, that will smooth the lines from your brow and draw them as smiles at the edges of your eyes. One cup, for a surprise.”
“Fine, then, there are cups on the mantel. One cup.”
Iago retrieved the cups, tall, heavy cylinders of green Murano glass, then plunked them on the table and splashed in the wine, staining the corner of Cassio’s ledger as well. “Now drink with me. To Venice! To Othello! To Desdemona! Happiness to their sheets!”
“What?”
“Just fucking drink.”
They drank, emptying their cups, Iago watching the captain over the edge of his cup, while Cassio winced as he drank and shivered when his cup returned to the table with a thump.
“Now tell me the good news,” sai
d Cassio.
“One more!”
“No, one more and I shall lose my wits, Iago. I tell you, I have no head for it.”
“But when I tell you, you’ll be glad of it. I promise.”
Cassio squinted at Iago as if trying to spy the truth through the haze rising around him, and was suddenly taken with the purple color the wine made on his ledger when it mixed with the ink. “Balls,” he said. Then, slamming the cover on the great leather book he said, “Fine, one more. Pour, good Iago!”
