The Serpent of Venice: A Novel by Moore Christopher

Author:Moore, Christopher [Moore, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9780062194879
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-04-21T16:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

What Wicked Webs

CHORUS:

Plots in dark Iago’s mind,

Like spiders’ wicked webs unwind,

In every glance he finds a slight,

A mark for vengeful arrow’s flight,

Schemes unveiled by waxing moon,

Reveal the knave a barking loon,

He vows by all that’s Hell and night,

To bring this monstrous birth to light.

Once installed in their quarters at a local inn, Iago paced before Rodrigo as the innkeeper, who was quite deaf, swept the stone floor around them.

“Did you see him? Did you see him? Did you see him? Oh, the counting clerk, the arithmetician, the bookish theorist—no soldier is he?”

“Othello?” inquired Rodrigo, who was into the spirit of the rant, but not quite clear on the subject.

“No! No, not Othello—though the spirits know I despise him more—the Florentine Michael Cassio. Did you not see him, his arms wrapped round Desdemona like some tentacled monster?”

“He was giving comfort to the lady. You had just told her of her father’s death.”

“Oh, so says the most rejected suitor. I tell you, Rodrigo, Cassio is a base opportunist, comfort is his doorway, but lust his domicile—even now I’ll wager the Florentine makes love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms. He is so disposed, you know? I suspect him of having done manly duty between the sheets with my own wife. Did you not see how she looked at him?”

“Really? Cassio? With Emilia as well? Is that why you’re staying here at the inn and not in her quarters?”

“Oh, I do not pine over my faithless wife. Did you not see her let the Florentine bow over her hand like a rutting animal? Of all the ill will I hold for him, none is for his damp deeds with Emilia, for she is a devious prick-pull, like all of her sex. That Cassio took my commission, for this I hate him, but that he took my wife, and now takes Desdemona, for this weakness I am grateful, for we shall use it to our own ends and his undoing.”

“How so?” asked Rodrigo. “Did you not see Desdemona treat me like a stranger today, even before she knew of her father’s death? And after so much of my treasure that you have given to her to show my affection. Now Cassio stands in my way as well as the Moor?”

“Don’t whinge, Rodrigo. Desdemona will never shag you if you whinge.”

“Sorry. But all the treasure, and she knows me—I had called upon her at her father’s house upon several occasions.”

“Several was it? Several before you began bonking her maid?”

“Well, yes, but Nerissa has exquisite bosoms and . . . You’re right, Iago, women are devious tricksters. Am I whingeing again?”

“Never fear, good Rodrigo. Desdemona is young and spirited, she’ll tire soon enough of Othello, and the handsome Cassio shall be the bar we use to pry her from the arms of the Moor.”

“How will that help? She runs from Othello to Cassio, and I am still out in the cold with no Desdemona and no money.”

“Why, then we simply remove Cassio, and the lady, her marriage broken, shunned and ashamed, shall find comfort in your arms.

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