The Serpent of Venice (17 page)

“And what of what I am doing here, now?”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No.” I remembered her now, through the haze of wine-soaked nights before my fall from grace. The dark-haired maid who attended Portia. Fit, she was, and quick of wit, I recalled.

“Then do what you will do,” said she, throwing off her covers and rising from the couch. She moved to the door, slipped halfway out, then stopped. “Not wearing your cracking big codpiece anymore, then?”

“It was stolen,” said I, somewhat bewildered. I was holding a knife, you know?

“Pity,” she said. “There you go, love. Get on with it. Do what needs doing.” And she slipped out the door.

And so I, the dark creeping thing I had become, did what needed doing, then slipped from Villa Belmont into the night and across the still Venetian lagoon as smooth and silent as a blade through milk.

Jessica met me at the dock the following dawn, dressed as a boy, and bouncing on her toes like an eager child before a sweets stand, a satchel slung over her shoulder and cradling a small wooden chest under her arm, filled, I presumed, with her father’s treasure.

“Well, that won’t work,” said I, pulling off her yellow hat, releasing her dark curls to cascade about her shoulders.

“What? You said to hide my hair under a hat.”

“Yes, but not a Jew hat, you ninny. We’re supposed to be in disguise.”

“I
was
in disguise. Now everyone will see I’m a girl.”

I tossed her yellow hat in the water and fit my own floppy Venetian hat of brown silk on her head. “Tuck in your hair. And give me a few coppers so I can buy a new hat.”

“Fuck off, rascal, you threw my hat in the water; get your own poxy hat.”

I stepped back from her, somewhat surprised, and she grinned. She reached into the chest, came out with some coins, and handed them to me. “Having you on,” she said. “My salty sea dog disguise, innit?” She bounced on the balls of her feet, looking for approval.

“Well done, then,” said I. “But you may want to calm down just a bit. It’s a long trip.”

“But I’m so excited. I’ve never been to sea.”

“Well then, close quarters on rough seas with you shall be a joy indeed.”

“You’re certain Papa will be taken care of?”

“Of course, I left him a pair of the new spectacles from Murano so he can see to do his own accounts, and I retained Tubal’s huge Jews to look after him. They took an oath. Now wait here while I go buy a new hat.”

Of course I had obtained no such oath from those huge Jews, and Shylock would be somewhat a wailing tragedy when he found his daughter and his treasure missing, but as the philosopher said, “
When rent by diverging loyalties, best to bugger off to an island somewhere.”

An hour later I wore my new hat as we stood on the rear deck of the ship watching Venice recede into the horizon.

“Why do they call it a poop deck?” Jessica inquired.

“I’ll show you later,” said I.

“We are going to be so happy, Lorenzo and I.” She hugged herself and rolled her eyes dreamily.

“Don’t do that, love, it’s not manly.”

I felt a pang in my heart for her, for her hope, and her joy, and the potential of a future she would never find. How could I tell her?

“What will we do in Corsica? Shall we stay at a seaman’s inn? Go drinking and wenching?”

“I have a friend in Corsica. He will give us quarters.”

“Who do you know in Corsica?”

“The Moor, Othello, he is a friend.”

“The general? You are friends with the general of the whole Venetian Navy? How do you know Othello?”

“I did him a favor once, and he is forever indebted to me.”

“You are a scandalous liar, Pocket.” She bounced again, then leaned and rocked forward on the railing until I thought she might tumble over into the drink. “What will we do until Lorenzo arrives?”

And here I thought to at least put a path where a future had been pulled away.

“We shall have an adventure. We shall gather our forces at Corsica, then we will go to Genoa, to rescue another friend of mine. My apprentice.”

She would need something, a purpose, when she found out about her Lorenzo. Here’s the key, taught to me by a great grizzled warrior I once knew called Kent, who, when stripped of his lands, his family, and his good name, fought valiantly and against great odds to save the British kingdom. “Pocket,” said he. “If you stop moving, the shroud of grief will overwhelm you and you will wither and die, so you’ve got to find your purpose and no matter what, keep buggering on.” I did not revenge because I was incapable of mercy, or gratitude, or even joy, I revenged so I might live. I revenged for love. I revenged for my sweet Cordelia, who had sent me to Venice to show her contempt for their war, and by God’s blood, I would stop their war, and if I had to, I would bring their soggy city down upon them to do it.

Poor Jessica, what purpose had she?

“Are you crying?” she asked.

“Wind,” said I. “Salt air,” said I.

“You’re crying. You pathetic little girl.”

She elbowed me and I winced.

“Oh my, it’s your ribs, isn’t it?” She was genuinely distressed. “I forgot about your wound. I can change the bandage for you. I’m sorry, Pocket.”

“I’m fine, love. The wound is fine,” said I. “It’s just the wind in my eyes.”

The ship turned into the sun, throwing the shade of the sails over us and behind the ship: the glare on the surface broken, I saw her shadow moving beneath the waves, following us.

Oh, Viv.

Who had terrified me.

Who had flayed me.

Who had taken my pain.

Who had used me.

Who had fed me.

Who had buoyed me up in the dark.

Who had pulled me down to the depths.

Who left me on the safe shores of light.

Who had stalked me.

Who had killed for me.

Who had given me life.

Oh, Viv.

On to Corsica.

ACT III

The Moor of Venice

Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow hell!

—Othello,
Othello,
Act III, Scene 3

THIRTEEN

Bold and Saucy Wrongs

S
he came to me in a dream. I’d been lying in for a week after the Moor had stopped me from drowning myself, letting Drool and Jeff bring me wine, moving off the sweat-soaked sheets only to hover wobbly over the chamber pot before sinking back into my grief.

“Morning, love,” said my Cordelia.

She wore the polished black-and-gold breastplate of her armor with frilly knickers, which tipped me off that all was not in order.

“Are you a dream, or a ghost?” said I, reaching out to her, then catching myself before tumbling off the bed.

“Which would better suit you?”

“Dream, I think. Less annoying rhyming.”

“But then, there’s always a bloody ghost . . .”

Cordelia’s own mother had returned as such a spirit, resting only after her tormentors had been vanquished and her daughter settled in my arms.

“But you’re fully dressed,” said I. Her mum had been quite the tarty ghost. “In a manner of speaking.”

“I’m not here to have you off, pet. Consolation and guidance, bit of spiritual direction, given you’ve fuck-all in the way of a moral compass.”

“It
is
you,” I sobbed then, bit of a nancy, I know, but fucking grief got the better of me, didn’t it? “I’m broken without you.”

“Oh, sweet Pocket.” She cradled my cheek in her hand, but I could not feel it. “You’ve always been broken, love, it’s the crux of your character. What would I have done with one of those fragile princes I was born for, his pride as delicate as crystal? You were like that lovely damaged doll a girl can bung down the stairs to see which limbs might come off, just for a laugh, just for the adventure of it.”

“Or out a high tower window?”

“That was just the once, and you jumped.”

“Being bloody gallant on your behalf, wasn’t I?” I
had
jumped. To save a kitten. Cordelia’s.

“Yes, as you have always been, and now must be again.”

“Shall I dive out the window, splatter on the walkway, and join you in the Undiscovered Country? I’m quite ready, if you can help me to the window ledge.”

“No, you need to help the Moor.”

“Othello? Help him what? He’s strong as a warhorse, rich, commands a bloody navy, annoyingly tall, and his—”

“His lady?”

“He is not married.”

“His love?” said Cordelia. “Desdemona.”

“Desdemona, the senator’s daughter? She can’t—well—he’s a Moor, isn’t he?”

“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?”