I, Iago Part 4

For a moment I was speechless. Speechless. This was infinitely beyond the ambition of the boy I had grown up with-or for that matter, almost anyone I knew. He beamed at me, seeking my approval.

"Good heaven," I said. "That would be a most remarkable undertaking."

"Would be? No, it is-we are now six months into it, and already we have earned back the money we borrowed-including the atrocious interest Tubal charged us. We are being very thrifty-perhaps you recognize the fabric of my coat-but I expect that by the end of Advent, we will be well enough along in our profits that I may buy my own house."

I blinked. "Here in Venice, you mean?"

He nodded with delight. "Possibly even build a new one. I have a canny instinct to judge the pepper harvest, even though I have never been to see it myself. And I am learning how to speculate fearlessly. You would not believe how much I have learned since we last played our pranks together, Iago." This was not bragging-he was yearning to impress me.

He succeeded. My mouth had fallen slack with astonishment. Here was I, thinking myself so mightily changed because I knew how to shoot a musket, while little Roderigo was becoming Pepper King of the Mediterranean.

"So this spice trade," I said, trying to reclaim my calm, "it seems you have a nose for it."

His face wrinkled with laughter. "Oh, you are such a witty fellow, Iago! How I have missed your wit! I know all about your great adventures, lately and to come, but tell me-while you are back at your parents' home, before you go off to guard our borders, we must get together and have a drink and catch up on old times. I am sure that we could entertain each other mightily."

"I am not remotely entertaining," I a.s.sured him. "But it sounds as if you are, so I will willingly get drunk with you. As long as you get a little sun on your face. I cannot have a serious conversation with a man so pale. Roderigo, my friend, you look like a prost.i.tute."

He laughed sheepishly. The partygoers around us pulled their lips back into transparently fake smiles. Then they moved away, perhaps afraid they might be commented upon with equal frankness.

As a s.p.a.ce cleared around us, a new look came into Roderigo's eye. He lowered his voice and leaned in close to me. "I really do crave a word with you. It has to do with your new skills, in fact."

"What new skills?" I asked. He gestured to my face, which only confused me further, until I realized this was a reference to my "rough soldier" appearance. "You need a good artilleryman?" I jested.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting nervously about the room. "In fact, my friend," he whispered, "that is exactly what I need."

For one fantastic moment I thought he was going to ask me to lead a raucous expedition into the land of pepper trees, shooting all his adversaries as we went, and offering me a share of his great empire as recompense.

But no. "You see," he said, "I am now of an age when I may be called up for militia duty," he began. I nodded; this was true for every citizen. "And I am an absolute catastrophe at shooting. I make a d.a.m.ned fool of myself every first Sunday, when compulsory practice is summoned. I haven't the knack for it. I am a fine dancer, so it is not a lack of coordination, just a lack of that kind of coordination."

"I'm sorry to hear it," I said.

"I want to hire you to tutor me," he said.

A tempting offer, but impossible to follow through on. "Gunpowder is extremely expensive, Roderigo; it is rationed by the Council of Ten."

"I can pay for it," he countered instantly. "I have been squirreling money away for this exact purpose."

"It's not a matter of money," I explained. "It just isn't done. Letting private citizens buy gunpowder would be like letting them buy state secrets. Even if I were in charge of the magazine dispensary, I could not give you any. It is not available for private use. And"-for I could see this idea already forming in his face-"if you were to try to either make it yourself from scratch, or buy it from some foreign source, you'd find yourself in dreadful trouble. You would probably be put in prison for suspected sedition."

His handsome face puckered into a frown. "Then what am I to do?" he lamented. "Every month I pray the campo will be flooded and the muster cancelled. It's not my fault that I'm inept, but I am punished monthly for my ineptness by all our neighbors, at the drills! I am tormented by some of them with looks and comments almost daily. It's humiliating, but more than that: if I am ever called up for active duty, let G.o.d watch over our Republic while the likes of me are on call to protect her."

"Hear, hear," said a sarcastic voice behind me. Roderigo's face pinkened.

"Iago, this is Ta.s.so," he said without enthusiasm, pointing to someone approaching from behind me. "The subcaptain of our neighborhood militia training. Ta.s.so, this is Iago, who has just graduated from-"

"I know where he's graduated from, and it is an honor to meet you, sir," Ta.s.so said, as if Roderigo had just evaporated. He was as tall as Roderigo but twice his weight; his eyes were close-set and he was fashionably pale. "I have heard about your inspiring decision to throw yourself in with the infantry. I can't say I would have the humility to do such a thing in your place, especially if I had your tremendous skills in gunnery."

"I'm not sure I have the humility myself," I returned. "I seem to be doing it anyhow."

"I mean, if it were Roderigo here, it would not be such a loss, eh?" the fellow continued, elbowing Roderigo as if it were a drollery they shared. Roderigo's expression revealed he did not find it droll. "Poor fellow was born without a feel for a musket."

"So he says. We were seeking solutions to that when you interrupted us," I said. "Would you like to help us seek a solution, or are you merely here to mock someone whose skills, in one arena, do not measure up to yours? If you believe this gathering should be to mock those of lesser abilities in gunmanship, then I offer to mock you."

Ta.s.so reddened. "Oh, no," he said with a forced chuckle. "Totally at your disposal to a.s.sist our mutual friend here."

"Can you buy your way out of it?" I asked, returning my attention to Roderigo. By the way he was looking at Ta.s.so, this man must be among the worst of his harra.s.sers. A protective tribal instinct forged of childhood bonds welled up in me.

Roderigo shook his head. "If my circ.u.mstances were different, I would not care so much; I can endure being made to look a fool. But my life, Iago, my life is such that I must not appear foolish now, for the sake of a particular young lady."

Added Ta.s.so, with a nasty little smile, "It is a most unfortunate coincidence for Roderigo that the young lady's brother is captain for our militia unit."

"Ah," I said. How humiliating for Roderigo that his infatuation was so public. I kept my expression carefully neutral.

But not as neutral as I meant to. "Wipe that look off your face!" Roderigo hissed in a horrified voice. "They'll be able to tell we're talking of them."

My eyes widened. I glanced around the party. "Where's the girl?" I asked as the cornet sounded the start of some quaint estampie dance.

"Do not look about like that," Roderigo ordered through clenched teeth. "They are eyeing us right now-I am sure it surprises them that I am friends with a soldier. Do not let them see you looking."

Another reason he had been so glad to see me: reflected credibility. I had no idea I was so useful. I wished I could have somehow aided him, but what could I do? "I would offer to speak to your captain and try to get your name out of the duty roster, but since that captain is the brother-"

"Oh, heaven, don't do that!" He made a wincing face, blinking very nervously toward Ta.s.so. "No, Iago, I have no interest in shirking my duty. I ask only that you would help me to learn to be a better shot. I'd pay you very well."

"Oh, is that what you are pestering him about?" Ta.s.so said. "Rigo, my dear friend, I can help you out with that. I would be happy to give you private lessons. I know the people to talk to, to get gunpowder on the sly."

Roderigo's face expanded with amazement at this announcement. "Really?" He breathed out, willing to immediately forgive whatever injustices the fellow had done him. I was angered on his behalf but forced myself to smile.

"Now you see, if I were a typical Venetian," I said, "here is what I would shift to do. I would tell Roderigo that he was like a brother to me, perhaps even call him a nickname I had never thought to use before. Say, Rigo. I would promise him that I knew the right people, and I had merely to grease a few palms, and we'd end up with the gunpowder, the gun, the match and b.a.l.l.s, and permission to practice someplace private. Roderigo would ply me with gifts of thanks. Then, over the course of the next few weeks, I would go to fewer parties where he might be a guest, but each time we interacted, I would maintain a hint of a promise-enough to ensure his continued material show of grat.i.tude-but each time slightly less so than the last time. And eventually I would simply vanish from his sight for a while, until he understood that there was nothing I could do for him, and he would be too shamed to ask again. Then-keeping the gifts I'd earned with all my promises-I would once again brazenly frequent the same gatherings as he, only this time I would somehow never manage to find time for him." I smiled warningly at the red-faced Ta.s.so. "But I am not a typical Venetian," I went on, "and so instead I told him immediately that I cannot help him, because that is the only honest answer to be given here."

I had, despite my attempts at calm, raised my voice while I was speaking, and now there were a number of people listening. The blushing Ta.s.so tried, with a spasmodic inconsistency, to presume some offhand gesture that would appear to make light of the whole thing. He finally said, in an extremely choked voice, "Of course, that is another way to manage it," and excused himself artlessly. I glanced at Roderigo. He looked both crushed and grateful, as he had frequently when we were six.

A dozen faces watched Ta.s.so stagger off; another dozen stared daggers at me. I ignored them and thought how happy I would be when I was back in barracks, any barracks, even in the outlands of Terraferma spending my life playing chess and shadow boxing.

Chapter 7.

MY FIRST POST was in Tirano. The Adda River flows through Tirano, on the westernmost boundary of Terraferma, Venice's mainland territory. It is a walled town, with nothing much to recommend it. In September of '04, the Blessed Mary had appeared to a local fellow named Omodei, and so there was a steady trickle of pilgrims to the area hoping they too would see the Madonna of Tirano.

Living in much greater comfort on the hill across the border were the monks in the town of Brusio. It had been founded five hundred years earlier as a monastery, and not much had happened there since. Heaven knows why we had to patrol it, but patrol it we did. We saw to it that those crafty monks never had a chance to frolic with the Madonna of Tirano.

I made my garrison life agreeable. I was the youngest of a band of rugged men, most mercenaries, most from foreign lands, and most from rough-hewn cultures. I was glad to be free of the insincerity and false laughter of Venice-but I did miss the clean sheets and the decent music, the casual ability to find something both man-made and beautiful. Still, I found the physical reality bracing: the hard mats, the dirt floors of the towers, even the flies and fleas and mud.

The towns we garrisoned were small and poor. There was little to do. We rotated guard duties, one week on, one week off; a week at the gate, a week on the wall, a week guarding munitions, a week in the piazza. After a few months, I was sent to another town, and some few months later, to another. Sometimes I was with the same group of men, sometimes not. I met a few fellow Venetians along the way, and each one of them gushed over me and cited me-and by a.s.sociation, of course, my family-as their inspiration to enlist. So my father had made much hay out of a little weed. I hoped the senator whose boots he had been licking sent plenty of wealthy customers his way.

I cannot say what my fellow soldiers did in their time off. I yearned for scholarship, and so to keep my wit sharp, I read and translated whatever I could get my hands on: bad poetry written by a mayor's wife; archived reports of skirmishes at the larger fortress postings; the Bible. I played cards and chess with elder statesmen of the towns where I was stationed, and so had access to their books. I was the only soldier, to my knowledge, so keen on this kind of entertainment.

Within the meager rations of gunpowder allotted any garrison in peacetime, all soldiers study shooting-and here, at least, a small fantasy of mine came true: I was the best gunner of each place I was stationed, and not a man of them but was improved under my tutelage. I found this satisfying-although I was admittedly (at first) the least distinguished swordsman.

Gunpowder and its possibilities had changed the face of battle, but gunpowder was hard to come by, guns expensive and too c.u.mbersome for a free lance to carry comfortably about with him, so blade against blade was still the common conflict. Realizing this, I made it my ambition to excel the most accomplished mercenaries I was stationed with. One such German had a.s.sisted Paulus Hector Mair to perfect the techniques of his recent fencing compendium. The man was pleased to take me as a student; to his credit, he was delighted when, after months of being fiercely humiliated by him, I bested him for the first time.

I had been taught the rudiments of fencing growing up, just as one is taught how to move chess pieces around the board without really being taught chess. I'd received further training at the a.r.s.enal, but it was only here in the outlands that I became truly skilled. Thanks to my German tutor, I was soon known to be "good for a Venetian." By my third year of practice, I was simply known to be good.

My reputation was not really deserved. Having no active enemy, soldiers sparred exclusively against one another; blood was rarely drawn, and n.o.body's life was ever nearly in danger. I was not prideful of my skills. I was more talented than a few, more industrious than many, and more intelligent than most, but it was the world I knew, and after five years of it, I could imagine no other.

IN FACT, BY the time five years had pa.s.sed, I was grown so skilled at fencing that I began to teach others the rudiments of the Bolognese style, especially the northern condottieri, who were relatively new to Italy. They presumed I was among the masters in the field despite my youth (I was not yet five and twenty), and thus a prodigy.

One afternoon, I was back in Tirano, site of my first posting, but now I was one of the veteran soldiers. It was a rainy day, which was not common; I was not on duty, I could not rouse anyone to dagger work, and outside exercise was impossible in the deluge. I found myself playing primero with some of the younger men, two of them from Venice-that was a rare thing indeed, for three native sons to be stationed together as infantry in the same G.o.dforsaken town. We were speaking of swordplay, as we often did, and these young colts were particularly taken with the theories of Camillo Agrippa.

In truth, Agrippa is among the best there is. As partial as I am to Marozzo, I know Agrippa is a practical improvement on him, simplifying Marozzo's eleven guards to four. But I like the Marozzo training, for it offers subtle variations, while Agrippa, although pragmatic, lacks Marozzo's artistry and adaptability. This would never carry as an argument with earnest young lugs, however, so I never tried to change anybody's mind about it.

But this particular cl.u.s.ter of lugs was being disrespectful: they were extolling the virtues of Agrippa by denigrating Marozzo, oblivious that without a Marozzo, there could be no Agrippa. It is a particular gripe to me, when worthiness is denigrated in this fashion, and I was about to scold them for it.

But instead, on a whim, I decided to attempt something that was, for me, extremely novel: a harmless counterfeit. It was unlike me to counterfeit anything, ever; the inspiration caused me nervous amus.e.m.e.nt, as though I were about to perform before an audience. As I was studying my four cards, I scoffed, "Camillo Agrippa . . . That wh.o.r.eson."

They all glanced up, startled from their own cards. "You speak as if you know him," one of the young colts said, almost rebukingly.

I shrugged. "We dueled when he was last in Venice." The words came out of my mouth as smooth as silk drapes over alabaster. It was probably the first deliberate falsehood of my entire life, yet I found it effortless to keep a casual, even dismissive, expression on my face.

To a man, they all dropped their cards onto the wooden table. "What?" they gasped in unison, mouths hanging slack like fish, their faces sharply shadowed in the lamplight. The windows were all shut against the rain.

"The man is a buffoon," I said contemptuously, examining my hand. I had a fluxus of hearts. I decided to discard the deuce, and reached for it.

One of the pack put his large paw over mine to keep me from continuing the game. "Come now, Iago, you cannot make a comment like that and not expect us to want to hear the story. You dueled with the master? The master of all masters?"

I sighed, as if annoyed the game had been interrupted. "Only because he was a prideful a.s.s. I would not have chosen to waste my time on him."

"Waste your time?" one of the other soldiers squeaked.

"He is a worthy strategist," I allowed, wondering what story I would end up telling them if they did not call me out. "But I believe the purpose of a duel is for two honorable men to meet, for honorable purposes, to determine who is the better swordsman. You would certainly think the creator of the greatest school of fencing ever conceived would, himself, hold such a position, but he challenged me for the most insipid of reasons."

They were all still slack-mouthed. It reminded me of that childhood moment in Galinarion's dining hall, when Roderigo and I had been caught during the egg incident. But then I had been telling the truth; now I was blithely inventing. I expected one of them to accuse me of gulling, but apparently the thought did not occur to a one of them.

Finally: "What was it, then?" somebody demanded in a hushed voice. "Why did Maestro Agrippa challenge you?"

Oh, dear. Now I must invent in detail. I decided to invent something ridiculous, so that one of them would call me out, and we could all have a laugh and return to our card game (which incidentally I was winning).

"We met at a party and he asked me what I thought of the cut of his beard. I thought it looked ridiculous, and I told him so," I said. "He was offended."

The foreign soldiers exchanged looks of astonishment, and a pale-haired youth opened his mouth, obviously about to accuse me of a falsehood. But one of the Venetians immediately declared, by way of explanation, "Iago is known in Venice for his bluntness. He really does say things like that." The other Venetian nodded gravely in support of this. The towheaded foreigner closed his mouth, uncertain now.

I did not realize until that moment that I had a reputation. I had not been home for five years and a.s.sumed I was forgotten by everyone, except (perhaps) my immediate family.

The foreigner opened his mouth again. "You said you didn't like his beard, so he challenged you to a duel?" he demanded. As if one unit, all leaned in a bit closer to me.

So they all believed there had really been a conversation. I could at that moment have told them I was lying, and we could have laughed, and returned to our card game, and I could have won a tidy sum. But now I was intrigued to see how far I could push their credulity.

"Even Agrippa is not so crude as that," I offered. "I said I did not like his beard, and he, after a moment of astonishment at my rudeness, informed me that he considered it extremely well styled. To which I said, 'You are of course ent.i.tled to your opinion, but I am ent.i.tled to mine as well, and since you asked me, I don't like it.' He said, with a forced laugh, 'Well, I did not cut it to please you, anyhow,' and I replied, 'That's good, because you have not pleased me at all, I think it looks ridiculous.' "

I paused a moment, to allow one of them to have the insight that not even Blunt Iago would really have had this conversation with one of the most famous military geniuses of our century. But not one of them considered I was counterfeiting.

"Then what happened?" a black-haired brute from Normandy demanded in hushed awe.

"He churlishly informed me that I had absolutely no taste or judgment in such matters," I continued. "And I agreed with him, earnestly and proudly, explaining that I would not want to be an expert on the matter of absurd facial hair. At this point the fellow was near to apoplexy. He screamed that he'd never been spoken to so rudely in his life, and that if I did not renounce what I had said, he would force me out to the courtyard of our host, and measure swords with me right there."

"What did you say?" the fair-haired youth demanded. By now they were all leaning Iago-ward on their stools.

I shrugged defensively. "I told him there was nothing to take back, I had spoke truth, and it would be dishonorable to now pretend it was an untruth."

"So you went down into the courtyard right there, and dueled? In the midst of a party?"

Good heaven, they were actually going to make me invent a duel with Camillo Agrippa. I tried to think if I had any scars that I might pa.s.s off as remnants of the altercation. I recalled a faded scar on my right shoulder blade, a result of tumbling off a bridge railing while playing cavalry years ago with Roderigo. (He had been the horse.) I was not sure whom I should have win the duel, or under what circ.u.mstances it could have ended in a draw.

"I wanted to decline," I said. "As I told you, I considered that a most improper reason to duel with anyone, especially a man who is supposed to be the living embodiment of military honor. But on the other hand, I could not imagine pa.s.sing up an opportunity to duel with a master, so I accepted, and with tremendous fanfare and the entire population of the party following us, we stepped down into the torch-lit courtyard." I glanced at the two youths from home. "You have never heard of this in Venice?" I asked, with the barest hint of a smile-something I hoped would trigger them to consider my words false.

"Whose house was it?" one of them demanded breathlessly.

"It was Pietro Galinarion's," I answered. "His courtyard is full of statuary, and guests, so we agreed that we would engage according to the rules of battle, rather than a private duel."

A long pause. I stared at them; they stared at me. A similar expression on each face: on the one hand, this tale was incredible beyond incredible, but on the other hand, it must be true. As I held the gaze longer and longer, the Norman's face expressed a hint of uncertainty, and I smiled at him with conspiracy, which I hoped he would take as an invitation to call me out. No such luck; he rather looked rea.s.sured, taking the smile to mean I was utterly confident in the tale I was telling.

"We drew, and measured swords," I said. "And then-"

The sharp knocking startled all of us. The fair-haired soldier, closest to the door, jumped up and went to answer it.

Standing outside, rain streaming off his oiled canvas mantle, was a sodden man wearing the red-and-white livery of hired messengers from Venice. I recognized his face, for he was my father's most regular and trusted courier. He recognized me too, for he stepped into the room with an authority that forbad anyone asking who he was; he crossed straight to me and bowed.

"Master Iago," he said somberly, "it is my grievous duty to escort you home to Venice. Your honored father has just pa.s.sed away."

Emilia.

Chapter 8.

IN THE FEW hours between the messenger's arrival and my departure back to Venice with him, I received my commission, hastily and without ceremony. I was now an officer. A low-ranking one, an ensign, but still-I was an officer. This elevation, antic.i.p.ated for a year, should have overwhelmed me. But compared to a patriarch's death, it seemed almost a quaint distinction.