Desdemona stepped away from the Moor, glared at her father, then addressed the whole chamber. “I would have a say in my future, if you please. I, too, am a Venetian, and I would be at my husband’s side. It is true that he won me by tales of his battles, so I would be with him while he does these deeds that drew my affection. I would go to Corsica with him.”

“But, beloved,” said Othello, “I must leave on a fast galley tonight, a warship, which has no accommodation for a wife, and the need for haste allows no time for you to gather your things.”

“I will see her to Corsica,” came a voice from the back of the mob. Iago stepped forward.

“There will be new battles, Iago,” said Othello. “You will be needed at Arsenal to fit men to ships.”

“I will send my own wife to be Desdemona’s handmaid, and see her returned to your arms in Corsica. You know her, Desdemona.”

Desdemona squeezed Othello’s arms. “I’ve met Emilia. She is of good character and will be good company.”

“So be it, then,” said the Moor. “Cassio, ready five fast ships. We are for Corsica on the tide.” Then the Moor turned to the council. “Signors, I thank you for your faith, and for this lady; I will keep both on my life.”

He offered his arm to Desdemona. As she turned to leave she mouthed “Thank you” to me and smiled.

I was left standing in the middle of the hall, hung a bit out to dry, I thought, so by way of exit, I pumped the puppet Jones in the air and marched out. “You ungrateful fucks!” I shouted. “If it weren’t for Othello the Genoans would have sacked the city and you’d all be speaking bloody Italian.”

“We are speaking Italian,” said Brabantio.

I reeled to face him. “Can you imagine the pounding farewell shag Othello is giving your daughter even now, Montressor? I’ll wager you can hear the moaning all the way to the Rialto Bridge.”

In retrospect, given the walling up and whatnot, I might have been imprudently harsh with the Montressor.

So of course, Desdemona was overjoyed at seeing me when Jessica and I arrived at the Citadel. Well, not precisely when I arrived. We came in behind Iago and his friend.

“Your father is dead,” said Iago.

“Oh, my lord,” said Desdemona, who began to swoon. Othello caught her and held her fast to his chest.

“When?” asked Othello.

“A month ago, a little more perhaps. He died in the wine cellar—his heart—while the lady’s sister was away in Florence. The servants did not find him for several weeks.”

Desdemona sobbed on Othello’s shoulder.