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!”

Iago poured.

Cassio stood and with a great flourish and no little spillage raised his cup in a toast. “To Othello, to Desdemona, to Venice, to Iago, to tits!—you’ve got to drink to tits, if you’re drinking to happy things—to—”

“To Venice!” said Iago.

“Venice? What about tits?”

“Just fucking drink!”

“Right.”

They drank, and the glasses came down on the table like twin gavels.

“One more!” declared Cassio.

“But your surprise. I must give you your message.”

“God’s blood, Iago, are you going to talk or are you going to drink? Pour!” Cassio held his cup out like a demanding beggar.

“Bianca, the courtesan, sent me to fetch you. She wants to see you tonight. Now.”

“Oh. Bianca.” Cassio pulled his cup to his chest. “She visits me here sometimes—flirty little tart. I think she fancies me. She’s right fit.”

“Aye. Beautiful.”

“All right, then. Let’s go! Onward! Come on, Iago. To the fair Bianca’s.” Cassio stormed out the open door. As he went, his sheathed sword caught the doorjamb, spinning him around three times before he recovered, more or less looking out to sea.

“You really are a most outrageously pitiful drunk,” said Iago, leaning in the doorway now.

Cassio paced his way back to Iago in great exaggerated steps, stopping just short of touching noses. “You are!”

“Bianca,” reminded Iago.

“Right. Bianca. Ahhhhh!” The captain charged off into the dark.

“Cassio!”

“What?” Cassio stopped, turned. “What do you want, villain!”

“Do you know where you are going?”

“No fucking idea.”

“Along the harbor, at the third lane, go right, then go to the end, all the way to the wall of the Citadel. You’ll see the red light in her window.”

“Right. Three lanes. Right.”

“If you take a left, you’ll fall into the harbor and drown.”

“I will not, I am an excellent swimmer. You scoundrel!”

“Just the same, go right. She’s expecting you.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I have other duties to attend to.”

“Oh, right. Your wife. Emilia. There’s a tasty bit of talent, there, innit?”

“Go!” Iago turned away, willing himself to not murder the Florentine. “I’ll watch you from here to make sure you make the right turn.”

“You are the best comrade a soldier could have, good Iago. Adieu!”