Iago reeled—this, after having thought this battle already won. “By my troth, my lord, I am not spinning tales, but merely adding facts like an arithmetician.” He counted his points on his fingers. “She deceived her father, did she not? She turned down all the fairest young men of Venice for you, did she not? You have seen her meeting in secret with Cassio, have you not? Why, you can almost smell her rank and foul dispositions, her affinity for dark, unsavory pursuits in the bedroom, so depraved that even her father thought her bewitched. Mind you, I don’t mean to say that she was always a degenerate strumpet, only that those who show such habits constantly would be considered so. Methinks she is only a sometimes slut. I worry that she only chose you over those pretty Venetians out of twisted rebellion against a father, and now, in comfort and boredom, might revert to her true sometimes nature.”

“You’ve planted thoughts of my love’s deceit, and you have no proof.”

“Would you have me arrange for you to watch while they are at it? Can I give you that proof? Would I find them flagrantly fucking as drunken monkeys for you to watch, would you then be satisfied?” Iago thought himself well-suited to play the role of the wronged in this affair.

He went on: “Some nights ago, Cassio was down with toothache, so I did give him a potion for pain given me by the apothecary. It put him in a dreamy sleep; while I still sat in his quarters, he talked in his sleep, saying, ‘Desdemona, we must hide our love from the world. Kiss me hard, love, and curse the Fates that gave you to the Moor.’ ”

“Dreams and delusions,” said Othello. “Cassio babbles nonsense with his first flagon of ale, much less a pain potion.”

“Tell me, then, have you seen a handkerchief with strawberries embroidered upon it?”

“I have. Such a cloth was my first gift to Desdemona, a legacy of my mother.”

“It looked like the favor of a woman. Today I saw Cassio wipe his beard with such a handkerchief.”

Othello spun on his heel and spoke as if calling out to an inattentive god. “If it be so, then killing the Florentine once would not be enough, for I would slay him a thousand times and not quell the hurt in my heart. My love turns to anger, my anger calls for blood. Oh, arise black vengeance from thy hollow hell, thy hate is become the tongues of venomous serpents.”

“I felt a selfsame darkness rise within me, for what man betrayed by his wife can feel any other way. But hold thy vengeance, Othello. Have patience. Let me be your sword, good General.”

“So shall you be, but on your honor, report to me within three days that Cassio no longer lives.”