“Good sir, this woman, who I took as my wife out of pity, for she was a simpleton and so had shared her favors with many wanton boys in her neighborhood—even though she was such spoiled goods, out of charity, I took her in, but her mind has never been right.”

“Thou mendacious fuckweasel,” said Emilia, almost spitting it, disgusted now rather than hysterical.

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” said Iago.

“Methinks the lady protests just the right amount,” said Emilia. “Methinks the lady is just getting fucking started protesting.”

Iago blazed on, ignoring her. “Even last evening, when I was at his side, Othello went to Cassio’s house, and heard the young captain rutting with Desdemona.”

“That was me,” said Emilia.

“What?” Iago lost his train of thought and looked to the Venetians as if they might give him a hint of what to say next. “Then”— he paused, trying to find some way to stitch this calamity back into some advantageous order—“then the Moor went mad, hearing his beloved wife making the howling of the beast with two backs—”

“Also me,” said Emilia, a smile crossing her lips now, pure triumph between her teeth.

“She is mad. She does not make that sound in bed.”

“I do when I’m being done right. Ask any of the boys in my neighborhood, you berk.”

“I tried to calm the Moor, but Cassio’s betrayal, and his wife’s, was too much for—” He turned to Emilia. “What of Bianca? Wasn’t she supposed to—I mean . . .”

“She was there. I gave her the bloody handkerchief you promised her and sent her away.”

“She did,” came a man’s voice from the hall. Michael Cassio came through the doors, his sword drawn, and put the blade between Emilia and Iago. “Signors,” Cassio said, nodding to the Venetians. “Sheathe your dagger, Iago, or lose the hand that holds it.”

Iago thought for a second, just a second, that he might fight, but he knew the Florentine, alert and sober, would go through him like a hawk through a spiderweb.

“I confess, signors,” said Iago, dropping his dagger and raising his hands to yield before Cassio. “I am the instrument of a plot laid by a great and powerful Venetian—following his instructions. I am only doing the business of the council. No one could foresee the Moor would act in such a rash and tragic manner.” Live to fight another day, he thought. Throw it all on the backs of Antonio and Brabantio—let them condemn their own kind. “I shall say no more,” he said.

“You will have your opportunity to make your case before the council,” said Lovichio.

Cassio put the point of his blade under Iago’s chin as he relieved the traitor of his sword. “Chain him in the hold of the next ship bound for Venice.”

Act V: A Pound of Flesh

ACT V

A Pound of Flesh