AN: Chapter 28 was "something stupid," and since Roderigo and his unrequited love for Desdemona are peak stupid, night shift Tam couldn't resist a little serenade (TBH my original idea was Andrew Aguecheek accidentally setting himself on fire, which is the other end of the stupid spectrum). Iago's just here to troll.
The amber moon seemed to wink as it rose over the streets of Venice. It glinted merrily off the gilt edges of marble rooftops, turned the stinking canals to pearlescent veins, the city's holy ichor. A fine mist clung to brick and shadow still damp from an afternoon storm, which left a chill taint on the heavy air. The houses crowding the piazza loomed tall, darkened windows unrelieved by friendly flame waiting, watching, like so many troubled eyes, for the slightest disturbance. All was stillness. All was silence.
Until the twang of a gittern, just slightly out of tune, shattered the fragile peace.
"Give us a minute." The man holding the instrument had a soldier's stern bearing and a trickster's smile, which sat oddly upon a face that seemed hewn from weathered stone. But for the military-issue boots he might have been any common workingman: dark trousers streaked with dust, sweat-stained shirt of coarse linen rolled nearly to powerful shoulders, baring scarred, corded arms sun-darkened to a honey hue. The gittern he painstakingly tuned was as battered and worn as its owner, but it sang with a sweetness to rival any court minstrel's fine lute.
Diametric opposition, so beloved of that Venetian spirit of contrariness, was plain to espy in his companion. A gangling, soft-bodied peacock of mediocre man, he wore a lace ruff two years out of season which flapped energetically about his scrawny neck, and a limply curling ostrich feather in his violet cap. His torso assaulted the eye in a puffed and slashed doublet of a most unbecoming salmon shade, and wrinkled black hose sagged about his bandy legs. More whiskers numbered upon the arses of shaved rats than his milksop cheeks, and when he spoke, his voice, ever keen to overenunciate, sounded almost like a woman's, plaintive and lisping.
"Is it ready?"
"Nearly, babosito." The soldier plucked a few notes. Sweet as could be. He grinned, broadly, pushing his tongue into a gap in his row of strong teeth. "You're buying me summat bit stronger than wine for this, I tell ye."
"Must I?" whined the nobleman. With an anxious start he cast his eyes about the deserted piazza. "Isn't it enough to do it out of-sheer goodwill? And love for me? Or what have you?"
"What haven't you?"
"I-what-that makes no sense?"
The soldier shrugged. "Neither does your purpose here, babosito. If you're dragging me into your mess I've more than a right to eschew sense."
"How dare you insinuate that my love for Desdemona is a mess!" The young gallant, sorely touched, drew himself up to his fully unimpressive height. Mooncalf eyes flashed pitiable fire; his plump lips quivered with righteous indignation. His clammy hands, which had never known an hour's toil, balled into ill-formed fists. His companion laughed, heartily, which only served to inflame him further. It is only to be regretted that upon wet kindling will no spark ever catch.
"I insinuate nothing. Only button it, will you, we're here."
The Palazzo del Bovolo never failed to draw the eye of any entering the piazza. The intricate scrollwork and winding staircase had no equal in beauty along that tucked-away campo. Neither did the jewel residing within. Fair Desdemona Contarini, as noble in heart as in name: a maiden as sought after as wretched Helen and twice as beautiful. A maiden who knew without note the name of her every suitor, and hardly spoke more than a word to any of them-but oh, how rich a gift those few words were!
To Roderigo Viccinari those words had been the pleasure is mine, and every minute thereafter they brought him pleasure unparalleled. Every night they shivered through the cobwebs of his dreams, and every morning when he woke, aching with desire, they trembled upon his bitten lips.
Stopping below the balcony he knew to be hers, the knight-pissant drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Under his heavy breath he offered up a brief prayer to whichever gods within the welkin had not turned away laughing at the hour of his birth. His sometime-brother, whose rough nature knew little of gallantry and cared for it even less, did not bother to hide his smirk as he sequestered himself within the shadows of the balustrade. But, hidden thus, he, too, crossed himself. This gentle lady's father was too well acquainted with his general. He hated to think of what ill might come of his part in this mischief being found out.
But the deed was too far gone to harbour even the most nascent misgivings. So with sure fingers the soldier began to play, the lively, meandering tune taking flight in warmest colour towards the half-open window.
"Come, Madam, come all rest my powers defy; until I labour, I in labour lie." For all his quailing squall the quat possessed a fine voice: thin and bright, quicksilver melody flashing above the gittern's husky thrum.
At the window, a candle was lit. A beacon of hope. Bouncing from foot to foot, the boy sang louder. "Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime, tells me from you that now it's bed-time! Off with that happy busk, which I envy, that still can be, and still can stand so nigh. Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals, as when from flowery meads th'hill's shadow steals. Off with that wiry coronet and shew the hairy diadem-" The soldier snorted, nearly missed a chord. The affronted balladeer shot him as venomous a look as his lovestruck eyes could muster. "-which on you doth grow; now off with those shoes, and then safely tread in this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed!"
Towards the window, a shadow stole. Roderigo, pausing to swallow, allowed himself to imagine the soft susurrus of a satin dressing gown falling to plush carpet, lily-petal skin glowing soft in the faerie light, a rich fall of hair flowing over a pert and heaving bosom and down, down, to brush the generous curve of bottom-a nubile Venus, pliant and eager beneath his unpractised touch-
"Licence my roving hands, and let them go, before, behind, between, above, below-"
He held the trembling note out long and proud. The gittern climbed a gentle scale, caressing the sound. The song. The bleeding heart in ready hand, free for the taking.
From above, a faint whistle pierced the air. Then. Two distinct giggles. A wet splat. The slam of shutters. The reverberation of sudden silence.
The tomato had struck true. Acrid juices and hot tears trickled unceremoniously down Roderigo's face. The fool stood goggle-eyed, gaping, like a half-hooked fish; seeds sat heavy atop his stopped tongue. In the shadows, heedless of all threat of discovery, Iago roared with laughter, whistling appreciatively at the audacity of their unseen, unmoved audience.
The shutters creaked gently open, scarcely wide enough for the poor fish to catch a glimpse of his siren. Like falling doves' feathers a sweet voice sang down to them, flutelike tones dulcet in mirth: "There is no penance due to innocence."
The Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo is a beautiful home in Venice, which was built for the Contarini family in the 15th century. The dwelling is famous for this whacky spiral staircase on the outside, and was featured in Orson Welles' 1952 Othello film as Brabantio's house.
The song Roderigo sings is, excerpted, John Donne's poem "To His Mistress Going to Bed," which was written and published some decades after Othello, but, eh. Liberties. Many have been taken. I first encountered this poem in song form in a video of Emma Rice's 2016 Midsummer Night's Dream at the Globe: Lysander sang it to Hermia on their first night in the wood and I thought it was the funniest thing ever. So raunchy. So very, VERY inappropriate to sing to a patrician's daughter. For shame, Roderigo.