Iago: A Novel - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

David Snodin was William Shakespeare's script editor. He worked on the BBC's epic series of Shakespeare's plays, and0 his award-winning television production credits also include Jane Austen's Persuasion, Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, and Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles. He lives in London and Crete.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1. The Castle

On a disconcertingly mild February afternoon, some fifteen hundred and twenty years after Christ, two lords of Venice and a Florentine labored up a peak in the string of mountains that dominates much of the northern coast of the island of Cyprus. To the south a never-ending flatland, thickly forested, glimmered under a cloudless sky. Their destination remained far above them; they could not see it yet, because the peak was forested too.

Neither of the Signors had made so precipitous a trek in their long lives, though one was a soldier of great experience. They were wearing thick cloaks, as they would have in their home city, a thousand leagues north, so were hot and irritable. They had ridden hard for the best part of three hours to the base of the mountain, had endured an almost inedible lunch at an inn, and, because the trail could not accommodate horses, they had been offered a couple of bony, malodorous mules. They regretted declining them.

In strong contrast to their darkening humor, the Florentine seemed sprightly. His ascent was less arduous than theirs, not on account of his youth but because he was being carried by a pair of burly retainers in a chair strapped between two poles, for he had only one leg. The lords of Venice, fifty-seven and sixty-five years of age respectively, but with both legs intact, envied him. The ease of his passage, not to mention his high spirits, made him, in their opinion, less than endearing.

"Half a century old, Signors," the young man proclaimed, pointing upward, "but still sturdy and impregnable. Built by the lords of Byzantium as a protection against Arab incursion and subsequently expanded by the Lusignan kings, it was once called the Castle of the Lion, for it was besieged by the English Crusader King Richard. But today it is more commonly referred to as Buffavento, a shortening of Buffa di Vento."

As if in affirmation, a sudden and surprising gust of cold air almost toppled one of the Venetians, propelling his hat down the craggy path. A fortunately placed soldier, one of many following the party at a respectful distance, hurried to return it.

The Florentine laughed, annoying the briefly hatless Venetian still more. "Along with the other hill castles on the island, it is no longer thought to serve any strategic function—except as a place from which to espy invaders from the sea. But the steepness of the surrounding cliffs and this path being the only means of access make it an excellent place of confinement."

"Which is why you've put the murderer here," said Graziano Stornello, the elder of the two nobles. He'd been rather affronted by the young man's presumption that he knew nothing of history. He knew a fair amount—especially about military history and, indeed, the building of castles.

"Certainly," the Florentine replied.

"It's not very ... convenient though, is it?" puffed the other Venetian, Graziano Stornello's younger brother Lodovico (who had briefly lost his hat). "Wouldn't it be more sensible to keep him closer to hand?"

The Florentine motioned to his bearers to stop awhile. "You must understand, Signors, that this is no ordinary villain. He is like a ... like a ... a pestilence, a ... foul infection, an insidious contagion that cannot be felt until it is too late. He is a danger to all who come near him."

"I only meant," gasped Lodovico Stornello as they trudged on, "that for the purposes of interrogation it seems quite remote."

"Interrogation has proved futile thus far, though we continue to make efforts..." The Florentine raised an eyebrow. "The man has refused to speak a word since he was arrested."

The lords glanced at each other.

"Not a word?" asked Graziano Stornello.

"Not one."

The patricians allowed themselves to hang back as the Florentine was transported farther up the path and around yet another bend, not least because they needed to rest their aching legs.

"I think this criminal he talks of should come back to Venice with me," Graziano Stornello said quietly.

"I concur," his brother replied. "He should be placed in the hands of the interroganti and subjected to proper inquisitorial methods. They've probably only tickled him here."

"A contagion..." Graziano Stornello mused. "That's an interesting way of describing a man. And if he is indeed a danger to all who come close to him, as the young fellow claims, then I think the sooner he is removed from this volatile land the better."

"I don't suppose they even have the strappado here!" exclaimed Lodovico Stornello.

Graziano Stornello laid a hand on his kinsman's shoulder. "That's a shortcoming you will be able to remedy, I'm sure, when you're governor."

"Not much farther, lords!" the young Florentine shouted from above. They could see him waving through the trees.

"Arrogant pup," Lodovico Stornello muttered. "Didn't like him from the moment we landed. Swanking about as if he owns the place."

"Technically he does," Graziano Stornello said. "Until it's formally handed over to you. I shall perform the ceremony tonight."

Lodovico Stornello gazed south. There was good hunting to be had, apparently, in the vast forest beneath him. He saw mountains beyond it—loftier still than the range within which they stood, judging by the clouds that covered their peaks. And in the far distance a city sparkled: the capital, Nicosia. He would no doubt have a palazzo there. Indeed, he might have any number of palazzi. But then he shivered in the icy wind. "I'm not sure I want it."

They'd traveled for a month over rough seas to reach this colony, and Lodovico Stornello, who was generally forthright in his opinions, had not once vacillated during the voyage. This sudden hesitation was unsettling. "It produces fruit of many excellent varieties," Graziano Stornello ventured. "You said yourself the wine we had last night was more than passable."

"But, as you admitted, it's ... volatile ... full of rebels..."

"Most outposts of the empire are, brother. They don't like us being here."

Graziano Stornello, a veteran of many conflicts and currently invested with the title of Captain-General of the Sea, understood that his sibling was in need, at that moment, of dedicated encouragement.

Toward the end of the previous year, reports had reached Venice that Cyprus, a perennially bothersome colony, had become yet more unmanageable. A new governor had been dispatched to rid it of the menace from the Ottoman—whose lands were less than a hundred leagues across the water. This he had managed to do. His second task had been to quell the natural insubordination of the island's unruly inhabitants. In this endeavor he had singularly failed. More disturbing still, the Venetian garrison itself had become riotous and disobedient. And the Ottoman Turks, alert to the disarray, were prodding once more at a precariously accessible coastline with their caïques and skiffs. Farther out to sea, bigger ships had been spotted. The place was, as ever, full of spies and agitators.

And so it was that the Serene Republic had decreed that Lodovico Stornello should take the governor's place. Graziano Stornello was to oversee the handover and to ensure, as a respected commander, that it was as swift and unruffled as possible. It had been his intention to conduct the ritual of conferral upon landing the previous morning, but circumstances had not allowed it.

To the Signors' astonishment, Cyprus was now under the command of the young Florentine. The governor whom Lodovico Stornello was there to replace had been murdered some three weeks earlier. Among the killer's other victims had been the governor's young wife. Niece to the two lords, daughter to their brother, Brabantio Stornello, her name was...