As she passed, Nerissa whispered, “Fear not, lady, he may choose the same casket as did Morocco. The odds do not favor him as much as you suppose.” If the duke did pick the casket with Portia’s portrait, Nerissa might gain security by remaining at her lady’s side and perhaps even relieve her of some of her wifely obligations. Aragon was no stingy republic or Islamic caliphate dripping with competitive wives; Aragon was a proper feudal kingdom, with an aristocracy, and an enterprising wench possessed of a royal bastard might find leisure there for life.

The lawyer unlocked the terrace door and bowed out of the way.

The duke walked slowly around the table, reading each of the inscriptions, squinting at the caskets’ exteriors as if some of the promise within might be leaking from the seams. Finally, after several revolutions, when the lawyers had begun to cough, politely, the duke paused in front of the silver casket.

“ ‘ Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves,’ ” read the duke. “I would have the key to this one.”

The lawyer came forth and handed Aragon the key.

The duke opened the box and stood aghast. “What is this? This is shit!”

“There will be a rhyme to explain it,” said Nerissa.

“No, it is real shit,” said the duke.

“But look, tis glitter sprinkled upon it,” said Portia.

“Perhaps this means you have won your prize,” said Nerissa, unable to help herself. “A symbol. The Montressor was ever so fond of symbols.”

Portia growled, slightly, even as she grinned at the duke’s misfortune.

The lawyers tittered and thought this might be just the sort of thing old Brabantio might do to a noble from whom he had just swindled three thousand ducats.

“It’s a turd. Three thousand ducats, for a turd?” The duke was waving wildly at the offending object, and in doing so bent one side of his splendid mustache. “Three thousand—”

“You gave your word,” said Portia. “Please do go, good sir, and make suit no more.”

Humbled by his oath, the duke turned on a heel, tossed back his cape, and strode out without another word.

“Aren’t you going to chase after him?” Portia said to Nerissa. “Flaunt your bosoms at him?”

“I would, but I’m curious about the rhyme your father left for this one.”

Portia peered into the casket with its odiferous brown passenger, but saw no parchment like Morocco had found in the gold casket. She looked to the lawyers, who shrugged.

“There’s no poem.”

“Nothing rhymes with silver, does it?” said Nerissa.

*Hamlet, Act III, Scene 4: “I must be cruel only to be kind.”

Sixteen: A Nasty Piece of Work

SIXTEEN

A Nasty Piece of Work

I am not so sure of this, Iago,” said Rodrigo. “Cassio seems lovely.”