Eighteen: Cloak, Dagger, Wimple, and Veil

EIGHTEEN

Cloak, Dagger, Wimple, and Veil

Antonio Donnola, the merchant of Venice, looked out from his balcony, over the Venetian harbor, and wondered for a moment if the four-story fall to the pavers below would kill him instantly or if he might linger, bleeding and broken for a time, before he expired. He was not considering suicide, but considering how Iago might react upon his return from Corsica to find that his part of the plot to take Brabantio’s council seat had gone horribly awry. There would be questions before the violence, and although he was not a man of great courage, he would allow Iago’s wrath to fall upon him before sacrificing his beautiful boy, Bassanio.

“A fool’s head, you say?”

“Aye,” said Bassanio. “Like one would find atop a harlequin’s scepter at Carnival, except there was no stick. I beg your forgiveness, Antonio. I was assured that it was the right casket. Salanio had found out and sent word through a gondolier.”

“A gondolier?”

“He showed me Sal’s dagger as proof the message was authentic. They must have changed the caskets after Sal and Lorenzo left for Cyprus.” Bassanio joined Antonio on the balcony and squeezed his shoulder. “I will pay you back, I promise. I will pay you back.”

He wouldn’t, of course. Three thousand ducats? Bassanio would never see such a sum unless he married into it. He was a strong, handsome young man, and not entirely dim-witted, but he was a shit merchant. If not for Antonio’s patronage, the boy would have been begging in the street years ago. Perhaps Iago had been right—he should have paid suit to Portia himself, taken the senate seat himself, not utterly bollixed up the whole process—threatened a lawyer or two, as the soldier had suggested. It was too late now. He no longer had funds to make suit himself. Oh, he still had weeks before his bond was due to Shylock, and at least one of his ships would return by then with the profits to cover the debt, but he couldn’t secure another three thousand ducats plus the money to intimidate the lawyers. Iago would counsel for that, he was sure. Should he send word to Corsica? Declare their Crusade defeated before it started, take his three-thousand-ducat loss, and stop Iago’s plot before it went too far?

He looked at the pavers below again. Perhaps it would be quick and painless. Perhaps he should go to mass, to get his soul in order, because if Iago returned to find the calamity that had befallen them, someone was going to die.

“The gondolier, do you think you would recognize him?”