“It helps if you beat him about his great empty melon with a puppet stick,” said I. “Drool, stop that and sit down. You’ll fall in the water and Viv will eat you.”

With an alarmed tremor, Drool sat down. “Proper threat works, too,” I said to Polo.

“You’re English as well, no?” asked the explorer.

“Full blood, noble-born bastard of Blighty, I am, at your service.”

“Hard to tell with everyone having the same accent. I can row for a while, if you need a respite.” Polo again raised the inquisitive eyebrow. “Some time to yourself . . .”

“That is not part of English culture!”

“Of course not.”

“Oh, right, part of the national health, innit? ‘Here’s a leech and two tosses a day, and the bloody queen thanks you for your loyalty.’ ”

“Apologies,” said the Venetian. “I only know your apprentice, and he—”

“Look, there’s Jessica on the breakwater,” said I. “Drool, put that away and take the oars.”

CHORUS: The Moor, a storm of suspicion conjured in his mind by Iago, did burst into his lady’s bedchamber to confront his enemy—fear—the fear of losing his love to another. And Desdemona, the only one who had ever brought that sweet, soft calm of love upon his warrior’s brow, could only his solace deliver.

“Lady! Desdemona!” said the Moor, throwing the door open and back on its hinges. “I would have words with you!”

CHORUS: When he spied the veiled figure reclining on the bed, he screamed, a yip most manly and not at all like the sound that might chirp from a small dog that’s been trod upon. The general, in that instant, hopped back through the door, his sword rattling against the doorjamb as he went, and became the very model of a man ready to bolt.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, brash general, I am but a helpless nun at the mercy of your rough barbarian ways.”

“Desdemona?”

She tossed the purple veil back. “Well, who else would it be, silly?”

“What are you wearing?”

“It’s Pocket’s nun suit. He said you’d find it saucy.” She put wrist to forehead and leaned back on the pillows in feigned distress. “Oh no, thou rough pirate, please do not ravage me and have your dread and disgusting pleasures on my nubile body.” She squinted in fear, and thrashed her head in denial, while sneaking a bit of a peek to see how her nun bit was playing.

“I do not find this saucy. The fool knows nothing of my desires.”

“Not wearing any knickers . . . ?” She pulled the hem of her gown up a bit. “Helpless nun, no knickers . . . ?”

“There are no purple-and-green nuns. The fool made that up.”

“But the no knickers bit is true.”

“No.” Othello crossed his arms, resolute.

“Totally naked nun . . . ?” And in two deft moves, but for the wimple and veil, she was.

“No.”