“Look,” said I, trying again for a distraction. “Marco Polo, famed Venetian explorer, under your roof.”

“Signor,” said Polo, with a slight bow. “Your daughter and Pocket gallantly rescued me from a Genoan prison, when even my own family had been unable to negotiate the terms of my release. I regret that they had to use your treasure, but my family will gladly restore it to you, with interest, as soon as I am able to arrange it.” He really did know how to pour oil upon the churning waters of an angry temper with his bearing. With interest, that simple phrase calmed Shylock, not because he was greedy, but because he thought it was the one thing that allowed him, as a Jew, to participate in this oh-so-sophisticated republic of merchants, and Polo, somehow, had known that. Perhaps years in the courts of mad and murderous Oriental despots had taught him how to best keep his head atop his shoulders.

“You are welcome in my house, Marco Polo,” said Shylock. Momentarily, the rest of us were not in the room. “My daughter will bring you some wine.” He turned to Jessica.

“You have no daughter,” she said. “Get your own wine.”

“Respect! Daughter! You take my gold, run off with this Christian, this scoundrel Lorenzo—”

“I ran off with this scoundrel,” she said, gesturing in my general direction.

“Viv eated him,” said Drool.

“Stop saying that,” said I. “That is not right.”

“Sor-ry,” said the oaf, hanging his head. “Viv ate him.”

“He said that before, Pocket,” said Jessica. “He may not be able to find the round side of a barrel, but he does remember what is said, disturbingly well.”

“Well, I am glad you were not with this Lorenzo, even if it means that you return wearing trousers with this—this—abomination,” Shylock said, waving in my general direction.

“Abomination? I take your daughter out for a spot o’ sailing, and in the mix rescue a national hero, teach her to speak pirate, and save her from a bloody murder plot, then return her in better than new condition, and I’m an abomination? What ho, respect, Shylock? Wherefore respect, Shylock?”

“What murder plot?” asked Jessica.

“Lorenzo was going to use you, take the gold, and cast you in the sea,” said Shylock.

“No, that’s not it,” said I. “I mean the one that culminated a bit ago with Viv somewhat eviscerating Antonio’s other minions. They would have killed you next to try to break your father’s bond on Antonio.” I frowned my dire frown of truth, I liked to call it, but as I did my hat bells jingled, undermining the dire sincerity of my lie.

“That’s a wandering wagonload of Jew wank,” she said, looming rather largely over me for a girl of her size.

“You know excessive use of alliteration is a sign of madness?”

“Antonio’s ruffians were boasting of it days ago,” said Shylock. “I thought you lost.”