“Ta,” said Drool as Japheth carried his brother away.

“Drool, there’s a bundle of clothing out on the landing; would you fetch it before the tide takes it, please?”

“That were smashing, Pocket.”

“Go, lad. We’ll need that bundle.”

Shylock stood in the middle of the room, unmoving, where he had been when I’d sailed sideways into the room.

“So,” said I. “Marco Polo found his way back to his family?”

“Yes,” said Shylock, still a bit dazed. “He returned my ducats with interest.”

“Lovely. And he left the boxes for me?”

“Yes,” said Jessica. “As you asked.”

“Tubal has been my friend many years. And he sent these boys to kill me? He would not have done this for spite. He must have been paid.”

“No shit, Shylock,” said I. “It was business.”

“You are more agile than I thought,” said Shylock, nodding to himself sadly.

“Treated by a wizard with syrup of cat, he was, givin’ him magical quickness,” said the puppet Jones.

“Really?” said Jessica, her eyes wide.

“Nah, havin’ you on. I’m just a wooden-headed ninny,” said the puppet, tapping the Jewess on the bottom with a jingle of his hat bells.

Twenty-three: The Trial

TWENTY-THREE

The Trial

CHORUS: When war makes commerce and commerce is law, profit rules prudence and justice is flawed. Behold now, the court of Venice, a grand edifice on the Grand Canal, and among the lawyers, senators, citizens, and those seeking justice, stand foreign traders and dignitaries, here to see the rule of law in action, the backbone of the republic, the insurance of their fair trade with the watery city-state. And here, too, amid costumed fools and cross-dressed maids, Shylock seeks to satisfy sweet revenge dealt by a sword forged of irony.

“Who are that?” asked Drool. We stood with Jessica in costume at the very back of the court.

“Just a grandiose nutter who can’t help himself bursting through the fourth wall like a great dim-witted battering ram,” said I. “Pay him no mind.”

A bailiff was calling all to order at the front of the room, where the high council of six senators sat on a dais, with the doge at the center, wearing a grand gold-and-silver robe and a hat that looked more than anything like a white, gold-trimmed codpiece inverted on his head.

“Is Antonio Donnola the merchant here?” asked the doge.

“I am here,” said Antonio, coming through the great arch behind us, flanked on one side by Bassanio, and on the other by Iago. Iago? What was Iago doing walking about free like a roaming plague in boots? And armed, for fuck’s sake.

“I am sorry for thee,” said the doge. “You come to answer a stony adversary, an inhuman wretch incapable of pity, void and empty of any measure of mercy.”