“Oh, do fuck off. You Muslims and your aversion to drink. Fucking slaughter the greater part of the Western fucking world in Allah’s name, but someone wants to toast to your health and suddenly it’s all piety, prayer, throw out the pork, and let’s put draperies around the women.”

“I am not a Muslim.”

“Well, a secret Muslim, then. Same thing. You have the curvy sword and the earring and you’re black as Satan’s scrotum, aren’t you?”

“Tomorrow, when you are sober and the drink is out of your head, if then you still wish to drown yourself, I will help you tie a stone to your ankle and throw you in the canal myself.”

“You would do that for a poor, heartbroken fool?”

“I would and I shall, but not tonight. Tonight I shall see thee home safely, little one.”

The Moor picked the fool up as if lifting a child and threw him over a shoulder.

“Think not of robbing me, Moor, I have no money left. Not much, anyway. I will have to live by the largesse of the doge and I fear that may be running out.”

“I know.”

“You’ll not have your way with me. I’m not one of you soldier types, ready to bugger anything that moves to relieve boredom between battles. Not that I blame you, I am fit—somewhat of a prize, really. I was a king for a while.”

“If words were wealth,” sighed the Moor. “A king among kings you would be, but now you are only small, damp, and loud.”

“True, I am drunk, and small, and damp, but mistake not my moistness for weakness, although there’s an argument to be made for that, as well. I’m armed, you know?” said the fool, squirming, trying to look back over his shoulder at his abductor. “Don’t think that as soon as we’re out of sight of the palace you can make your move. I have three daggers at the small of my back.”

“Only a soldier or the doge’s guard may carry a weapon in Venice,” said the Moor.

“I am outside the law,” said the fool.

“As am I, I fear,” said the Moor.

“What did you mean, that you know love, but it may not be yours?”

“I will tell you tomorrow, when I come to see you drown.”

“Tomorrow,” said the fool. “Over the bridge, then go right.”

The Moor walked up the stairs of the Rialto Bridge, which even in the evening was bustling with merchants, hawkers, and whores.

CHORUS: And thus was friendship formed. Two outsiders, outside a palace in the night, found fellowship in their troubles, and there one’s problems became the other’s purpose.

“Who is that?” asked the fool.

“I don’t know him,” said the Moor. “Is he following us?”

“No, he’s just yammering on about the bloody obvious to no one. A nutter, no doubt.”