Shylock dropped his knife, the clang of which echoed in the marble hall. “Then the devil give him the ducats. I’ll no longer stay in question.”

“Tarry more, Jew,” said Portia, holding her hand before Shylock to stay his exit. “The law hath another hold on thee. If it be proved against an alien that, by direct or indirect attempts, he seek the life of any citizen, the party he contrived against shall receive one half of his goods, and the other half comes to the state. The offender’s life lies at the mercy of the doge only.”

Shylock fell to one knee, breathless, stunned by the pronouncement. Jessica grabbed my biceps, digging her nails in.

“What,” I shouted, “if the one conspired against was himself a traitor to the state, murdered the queen of one of Venice’s allies, caused the death of the high commander of the navy and his lady, and planned to kill and replace the doge? What then?”

Portia—no, everybody—looked to the back of the room where I stood. Of course they couldn’t see me, because I’m dogfuckingly small, aren’t I, but they looked at Drool and gasped.

“Well, that would be different then,” said Portia.

“Who spoke there?” said the doge. “I would hear him.”

“Wait!” cried Iago.

Twenty-four: The Verdict

TWENTY-FOUR

The Verdict

I minced, I tiptoed, I blushed, I tittered and tee-heed behind a fan as I made my way to the front of the court, ever the shy girl, dressed in one of Portia’s fancier gowns. Behind me, Drool, dressed in a gown fashioned from three of Nerissa’s dresses, minced, tiptoed, blushed, tittered, and tee-heed as well, his voice note for note, tone for tone, the exact copy of Nerissa’s.

“Who is this?” asked the doge.

“It is I,” said I. “Portia of Belmont, daughter of Brabantio.”

The color and expression ran from Portia’s face as if someone had turned a spigot under her false beard.

“With my maid, Nerissa.”

Drool curtsied, ever the enormous, delicate, donkey-donged flower of femininity.

There were various expressions among the crowd of awe and dismay at the sheer crashing magnitude of Drool in drag.

“Why, that’s the biggest woman I’ve ever seen,” said one onlooker.

“And the ugliest, too,” said his companion.

“I’d have a go at her,” said another.

“How much for the big girl?” came a woman’s voice from the back.

It was Signora Veronica, who ran the brothel, and knew by experience that there was no creature on earth so vile that some punter wouldn’t pay to shag it.

While we had tarted Drool up more than somewhat for his disguise, he still made for a child-frighteningly unattractive woman. Myself, however, in the guise of a fair and ambling nymph, could have tented tights and broken blokes’ hearts across the land, as long as I kept a close shave on.