“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said I. Four guards, bearing spears, advanced on me from the rear doorways. Another pair from either side of the dais moved in as well. Shylock had fallen to his knees, dropped his knife, and was shaking his head in disbelief.

I ran straight for one pair of guards, then faked toward the other, then when they had leveled their spears I ran and jumped upon the table before the doge and whipped two paper packets to my feet, which exploded with a loud pop, sending two of the council over backward in their chairs. The guards paused, but as the smoke rose, resumed their advance. I threw two more of the paper bombs at their feet, and they leapt back. The four guards from the rear doors had reached the floor and I cast two more bombs right at the breastplates of the lead two. The explosions so terrified one that he dropped his weapon and fled; the other, blinded by the flash and smoke, screamed and pounded at his chest.

“If I could have your bloody attention!” I shouted to the room. The gallery was trying to clear, and was clogging the doorways to exit. “Magic powder from the Orient,” I explained to the doge. I flipped off the table, landed a few feet from Iago, and grinned up at him as I lit the fuses on two of the paper cylinder bombs. I ran at two guards who had backed away to the side, and barked at them. They jumped out of my way and I slammed two bombs into the mouths of two great wine amphorae that had been set by the walls for decoration. I skipped by Iago, the council, the now very uncertain guards, and lit two more of the paper cylinders and slammed them into amphorae at the other corner.

“Dragon powder, they call it,” I pronounced. “Brought to Venice by Marco Polo, rescued and ransomed by, of all people, the alien Shylock. Pardon,” said I. I raised a finger to mark the place in my oratory, then put my fingers in my ears just as the first two amphorae exploded, peppering the room with shards of pottery, sending great silver mushroom clouds of smoke to the vaulted ceiling. Terrified shouts filled the hall, onlookers dog-piled on each other to get through the doorways. The council was on their feet, but didn’t appear to have an idea what to do beyond standing up. “But a thimbleful,” said I. “And two more.” The second two amphorae exploded with a fury similar to the first pair. Even Iago, hand on the hilt of his sword, flinched

“Thimbles full, Your Grace. Yet even now, loaded into catapults and trebuchets on a fleet of warships, are hundredweights of dragon powder, packed into great steel and stone balls to be launched on your city by Othello.”

“Othello is dead!” shouted Iago.