“Is he, Iago? Did you see him fall? Did you see his body?”

Iago’s eyes danced at the edge of their sockets, trying to search his memory.

“Blood!” said Iago. “My wife—”

A trumpet sounded outside, echoed from the harbor and Arsenal. The bells of St. Mark’s began to toll.

“A call to prayer?” I asked. “At this hour?”

“The signal of arrival of the fleet,” said the doge.

“Well, as you said, Your Grace, Iago acted for the republic. When he betrayed Othello, he was acting on behalf of the city, and now brave Othello, vengeful Othello, the alien, the Moor, with a hundred ships armed with dragon powder will rain deadly hellfire down on your beloved city until it is little more than flaming rubble and a distant memory. Venice, Your Grace, is no more. This was the test. You have failed.”

“Fortunato,” the doge pleaded. “We did not know about your queen.”

“You know now, and I’m off to your prison. Quickly now, while you still have walls. A thimbleful.” I held up one of the paper cylinders I’d tucked in my belt.

“Plead mercy to the Moor. We did not know. We made him our general.”

“Arrest Iago,” I said.

“Arrest him!” said the doge. Guards moved on Iago and as he reached for his sword I held one of my daggers at the ready to throw. “I will kill you where you stand, you villainous wretch.” He let the guards take his arms.

Now the onlookers had calmed in their escape and had turned back to watch.

“Issue pardon to Shylock, and restore his fortune.”

“It is so decreed,” said the doge, the council nodding like pecking chickens. “The nine thousand ducats are so awarded to Shylock, and he is absolved of all charges. Now, please, Fortunato, go to Othello, plead mercy for Venice.”

“Don’t call me Fortunato.”

“Pocket, please! Mercy.”

“Antonio has already taken the gold,” said Shylock.

“We will call him back,” said the doge. “He conspired with Iago, he will be arrested, now go. Save the city.”

I turned to run out when a familiar voice boomed through the gallery.

“Your Grace! Senators!”

The crowd parted and Othello strode through, fully draped in golden-and-white-striped silks, a great golden silk veil trailing from a bronze Saracen helmet, his jewel-sheathed scimitar in a yellow silk sash at his waist.

The doge came around the table and fell to his knees.

“Oh please, Othello, General, please spare the city, Venice is and shall be true to you. Do not destroy the city. We did not know.” The doge bent until his stupid hat touched the ground.

Othello looked at me. “Fool?”

“Moor,” said I. “Smashing togs.”

“What are you up to?”

“Stay the dragon powder, Othello,” said the doge. “Please, spare the city.”