Antonio hurried from the Rialto as the bells of St. Mark’s tolled for the noon prayers. He was followed by an entourage of four young protégés dressed in business finery, a certain uniformity to their dark togs that identified them to others as members of the merchant class, but each wearing a swath of brightly colored silk, a broach, or a bold feather in his cap that advertised his specialness. “I am one of you, maybe one better” was the message. They tumbled along behind Antonio like puppies after a mother hound with her teats on the move.

“Why the urgency?” asked Gratiano, the tallest of the four and as broad shouldered as a dock slave, as they were about to mount the Rialto Bridge. “If it were important business, we should be headed to the Rialto, not to lunch, should we not?”

Antonio turned, and was about to point out, once again, the youth’s talent for ignoring context and often the blindingly obvious, when he collided with a short, gray-bearded man in a long coat who had been thumbing through a folio of documents as he descended the steps of the bridge.

“Jew,” said Gratiano, stepping around Antonio, and grabbing the old man by the arm, hoisting him up on his toes.

“Usurer!” said Salarino, the oldest of the youths—beginning to go to fat, forever at the flank of his friend Gratiano. He took the Jew under his other arm and at the same time smacked the yellow hat off his head.

“Antonio,” said the Jew, coming out of his flinch, eye to eye with the merchant now.

“Shylock,” said Antonio. What now? The two young dolts in coming to his defense were forcing action. Senseless. Profitless.

“Pardon,” said Shylock, bowing his head but raising his eyes in entreaty. He knew Antonio.

Antonio kept himself from sighing, but instead feigned anger. “Jewish dog!” He barked, and spit on the Jew’s long beard, then brushed Salarino aside and strode up the bridge stairs with purpose.

“Shall we throw him in the canal?” asked Gratiano.

“No, leave the cutthroat dog to his damnation,” said Antonio. “We have no time. Come.”

They dropped the Jew to his feet. Gratiano slapped the sheaf of papers out of the old man’s hand. “Watch where you’re going, cur,” he said, as he turned and hurried after Antonio, catching Salarino’s sleeve to pull him along as he went.