“Ah,” said Iago, his hand raised delicately to his leather doublet. “I see,” he said, taking dainty dance steps back to the three youths, his eyes averted: the embarrassed maiden aunt. “A thousand pardons, gentlemen. I hope you can forgive me.” He tiptoed around behind them, ever more the tiny dancer, his long sword in its scabbard brushing Lorenzo’s shin as he passed by. He put his arms across their shoulders, and his face between Lorenzo’s and Salarino’s ears, and whispered, “I am a soldier, the son of a stevedore, sent to war when I was much younger than any of you, so my manners may seem coarse to you of the merchant class. I hope you’ll forgive me.” He rolled his eyes up at Gratiano, who craned his neck to see around his friend.

“Apologies,” Iago said. Another roll of the eyes.

“Accepted, of course,” said Gratiano.

“Of course,” said the shorter Lorenzo and rounder Salarino in turn.

Iago broke his embrace of the younger men and pirouetted to Antonio. “Apologies, good Antonio. Noble Antonio. Honored Antonio. I would not offend thy friends.”

“It’s nothing,” said Antonio, feeling suddenly very warm and itchy around the collar.

“Oh good,” announced Iago. “Now that we’re all friends, you three, do fuck off.”

“What?” said Lorenzo.

“You, too, Rodrigo. Go, make the merchants buy you lunch. Fuck off.”

“What?” said Rodrigo, rising from his chair.

“Fuck,” said Iago, then a deep pause and a breath—“OFF! All of you.”

“What?” said Gratiano, wondering what had happened to his new and gentle friend.

Iago looked to Antonio. “Am I being overly subtle? I’m seldom in the company of such distinguished young gentlemen.”

“You want them to piss off?” asked Antonio.

“Exactly!” said Iago, turning back to the rabble, his finger raised to make the point. “I’m accustomed to soldiers doing what they are told under threat of the sword, thus I thought I might be mumbling. Gracious gentlemen, Antonio and I have business to discuss with Bassanio, so I will need you all to fuck right off.”

“Oh,” said Rodrigo.

“Now!” Hand to sword.

They tumbled out the door.

“Rodrigo!” Iago called after them. “Return in an hour.”

From the stairwell: “Yes, Lieutenant.”

“You others?”

“Yes?” Gratiano answering.

“Stay fucked off.”

Iago closed the door, latched it, and turned back to Antonio. “That was entirely your fault.”

“You brought your friend along, too.”

“Rodrigo is not my friend. He is a useful accoutrement, an implement.”

“A tool, then?”

“Exactly. As is this handsome young rake.” Iago brushed Bassanio’s hat back on his head. “Aren’t you, lad?”

“I thought we were here to discuss Portia?” Bassanio said to Antonio, as if Iago were not in the room.

“Indeed,” said Antonio. “But there is a problem.”