Gobbo safely deposited against the wall, away from the water, Jessica approached her father, head bowed. “Oh, Papa, such good news, this is, is what this is. This young Jew has agreed to be our slave. He will clean and fetch for us, carry our burdens, perhaps we can even buy our own boat and he can row you to the Rialto.”

“Shalom,” said I, exhausting my Hebrew in two beats.

Shylock leaned in close and looked me in the eye. “What is your name, boy?”

Realizing, somewhat late I’d say, that we should have thought of this before, I improvised. “Lancelot,” said I.

“Really?” said Jessica, letting her features drop as slack as a curtain.

“Lancelot is not a Jewish name,” said Shylock.

“He’s not been raised with the traditions,” Jessica said, recovering. “Only his mother was a Jew.”

“She was?” said Gobbo. “And that minx always pretending she was buggering off to mass. Aye, lad, your mum was a love, she was.”

“Jews do not own slaves,” Shylock said.

“But that is the beauty of it, Papa.” Jessica stepped between Shylock and Gobbo. “The law only says that we may not buy or sell slaves; we are not buying him. He’s delivering himself to us.”

Hearing it out loud, I realized it was a rubbish ploy, but I needed a place to live, to hide, and I needed to get back into the city undercover to find out what had happened to my apprentice, Drool, and my monkey, Jeff.

“Well, Signor Lancelot Gobbo, Moses did not lead our people out of slavery so we could bind one another in slavery. Good day.”

“Not a slave, signor,” said I. “Who said slave? Silly girl. I would be your employee. But I could do all of those things, plus more. I could help you with your accounts. I know maths and I can read and write.”

“You know maths and you can read and write? Well . . .”

“Latin, Greek, and English, plus a smattering of Italian and fucking French.”

“Fucking French, you say? Well . . .”

“Oui,” said I, in perfect fucking French.

“And what would you wish to be paid for such services, Signor Lancelot Gobbo?”

“Only room and board, signor. A roof over my head and a hot meal.”

“A slave works for only room and board.”

“And a farthing.”

“A farthing? Room and board and a quarter of a penny would be your pay? Well . . .”

“Per week,” said I, pressing my terms. I saw a light flicker in Shylock’s eye, for although he would not be a slave owner, he could not resist a bargain.