But before I could cross the room, Salarino, or perhaps it was Salanio—one of the two fat fucks—boomed, “So, Lorenzo, the Carnival of Michaelmas is the last we shall see of you? Off to Cyprus to father half-Jew babies?”

“Nay, I’ll have the pleasure of her Jewish trim and her father’s treasure, and be back in your company before a fortnight has passed.”

“Have you seen her?” said Bassanio to the group. “But for her birth, Lorenzo’s Jessica would be a treasure in herself. As fit in form and figure as any in Venice.”

“She is like a swordfish flashing brilliant at the end of the fisherman’s line,” said Lorenzo, sloshing his wine as he pointed to a direction where he guessed the sea might be. “She is to be treasured only until she has been enjoyed, then cast back, just beak and bones, to the sea. And the fortune with which I am left will suit me to a wife of proper Christian birth, and a hundred whores to boot.” Lorenzo had raised his goblet again to toast his own good fortune when he spotted me by the door.

“Bassanio seems otherwise engaged,” said I to the doorman. Perhaps I would find my fee for the ferryman another way. I spun on one foot, a maneuver made easier by Jessica’s chopines, and headed back out the door. I trotted across the courtyard pavers as fast as the stilts would allow, the wooden feet beating a clop-clop rhythm that echoed off the buildings.

I was halfway to the bridge when I heard the heavy footfalls coming behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see Lorenzo and one of the portly Sals breaking into a run after me. By habit, I reached for the daggers at the small of my back, but alas, they were not there. I cursed Brabantio’s rat-eaten soul yet again.

I was good on the chopines, but not so good that I could escape the two young knaves. Just as I reached the arched bridge they each caught me under an arm and I was yanked back off my feet. Then Sal threw me against the rail. I might appear taller, but I was still slight, and half the weight of the stout Venetian who was manhandling me.

“What did you hear, Jew?” asked Lorenzo.

“Something about you praising Jessica as being as beautiful as a swordfish, or some rot.”

“You’re lying,” said Lorenzo. He looked to his friend. “Hold him, Salanio.”

“Well, good, we’ve cleared that bit up,” said I, meaning at least I knew which of the Sals was attacking me. Perhaps Bassanio would intervene on my behalf, since I was the one, true master of the imaginary Hebrew thieving monkeys who would assure his betrothal. I looked back, but no one was coming out of the brothel to help me. No one was coming out at all.