“Aye, but that was a piece of piss, wasn’t it? Only had to wrench it loose from a feebleminded family of inbred deviants.”

“My family, you mean?”

“Well, not you, obviously. But the rest of them. Point is, I am small and heartbroken.”

“Yes, you are. Help the Moor.”

“I’ve lost all influence in Venice.”

“Not all. The doge still has some affection for you. You can still move in higher circles for a while. Help the Moor.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Promise.”

“I promise to help the sodding Moor.”

“And promise not to off yourself.”

“You mean kill myself?”

“Yes.”

“I promise.”

“And don’t shag the Jewess.”

“What Jewess? I don’t know a Jewess.”

“You’re a love, Pocket. Now wake up, you’re about to wee the bed.”

I awoke. Too late.

Two days after the dream, I pursued the task my Cordelia had set me: Help the Moor.

The priest was surprised that Othello answered his own door. The monkey and the great imbecile expected there would be sweets. The Moor wore a belted dressing gown of white linen and held his sword in its scabbard in one hand.

“Why, he’s not dying,” said the priest.

“He are black,” said Drool.

“Moors are black,” I explained to the ninny.

“You said he was dying,” said the priest.

“Pardon, General,” said I to the Moor. “The only way I could get him here was to tell him that you needed last rites.”

“Pocket?” said the Moor. “You do not look well.” He was surprised that I had arrived at his door at the supper hour with an entourage, but he was not angry.

“Get into some dressy togs,” said I. “Bit of gold braid and a right fancy hat if you can manage; we’re taking you to be married. One of those pointy Saracen helmets would be smashing, if you have one.” I breezed past him into his house, which, although near Arsenal, was appointed more in the finery of a duke’s home rather than the Spartan utility of a soldier’s. “You three, stay out there.”

The priest tried to address me around the Moor. “I’m not going to perform a marriage. You said last rites?”

“You’ll do as you’re told or I’ll tell everyone your lot stole the bones of St. Mark from a temple in Egypt.”

“That was four hundred years ago. No one cares about that. Tell them. I’m going home.” The priest turned on his heel to leave.

“Stop him, Drool,” said I.

The great oaf snatched the priest up by the cowl of his robe and made to lift him like a kitten by the scruff of the neck, but only succeeded in pulling the priest’s robe up over his head until the scrawny padre stood bare from the waist down.

“Put him down, put him down. Just sit on him.”