“Oh, that one time he did throw a wobbly with the money changers in the Temple, which, not to herniate the bloody metaphor in this little scenario, would be you fucks, and for it, you, you bloody Italians, nailed him to a tree. Shylock is a Jew, but you papists use your Jesus like I use my bloody puppet stick here.” I bobbed Jones before them.
“You lead in with his ‘suffer the little children come unto me,’ when it’s convenient, but the whole time you got your vengeful Old Testament God right behind, like a wicked dagger hidden in the small of your back, ready to smite the first flailing fuck that works against your interests.” I drew one of my daggers, as quick as a cat, and made as if I was dirking some imaginary foe.
“Did you just compare yourself to the Holy Trinity?” asked one of the council indignantly.
“Don’t be literal, Senator, people will think you thick. But in a word, yes. And you would be well advised not to ask to see the Holy Ghost in my trinity, as she’s got two sides, and one of them is a wet nightmare of dark destruction that makes your Othello look like a bloody parade princess.”
Only then, in front of the council, Iago and Antonio constrained, did it occur to me, why, exactly, Vivian had not attacked me like all the others.
“So Shylock may be a vengeful, greedy bastard,” said I. I grinned at Shylock to assure him I was on his side. “But not because he’s a Jew, any more than the lot of you are shiftless, greedy tossers because you are Christians. You all share the same god: gold. Your faith follows fortune, and would deny him fortune for his.”
“Yes! Yes!” said Shylock, coming forward now, leaving Antonio still tied to his chair, straining to turn to watch the proceedings. “I am deprived justice because I am a Jew? Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands?”
“Hath not a Jew shoes?” said the puppet Jones. “If you count them, are they not two Jew shoes? If you dye them blue, are they not two blue Jew shoes? If they, too, make the sound of a cow, are they not two blue Jew moo shoes?”
“That is not what I am saying!” said Shylock.
“I thought we were just asking about Jew kit. Proceed,” said Jones.
“If you prick us, do we not bleed?” said Shylock. “Ouch!”
“That would be a yes,” said I.
“Why did you poke me?” Shylock held his arm where I’d barely touched him with my dagger.
“Hardly worth toting three sharp daggers about if you can’t use them during question time, is it? To the point, Your Grace, you use your faith as a tool to exclude this Jew, the same way these two scoundrels and Brabantio were going to use it to foment war. A Crusade. They poisoned my queen, they told me their plan because they thought I would never live to tell anyone.”
“He has no proof,” said Iago. “You have no proof.”
“That Antonio sits bound there now,” said I, “is proof. The three thousand ducats he borrowed from Shylock was to finance his protégé Bassanio’s marriage to Portia so he could influence the council.”
The council members whispered among themselves.
“Is this true, Antonio?” the doge asked.
Antonio had returned to us during my rant, although he’d gone pale and seemed he would faint again at any shock. “It is true that I borrowed the money to finance Bassanio, but because he loves Portia, and I wanted him to be happy.”
“So out of kindness you put yourself in peril for a friend,” said the doge with the hint of a smile. “ ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends,’ ” the doge quoted to me. “Release Antonio from his bonds.”
The bailiffs moved quickly, released the merchant, and restored his shirt to him.
“I see,” said I, nodding, watching Antonio rub the blood back into his wrists. “You have lovable friends, indeed, Antonio. I have recommended them to a dark lady I know, who very much enjoyed their humors. Oh, and your friend as well, Iago—I think you saw her flirting with your friend Rodrigo in Corsica.”
Whatever Antonio was going to say, he stopped before it left his gob, and he looked at Iago as if the soldier would have some explanation.
“The fool is mad with grief,” said Iago. “Who knows what drunken depths he has sunk into since we last saw him? Pray, let us end this his raving, dismiss this court, and send good Antonio on his way.”
“Aye,” said I. “Let justice be done, let us get on with our day. Let Iago’s treason to his commander and Antonio’s treason to the church and the state be forgiven, as is your way, and let them get on with bringing you into a bloody war that the Venetian people neither want, nor can afford.”
“What war?” said the doge. “Even if there was some plot, as you describe, a single member of the council could not bring us to war, nor the general of our forces.”
“But they don’t know that, Your Grace. These two nitwits, in all their conspiring, didn’t know the one part of the plan that their dead partner knew.’ ”
I pulled a parchment from my jerkin and handed it to the bailiff. “I found this, in Brabantio’s study at Belmont.”
“What is it?”
“It is a very detailed receipt of an order for a hat, Your Grace.”
The bailiff looked over the paper and nodded, handed it to the clerk, who also nodded.
“Tell me, Your Grace, does anyone else wear a great gold-trimmed codpiece on his head like you?”
“The ducal corna may be worn only by the doge, and each is buried with him.”
“Then why do you think Brabantio was having one made?”
The doge looked to the others on the council. “Did you know of this?”
They were all innocent babes tumbling out of the bulrushes with surprise.
“Your clerk can confirm that is Brabantio’s hand, I assure you. In his study you will also find a bill of lading for the cargo on Antonio’s recently lost ships. Oak from France and England, slaves from above the Black Sea, steel and finished blades from Toledo. All bound for Alexandria and Damascus. To the hands of the Muslims.”
“There are no such bills,” said Antonio. “Brabantio had nothing to do with my cargo.”
There weren’t, of course, but if need be, I could forge some quickly, as I had the receipt for the hat. A crown, which would be made by a Jewish goldsmith, who had been happy to tell me and Jessica what the specifications should be.
“All of Venice was almost excommunicated once for selling weapons to the Mamelukes during a Crusade, wasn’t it?”
One of the senators stood now. “Antonio, where were your argosies bound and what was their cargo?”
“Don’t forget to ask Iago about killing the Moor, as that’s a stonking-huge part of the plan.”
The gallery had become very quiet now that the attention had turned from Shylock’s suit.
“It was all Brabantio’s doing, Your Grace,” said Antonio. “We acted at his instruction, thinking it the will of you and the council.”
Iago winced, only slightly, when Antonio had used the term we.
“Then you were trying to draw all of Christendom into a war with the Muslims?” asked the doge, more concerned now that his assassination might have been part of the plot.
“I’m sure they would have poisoned you in a manner that made it appear like a fever, as they did my queen, Your Grace.”
“The fool is right,” said Iago. “We were trying to start a war. And Antonio is right, we knew nothing about any attempt to usurp or harm Your Grace. We are guilty.”
“I’m not,” said Antonio.
Iago walked to Antonio and put his arm around the merchant’s shoulders.
“We two, brothers-in-arms,” said Iago. “For Venice, we thought to bring a war to end a war, for the Genoans would not dare attack us once our ships were flying the flag of the pope. Peace would come with Genoans, and money would flow into the coffers of Venice, as it did in the last Crusade, from all the barons of Europe. And at the end of that Crusade, after we had built a hundred ships with their money, the ships belonged to
Venice.”
“Until they were all lost at Curzola by the last doge’s son,” said I.
Iago laughed and waved me off like an annoying insect. “There was no greater time for Venice than when all of Christendom was united against a common enemy. We wanted that glory again for Venice. War is the lifeblood of this merchant republic. Every ship we build expands the influence of our ideals, takes the thought of our way of government and free trading to the heathen parts of the world. Every sword forged feeds the children of the armorer, trains his apprentice, gives tithes to the church, which feeds the poor, pays the baker, the fisher, the farmer. Raises them up from hunger, gives them purpose and glory, serves their souls and blesses the nation and its markets. There is no greater act of kindness, than war. There is no higher act of love for the republic, than to make war. For this, Antonio and I are guilty. Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa. Upon your good mercy, gentlemen.” Iago went to one knee and bowed his head, Antonio, a second late, followed his lead and dropped to one knee.
“Well, that’s a bloody great bundle of bull bollocks!” said I. “You love your wars for the coffers, but for the warrior and the widow, the orphan and the owned, you’ve not two dry fucks to give.”
“Quiet, Fortunato,” said the doge. “Let us confer.”
The doge and the council huddled together, there was much whispering and nodding, until a few minutes had passed, and Shylock looked forlorn that his red-hot knife had cooled off.
The council took their seats again and they signaled to the bailiff to mark his words. “We find these men to have acted, although unwisely, in the interest of Venice, therefore, the suit against Antonio is dismissed, and the republic awards him the nine thousand ducats to rebuild his business. The failure of a merchant of Antonio’s stature is the failure of our nation, so he must not be permitted to fail. As there is no evidence that Antonio traded with the Muslims, as forbidden by the holy father, he is free to procure ships and trade with the full protection of the Venetian state. You may go, Antonio.”
Antonio thanked them, then scrambled away more quickly than I thought possible, although he was looking for someone to help him carry his gold.
“Iago,” the doge continued. “It is recognized that you, too, have acted to further the interest of the state, and there is no evidence that you have disobeyed your general, even when he sank into madness. While we will hold our judgment on what your position is to be in our service in the future, you are absolved of any charges and are free to go. Fortunato and Shylock are to be arrested by the guard for carrying and brandishing weapons in public, and are to be taken to the prison adjacent to our palace.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said I. Four guards, bearing spears, advanced on me from the rear doorways. Another pair from either side of the dais moved in as well. Shylock had fallen to his knees, dropped his knife, and was shaking his head in disbelief.
I ran straight for one pair of guards, then faked toward the other, then when they had leveled their spears I ran and jumped upon the table before the doge and whipped two paper packets to my feet, which exploded with a loud pop, sending two of the council over backward in their chairs. The guards paused, but as the smoke rose, resumed their advance. I threw two more of the paper bombs at their feet, and they leapt back. The four guards from the rear doors had reached the floor and I cast two more bombs right at the breastplates of the lead two. The explosions so terrified one that he dropped his weapon and fled; the other, blinded by the flash and smoke, screamed and pounded at his chest.
“If I could have your bloody attention!” I shouted to the room. The gallery was trying to clear, and was clogging the doorways to exit. “Magic powder from the Orient,” I explained to the doge. I flipped off the table, landed a few feet from Iago, and grinned up at him as I lit the fuses on two of the paper cylinder bombs. I ran at two guards who had backed away to the side, and barked at them. They jumped out of my way and I slammed two bombs into the mouths of two great wine amphorae that had been set by the walls for decoration. I skipped by Iago, the council, the now very uncertain guards, and lit two more of the paper cylinders and slammed them into amphorae at the other corner.
“Dragon powder, they call it,” I pronounced. “Brought to Venice by Marco Polo, rescued and ransomed by, of all people, the alien Shylock. Pardon,” said I. I raised a finger to mark the place in my oratory, then put my fingers in my ears just as the first two amphorae exploded, peppering the room with shards of pottery, sending great silver mushroom clouds of smoke to the vaulted ceiling. Terrified shouts filled the hall, onlookers dog-piled on each other to get through the doorways. The council was on their feet, but didn’t appear to have an idea what to do beyond standing up. “But a thimbleful,” said I. “And two more.” The second two amphorae exploded with a fury similar to the first pair. Even Iago, hand on the hilt of his sword, flinched
“Thimbles full, Your Grace. Yet even now, loaded into catapults and trebuchets on a fleet of warships, are hundredweights of dragon powder, packed into great steel and stone balls to be launched on your city by Othello.”
“Othello is dead!” shouted Iago.
“Is he, Iago? Did you see him fall? Did you see his body?”
Iago’s eyes danced at the edge of their sockets, trying to search his memory.
“Blood!” said Iago. “My wife—”
A trumpet sounded outside, echoed from the harbor and Arsenal. The bells of St. Mark’s began to toll.
“A call to prayer?” I asked. “At this hour?”
“The signal of arrival of the fleet,” said the doge.
“Well, as you said, Your Grace, Iago acted for the republic. When he betrayed Othello, he was acting on behalf of the city, and now brave Othello, vengeful Othello, the alien, the Moor, with a hundred ships armed with dragon powder will rain deadly hellfire down on your beloved city until it is little more than flaming rubble and a distant memory. Venice, Your Grace, is no more. This was the test. You have failed.”
“Fortunato,” the doge pleaded. “We did not know about your queen.”
“You know now, and I’m off to your prison. Quickly now, while you still have walls. A thimbleful.” I held up one of the paper cylinders I’d tucked in my belt.
“Plead mercy to the Moor. We did not know. We made him our general.”
“Arrest Iago,” I said.
“Arrest him!” said the doge. Guards moved on Iago and as he reached for his sword I held one of my daggers at the ready to throw. “I will kill you where you stand, you villainous wretch.” He let the guards take his arms.
Now the onlookers had calmed in their escape and had turned back to watch.
“Issue pardon to Shylock, and restore his fortune.”
“It is so decreed,” said the doge, the council nodding like pecking chickens. “The nine thousand ducats are so awarded to Shylock, and he is absolved of all charges. Now, please, Fortunato, go to Othello, plead mercy for Venice.”
“Don’t call me Fortunato.”
“Pocket, please! Mercy.”
“Antonio has already taken the gold,” said Shylock.
“We will call him back,” said the doge. “He conspired with Iago, he will be arrested, now go. Save the city.”
I turned to run out when a familiar voice boomed through the gallery.
“Your Grace! Senators!”
The crowd parted and Othello strode through, fully draped in golden-and-white-striped silks, a great golden silk veil trailing from a bronze Saracen helmet, his jewel-sheathed scimitar in a yellow silk sash at his waist.
The doge came around the table and fell to his knees.
“Oh please, Othello, General, please spare the city, Venice is and shall be true to you. Do not destroy the city. We did not know.” The doge bent until his stupid hat touched the ground.
Othello looked at me. “Fool?”
“Moor,” said I. “Smashing togs.”
“What are you up to?”
“Stay the dragon powder, Ot
hello,” said the doge. “Please, spare the city.”
“Oh, that?” said I. I sheathed my dagger. “Just having you on. We only had what I carried with me today. I have to go catch Antonio. Ta!”
TWENTY-FIVE
Arise! Black Vengeance!
I ran out the door, under the eye of many confused onlookers. I spotted Drool, towering above the fray near the canal, and Bassanio helping Antonio load the chest of gold into a gondola.
“Drool, stop them!” I cried, but the ninny took too long to see the target of my instruction. Bassanio was pushing the gondola away from the walkway, Portia pulling him back toward the court as the boat moved away. Antonio stood amidships, grinning at me.
I shouldered my way through the crowd, drawing a dagger and plunging the pommel into my purse as I moved. When I reached the edge of the water, clear of the crowd, I flung the dagger.
It whistled over the water and thunked into the wooden seat by Antonio’s feet.
“You missed,” he said.
“Yes,” said I. “Blast and damn. Toss that back, would you, mate?”
Antonio bent down and worked the dagger out of the wood. He smiled rather smugly as he stuck it in his belt, confident he was out of knife-throwing range, but then looked at his hand. “It’s sticky.”
“Yes it is, innit?” I called. “Ta!”
The wave moved in a chevron up the center of the Grand Canal’s chilly water.
“Wot’s that?” said one onlooker, pointing to the dark missile moving under the water at the apex of the wave.
The others gathered and watched. Antonio followed their gaze and saw the thing moving at him. He looked around, looked at the gondolier, realized there was nowhere to go.
I will give him credit, he wasn’t the nancy-boy coward I’d thought him to be. He drew my dagger from his belt, crouched, and faced the oncoming wave.
She was like a column of silky tar erupting from the water, her skin shining where the sun hit it. She took his knife arm at the shoulder in her jaws and rolled him over backward into the water, his bones audibly snapping and her front claws disemboweling him before they hit the water on the other side of the gondola and he was carried down in a blossoming red stain in the green water to be seen nevermore. There had been no pause, no break in her momentum; she went through him in the leap as if she might surface again a few yards away and take another merchant, then another, as fluid and natural and irresistible as the sea—an elegant terror—a beautiful monster.
The Serpent of Venice Page 28