The Serpent of Venice

TWENTY-THREE

The Trial

CHORUS: When war makes commerce and commerce is law, profit rules prudence and justice is flawed. Behold now, the court of Venice, a grand edifice on the Grand Canal, and among the lawyers, senators, citizens, and those seeking justice, stand foreign traders and dignitaries, here to see the rule of law in action, the backbone of the republic, the insurance of their fair trade with the watery city-state. And here, too, amid costumed fools and cross-dressed maids, Shylock seeks to satisfy sweet revenge dealt by a sword forged of irony.

“Who are that?” asked Drool. We stood with Jessica in costume at the very back of the court.

“Just a grandiose nutter who can’t help himself bursting through the fourth wall like a great dim-witted battering ram,” said I. “Pay him no mind.”

A bailiff was calling all to order at the front of the room, where the high council of six senators sat on a dais, with the doge at the center, wearing a grand gold-and-silver robe and a hat that looked more than anything like a white, gold-trimmed codpiece inverted on his head.

“Is Antonio Donnola the merchant here?” asked the doge.

“I am here,” said Antonio, coming through the great arch behind us, flanked on one side by Bassanio, and on the other by Iago. Iago? What was Iago doing walking about free like a roaming plague in boots? And armed, for fuck’s sake.

“I am sorry for thee,” said the doge. “You come to answer a stony adversary, an inhuman wretch incapable of pity, void and empty of any measure of mercy.”

Well, that seemed a somewhat prejudiced portrayal of Shylock—if I were one of the foreign merchants watching this for a taste of Venetian jurisprudence, I would think, “Well, you don’t want to wear a yellow hat to trial, or these fucks will most certainly throw you to the dogs.” The puppet Jones twitched under my costume, begging to be allowed to shout it out.

“I have heard, Your Grace, he is resolved to his course, and I have no lawful means to carry me.”

“Call the Jew Shylock,” commanded the doge.

“Shylock,” called the bailiff, and Shylock trudged through the door in his normal dark gabardine and yellow hat, his appearance differing today only in that by his purse, at his belt, hung a long carving knife in a leather sheath.

“Let him stand before me,” said the doge.

Shylock passed one of the many bronze braziers lit around the room to warm it on this bitter day, to a spot before the dais.

“Shylock, the world thinks, as do I, that you pretend this cruel malice, and in the last moment, you will relent and show mercy. All believe, despite your protestations, that you will be touched with human gentleness and love, and forgive not only a pound of this merchant’s flesh, but a portion of the principal, taking pity on his recent losses, which would ruin even the most royal merchant, and would spur mercy from even the rough hearts of the most stubborn Turks and Tartars. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.”

Shylock cleared his throat and stood straight for only the second time I had seen him such. “Your Grace, I have stated my intent, and by your holy Sabbath I have sworn to have the forfeit of my bond. If you deny it, let danger light upon your city’s charter, for the law is your foundation—your only surety of value to offer these merchants from all nations who trade with you. If you ask me why I would have a pound of carrion flesh, I will not answer, but instead ask you, why do some men lose their urine at the sound of bagpipes?”

“Cracking non sequitur,” I said to Jessica. “That should send the doge to scratching his knobbish hat.”

“That’s a bollocks reason!” shouted Bassanio.

“I am not bound to please you with my answers,” said Shylock.

“Do all men kill the things they do not love?” asked Bassanio.

“What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?” said Shylock.

At this last answer, it was not Bassanio, nor even Antonio who reacted, but Iago, who had seemed bored with the proceedings until now, who suddenly whipped his gaze around to Shylock, his features locked in disgust, as if they’d been frozen in place by a Gorgon.

I grinned. Well done, Jew. They knew, at least Iago knew, what had happened to Antonio’s cohorts. Antonio looked to be in a daze, like a man who has been stunned by the sight of a massacre, or the rescue therefrom.

“Very well, then,” said Bassanio. “For three thousand ducats, here is six.” From behind us, two servants carried in a casket of coins as big as a man’s chest and set it on the floor before Shylock with a heavy clink.

“Take it, take it, take it, Shylock.” I thought I was chanting in my head, but someone shushed me, so perhaps I had been thinking aloud.

“Not for six times six thousand,” said Shylock. “I shall have my bond.”

“How should you ever hope for mercy, having shown none?” asked the doge.

Or sense? thought I.

“What mercy shall I need, having done no wrong?” said Shylock. “You have among you many a purchased slave, which you work like your dogs and your mules, and keep in quarters fit for animals. Shall I say to you, ‘Let them be free. Let them marry your heirs. Let them live in your houses, eat as well as you, let their beds be as soft as yours.’ And you say, ‘They are our slaves, we will do as we will.’ And so I say to you, the pound of flesh which I demand is mine. It is bought and paid for dearly and I will have it. And if you deny me, there is no validity in the decrees of Venice, and the city and her trades cannot be trusted. I would have justice. I would have my answer.”

I whispered to my right, where Jessica stood dressed again as a boy, her pirate kit somewhat subdued by a long, unadorned cloak. “Your father is so stubbornly unmovable he would make stones gloat at their ability to dance.”

“Why do you think I was going to elope?” she whispered back. “But he is not so different from you in your own revenge, except he would have his witnessed by all of Venice.”

“Upon my power,” said the doge, “I would dismiss this court, unless Bellario, a learned doctor of the law I have sent for, comes to determine this.”

The bailiff spoke up: “My lord, a messenger from Padua arrives with a letter from Bellario.”

“Read the letter,” commanded the doge.

The bailiff unfolded a parchment and read, “ ‘Your Grace shall understand that I am very sick, and cannot heed your call, but when your summons arrived, I had as my houseguest a young doctor of law from Rome, called Balthassar. I acquainted him with the case between Antonio and the Jew, and he is furnished with my opinion, bettered with his own learning, the greatness of which I cannot commend enough. Let not his youth be an impediment, for never have I seen one so young with such a body of knowledge.’ Signed Bellario.” The bailiff folded the paper.

“Where is this doctor?” called the doge.

I heard steps behind us and turned to see Portia, dressed all in black, the robes of a lawyer, a false beard and mustache fixed upon her face, followed by Nerissa, who was dressed in similar clothes, wearing the hat of a clerk, and carrying a secretary’s box, much like I had carried for Shylock in those early days.

The duke held his hand out to Portia, and she bowed over it as stoutly as any boy. When Nerissa had told me of their plan, I thought it would never work, but I would have believed Portia a young man if I did not know better. Fine of features, to be sure, and Nerissa had disguised her girlish curves by draping her robe and having her wear high boots so the curve of her calves did not show.

“You know the case, and Bellario’s judgment?” asked the doge.

“I do, Your Grace,” said Portia. “I am informed thoroughly of the case. W

hich is Antonio and which is the Jew.”

“I don’t know, love,” I whispered to Jessica, “perhaps the one wearing the bloody bright yellow Jew hat who is sharpening his knife on his boot.”

Jessica giggled, far too girlishly for her disguise, and I was forced to elbow her in the side, at which she giggled more, but silently, as she elbowed me back.

Before I could respond, Nerissa shoved into the space between me and Drool. “You look fetching,” she said, making no effort whatsoever to sound like a young man.

“As do you,” I whispered. “Smashing beard. Strapping down those bosoms seems sinful, like hiding your light under a bushel, innit?”

“Shhhh,” she shushed.

“Is your name Shylock?” Portia asked the Jew.

“Shylock is my name. Murray Shylock.”

“Murray? Bloody Shylock’s Christian name is Murray?” I said to Jessica, who shushed me from that side.

“Not really his Christian name, though, is it?” said Nerissa.

Jessica shushed us both.

“Of strange nature is this suit you follow, Shylock. Yet Venetian law cannot impugn you as you proceed.” She turned to Antonio. “You stand in his danger, do you not?”

“Aye, he says so,” said Antonio.

“Then must the Jew be merciful,” said Portia.

“On what compulsion must I?” asked Shylock, now honing his knife on the leather sheath with great flourish.

“The quality of mercy is not strained,” said Portia, pacing as if lecturing a class. “It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed. It blesses him that gives and him that receives. It is an attribute to God himself, and earthly power does show most like God’s, when mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, consider this: All of us pray for mercy, and that same prayer teaches us all to render deeds of mercy. So must you mitigate your plea with mercy, or this strict court of Venice will render the full sentence against the merchant.”

“I crave no mercy, my deeds fall upon my head,” said Shylock. “I crave the law, the penalty for my bond.” Two swipes of the knife on the leather sheath.