The Serpent of Venice by Christopher Moore

said Shylock, bowing his head but raising his eyes in entreaty. He knew Antonio.
    Antonio kept himself from sighing, but instead feigned anger. “Jewish dog!” He barked, and spit on the Jew’s long beard, then brushed Salarino aside and strode up the bridge stairs with purpose.
    “Shall we throw him in the canal?” asked Gratiano.
    “No, leave the cutthroat dog to his damnation,” said Antonio. “We have no time. Come.”
    They dropped the Jew to his feet. Gratiano slapped the sheaf of papers out of the old man’s hand. “Watch where you’re going, cur,” he said, as he turned and hurried after Antonio, catching Salarino’s sleeve to pull him along as he went.
    Bassanio, who was the most handsome of Antonio’s retinue, sidled past Shylock as if afraid he might get something on his shirt if he passed too close, and tossed his head furiously to Lorenzo for him to come along. Lorenzo, the youngest of the crew, scooped up Shylock’s papers from the cobbles and patted them awkwardly into the old man’s hands, then snatched the yellow hat worn by all Jews (by decree) from the stairs, placed it on Shylock’s head, and patted it several times while Shylock looked up at him, then stepped back, adjusted the hat, and patted it again. Only then did he meet Shylock’s gaze.
    “Jew,” he said, nodding for approval.
    “Boy,” said Shylock, nothing more.
    “All right then,” said Lorenzo. He adjusted Shylock’s hat one last time.
    “Lorenzo!” said Bassanio between his teeth, an urgent and stressed whisper.
    “Coming.” Lorenzo ran up the stairs and joined his friend as they passed over the apex of the bridge.
    “Why?” asked Bassanio. “A Jew ?”
    “Have you seen his daughter?” said Lorenzo.

    Antonio kept a whole floor of rooms in the top of a large, four-story house on the Riva Ca di Dia, not far from Arsenal. His quarters were not in the most fashionable part of the city, and they were much farther from the Rialto than he would have preferred, but he had taken them when his fortunes were at an ebb and from his parlor he could see the ships sailing in and out of the Venetian lagoon and so he stayed there, even when his fortunes turned, telling his friends that he liked to keep an eye on his business ventures.
    Iago was sitting with a younger man at Antonio’s table.
    “Your maid let me in,” said Iago.
    “And showed you to the wine, I see,” said Antonio.
    “This is Rodrigo,” said Iago. “The one who brought me news of Brabantio’s unfortunate passing.”
    Rodrigo stood and bowed slightly. He was as tall as Gratiano, but much thinner, and both his hair and his nose were longer than fashionable, the latter quite straight and thin, a fleshy blade protruding from his face. “Honored, sir.”
    “And these are Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Bassanio.” Each bowed his head as his name was mentioned.
    Iago rose and went to Bassanio, offered his hand. “Then you’re the one we need to speak with.” He led Bassanio to the table as if leading a lady to the dance floor. Over his shoulder, he said, “The rest of you can fuck off now.”
    “Iago!” said Antonio. “These gentlemen are my friends and associates, some of the most promising young merchants in Venice. You can’t keep telling them to fuck off.”
    “Ah,” said Iago, his hand raised delicately to his leather doublet. “I see,” he said, taking dainty dance steps back to the three youths, his eyes averted: the embarrassed maiden aunt. “A thousand pardons, gentlemen. I hope you can forgive me.” He tiptoed around behind them, ever more the tiny dancer, his long sword in its scabbard brushing Lorenzo’s shin as he passed by. He put his arms across their shoulders, and his face between Lorenzo’s and Salarino’s ears, and whispered, “I am a soldier, the son of a stevedore, sent to war when I was much younger than any of you, so my manners may seem coarse to you of the merchant class. I hope you’ll forgive me.” He rolled