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he beautiful Jewess snipped off the tip of his willy.
“What!” said I, somewhat emphatically, when I awoke from my premature burial and submarine mermaid bonking. “Unhand my willy, young woman!”
“Settle down, slave, I just need to snip a bit of the tip off so Papa will let me keep you.”
She was a lovely thing, wild dark hair and blue eyes; strong high cheekbones; and a long, straight nose like the desert princesses adorning the pillaged Egyptian obelisks that stood in the piazzas of Rome. Truly told, I didn’t notice her features at the time, as she was holding the tip of my willy with two fingers of one hand, while in the other brandishing, with great concentration, a butcher knife the size of a rowboat. “He’ll never let me keep a Gentile slave. I’ve seen the mohel do this simply dozens of times. Easy peasy. Now, hold still.”
Lest you think me a cad, let me say I have never struck a woman—except for the playful taps delivered in passion, and relished by ladies of more decadent tastes—but I have never struck a woman with the intent of doing harm (unless you count poisoning as striking, which I don’t really think it is)—but in that moment, a strange tart with a blade trained on my manhood, my years of training and natural instincts as a warrior became my spirit, and drove me to action. In a wink I snatched the nipple of her right breast between my thumb and forefinger and gave it an urgent twist.
“Ouch!” said she, jumping back and cradling the offended orb with her willy-wagging hand. “That hurt. Bad slave! Bad!”
I had retreated to the corner of the cot I’d been lying on and assumed a defensive crouch. “Where am I? How did I get here? Who are you? Why were you about to lop off my knob?”
“I wasn’t. I was just confirming your covenant with God with your foreskin.”
“Look, you mad tart, I have a covenant with God, which is: I don’t mention that he has stocked the world full of villains, walleys, and madwomen, and in return he keeps his bloody hands off my willy. It’s a strained relationship, but it works, with the exception of—” And then I was on my feet, confronting the girl despite her knife. “Say, you’re not the mermaid made human again, are you? I’ve heard the bloody stories.” I grabbed the hem of her skirt and threw it up to reveal her tail.
“Oh,” said I. Having found no tail in evidence, I dropped her skirt and backed away. “Well, even if you’re not a mermaid you should wear knickers about the house. People will think you wanton.”
I was suddenly light-headed and fell back upon the cot, swooning.
“You’re going to make a shit slave, aren’t you?” she said.
“I’m knackered, love. Put away the knife and let a bloke rest. Some toast would be lovely. I’ve had nothing but raw fish for—” I felt my chin. I had more than a bit of a beard. I must have been chained in the dungeon for a fortnight at least.
She seemed to look at me, really, for the first time, and I could see her eyes widen in alarm. She put her knife on a side table, pulled back the covers at the other end of the cot, and nodded. “In you go.”
Even though it was warm in the house, I was shivering, so I did as I was told, and she propped me up on some pillows. “You do look like you could use a meal. I’ll fetch you some bread and cheese—maybe some sweet wine if we have any left. I’m going to have to keep you hidden here in my room until you’re well enough to present to Papa, so you’re going to have to be quiet.”
“Quiet,” I repeated.
“You look like you’ve been in the water for a long time. Were you shipwrecked? Escaped galley slave what went over the side in despair? They wash up now and then, but usually not still breathing.”
I thought it best, at this point, to not reveal that I was ambassador from a kingdom that no longer existed, a former slave to the king of Britain and royal consort to his daughter, late queen of nearly a third of Europe. “I’m a troubadour. Traveling to England. Our ship hit a reef and sank.”
“I didn’t hear of a ship sinking.”
“Well, it was far, wasn’t it. Thus explaining why I was in the water for so bloody long before I washed up—where am I?”
“You’re on the island of La Giudecca, at the home of Shylock the moneylender. I’m Jessica, his daughter.”
“And I’m your father,” said a tower of lint in the corner of the room.
“Holy Flaming Fuck-Moses! What’s that?” You think that you have run out of fear, that you are beyond surprise. As it turns out, no.
It moved.
“Oh, that’s the blind beggar Gobbo,” said Jessica. “He helped me get you up here. Borrowed a chisel and hammer from the smith to break the chains off you.”
I began to make out the shape of a bent old man who was uniform in color from head to toe, where covered by rags and where not, a shade I can only describe as, well, filth.
“I knew I’d find you,” said Gobbo.
“I’d never have rescued you if it hadn’t been for old Gobbo recognizing you as his son and lending a hand.” Jessica raised her eyebrows and nodded for me to go along with it.
“Charmed,” said I. “Didn’t think to intervene during the circumcision, then, Da?”
“What circumcision?”
“Can’t imagine why your son abandoned you,” I said under my breath. Then to Jessica: “Bread and cheese, you said? Wine?”
“I’ll fetch some. You’ll need some salve for those scrapes on your wrists and gouges on your bum, too, or the wounds will fester.”
“Fine, but no touching the willy. I’m grieving and I’ve been used roughly, so I’m in no mood for sport.”
“Fine, we’ll simply have to pass you off as Hebrew, but you’ll have to put on some trousers or something before I show you to Papa. Besides, I want nothing to do with your scrawny willy. I am in love with the most wondrous man called Lorenzo.”
“And a lucky young Jew, indeed, is this Lorenzo.”
“Oh, he’s not a Jew, he’s a Christian. He is a merchant, learning his trade under Signor Antonio, one of Venice’s most prominent traders.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and hugged herself at the thought of her beloved Lorenzo.
“Antonio? Antonio Donnola?”
“Yes, you know him?”
“No. But I know of him.” Had I gone so far, through so much, to end up in the nest of one of my murderers? For surely as far as any of them knew, I was dead.
I feigned a yawn and sat back on the pillows. “Dear Jessica, if I am going to be a proper Jew and slave before your father, I will need to eat and then sleep. But let’s not tell anyone how you came to find me, or that I am here at all. In thanks for my rescue, I will serve you, but as a new Jew, freshly hatched. Agreed?”
“Smashing! Yes, yes, agreed,” she said. “With you to do my chores I’ll be able to sneak away to see Lorenzo more.”
“Lorenzo, especially, must not know how you found me.”
“But it’s so exciting, I simply must—”
“I’ll tell him I woke to find you fondling my naughty bits.”
“Well, fine, then.” She pouted. “What about him?” She tossed her head toward Gobbo.
“Gobbo,” I called.
“What? What?” said the column of rags. “Who’s there? Have you seen my son?”
“He’ll be fine,” said I.
A fever came upon me and I was five days hiding and recovering in Jessica’s bedroom before I was ready to reemerge upon Venice’s stage. When Jessica brought me her hand mirror I scarcely recognized myself and I had little doubt I could pass through the streets of Venice without being recognized, especially as Brabantio had stripped me of my trademark motley and bells. I have always been thin, but now my cheeks were drawn from my time in the dungeon and the fever that followed, and a mossy brown beard shaded my face in wisps. Still, I would need more disguise than time’s wear and tear to move among mine enemies, and I would need Jessica’s help to obtain that.
Jessica sat across the room by the window, preparing some sailcloth sailor’s trousers she had bought for me at the docks.
“Jessica, love,” said I. “You might hold up on the sewing for a tick.”
“Bollocks, they’re a good foot too long. You want to trip and break a leg so you can’t do any chores, don’t you?”
“Not at all,” said I. “I am prepared to be your faithful servant, but before you present me to your father, there’s something you should know. I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
“What, you’re not the deposed King of England, what once shagged a holy woman through a hole in a wall?”
I had shared some of my history with the girl, much of it while in the delirium of fever, but nothing about my previous tenure in Venice. Well, I didn’t know her, did I? A gentleman does not begin a conversation with a young lady he’s just met by saying, “Oh, well, I’ve been having it off with the fish girl while buried alive in the senator’s cellar, and you?”
“No, that bit’s true,” said I. “But I am not, actually, a troubadour who was shipwrecked while on my way to entertain the seventh Earl of Bumsex.”
“You don’t say? That would explain the chains we chiseled off you, then? Why, yes, that makes sense, now, doesn’t it?” She scratched her head and looked out at the sky, as if receiving a revelation from the heavens. As lovely as she was, sarcasm did not wear well on her. Still, she was a bright girl, and in our short time together we had built a bond of petty resentments that usually takes a lifetime to develop. She turned to me then. “Pocket, I am inconsolable in my disappointment.”
“And there are men in Venice who would do me great harm if they knew I was alive.”
“Is it because you’re a shit?”
“I’m not a shit.”
“Then why do they want to do you harm?”
“I have been unfairly judged.”
“Over what have you been unfairly judged?”
