Author's Note

I try to be as historically accurate as I can. Inevitably I'll slip up, and my readers should feel free to correct me. However, when Shakespeare bases something in the original play off an untrue assumption he held about Venice, I'm going to go with that. It's fanfic, after all.

Since it appears Shakespeare didn't know there was a ghetto for Jews in Venice, he had Jessica run away with Lorenzo at night (when it would have been locked). Which presents a dilemma for this author, seeing as Jews couldn't own property outside the ghetto...I must throw up my hands and conclude that Shylock somehow rented a house somewhere.

This chapter has some point-of-view switching. I think I've made the transitions fairly clear.

Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

Chapter 2: The Greatest Sins

Market days are truly delightful. Everyone shoving and cursing at each other. A multitude of feet stretched out to trip me and elbows to jab at me. The fish-heads and discarded bones tossed from the stalls, the hawkers squalling in my face, and the rotten vegetables that occasionally fly through the air. Nothing quite like it to sweeten my mood.

Sarcasm aside, there are a few things I enjoy about buying food. I like squeezing every ducat I can out of the shopkeepers and hearing them mutter about how if everyone were like me, their families would starve. I like cutting in front of people and asking them what they are going to do about it. And I like it when someone falls in a canal or is attacked by pigeons and I can jeer at them.

And I'm taking the opportunity on this trip to do all three.

I have Rosalba with me, to buy proper sewing materials (of which we had almost none) and I can tell she's horribly embarrassed. I do not care, but I do refrain from mocking her when she slips and tears her skirt. Well, mostly.

"Thou hast been rather too neat lately," I inform her as she takes my reluctantly-offered hand and struggles to her feet. "I'm glad to see thee trying to correct that. Do continue."

"I'm sorry. It will not happen again."

I roll my eyes. Everyone tries my patience, and I'm not about to admit that's as much my fault as the world's. "Highly unlikely. This is a market, thou may'st have heard of them. 'Tis difficult to walk, much less stand."

Rosalba ducks her head. I might think I was truly bothering her, but I have noticed 'tis a habit.

"Why dost thou do that?" I ask as we walk to the edge of the market. Not tactful, but tact matters little to me. "Thou never look'st anyone in the face, hardly."

"Does it displease you?"

"I care not. Stare at the ground all thou wish'st. But I cannot see why it appeals to thee."

Rosalba clutches her sewing supplies to her chest. "People think I'm furniture when I'm quiet and do not look at them. I know what happens to girls like me who are noticed."

"Staying silent will not protect thee from harm."

"What good would speaking do, when I am never believed?"

I pause in the street, ready to make some kind of argument — what, or why I am bothering, I know not — when I realize that someone behind me stopped at the same time I did. I glance over my shoulder to see if I recognize anyone. I do not. In fact, no one that I can see is standing still, they are all pinpoint-focused on their destinations or companions.

"What is it?" Rosalba asks.

"'Tis nothing." I gesture her to follow me.

At twenty paces someone jostles me and I drop my basket. Cursing in two of the many languages I know oaths in, I stoop to pick up the contents. And realize, as I grab the last of them, that the same footsteps have stopped. I whip around, and, again, see no one.

That is odd, and it worries me. I have been followed before, and it has never led to any good.

"Master Shylock," Rosalba says quietly to me. "I think there is a man behind us. I saw him disappear around that corner."

I straighten up, gripping my basket. "Walk. Do not run. There are many on the streets between here and home." I keep my voice steady and calm. "Whoever it is can do us no harm." We start off. I ignore my own advice and move a good bit faster than usual. "Did'st thou recognize him?"

"He is no one I know."

If there truly is a man following us, he seems uninterested in drawing nearer, and we arrive back at my house with no mishaps. Once inside, I lock the door and feel somewhat better.

There is sobbing from the kitchen, and Ignazio emerges, looking helpless. "She began to cry when I cleared out the ashes, Rosalba. I did everything thou told'st me to, but she will not sleep again."

I snarl profane words — no doubt instilling confidence in everyone — and stomp up the stairs. And nearly step on Antonio, who's fumbling around near one of my chests. "What are you doing?"

Antonio waves an ancient rag in the air, sending dust everywhere. "Cleaning. I think."

I sneeze violently and glare. "You think wrong, obviously. What's the idea? Dusting?"

"That was the plan." Antonio swipes randomly at the top of one chest. "I'll explode if I have nothing to do, and Ignazio said I could help. He did not mention that you would show up and order me around. Again."

"Did he give you more than one of those?"

"Yes." He grabs another cloth from the floor. "Are you going to show me how 'tis done?"

I snatch the rag from his hand. "You apparently need me to. Do you not even know you must shake the cloth out the window to clear the dust from it?"

Antonio blinks. "Oh. That would make sense."

"Yes, that's what I said when Ignazio told me." I wrench open the window.

"Why do you not keep those open all the time? 'Tis July. Too warm in here."

"I hate sunshine."

"What? Afraid you'll shrivel up like a prune?" Antonio goes over to the window.

"As long as we are speaking of sour grapes, look to yourself. You are positively vinegar already." I run the cloth neatly across the top of the chest. "See, you cannot just wave it in the air and hope the dust disappears on its own."

Antonio returns with a clean rag and imitates the process. He's terrible at it. So was I at first, but I'm not about to tell him so. In fact, I'm about to come up with some insult about how an out-of-water fish is more industrious, when Ignazio comes bounding up.

"Master Shylock, there's a man to see you in the room downstairs. I like him."

"Thou like'st everyone. It would please me more if thou had'st a mortal enemy." I sigh. 'Tis probably Tubal, I should go and be courteous.

Ignazio grabs my abandoned dust-cloth. "Do not worry, Signor Antonio. You do not have to talk if you do not wish. I shall do it all for you." He dissolves into chatter I have no interest in listening to.

The thought of cooking for six instead of four, if Tubal and Naomi come over, pleases me greatly. I determine to remember that and not accidentally insult Tubal. He's not Antonio, and therefore I have no need to set him up like a target at which to shoot arrows. Arrows on fire. I walk into the room.

And nearly fall backwards, completely stunned. Because 'tis not Tubal standing there; 'tis, of all people, Bassanio. And he looks even worse up close. Gaunt-eyed, face twisted with days of fear, mouth pressed tight.

"What are you doing in my house?" I demand. "You and yours are nothing to me."

"Where is he?" Bassanio's voice sounds as bad as the rest of him, quiet and hoarse.

Now I'm puzzled. "Where is who?"

"Antonio. Thou know'st of him."

"What should I know?" I ask warily. "That he's wasting your wife's money at Belmont?"

A look of anguish flickers across Bassanio's face — replaced by fury. "Do not pretend thou dost not know. He's here."

Curse it, curse it by maggot-ridden corpses. How did Bassanio find out? Antonio is an accused criminal and I'm hiding him. If people knew of this, it could mean prison or worse. "Here? Why would he be here? Enemies, bond, pound of flesh, conversion, surely you remember?"

Bassanio's fists clench. "Thou would'st do him harm for that. I cannot think of a man less likely to show him mercy."

"What makes you think he would ask it of me?" I do my best to sound irritated, not half-panicked. "I have not seen a hair of him for months, and I dearly hope it stays that way."

"That's a lie! If thou dost not tell me where—"

"Bassanio?"

"Antonio." Bassanio takes in his friend's appearance at the door to the room, still pale and worn from fear and refusing to eat, and recoils as if he's been slapped. "What has happened to thee?"

"Do not worry for me," Antonio says, low. "I never wanted that."

Fear clenches in my stomach. 'Tis clear enough now that Bassanio has no interest in dragging his former lover up before the Council of Ten. I, however, am another matter.

"Shylock, would you please leave us alone?" Antonio doesn't take his eyes off Bassanio's face.

"What will you tell him?"

"'Tis none of your business. I believe the point of a private conversation is that 'tis private."

"A one-way trip to the gallows is my business," I snap. "And if you tell him I gave you your scars, that's exactly where I'll end up."

Antonio whips around and glares at me. "Do you jest? Do you find me that ungrateful? They can try and hang you. They'll have to get past me first. Now, will you go away?"

I choose not to dignify that with a reply, and slam the door on the way out.

Antonio

I'm completely astonished that Bassanio is here, and more astonished at my feelings over it. Half of me wants to embrace him, and the other half cringes at the very idea. I find my voice. "I do not understand. How did'st thou know where to look for me?"

"I have been searching since two weeks after thou left Belmont. I—"

"But that was more than a month ago!" I interrupt, shocked. "Thou hast kept it up for so long?"

"What else could I do?" Bassanio looks ready to reach for me, but aborts the gesture. I'm part disappointed, part grateful. "Ever since I lied about what we had done, I have longed to take it back. I came to Venice to put things to rights, if I could. As much as is possible."

"Dost thou mean I have nothing to fear, now?" I ask, fairly sure I'm misunderstanding. "They will not send me to prison? Will not—"

Bassanio looks ill. "By heaven, they will not. I never charged thee for anything before the law. And I told our friends the truth. They have been looking as well."

"But how didst thou know where to find me?"

"There was a priest — Brother Rafaele, I think his name was. He mentioned Shylock had a man in his house called Antonio." Bassanio shakes his head. "He seemed to think Shylock was giving thee charity."

"Thou did'st not tell him otherwise?" I cut in, upset.

"Of course I did. He doubted the truth of what I said. He must have been deceived somehow."

"No. Thou dost not understand. He has—" I stop. How am I supposed to explain this to Bassanio? He knows nothing of what has passed between us since the trial. I wonder if he will think my mind addled. "Bassanio, I will tell all, but thou must think no more of hurting Shylock. He has done naught to deserve it."

"Then how is it thou art practically a skeleton? I have never seen thee look worse."

I have never spoken, truly, of what happened to me, of why I have nightmares and half-starve myself. It was the doctor who told Shylock, and none besides them know. "My first night back — I knew I had to leave Venice soon, but I could not think where else to go, so I returned to my house. That night, two men broke in. I did not hear them until they—" I stop. How can I speak of this?

"What did they do?" Bassanio asks quietly. "Were they there to rob thee?"

I laugh, and it sounds unnaturally loud. "They were thieves, yes. They stole my health, my dignity, and my sanity in the space of about ten minutes."

"Antonio, art thou sick? Is that why thou art talking so? How can any man steal—"

"Thou dost not know, and I pray thou never will." I cannot tell the whole story, not to Bassanio. He thinks of me as a man who stood strong, who loved him, who would not falter even on the delivery of the bond. And I would prefer that it stay that way. I have no wish to inspire horror, or worse, pity, in him.

"Do not spare me. What happened? It punishes me to hear of thy pain."

"There is little to say of my pain. They dragged me out of the house and beat me." Bassanio goes white and I hasten. "Shylock and the doctor, they brought remedies to me. I recovered."

"I do not think thou understand'st. Thou hast nothing to fear from Shylock now, he cannot hurt thee. There is no need to defend him."

"Yes, there is. I have taken refuge under his roof, screamed insults and curses in his face, coughed up blood and fainted and put everyone in danger by being here. And yet he's kept me safe and demanded nothing in return."

"I understand none of this. Why would Shylock do any of that?"

"I have no idea and if he's to be believed, neither does he." I look at Bassanio. "Am I truly free to leave? Thou wilt not call the law down on me?"

"I never thought of such a thing, I promise. And if I can help...my guess is thou want'st nothing from me now, but if there's anything I can do, please tell me."

"What I want is for thee to go back to Portia," I tell him, pain making my chest hurt. I'm losing Bassanio again, and there's a part of me that longs for him to stay here in Venice. But the truth is, verily, that he lost me first. I can never truly trust him again.

I do not know if I can truly trust anyone. Not after what's happened.

"Go home to Portia. Tell her I'm sorry we caused her pain. And be happy, if thou can'st. Do not think about the time when we loved each other. It profits neither of us."

Bassanio swallows, then clears his throat. "'Tis true. We seem to have caused more grief than joy. Gratiano and I will go back to Belmont, as thou say'st. Wilt thou—?"

"I'll go back to my house. Eventually." The thought sickens me. I never want to walk through that door again, not after what was done to me beyond it. "Do Lorenzo and Jessica still keep their house here in Venice?"

"They do, and Lorenzo's been helping us search for thee."

"Would they allow me to stay for a time, dost thou think?"

"I should think so. I will show thee where to go, if thou wish'st, now."

Now? I'm suddenly ready to collapse in terror. Leave the house? Walk the streets again? All I can seem to remember about the world outside is a haze of pain and immobilizing panic. None of the joy my reason is telling me it once held. I do not want to go.

But I have to.

I take a breath to steady myself. "Come, wait in the hall. I'm going to talk to them." What I'll say I have no idea, but I must. "It will not be long." I walk ahead of him out of the room, and push open the kitchen door, where Ignazio is scrubbing a pot and Shylock is glaring at the wall.

"He told me 'tis safe," I say after a moment. "I was never charged under the law."

Ignazio peers over the rim of the pot. "You are leaving, then, are you not?" He waits for no reply. "'Tis a pity. Master Shylock will miss you."

"Be quiet or I'll drown thee in the canal," Shylock orders without looking at him. Nor at me.

The threat has as much effect on Ignazio as usual, which is to say, none at all. "I hope your friend is sorry for not helping you before. Do not forget to eat, or we'll drag you back here. Of course, Master Shylock's cooking has probably spoiled you, but no help for that."

"The canal is very deep," Shylock informs him, eyes still trained on some invisible crack in the wall. "And I know many places I could hide thy body. So shut thy mouth."

I look at Ignazio. "My thanks. For the help thou hast given."

"Thank me not." Ignazio points at Shylock. "Thank him."

What, by all the saints, am I supposed to say? I have no idea, but I must speak. Shylock deserves more than to have me walk out without a word.

"You have given me more than I can ever repay," I mutter eventually.

"I never asked for your payment," Shylock hisses through gritted teeth. "Go live among the Christians. See if they are better than we sinners."

"I doubt you'll take this as a compliment, but you are a better Christian than most. You might curse priests and celebrate heathen rituals but you saved my life even though you hate me." I pause. "If anyone tries to hurt you — more than they already have, that is — I'll help you, if I can. You have only to ask." Before he can snarl at me again, I turn and walk out of the kitchen.

Bassanio is by the door. Instead of waiting until I'm ready, for I know I never will be, I push it open and walk outside.

Light. Streets. People. It all frightens the breath half out of me and I claw for the house wall. Just the sun, I tell myself. Just a street. Just men and women going about their business. No one will hurt you, not here, not now, they have no reason for it. I do not believe any of this, but I cannot hide forever.

"Art thou well?" Bassanio asks cautiously.

"Not exactly, but I will be." I must be. "Show me the way."

OoOoO

I'm staring at the wall again.

'Tis amusing, in a hellish sort of way. I spent two months in Shylock's house wishing I could leave. Wishing I did not have to sit up there in that room with the quiet gnawing at my ears. Wishing that when I did venture out, Ignazio would take his babble elsewhere. Wishing I could get away from Shylock and his sarcasm and his impiety.

Now I have left, and there is no more danger, and nothing to keep me from doing what I please. But I'm doing very little, and I cannot but recall my own words from that day on the Rialto, when Bassanio came to tell me of Portia.

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me; you say it wearies you, but how I caught it, found it, or came by it, what stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.

Lorenzo and Jessica were glad to have me to stay, and everyone is kind, and obliging, and instead of being properly grateful to them, I find myself wondering if they care. Because they do not kick their way into my room, or constantly try to prove me wrong, or insult me...Why do I feel so drained when I do not have Shylock to argue with?

"Signor Antonio? Are you alright?" I look around to see Jessica standing in the doorway, brow wrinkled. "You have been there so long. Is there anything I can do to help?"

I'm about to make some excuse about being tired when I realize I do wish to speak to her, though not about my own condition. "You might sit with me awhile."

Jessica pulls up a chair next to me. "I'm glad to. I would help you, but I must confess I know not how."

"I appreciate it, but do not worry for me." There is probably need to be worried, but I can think of no remedy she could give. "I'm pleased you seem to be so happy."

She beams. "Lorenzo is the best husband a woman could wish for."

"I expected no less of him." A thought occurs to me. "Do his friends treat you well?"

"Of course." But she looks away.

"As much as it would grieve me to know if they did not, it would not surprise me. And if that is so, perhaps you should speak to Lorenzo of it."

Jessica shakes her head. "'Tis nothing like that. They mean no harm. But some have developed a joke where they ask Lorenzo why he does not serve pork at table. He laughs them off, but it humiliates me, for the truth is, I am not sure how well I could stomach it."

"That seems thoughtless to me, that they should talk so."

"Perhaps it is. But not all are like that. And I am growing to be friends with some of their wives." She smiles. "When they learned I had no mother, they were quick to be kind. Mayhap you know not — my mother died when I was young."

"I did know. In fact, I was wondering..." I trail off.

"What were you wondering?"

Where do I begin? I have told no one of what happened in that house, no one but Bassanio even knows where I was. Few know why I left Belmont, I doubt Lorenzo does, and Jessica certainly does not. And mostly I prefer it that way, but I cannot ask her my question without explanation. "I stayed with your father when I came back to Venice."

"What?" She laughs nervously. "I thought you said you stayed with my father."

"I did." I half-smile. "It sounds insane, I know."

"When you came, you — you looked sick. My father did not—"

"No, he did nothing to me," I hasten to say. "In truth, he gave me aid. I was in danger and he — I don't pretend to understand it. Especially since we barely left off insulting each other, and our choice of friends, and our religions, and who let the water boil over..." I shake my head.

"He helped you?"

"I would be dead if not for him," I say honestly. "More than once."

I see hope amidst the confusion on her face. "He's repented, then? Of his sins? I find it difficult to face Lorenzo's friends at times, you see. They still look at me and see a Jew's daughter. But if my father was truly sorry, I would not care what they thought of him."

"I know not his thoughts. Only his actions." I pause. "I suppose I wished to know him better, by asking you. We rarely spoke of ourselves, but I confess myself curious about his family. About your life, before you left."

Jessica frowns. "There is little to tell. A husband without a wife, a girl without a mother, neither knowing how to get along without her? Many a man or woman could tell you that story."

"But I do not know his, or yours. If speaking of your childhood causes you pain, of course you must not. I should like to hear, though."

"I suppose..." She tilts her head to one side. "In truth, I hardly remember my mother. My father's friends say he cared for her, deeply, but I find it hard to imagine him feeling for anyone what Lorenzo and I feel for each other. He seemed to think showing love made you weak." Jessica stops a moment, then goes on. "Perhaps that was why I left. Not just because he showed me no affection, but because I had no one to show affection to. Anything I did, he was suspicious of, as if he believed people only did things for what they could personally gain."

"He said he loved you, and your mother." I do not mean to say this, but it falls out of my mouth regardless. "I only wish he had said it to you."

"Why would he tell you such a thing?"

"I asked. Rudely, as it happens. I was trying to provoke him. Later, he told me she died of a tumor."

Jessica nodded. "That is what they say. I, too, wish he would tell me that he loved me. Mayhap then I would not..."

"Would not what?" I prompt when she does not go on.

"I love Lorenzo, and I know he cares for me as well. I do know that, but every time I begin to feel comfortable, I ask myself how anyone could truly love me, if my own father could not."

Unsurprisingly, as it is a frequent state, I find myself angry at Shylock. "You must not think that. If he failed to show you kindness, that was his fault. You are not to blame."

"'Tis good of you to say so." Jessica exhales. "But I tell myself that over and over again, and it does not help. When I was a girl, I used to wish I would stop growing, for it seemed that the older I got, the more spiteful my father became. Though I know now it was not me he resented. We lived outside the ghetto, you know, and I think that made it easier for the debtors to hurt him."

"Were you ever afraid for yourself? That the debtors would hurt you?" I stop. "I am sorry. I should not have asked."

For a moment, Jessica's face twists in pain. "I...I remember the exact day I decided I would marry Lorenzo. He brought me token after token and swore vow after vow, swore to protect me as my father never had. I grew angry with him over that, and said my father could shield me just as well. So I went to him and asked what would happen if a man were to beat me. I wanted him to say he would come and rescue me, but..." She trails off.

"But what?"

"He said if only one man came to beat me, I should run and scream, and he told me the places to hit or kick him if he grabbed me. But he said if there were many, I should just do as they told me. Give them my money or whatever they wanted and pray they would not hit me. If they knocked me down, he said, I should curl up and cover my head and never cry out and give them the satisfaction." She closes her eyes briefly. "Even he did not think he could protect me. The next day I told Lorenzo I would marry him."

My first reaction is fury at Shylock for frightening his daughter so. He should have — then I hesitate, for I realize I do not know what Shylock should have done. Locked his daughter in the house and hid the key? She would go mad with loneliness, and even then thieves might break in. Never let her out of his sight? That was hardly feasible, when he had a profession to practice. Frightened away all men who might hurt her? Unless they owed him money, they would never fear him. Revenge any pain she might have, to show others they should leave her alone? He would end up in prison and she would be on the streets.

Jessica tilts her head to one side. "I suppose he might have considered it love to keep the windows shut as he did, and rarely let me out, that I might not experience what he did. But it just made me more eager to get away."

"You said, earlier, that he became more spiteful," I say cautiously. "Was he not always so?"

"He always scared me when he was angry, which he often was, but — when I was a young girl, we would play. I would hide, and he would seek me out, and we would feed the pigeons." She smiles briefly. "He would even help me up and soothe me when I fell and cried. Of course, later I would never cry in front of him."

"He's odd, now," I say slowly. "I was sick, for much of the time I stayed with him. He insulted me so often and so much that I hardly noticed, at first, that he was giving me help. 'Tis as if he can only care for someone if he does not call it that."

Jessica stares at me. "You think he cared for you, then?"

I start, realizing that my own words had seemed to imply as much. "No, of course not. I know not why he did as he did, but I am sure it was not from any attachment to me."

"Has he — has he learned to be Christian?"

"Well, he attends church every Sunday. And sometimes stays to talk to the priest who instructs him."

"Then I suppose...I thought for awhile I could not afford to even speak to him, for it would shame me. Now I wonder...I know not why I even think on him. He would not see me."

I question that, in my mind. But I say nothing. The last thing I want is to cause Jessica more pain, if what Shylock said to me was untrue, or if he has changed his mind.

Jessica rises. "I must see to dinner. If there is aught I can do, I hope you will let me know." She stops a moment, then goes on. "I thank you for telling me of my father. I know not what to think of it, but I thank you." She leaves the room.

What am I to think? I believed once that I was a pious man. At the very least, I repented of and confessed my sins, and did my best to help those in need. Those are the greatest good deeds, I thought, the most important ones. But it is growing to seem that the small vices do more harm than the greatest virtues do good. Before, I would have given little thought to a joke about pork in the house of a former Jew. I would have doubted that a foot meant to trip a moneylender was important. I would have been sure that a simple religious conversion could solve everything. And if there was aught wrong with those opinions, well, I had virtues enough to make up for them.

Shylock's sins are great. He committed usury, once thought to cut out a Christian's heart, and ranted more about the jewels his daughter stole than about Jessica herself. But I cannot forget what is small, either. The money he gave Ignazio for his wedding. The laughter he shared with his friend Tubal. Holding Rosalba's baby, however crossly. Opening his door to me.

I understand none of it.

Author's Note

Disclaimer: I have absolutely nothing against Antonio/Bassanio as a pairing, and often read it myself. The fact that Usurer's Mercy, and subsequently Friday Night Candles, put a rather unhealthy spin on their relationship does not change this. But said unhealthy spin means there will not be that variety of slash in this. (Folks shouldn't have trouble finding any if they so wish, it's all over the fandom, though the fandom is admittedly rather small).