Author's Note

In addition to some point-of-view changing, there is also a time-jump in this chapter. I've tried to make all this as clear as possible.

I am no expert on Renaissance Italian names or naming customs, but if anyone wants to know my rationale for the non-canon characters, they can PM me.

The Merchant of Venice quotes in this chapter are from Act I, Scene III, and Act III, Scene III, respectively.

Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

Chapter 3: Food and Prayer

Shylock

Fortune is a double-crossing whore. I spent years walking the Rialto resenting the badge I was forced to wear to identify me as a Jew. Now here I am, walking through the ghetto to dine at Tubal's house, passing those of my former faith, and I'm shamed by its absence. That seems to brand me, to proclaim to the city that I gave in to the Christians, that I cared more for my own life than for my God.

I know not if people are truly staring at me or if 'tis my imagination. It could easily be the latter. 'Tis not out of the question for Jews and Christians to dine together, for people of either religion can sometimes be persuaded to choke down the other's food when business calls for it. But I never shared meals with those I lent money to — I did wish to keep kosher, but just as much I needed to feel there was something they could not make me do.

"I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following, but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you."

So much I said to Bassanio, that day we agreed to the bond. But now I have taken food and drink with Ignazio and Antonio and Rosalba, Christians all, and I must at least pretend to pray in church. I hate myself and the world in equal measure, for making a liar of me. And I can never again feel entirely comfortable at a Jewish table.

I knock on Tubal's door, and in a minute or two Naomi opens it. "Come in, Shylock. I'm so glad you are here."

"It was good of you to ask me. If you had not, I might very well have forgotten that polite behavior existed."

"Do you lack courteous company so very much?"

"My company these days consists of a servant who has nothing worthy to say and says it anyway, his wife who constantly stares at the floor, a fretting baby, and a priest who keeps trying to save my soul. You and Tubal are my only hope."

Naomi laughs, leading me to the room where the food is laid out. "Well, we are glad to be of help."

I know Tubal's children by sight, from before we drifted apart. His eldest was married not long ago, but the next two are here. They are regarding me warily, which shows good sense on their part. Naomi goes to arrange the wine cups. "David, Rachele, greet Signor Shylock."

There are a good few moments of silence before the girl — Rachele — speaks. "You are welcome here, Signor. I hope you — I mean, we do not have..." She trails off. The boy, David, opens his mouth and then closes it.

"I do not know what is taking Tubal so long." Naomi's brow furrows. "When I left the study, he promised he would come down shortly. If you consent, I will go see if there is trouble." She vanishes, and I am left alone with two children, who have most likely heard all the true rumors about my bloodlust and a great many false ones besides.

Rachele glances at her brother, who folds his arms. "This is foolish."

"Thou said thou would'st ask." She raises her eyebrows. "Art thou afeard?"

"No one scares me," he retorts. I frown in confusion.

"Well, art thou going to prove it, or not?"

"Fine!" David glares, then turns to me. "Did Father really throw perfumed eggs at Signora Calvo once?"

I stare at him, the question completely unexpected. "What?"

"See?" David elbows Rachele. "'Tis just a tale. Father's too dignified to do anything like that. Thou owe'st me thy slice of sugar cake, the next time Mother makes it. A wager's a wager."

"I hope thou drop'st it in a puddle," Rachele grumbles.

Despite the surprise, a half-smile tugs at my mouth. "If thou hadst a wager on it, it is thee who must forfeit, David. Thy father threw several perfumed eggs at Signora Calvo, before he knew thy mother. I fear he ruined one of her best skirts, and she never forgave him for it."

Rachele grins. "I do love sugar cake."

"Why did I ever agree to this?" David groans.

"Oh, do not sulk," Rachele orders him. "Think about it. Father might understand now if thou throw'st eggs at Signora Calvo's daughter."

David turns bright red. "I — I just said she was pretty! Everyone knows that, 'tis not just me. Her eyes are brown and her hair is green — I mean her eyes are green and her hair is..." He looks helpless as Rachele starts to laugh. Though I sympathize with him a bit, I almost cannot help but join her.

The door opens again, and Tubal comes through with Naomi. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting. 'Tis only—" He glances between the three of us. "Have I missed something?"

His son covers his face in embarrassment as his daughter clutches a hand to her mouth to smother the giggles. I cover up my own near-laugh with a great deal of fake coughing, which arouses an offer of water from Naomi.

An outsider would no doubt say our meal passes pleasantly enough. But I find it marred, not so much with discomfort at our religious difference as with jealousy. Though I would be loathe to admit it, I desperately wish I could have had such a family. And I'm not such a fool as to entirely blame my lack of it on Leah's death, though that was no help.

The people sitting at this table are not afraid to show love for each other, through word or deed, and thence, I think, lies the difference. I may be capable of love, but the idea of expressing it seems as foreign as the lands to the East, and as far away as the moon.

Antonio

The door is locked. I checked it three times. I know 'tis locked. But I have to put a chair in front of it before I can relax. A ritual that is becoming increasingly familiar.

Being back in my old house has done me little good so far. I avoid my bedroom like the plague. In truth, I sleep on the floor with a blanket, as I did in Shylock's house. It feels safer, which is ridiculous. And I'm not eating much.

I think of Bassanio far more than is probably good for me. I wonder if he and Portia have reconciled. They will at least pretend to, I am sure, to the outside world. And she might forgive him, if she can only see how much he adores her. Anyone who thinks 'tis impossible to love two people at once has never met Bassanio. I know it frightened him to think of letting either of us go, and I did not mind being occasionally put aside for Portia. But Portia has her own mind and will, and I doubt she would consent to be abandoned, even temporarily, so that her husband would not have to decide between us.

At the moment, instead of staring at the wall, I am staring at the accounting ledgers stacked in my study. Those who carried my merchandise to Venice have long ago found other work, and those who bought from me have long ago found others to supply them. I have enough money to live on for awhile, but I must begin rebuilding my finances. Frankly, having that task is a relief. If it were not necessary, I fear I would do nothing at all.

I hear strange footsteps nearing my door and try to keep myself calm. I wrote a few days ago to an old friend of mine, whose knowledge of the market I trust. No doubt that is he, come here today to inform me of what has happened in the two months I was gone. Which means I must pull myself together and play the host — and start by getting that chair out from in front of the door.

My hands are shaking, but I brace myself and open the door at the knock. 'Tis my friend, as I expected, but to my surprise, he's not alone. Two others are with him, a man I vaguely recognize but whose name I know not, and another who must be his son, so alike do they look.

I order myself not to show fear at the sight of strangers, and smile at my friend instead. "Vicenzo, I'm grateful you have come. It has been too long." I stand aside to let them in.

"I'm just relieved you are recovering." Vicenzo looks at me, clearly concerned. "When a man is sick for so long, most despair of him, and you still do not appear entirely well."

"The sickness has left me weaker, but it itself is gone," I reassure him. I'll just have to get used to half-truths when it comes to my condition. "Will you make your friends known to me?"

"Of course." He indicates the older, slightly familiar man. "This is Signor Marino, and this, his son, Signor Facio."

"We do not mean to intrude," Marino says, "but when Vicenzo mentioned he was to meet with you, I asked to come along. He and I..." He stops and glances at Vicenzo. "But he will speak of it, no doubt."

"And you will be glad when he does," Facio says cheerfully.

Soon the four of us are seated with cups of wine, and I look at Vicenzo. "Now, you must tell me what has happened on the Rialto, and how I may continue my business. There is no need to hold your tongue in the presence of your friends. Speak the truth of it, even if my prospects are poor."

Vicenzo sighs. "I wish I had better news for you, my friend. But though the market is good, I fear you will have difficulty. 'Tis not only your sickness, 'tis that you told no one when you departed to recover. Some lost money when they did not get what you had promised, and they were less than pleased."

I tap my fingers on the side of my cup. Wine is not nearly as pleasant to me on an empty stomach. "My reputation was already called into question when I lost so many ships eight months ago." At the time I had been so worried about having my heart cut out that I had not given much thought to my good repute.

Marino nods. "But if I recall correctly, you received news not long after that some of your ventures had paid off?"

"Yes, but I fear that both these failures, so close together, will go hard with me." Now is not the time to be thinking of how hungry I am, especially since I am fairly sure that if I had food before me, I could not eat it.

"No need to be saddened, for you will soon see improvement." Facio beams. "My father and Signor Vicenzo have an idea that cannot fail."

Marino gives his son a fond-but-exasperated look. "To which he is not obliged to agree."

"Now you have made me curious." I smile at Vicenzo. "Is this another of your experiments? They have paid off well enough in the past."

Vicenzo sits forward. "Some of those who buy from me have recently become interested in Venetian glass. I should not like to lose their business to other merchants, but I am not so well acquainted with that market. I recalled that you had traded there often, but of course I knew not how to find you."

"You wish for advice? That I am glad to give."

"I wished to partner with you, as it happens. The problems encountered before were none of your fault — in fact, your sense in such matters has always been sound." Vicenzo glances at his companions.

Marino opens his mouth, but Facio jumps in. "You must agree! There is nothing like this plan, nothing."

His father clears his throat pointedly. "I had a mind to finance this venture, provided Vicenzo found a partner who knew something of the business. What think you of it?"

The idea excites me immediately — I have as much pride as any Venetian in the glass we create here — but I will not gain by being hasty. "I'm glad to offer any assistance, but I must consider carefully whether to partner with you or not."

"I think the better of you for it," Marino replies.

"'Tis an excellent venture," Facio says confidently. "It shall turn a great profit. You will agree to it, I'm sure."

We speak at some length before Marino and his son bid us farewell, using the evening meal as their excuse. When they are gone, I turn to Vicenzo. "I do not know Signor Marino as well as you. What conditions is he likely to lay down, if he finances this?"

"Only reasonable ones," Vicenzo reassures me. "But I would advise you — do not mention the bond you had with the Jew."

"I am hardly likely to. Risking my life for a loan was foolish, no matter how sure I was I could pay."

"No, that is not the reason. I heard him once compare moneylenders to diseased and dying rats, and say those who deal with them are little better. You did not make a habit of consorting with Jews of any kind, so I would not worry overmuch. But bringing it to his attention before he grows to know you well would be a poor idea."

"Then I shall keep silent over it." I take another sip of wine and try not to make a face. "I did not like to ask while he was here, but — why did Signor Facio come along?"

Vicenzo laughs and shakes his head. "Marino is tutoring him in how to conduct business. He means to give him money of his own, so he may try his hand at something small before he is trusted with matters of more import. From what I can tell, the only lesson the lad has learned so far is to praise his own ventures beyond what they can possibly deliver."

I chuckle. "I was like that once. Any trade excursion I dealt in was sure to pay off, no matter if those wiser than me had tried the same strategies many times to no avail. But with luck, he can weather any losses with that cheerful disposition."

"I only hope you are right." Vicenzo suddenly frowns. "I know Facio well, and though he's kind, he does not react well to disappointment. He has lost friends, I fear, over naught but a game of dice, for he will strike them if he loses too much money."

"All young men have their faults. No doubt he will learn." Now I'm truly hungry. Now is not the time to be thinking of Shylock's cooking. Actually, there is never a good time to be thinking of Shylock's cooking. "How does your wife do? And your children?"

"Very well." Vicenzo positively grins. "My eldest son has begun to swoon over the girls he sees at church. Every week brings a new heartache, depending on whether his current love has favored him with a glance. In my opinion, he is too young to be thinking of such things, but my wife says I was probably little better at his age."

I think, briefly, that Vicenzo's son is lucky. That age brought only confusion and panic for me, when I realized my desire lay with men, not women, and the sin that was. "You must commend me to your family, all of them."

"I will indeed. Shall I call on you soon, to hear your mind on this venture?"

"Please do."

The moment Vicenzo is out the door, I shove the chair back against it, and consider eating something. Instead I fetch my Bible and try to pray.

It does not work, though, and I should have anticipated that. I have perused the Bible frequently these days, searching for the comfort it once gave me. But the more I read, the more it seems the scribes who recorded the word of God cannot decide if He intends to punish us or forgive us. One verse insists that we should demand an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, another proclaims we should love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us.

If it were not the Holy Word, but an ordinary book, I should be inclined to believe the author's mind was as addled as Ignazio's. Verily, I should even wonder if that was fair to Ignazio. However, it is the Holy Word, and I am not sure how I should go about obeying it. As such, I gain only confusion, when what I hoped for was guidance. Rest.

Shabbat.

No. I'm not going to think about that. I should not be looking to a Jewish ritual to bring me peace, especially when celebrated by a man who's supposed to be Christian. Whom I forced to convert to Christianity, and flattered myself by imagining I had saved his soul. Unfortunately, it seems fairly obvious now that I did it out of spite.

I know not why merely lighting candles, hearing Shylock speak words I do not understand, and eating bread — challah — made me feel safe again for a few short minutes. If we were to do it again, perhaps I might be able to solve that puzzle. But we never will. The best I can hope for is to pass Shylock in the street.

And why does that not seem like enough anymore?

Three Months Later

Shylock

"A tavern brawl."

Ignazio winces as Rosalba washes the blood off his face. "Yes, Master Shylock. But a very small one."

I take stock of his injuries — split lip, black eye, lump the size of an egg on his forehead, and a nose that appears to be broken. "Pray thee, how many people were involved in this 'small' tavern brawl?"

"Well, there were the three men I was drinking with, and then one of them had two friends, and then the man whose ale I spilled by accident, and then the tavern-keeper's wife who threw me out into the street. There were a few others, but they do not matter because they did not actually hit me."

"Thou art calling that small? Was thy mother a fool, that she did not teach thee to count past three?"

Rosalba's face is twisted with worry. "Thou could'st have been badly hurt, Ignazio. Why didst thou not leave when it began?"

"I, well..." Ignazio stares at the floor. "I began it."

"Thou began it?" I stare. "What insult would make thee take offense?" The only response my own jibes seem to get from the man is a wider smile.

Ignazio tries to wave a hand casually, but 'tis made rather harder by his split knuckles. "It matters not." He glances at Rosalba, who is wringing out the cloth she was using and does not see. "But a trifle."

I'm about to demand a complete explanation when there is a knock at the door. "Shall I answer that?" Rosalba asks.

"Continue to tend thy husband. I shall see who 'tis." I leave the kitchen, go to the door, and open it.

An unknown man stands there, distress plain on his face. "Are you Signor Shylock?"

"I am. What would you have with me?"

"I have a message from my master, Signor Tubal. He and his wife entreat you to come to his house the moment you can. They are in need of help. I know not what has frightened them so, but—"

"Fear not, I will come." Turning, I walk back to the kitchen. "I must go out. If anyone else comes for me, send them away." I do not wait to see my servants' response before I stride from the house, the messenger following in my wake.

Though I question the messenger repeatedly, he has no further information, leaving my imagination to run wild. What would scare Tubal and Naomi that they would attempt to conceal from their servants? Some scandal? They are hardly the sort to become involved in anything illegal. And though 'tis true we are more friendly now, why would they trust me? I have never been known to bring health and joy to anyone's doorstep.

Finally we arrive, and the messenger shows me in. I grow even more alarmed when I see them. Tubal is pacing, his jaw clenched, and Naomi has tears dripping down her face. "What has happened?" I demand.

Tubal stops, gripping the table. "Shylock, I helped you search for your daughter once. Help me search for mine."

"Rachele? She has run off to be married to a Christian?" The girl can hardly be more than twelve.

"I only wish she had!" Naomi wipes her eyes.

"Then what is it?"

"A man came to me two months ago for a loan." Tubal is obviously trying to stay calm, but he's doing a poor job of it. "He was to pay me ten days ago, our bond says it clearly. Though he is young, his father has money to spare, so I did not suspect any trouble."

"And certainly nothing like this," Naomi says. "We have dealt with reluctant debtors before, but..."

"When he put me off over the debt, I made inquiry," Tubal continues. "His father cannot stand Jews, much less moneylenders, and is unlikely to provide anything. When I found it out, I told the young man I would take him before a court if he did not pay me soon."

"And now you wish for my help finding your—" I stop, horrified. "What has he done to your daughter?"

"We know not." Naomi swallows, trying to control herself. "She walked two streets away to visit a friend yesterday and did not come back. This day the debtor sent a man here to threaten us over her."

"I have offered to recant the bond," Tubal says. "But he has not yet replied, and what he may be doing to her now..." He stops, then continues. "I would call up the law on him, but I fear I would not be believed, and that he would hurt her if he knew of it."

My hands curl into fists. This must be a nightmare from hell for them. And yet I feel utterly helpless. "But what can I do? Whoever this man is, I am sure I have no hold over him."

"You are a Christian," Tubal says. "Verily, we have no plan. But whatever little you can do, it is more than we can."

So that is why they called me. If 'tis possible, I feel more trapped than before. Christians with power plague me worse than carrion flies, and the fact that anyone might consider me one never occurred to me. And as a result, I know not how to think like a Christian with power. A little water and the words of a droning priest cannot reverse the way my mind has worked for years.

"This man would laugh at me," I admit. "No matter my faith, I'm not trustworthy. I have made enemies of everyone who might help you—" I halt abruptly, remembering words spoken in my kitchen three months ago.

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.

No. I would breathe smoke in hell for a thousand years before I would ask Antonio for anything. Consent to be in his debt? The thought almost makes me sick on the spot.

"I would do anything," Naomi whispers. "No matter how small the chance was. I need her back."

Do I not owe it to them to at least ask? I cannot be sure he'll say no until he says it.

No. I will not go crawling to that man's doorstep, not for anything. The world can go up in flames all around me before I shame myself like that.

Rachele is a girl, an almost-certainly-petrified girl in the hands of a desperate debtor. Does my pride truly matter?

"I might try — I doubt it will work. I do not wish to raise any hopes. But I can think of nothing else."

"Try what?" Tubal asks.

"Do not ask me. I will do nothing to increase Rachele's danger, or yours. But to tell it would ruin my courage, I fear."

"Then I will not ask."

A thought occurs to me. "I must carry your bond. Will you fetch it for me?" I know perfectly well that my word alone will never be enough. Tubal nods and leaves the room.

No sooner has he gone than David bursts in. "Mother, why do you not tell me where Rachele is? Why do you not let me leave the house?"

"Thy sister will be home soon." Naomi is clearly trying to convince herself as much as he. "But thou must stay safe until then."

"If anyone has hurt her, I will kill them, I—"

"Be quiet," his mother orders. "Thou must never speak so. I have no wish to lose thee too."

Tubal comes back with the bond and hands it to me, then lowers his voice so David cannot hear. "If you can bring him to accept money, do not spare it."

"I will do what can be done, I promise." I glance at Naomi's tear-stained face and suddenly cannot stand to be in that room one minute longer. Gripping the bond as if 'tis a key to the city, I let my feet carry me out the door.

I force myself to walk swiftly, out of the ghetto, through the streets, but the farther I go the more ridiculous my chosen strategy seems. There is no reason to believe that Antonio's words were spoken in anything but carelessness. And besides, any claim I make will be suspected as just another extension of my own viciousness.

Guilt hits me hard, then. I do not regret my hatred; much of the world richly deserves it, in my view. But when enacting my revenge, I did exactly what they expected of me. Jews lust after Christian blood, they said. Jews have not a dram of mercy in their cold hearts, they said. Jews are dogs, they said. For Tubal and Naomi, for David and Rachele and so many others, those words are so untrue 'tis laughable. But for me?

If ever a man lusted after Christian blood, I did. If ever a man had a heart hardened to pleas, I did. And as for being a dog — I had said I was one myself, the day I called up the jailer. "Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause. But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs."

I had become what they said I was. Now, Jews who were good people were depending on me to be their advocate. And I fervently wish I had never tried to take revenge, not for my own sake or the sake of my enemies, but for that of an innocent girl and her family. But I cannot change what I have done.

Suddenly Antonio's door is looming in my face. I know if I stop and think about what I'm doing, I'll just run away. So I do not think. I shove all thought aside and knock.

The seconds I wait feel like minutes. I shift from foot to foot as my courage drains away. Then the door creaks open, and a servant stands there. "Greetings, Signor. Are you here to see Master Antonio?" He suddenly frowns. "Pardon me, but you do not look well."

"I'm not," I say shortly. "Is thy master here?"

"He is meeting with his partner about their business." Reestablished himself already. I would be irritated, were I not so busy being afraid. "I fear they cannot be disturbed now, but if you do not mind waiting—"

"No need to wait," a strange voice calls from inside. "Our work is done." A fashionably-dressed man with a bit of grey in his hair appears, holding what look to be contracts, and speaks over his shoulder. "My friend, you have another guest."

"I'm glad to — Shylock? Why are you here?"

Antonio emerges from what appears to be a study. He appears slightly less tired, but the low-level terror has not gone from his eyes, and he's still unnaturally thin. I kick myself for even noticing, much less caring. And he looks as if I have grown two heads. "Are you mad? What are you doing in my house?"

It truly was madness to even try this. "Wasting my time, apparently. Thank you for your many courtesies." I glare at the man with the contracts. "May you have better profit than I from your dealings with him." And with my one plan abruptly crushed, 'tis as if I'm back at the night I found Jessica gone. My head spinning in terror, my mind providing images of every horror a man might visit on a girl he had reason to hate. The voices in the room suddenly seem far away.

Then I find myself sitting in a chair with only the vaguest idea how I got there, and Antonio is gripping my shoulder. "Shylock, talk to me. Are you sick? Hurt? Talk to me, curse you!"

The words tumble out of me almost before I realize it. "I need your help. Send your friend away, I cannot speak of it before him."

"You need my help?" Antonio looks completely stunned. "You despise me."

"'Tis not for my own sake I'm asking. Will you hear me?" Even as I speak, it feels ridiculous. This will not work. But for a legal technicality, I would have acted the butcher and cut this man's chest to pieces in the open court. And he's had months to forget any kindness I might have done him, and to regret any words he might have said about helping me. Then I realize Antonio is speaking.

"I will hear you."

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