Author: Loki's Campaign Manager PM
"What could he do but trust in my mercy - which was no mercy at all?" Six months after Merchant of Venice, Shylock makes an unexpected choice that causes his life to become re-entwined with that of an old enemy in need of help. Read warnings.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 8 - Words: 33,385 - Reviews: 17 - Favs: 10 - Follows: 8 - Updated: 09-22-12 - Published: 07-09-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7164267
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- This story takes place about six months after Merchant of Venice ends, and is told from Shylock's point of view. Some of you will wonder why I'm constantly switching between 'thou' 'thee' 'thy' 'you' and 'your.' There is an explanation for this at the end (because it has spoilers).
- Productions of the Merchant of Venice have been set in many periods throughout history. This story is set in Renaissance Italy. I've done my best to get facts correct, but feel free to correct me if something is radically wrong. Remember, though, that this is dealing with a canon that's not always historically accurate. As it's fanfic, if there's a contest between history and Shakespeare, Shakespeare takes precedence.
This chapter was beta'd by Anbessette. Thanks!
This story is rated T because there is no explicit sex in it. However, there are offstage discussions of homosexuality, racism, religious hypocrisy, and rape. It deals with all four in a very serious way. So tread carefully (or happily, if you love angst).
Chapter 1: Nemesis
It is Friday. I do not like Fridays.
Of course, to a man impartial it would appear that I do not like much of anything, these days. But even were that not so, none can argue that I have the saint's patience it would take to deal mildly with the carousers now drunkenly caroling outside my doors. Friday is the day they drink dry barrels of Venetian wine and lie with their whores. Tomorrow they'll be laid low with headaches and contrive explanations for their empty purses, and, come Sunday, they'll confess.
I will confess, also, on Sunday. Unlike most who attend church, I will never confess anything I have truly done. I create an imagined life for myself in confession. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. I confess each week to a different priest, and each week I am a different kind of sinner. Sometimes I have robbed one man, sometimes lain with another's wife, coveted what I could not have, or worked on the Sabbath. And I always finish by saying that I have lied to a hypocrite. The priests do not need to know that they are the hypocrites I am speaking of.
If I had true belief, if I was assured their Christ was the Messiah and possessed everlasting mercy (unlike his followers, that's for certain), then I might confess some sins I truly am guilty of. Wrath, without a doubt. A general spite against the world. Lack of faith (my attendance at the church is mandatory since my conversion, but my belief is a sham). Casting off of one's child, though she cast me off first.
Jessica left on a Friday.
Mistake me not – I always knew this world was a merciless place for a Jew. I somehow maintained the illusion, however, that I was untouchable as long as I obeyed the enacted laws of Venice. But I truly lasted as long as I did only because the Christians saw me as no threat – perhaps I was a usurer, but my sin was that kind from which they could benefit. The minute I sought revenge through paths they had themselves taken, and therefore could not dismiss as sinful, it became necessary to get rid of me.
The carousers are leaving now. I am only glad that Bassanio and Gratiano and Lorenzo are among them no more. They are off to Belmont, all three, where Bassanio will relax in the arms of his heiress. If I could pity a Christian, I might pity that lady. I doubt she has any idea what – or rather whom – her new husband enjoys in a city ready, men and women both, to lie with him for coin. My coin, I might add, borrowed time and time again before he found a certain merchant who gave him what he wanted at no cost. A moneylender knows everyone's secret vices, whether or not he wishes to.
I do not light candles on Friday anymore. I could if I so desired; there's no one to spy on me. I dismissed my servants after my conversion, all but the one necessary to the maintenance of the house. Let them think it was Shylock's legendary thrift; but I truly could not endure servants who, whether Jewish or Christian, would revile me. Besides, I require a distraction of some kind, now that my trade is forbidden to me, even if it's only to clean and cook. I use little enough of the house these days regardless. I never have guests – I cannot not face my Jewish friends (not that I have many) and I'll be damned before I dine with a Christian. Though I expect that if the spirit as well as the letter of religious law is to be followed, according to either faith I am damned anyway. I might as well throw open my doors wide and welcome any man off the street into my house.
No, the real reason I do not light the candles anymore is because I refuse to worship a God who seems to have forgotten me entirely. All my life, I have attempted to live by the laws of the Torah, and it has earned me nothing but a wife who died long before her time, a daughter who forsook both her heritage and me, and enough persecutors to populate a small town. Now I am condemned to practice the religion of those persecutors if I wish to continue living. I doubt I'ill find salvation or even comfort in simply lighting Shabbat candles.
There's a fearsome racket outside. I dearly hope the carousers are not back; they give me a headache. (And if my sole servant, the lazy Ignazio, were here, he would no doubt point out that all things give me a headache). But this sound is more menacing than that which comes from those foolish noisemakers. Shouts and – I open my window and peer out to see nearly a score of men bearing torches under my window. One has a rope, I see, wound about his arm; others carry broken paving-stones or daggers. All are dressed in the peacock finery of the disgustingly wealthy, but rich men are no better than poor ones when the murderous fever of the mob takes over, as I plainly see it has now. Are they here for me? I spent the first few months after the trial hiding in my house, for fear of gangs like this one, sent to lynch a pretentious newly-converted former Jew.
"Old man! You up at the window!"
Well, that answers one question; they do not know who I am. Therefore, they cannot be here for me.
"What is it? They can hear thee up at the palace, young fools!"
"Have you seen a man run by?"
"I've seen men run by from the duke's treasurer to the boy who empties the chamber pots," I snap. "Canst thou describe him no better?"
"Let me speak, dolt." Another man elbows the first out of the way. "His clothes were of fine stuffs once, silk and velvet, but now they're all torn and muddy."
"I've seen no such man." And if I had, I would not tell them so. I relish the thought of these fools getting lost in their drunkenness, stumbling through Venice's dark streets. Besides, I recognize Solanio and Salarino in the crowd, though both are a glass or two beyond recognizing me. I've not forgotten how they taunted me in the street the day after Jessica fled with the Christian, calling me dog and old carrion and knocking me into the gutter. Should the man they are pursuing be my worst enemy, I would not hand him over to those two. "Go to!" I slam the window shut.
The mob clears off swiftly enough; a small blessing, but a blessing nevertheless. I've no envy for their target when they catch him. From hard-bought experience I know well that it matters little if one's tormenters are spoiled rich brats or made of sterner stuff – if they outnumber one, one will shortly be in pain.
I stomp down to the door and peer out to see if any of them are still loitering around. No, they have gone. My intention is to close the door again when I hear a groan from behind the corner of my house.
I resist the urge to swear loudly. My bad luck has returned to plague me; it seems one of the mob has to void a belly full of wine next to my house. "I said go to, drunkard! Thou wilt fall into a canal someday, and I only hope I am there to see it!" I am considering helping this drunkard that way with a kick or two when he speaks.
I know that voice, and curse fate. Of all the men to land sick on my doorstep, it has to be the one I hate with more venom than any other. I am surprised, though, I must admit. He was never much of a drinker, and I did not see him in the crowd.
Antonio, the so-called merchant of Venice, buries his face in his hands. "Of all people, it had to be thee who sees me like this."
I squint into the darkness. What does he mean, like this? I cannot see his face, and his clothes are fine as always – but tattered, mud-covered, and this puzzles me greatly. The man always refused to be made part of the dirt and noise of the streets. He was always the one guiding Bassanio or Lorenzo out of some tavern. It was common for him to stand watching while his friends tormented me, and I could hear his thoughts at those times clear as glass: He had no desire to dirty his hands touching the Jew. Better to double-cross him, take his money, assist Lorenzo in the taking of his daughter, and stand high and untouched. I knew of but one exception to this rule, which I vastly preferred to keep from my mind.
"Well, go on. What art thou waiting for?"
"What am I…?"
"Call them back," Antonio hisses at me. "Call them back so they can put that rope around my neck. I know how much thou wouldst like to see that."
There's nothing I'd love better than to see a noose drop over Antonio's head, but now I am curious. "It's you they're after? Why?"
Antonio spits on the ground. "Oh, thou wouldst like that, for me to gibber and confess my sins at thy feet? See me humiliated?"
I smirk. "Well, measure for measure, they say."
"Art thou not the fine Christian." Antonio starts to drag himself to his feet, but bends double and falls. I resist a base urge to kick him, but only just barely.
"Only when there's no help for it. Wherefore are you here? The last news I had speaks of your visiting Belmont, playing at lord with Bassanio."
Antonio laughs bitterly. "The lady Portia dislikes my way of playing lord, especially with Bassanio. And as she now holds Bassanio's purse strings, it makes very little difference what either of us wants."
"I feel for thee," I say sarcastically. "Losing thy whore."
Antonio lunges for me, but falls down coughing before he half-covers the distance between us. "Thou art not fit to lick Bassanio's shoes, and if thou darest –"
"Well, I suppose that makes thee the whore, then. Wilt thou raise thy rates now that Bassanio is not required to borrow ducats from me?" I know perfectly well that no coin changed hands when Antonio and Bassanio took to bed, but I was enjoying tormenting my enemy.
Antonio sags and glares up at me. "Thou takest such pleasure in this, dost thou not?"
"I cannot deny that. So art thou playing the scorned lover now? I should say the torn clothes are rather excessive."
"Thou canst not earnestly believe –" Antonio shoots me an incredulous look. "Thou dost not honestly think this was my choice?"
"Well, what was it then, if not your choice?"
Suddenly Antonio seems to shrink, crumpling nearly flat on the ground. "It has a certain irony, in truth. Portia – discovered Bassanio and me together. Well, there was only one way he could have excused himself, and that was if – I'd been forcing him. And – from a certain light, it could be seen as if –"
"What? He accused you of forcing him?"
"Dost thou require me to say it?" Antonio snaps. He coughs and then grabs his ribs as if they pain him. "Would I be here, like this, otherwise?"
My eyes widen. "But no one believes it." Anyone with eyes could see Antonio favored Bassanio's regard for him above even his own life; his bond with me had shown that much.
"What wouldst thou gamble on that? It's known I favor men." Pain flickers across Antonio's face, and disinterestedly I acknowledge what that statement means. The people best placed to know Antonio's preferences are his friends – Gratiano, Lorenzo, Solanio and Salarino. They would have sided with the supposed victim if it was the word of Bassanio and his wife against Antonio's. In all likelihood, they were the ones who roused up that lynching mob, as I suspect the lady Portia would have preferred to deal with her husband's indiscretions privately. That's a betrayal to sting any man.
Antonio coughs again, and gasps, clutching his stomach. "If thou wilt not call them back, then let me alone, thou –" the words get lost between rough, heavy breaths.
I frown. It takes a great deal to stop Antonio before his insults are completed. I shove the door open farther, letting light flood the area directly outside. My enemy yelps and throws up his hands, but not before I see the black bruises covering his face. And if his wincing motions are any indication, there are more on his ribs and stomach.
Bruises are far from a mystery to me, mostly thanks to Antonio, his friends and others like them, always ready to taunt the Jew with jeers and blows. I can tell that these bruises, at least the ones on his face, were not made by fists. I had come home with marks like that after a group had cornered me in an alley and started hurling stones. That had been one of the more dangerous, if not emotionally scarring, days of torment. If Antonio had experienced something similar, he was lucky not to have been killed.
It occurs to me, as I watch the man I despise most choke with pain in the gutter, that this is a far better opportunity for revenge than enacting the terms of my bond would have been. No one would miss the famed merchant of Venice now. Probably I could even incite the mob to put their own justice into practice if I called them back, and not need to soil myself with the deed at all.
But I do not, because I know from my money-lending days that those men are far from being innocent of the crime Antonio is being penalized for now, and I take a perverse pleasure at the notion of outwitting them. Besides which, putting Antonio in my debt and getting the chance to watch him flounder in suffering is a positively delightful idea. "Get up."
"If I could, dost thou not think I should be running still? Away from thee?"
He has some gall to say that now, when his own friends have turned on him so. "I doubt it not for a moment. Thou always were a coward." Oh, I do love to insult him. "Also, a rapist, apparently," I add for good measure, even though I know that is a lie.
"Thou art fit for naught but misery, thou churlish, weather-bitten old miser!"
"Tell me something I do not know, whore."
He's like a wounded animal, cringing away from me. And something twists inside me. An almost grinding pain, as one feels when a broken bone is set. Do I pity him? It seems only a kind of generic pity, the sort I feel when I see a dog get kicked in the street, but it shocks me still that I experience aught but glee at his pain. And I am glad to see him hurting, but now it's mixed with this pity and I do not know quite what to say. So I say nothing, and instead walk over and yank Antonio to his feet.
"Get thy filthy hands off me!"
I roll my eyes. "It hardly suits thy situation to be accusing me of filth, when thou hast been rolling in the gutter. If thou dost not cease insulting me, I'll call back that mob." They're probably far gone by now, but I judge him too scared to realize it. "Get inside."
He stills. "I understand thee not."
More pleasure wells up, along with more pity, damn it. "I have no wish to trip on a corpse when I leave the house tomorrow," I explain, with more patience than I think the situation warrants. "You might as well stay here tonight."
I cannot tell if Antonio is agreeing to this or simply stunned that I offered, but he lets me steer him inside and lock the door.
"Thou reekst like to a hog pen," I inform him. I intend to enjoy this. "Sleep on the floor." A Jewish floor – we shall see how he likes that. In truth, part of me is expecting him to march out directly, that his situation is not truly as bad as he's said, and now that the mob is gone, he'll return to his own house. Or at least put up some show of indignation. It shocks me when he does neither. Instead, he's turning red. Embarrassed. Now I am puzzled again, just when I believed I'd grasped the situation. "What is it?"
"What do you expect of me?"
"I said, sleep on the floor. Dost thou listen to nothing besides the sound of thy own voice?"
"I did not mean that." Now he's really flushed. It's an interesting sight, but mostly I am vexed. I spend ten minutes trying to shame the man, and now he's embarrassed and I cannot even tell what I did to make it happen. "I mean…in return."
I am most assuredly missing something here. There's no reason to be shamed over talking of financial repayment. "Thou art speaking foolishness. Not that I expected thee to speak aught else, but –"
"You must know I can give you no money!" Antonio's nearing hysterical and I would be amused if I merely knew why. "There's but one way I can pay you, but one reason for which you would have taken me in, and though it shames me, I must agree to it! You can do whatever you like, but tell no one I am here. I'll be your whore, as you call me, just do not bring them back!" He grabs the door frame, shaking.
Realization – and revulsion – hit me so hard I feel dizzy. He expects me to demand retribution, sexual retribution, for my hospitality, such as it is. Part of me is laughing maniacally at the notion that I would want that, but white-hot anger is invading all my other thoughts. This is worse than taunting me for being a Jew or a moneylender, because this time it's not just my religion or my profession he's insulting, it's my honor. Only the lowest of the low would demand that an injured guest pay for a night in bed by lying with his host. Who does he think I am, some strumpet from off the street?
I am ready to strike the man when I took another look at his twisted posture and ashamed face and something in my mind flips. It isn't me he's calling a whore, it's himself. The offer he's making me is that of a man desperate for any security, even be it only a floor to sleep on for the night. What could possibly have brought this proud merchant so low? What has been done to him that he's yet concealing? He'd begged the way I had always wanted to beg when I'd been hit and kicked for so long I could barely tell the sky from the ground. And I made it worse, no doubt, by jeering at him. That does not seem so entertaining, all of a sudden.
"I have no plans to call them back, fool," I snap, covering my shock with the familiar train of insults. "And the idea that I would want thee to whore for me is ridiculous beyond belief. And it would still be ridiculous even if I did not hate thee!" I whirl around and storm up the stairs, not bothering to wait for a reaction.
Another group of revelers is skittering around my house, but honestly I am too confused and angry to go chase them away. Confused by my own actions, as I am unable to categorize them as just the desire to watch Antonio suffer. The pity involved is undeniable. I even came close to comparing his experiences with my own. And that, I do not want. I have no interest in seeing Antonio as human. He certainly does not, and will never, see me as such. And I am angry. Angry at my strange houseguest, for all he has done to me, all the cold-eyed stares and the disgrace before the court and my forced conversion, and now, despite all that, for somehow forcing me to feel responsible for him.
Why does he have to be in such a pitiful state? One would almost think he was a dog, one who deserved to be kicked…horror slams into me as I realize what I just thought, what I just did. Had not I been kicked and called dog a thousand times? Had not I cursed my tormentors every day since? Always consoled myself by saying they were the real monsters, that I was innocent in God's eyes at least? And now here I was, imitating the monsters, calling my enemy a whore and a dog for the sheer pleasure of hurting him, to make myself feel self-righteous and in control. God forgive me.
Why did I think it? What God would listen to me? Not that of the Christians, for certain. Not my own God, or at least, He who was my God, before I converted. I sit down on one of my money-chests, resting my head in my hands. First my daughter gone, then my religion denied me, and now this strange twist. Why was it that I could never predict what life had in store for me?
There's only one thing I know for certain now. For the first time since I converted – and therefore for the first time in my life – I have something I want to confess.
A/N: An Explanation of Shakespearean Pronouns
In pre-modern English, people could choose to use 'thee' 'thou' and 'thy' or 'you' 'ye' and 'your,' depending on the situation. By Shakespeare's time, however, the distinctions had begun to blur, and so Shakespeare's choice of pronouns sometimes matters and sometimes doesn't. To clear up any confusion, here are the rules I'm following for this story: When addressing an equal in a formal situation, a superior, or someone you're trying to flatter, use 'you' 'ye' or 'your.' When addressing an intimate, an inferior, or someone you want to insult, use 'thee' 'thou' or 'thy.' Therefore, the men in the mob talking to Shylock use 'you' because they want to flatter him. He uses 'thou' because he is a crotchety old man and wants them to go away. Antonio uses 'thou' when addressing Shylock because for most of their acquaintance Shylock has been a Jew, and a Jew is both a social inferior and someone whom it is safe to insult. The only exception is when he's desperate to stay in Shylock's house for the night and is therefore trying to address him with some respect. Shylock sometimes uses 'you' when addressing Antonio basically out of habit because for most of their acquaintance Antonio has been his social superior and it hasn't been safe to insult him. He switches to 'thou' when he is deliberately saying something rude (which is often).