In the Company of the Courtesan by Sarah Dunant

shawls carelessly, carefully, to show a glimpse of skin, though no breast—too much flesh too fast in church and a man can be reminded of Hell as easily as Heaven. One of the fair ones, with her hair in a golden net, soars above the crowd, for her stilt clogs are even higher than the rest. I would need a ladder to get even as far as her waist, but fashion makes perfect silliness of sense, and there are already a few tongues hanging out at the sight of her.
    The Mass begins, and I glance across to where my lady sits, eagle-eyed, reading their posture as carefully as she has studied their wardrobe. I hear her voice in my head.
    The trick now is to keep the men’s attention on you even while you do nothing. So you follow the prayers, head erect, voice sweet but not too loud, eyes on the altar, but always aware of what others are seeing. The side or back of your head is as important as your face. While you dare not wear your hair loose, as the virgins do, you can tease a few curled strands down here and there, and weave or braid the rest into gilded or jeweled veils in ways that make it as interesting to study as any altarpiece. And if you’ve washed and dried it that morning with the right oils—the best courtesans take longer to get ready for Mass than any priest—then its scent can rival the incense. Though you should also have your own perfume, mixed especially, and when no one is looking you should waft it around a bit with your hands. In this way the front pews as well as the back will know you’re there. But all this is just preening and preparation for the real test—which is the sermon.
    The way my lady tells it, for this moment to work you first need to know your church, because, though it might be filled with the wealthiest men in the city, if the priest is a hellfire preacher who delivers his threats blunt and fast, then any whore worth her salt might as well give up and go home. But get a scholar who’s never heard of an hourglass, and every courtesan in the church is already in Heaven.
    As we are now; for though the preacher in San Zanipolo is a Dominican who avows purity, he is particularly fond of his own voice, which is a grave mistake, since it is a thin and reedy instrument that stupefies more souls than it saves. By ten minutes in, the older heads are going down onto their chests. As the snoring starts, the rich virgins come to life, slipping their veils aside and sending out glances like coy cupid darts while their mothers wrestle with the weight of a dozen biblical quotations.
    All this fluttering makes for a perfect screen for more serious business. While my lady is hawkeyed for the women, I am also interested in the men and what is going on in their heads. I try to imagine myself in their place.
    I pick out one figure—I noticed him when he came in. He is tall (as I would be in another life), substantial in girth, maybe forty years of age, and by his dress one of the ruling Crow families, the sleeves on his black coat lined with sable and his wife as rich and square as a four-poster bed. I sit myself in his seat. One of the dark-haired courtesans is in front to the left of me. Zanipolo is my regular church. If things go well, I am hoping to endow a small altar and intend to be buried here. I go to confession every month and am forgiven my sins. I thank God regularly for my good fortune and give him back his share of it, for which, in turn, he helps bring home my investments safely. This morning I have meditated on my Savior’s wounds on the cross before praying that the price of silver will stay high enough for me to fund a share in another vessel to leave for Tunis in the spring. In this way I will raise a good dowry for my second daughter, who is ripening fast and must be protected from contamination, because young men do so lust for the crevices in young women’s bodies. As, indeed, do older men at times, for there is great and comforting sweetness to be found