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janie_tangerineMichael had hoped that he could actually afford at least that one book.
Too bad that the moment the seller had informed him of the price for his supposedly cheap Latin grammar, he had about started cursing - then he hadn’t, and admittedly he doubts that the man would have understood his native tongue anyway, but still, if he actually paid for it, he wouldn’t have money for eating for an entire week, and that was out of the question.
So now he’s considering how to best acquire it with his alternative method.
As in, it’s not like he enjoys stealing books, but if he wants to attend the Schola Medica Salernitana he needs to have his own textbooks and to know Latin at least and to know the local language as well, and admittedly some students receive help if they’re good and they show talent, but he doesn’t think that an Irish unknown without parents or a name to himself whose Latin is barely passable and who doesn’t own the text would have much of a chance of getting in. Which is why he’s been living in the city for some half a year now, working here and there where he could find anything to do, admittedly stealing when he couldn’t, because thanks to his father disappearing when he wasn’t even ten he had to make do and he learned that kind of skill quickly, and he’s been studying Latin and accumulating the textbooks that he understood everyone is required to have.
His mother hadn’t really believed a word when he said he was going to Italy to try and become a doctor, but then again she never had much faith in his skills in the first place, but she never stopped him - after all, he was one less mouth to feed, and she always worried that someone would find out that half of the food they put on the table was there because he stole it.
But - he heard that the Emperor, this Emperor, ran a country where schools were open to most people who had the means to attend them and where no one was turned out just because of where he came from, and honest, he likes the sun and the food and the climate and the sea entirely better than Ireland’s perpetual rain and cold weather.
So, he’s determined to hang on as long as he can until he knows enough Latin to attend, and then he can learn Greek while he’s attending, he knows they teach it there, and then he could learn to actually heal people, and it’s all an extremely good prospect -
Except that the Latin grammar he owns covers the bare basics and the one this shop has is a lot more thorough and has margins for annotations - his own doesn’t, that’s how bad it is - and as much as it pains him to admit it, while it’s too pricey for him, it still was less than most he has found in other places.
Very well then. He curses that he’s not wearing a cloak - he never made enough money to buy one properly and he doesn’t need it with how nice the weather is - because hiding such a book under his meager tunic will be hard, but if the owner isn’t looking he could just grab it and run off quick enough. He just hates that he’s fairly recognizable - the blue eyes are fairly common, admittedly, but the auburn hair not so much - but if he disappears soon enough and hides the book well enough, he doubts anyone is going to catch him.
He takes a look around - the street is empty, the owner has gone in the back of the shop and that grammar is on a table just near the exit.
Michael walks back inside the store, grabs it in a swift motion and sticks it under his arm, and walks out quickly - not running, never running - and takes a few steps, thinking that maybe this one will go over well, and then -
“Where do you think you’re going?” Comes from behind him in heavily accented French.
And then a fairly strong hand is on his shoulder, effectively preventing him from leaving.
He’d curse every single saint whose name he can remember right now, but it’s not as if he can just run, not when whoever stopped him has a damn strong grip, and so he turns over hoping it’s not some imperial knight or he’s going to be royally screwed -
And he he finds himself face to face with someone who’s definitely not an imperial knight.
The man is wearing a long tunic in bright blue and has his head covered in a black but somber turban, and given the accent - he has to be Saracen. He’s tall, and he has a pair of large, striking dark brown eyes along with skin the color of dark ink, and he’s not looking at him in amusement, and -
Right.
This is not the moment when Michael remembers that one of the reasons why his mother was more than glad to see him leave was that she had noticed that he might stare at men more often than at women, and she had said nothing, but of course she did not approve. That went unsaid. Except that the aforementioned Saracen man is absolutely handsome, and Michael is cursing every damned saint he can remember right now. Just not openly.
“I think lying about it would be useless, wouldn’t it?” He replies in his also fairly accented French - he learned it because of course he had to, everyone knows French in Albion, shrugging and pretending to take it a lot more lightly than he should be.
“Given that I saw you walking out of a colleague’s shop with a book you definitely haven’t bought, I think I know. You have one chance to explain yourself.”
Wait, what?
Still - more than he thought he ever would have. And Michael never was one to throw away his chances.
“Listen, I - I want to study medicine. That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, that’s right, this school has an excellent reputation. I sold them a few texts. Do go on.”
Right. He has to be a merchant, though the only shop in front of the books one sells clothing and fabric, so he supposes this man traffics mostly in that and then in books.
“I’m also - I don’t know Latin, and I need to if I want to attend, but I have to get by on my own and I don’t have much money to spare for textbooks. That was why I took it. Listen, I’ll just put it back before he’s done, just - don’t tell him? Please?”
They stare at each other for a moment, then the other man openly rolls his eyes. “How much was that?”
What? Michael tells him and a moment later the man rustles into his pocket and hands him a few pieces of silver.
“Get in and buy it properly. Then come back here.”
He swallows and immediately takes the money - he calls for the owner, says he has decided he’ll get the book after all, pays him and walks back outside where the man is still waiting for him.
“Come inside,” he tells Michael, nodding towards the shop.
Michael is not going to antagonize him, so he does.
“So,” the other man says as he closes the door, “are you so thirsty for conoissance that you have to steal your books?”
Michael shrugs, looking up at him. What does he have to lose? “I want to heal people. If I wasn’t born wealthy I have to make do.”
“And you make do by stealing?”
“I’m good at it,” Michael shrugs.
“Your parents won’t help you?”
He snorts. “I was born in a small village in Irois, my father disappeared when I was young and my mother didn’t particularly care for what I wanted to do with my life. No, they won’t help me.”
“I see.”
“Why, yours did?” He asks, not knowing where did that came from - he shouldn’t be sassing a guy that could turn him over to imperial knights, but he didn’t sell him out yet, did I?
The other man shrugs. “I inherited my father’s job, yes,” he admits, “but before selling fabric and books, I did study in such an establishment like your medical school. In Egypt, though, not here. Then I was going to fight your king, except that we never did because he and mine had an agreement, and here I can sell your people fabric from my country, or books, and then they bring it to France. I have been there a couple of times, too. We make excellent money.”
“Good for you,” Michael tells him, entirely meaning it. “Too bad my father didn’t leave me any job to inherit.”
“You do know that if you want to learn medicine learning Greek would also be most helpful?”
“Why, you know it?”
The moment the merchant replies to him in Greek, Michael understands nothing and also cannot help thinking that it was the most arousing thing he’s ever heard.
Damn, he’s so in trouble, it’s not even funny.
“Right. Stupid question. Well, it’s not like I have money for that.”
“But you would like it.”
He shrugs, trying to not look too emotional here. “Why do you think I’m willing to steal to get in there?”
“I can see that.”
For a moment, they stare at each other.
Then -
“You know, you have bravery.”
“I - I do what?”
“You do have a point - you are going as far as doing something not good for a higher purpose. And if it’s for learning, it’s for a better purpose than most people who try to steal what I sell or what he sells. Also, you speak good French.”
“Well enough,” Michael says. “Back where I come from you have to, if you want to get somewhere. Why?”
“Let’s say I could use some of your… skills.”
“You could?”
The man nods. “There’s this other French merchant who is also stationed here who might have robbed me off a lot of money when I last gave him fabric to bring to Champagne.”
“To the fair?”
“Indeed. I could use someone going to his shop and trying to figure out what he’s up to, and maybe to offer him a few deals that might then turn out to be… nothing, if you get my meaning.”
“You want him to lose the money he owes you but if he knew it was you proposing those deals he would never accept?”
“Exactly. And you also might be able to bring me his accounts book, if I explain myself.”
Michael, who understood where the man’s hinting at, shrugs and smiles perfunctorily.
“Fair. What do I get in return?”
“I do have a few books you might use. I could also make sure you buy the ones you need. And if you want to learn Greek before you try your luck at the Schola Medica, I could teach you. I do miss reading Greek.”
For a moment, Michael cannot believe what he’s just heard. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m not?”
Michael immediately shakes his head. “No, you look like you’re absolutely serious. Well, that’s easy enough. I stole more complicated things and it’s a fair deal. All right. I can do it. By the way, I’m Michael.”
“Definitely Irois,” the man states. “Well, I am شان,” he says, grinning ever so slightly, and Michael is sure he’s having some perverse fun as he sees him trying to figure out how to pronounce it back without completely mucking it.
“That - sounded a bit like Seán, doesn’t it?”
For a moment, his interlocutor looks impressed. “That’s - almost the same,” he agrees. “Is that an Irois name, too?”
“Well, that’s how we pronounce it, other people do it a bit differently, depends on where you come from. But yes, it is.”
“Interesting. I might want to learn some of your Irois language at some point. But all in due time. So, are you going to steal those books for me?”
Michael looks up at him and notices that Seán - or at least he supposes it’ll do for the moment - is giving him a look that back where he comes from was not exactly friendly, and thing is, he can feel blood rushing under his belt just at the thought.
Well, if he does this one job well, maybe he can see to breach the subject - he doesn’t know what Saracens make of sodomy, but Michael never quite felt what his mother and her church had to say about it (he never quite believed in it, even if he’s gone through all the sacraments and he was careful to never mutter a word on the subject), and if this particular one is of his opinion -
Maybe trying to steal that book was the best idea he’s had lately.
So he sports out his most charming smiles and replies, with all the sureness he wasn’t feeling just a short while ago, “Of course I will.”
And he thinks he’s going to enjoy it way more than he’s enjoyed stealing anything in his entire life.
