Once upon a time…

There was a bright young man named Zaleukos. His father was a merchant, and did well, but everyone agreed Zaleukos was smart enough to become a surgeon and physician.

One day a traveler from France passed through, and agreed to take him to Paris to study.

The father was overjoyed, and immediately started setting things up for his son. He took Zal- you know what, from now on I’m just gonna call him Z. Ok? Great, thanks.

Anyways, the father took Z into his room and showed him the sum of his fortune. He explained that he was splitting it in three. The first part would be his, to continue trading with. The second part would be Z’s, so he wouldn’t have to work or worry about money while he was in school. When Z was a registered physician, he’d come back and they would split the last third. That way, his father could retire and he could set up a practice in the city.

Z was extremely grateful, and promised to study hard.

A few days later they said their final goodbyes, and Z was off on his trip to France.

When he got to Paris, he found a nice little room close to the school and settled in. He learned a lot, but didn’t make many friends. He missed his father, his country, his language. Life wasn’t hard, but it was lonely.

At the end of three years, when he got all his licenses and certifications, he couldn’t wait to go home. So he joined a caravan as their physician, and slowly made his way back to Constantinople.

When he finally got home, he found the house all locked up. His neighbors explained that his father had died two months ago, leaving him the house and merchandise.

When Z asked about money, the local priest said his father had been a good, God-fearing man, and left all his money to the church. All of it. Yep.

Z rather doubted this, but didn’t have any proof to the contrary. So he let it go.

Unfortunately, this left him rather broke. He tried to set up a medical practice, but without his father’s connections it kinda failed. He tried selling his merchandise, but again, no connections. It didn’t work.

One day he was looking dejectedly over his wares, and remembered how extortionately high the prices for this stuff was in Paris. And yet, people had paid those prices. The merchants from Constantinople had always done well…

He suddenly wondered why he was staying in Constantinople. After all, he was fluent in like five languages. He could join caravans as a physician, then sell his “exotic” wares wherever they stopped! And he could advertise himself as a surgeon in the small towns they passed, and just become filthy rich!

So that’s what he did!

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Z sold the rest of his wares and his house, and bought a bunch of stuff he knew would sell well in France. Then he got himself hired as a physician on a caravan, and off he went!

It worked brilliantly. He made friends in the caravan, and helped scores of people in tiny towns all up the Mediterranean. It was a good, fulfilling life.

In Paris he sold everything he’d brought for like triple what it was worth, and bought fine French things to sell in Constantinople.

Z made the circuit a few times, getting richer and richer, and finally decided to settle somewhere. He decided on Florence, since it was very pretty there. So when the caravan stopped there for the night, he left it and rented a little shop with an apartment above it. He also advertised that he was a surgeon and physician, in case anyone was in need of one.

His shop did pretty well the first week, but less well the second week. On the other hand, almost no one asked for his services as a physician the first week, but several did the second week.

At the start of the third week, when he was closing up shop Z found a note under some things on his counter. It requested he come to a certain bridge at midnight.

Knowing that some people had embarrassing illnesses and didn’t want to approach a doctor in the middle of a shop, he didn’t think the note particularly odd.

He waited until eleven thirty, then went to the bridge. It was cold and raining, and Z was getting pretty annoyed when a man in a red cloak walked up, holding the cloak to cover his face.

“Follow me!” the man ordered, and kept walking.

“No,” Z said. “I’m not following some rando to an unspecified place without some explanation! I might not even be able to help! Tell me what’s going on, and then I’ll follow you.”

The man glared, turned, and walked away.

Very annoyed at having stayed up past his bedtime for this jerk, Z ran after him and grabbed the cloak, determined to at least see his face. The man dropped his cloak, sprinting off into a dark alley.

Deciding it wasn’t worth it, Z put the cloak on and walked home.

The next morning, he thought about what to do. More than anything, he wanted to know who he’d spoken to the night before. He looked the cloak over for a clue, but found none.

The cloak was made of crimson velvet, bordered with fur and with gold embroidery. It was a really nice cloak.

So Z decided to put it up for sale. If the real owner came in and asked for it back, he’d hand it over without complaint. And if not, he’d at least be paid for the half-hour he’d spent out in the rain.

To encourage the real owner to come out, he set the price at half again what the cloak was worth.

That day, everyone who came into the shop asked about the cloak. Z gave the price, and asked if they’d seen anything like it in Florence.

Annoyingly, everyone said no.

At dusk, when he was about to close up shop, a nobleman’s son came in and asked to buy it. Z was kinda annoyed he hadn’t found the original owner, but if some pimply-faced teenager was willing to give up three month’s allowance to buy it, who was he to argue?

After counting out an absurd number of coins, the teen swung the cloak around his shoulders and walked out like a king. But when he swung it, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

Z picked up the paper, and read the note.

It said “I am ready to explain. Meet at the same time and place, and bring my cloak.”

Z was like “oh crap” and ran after the teenager.

Did he get the cloak back? What’s the deal with the cloaked guy? Who’s sick?

Stay tuned, and Scheherazade will tell you tomorrow!

----------------------------------------

Moral: Tell your doctor what’s wrong, or else they might sell your clothes.