Chapter Four
Three days later, Tibes had found his way back to the army encampment. He was alone, as Markus had joined the people of the valley. The monk had shaken his hand, and Tibes no longer knew how to get to the valley. He had explained all this to Alexander and had delivered the pouch with the bauble and a pouch with the glittering dust he had collected. Alexander seemed extremely grateful and had spent most of the evening questioning him and getting his opinions. When no more information could be gathered, Alexander dismissed his soldier. Alexander now sat at his table staring at the pouches.
Aristotle had trained him to make decisions based on logic. Emotions had no bearing on decisions that could shape mankind. Alexander had made many major decisions during his lifetime, but none had weighed as heavily as this one. If he used the bauble properly, he could rule the world. But there was a price for pursuing that strategy. Tibes had frightened him with the tales of its destructive powers. Anyone who held the bauble, even his own people, could possibly challenge him. This was unacceptable. Only a god should have these powers, he reasoned. He decided he could trust no one with this knowledge and power.
When his aide appeared, Alexander requested a scroll and a writing instrument. He was well educated and could write in Greek. He then began the laborious task of recording what had been the oral history of the bauble.
When satisfied that he had included all that was known, he set about recording its properties and powers. He tried to write each point on a separate line:
Collects energy from everything within a man’s length
Destroys metal and makes it into clear baubles, either very hard or dust
Power comes when in the left hand
Intelligence and obsession from the right hand
Touching the bauble will change a person forever
Creates a physical change and Zeus-like strength
Holder cannot be harmed while in possession
Greatest desire of holder is fulfilled when in right hand
Brings out rage and fury in holder if in left hand
Covering it with goat’s blood will diminish the power
Alexander spent most of the night writing and contemplating how the bauble would affect mankind. As dawn arose, he was finally finished and knew what to do with it. He put the two pouches in a larger pouch and rolled them inside the scroll. The scroll had wooden handles on both ends, so when rolled up no one could see the pouches inside. He then called his aide.
“Send this scroll to my new city on the Nile River. The one named ‘Alexandria.’”
“Yes, my lord. But to whom?”
“I started a library on my last visit. Send it to the head of the library. The scroll is to be placed in the archives. Include instructions that it cannot be opened for at least a millennium.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“One more request,” Alexander spoke grimly.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Tibes is to be eliminated.”
No reply was needed. A simple bow of the aids head followed.
Part Two
The Adventure
Chapter Five
September 9, 1902
His foot was stuck in a quagmire of clay. His shoelaces were about to rip from the strain of the force being used to get the foot out. Normally the man would take time and work the boot free, but he was running for his life. The fear of capture or even worse was a strong adrenaline rush, but the taste of bile in his throat told him that he was making mistakes that could be very costly. He realized he should move slowly—after all, he was in the deep jungle in South Africa, and it was pouring rain—and he had at least an hour’s head start. He further reasoned that he needed the boot to survive in this inhospitable land. There were too many bad things that could happen to a person running barefoot in the jungle. He was a smart man, but knew he wasn’t jungle smart.
He had intended to leave the country by boat within a week. But the item he had acquired couldn’t wait—people were after him. The gunmen had barely missed him at the hotel-like mansion. He had been only one block away when he spied the three mercenaries storming the main entrance with their Mauser rifles. The fugitive knew the men who were tracking him were very good. They were Dutch veterans of the many Boer Wars that had plagued South Africa for more than twenty years. After the wars, the Boers worked for the British South Africa Company and had been under the direct supervision of the “richest man in the world” until his death in March. They now worked for a secret society.
The hunted man was near panic now. He could hear something running through the dense jungle near where he was trapped in the mud. Suddenly there were others sounds, sounds that seemed not human yet were human. Sounds a bird would make, but he didn’t believe a bird made them. He was sure the sounds were a form of communication. Someone was hunting the hunters. He decided to lie quietly in the mud. Maybe no one would find him; after all, he was covered in mud in a mud field. He didn’t know the odds of someone finding him, but he had never been in a jungle before.
Suddenly there were angry shouts in a language he had never heard before. The shouts seemed to be a warning. They were soon followed by guns firing and screams of agony. The screams were in the language of the Dutch.
Chapter Six
The fugitive’s name was Adam Wesley. He was a professor of ancient history, specifically Balkan history, for the University of Virginia. His ordeal had started when a monk of the Greek Orthodox Church in Constantinople had contacted him six months earlier. In a letter, the monk had expressed a need for someone to read and translate a manuscript that had come into their possession. He implied that the manuscript was written in a language they could not identify. He also alluded to supernatural events which surrounded in the writings.
Wesley was happy with his life. He lived alone, had a doctorate in history, and no real ties to a family. Women were still a mystery to him, so he didn’t have a steady girlfriend, but his life was good. It was, however, a little too boring. The invitation meant a chance for adventure. Wesley desperately wanted some of that in his life. After several days of serious deliberation, he made a life-changing decision. He promptly took a leave of absence from the university and caught the next boat to the Middle East.
As was typical of adventurers during the late nineteenth century, Wesley dreamed of finding an ancient treasure or the key to new knowledge. He believed that the best secrets of the world had not yet been tapped. He wanted to find one. There was a conduit somewhere that would take him into mysteries and pleasures beyond the grasp of ordinary thinking. The allure was too much to resist.
Chapter Seven
Wesley arrived in Constantinople, Turkey, in May of 1902. He was unprepared for the huge differences in the culture. He had read several books and travelogues on the area but had not understood the reality of actually going there. Reality was the smells, the people, and the conditions. It was less gracious than Virginia. His advanced education had taught him much about Constantinople—it was the center of the Eastern Orthodox Church. But every man he saw wore a turban, and every woman was covered completely in cloth, with only their eyes showing. They all looked at him with distain, and maybe hatred, even though he had never met any of them.
Wesley was dressed in his usual wool suit and tie and stood out from the people on the street. He was six foot two, with sandy hair and toned muscles from rowing. Eyes darted in his direction and hands rested on strange knives that hung on hips. He was less than comfortable as he waited outside the docks for his contact.
A man approached in a monk robe and introduced himself as Brother Ivan. He was very short and had only a fringe of hair around his head. His stride gave the dainty effect of being a dandy. He motioned for Wesley to follow. Wesley’s senses were immediately assaulted by smells of raw sewage, strong spices, human sweat, and fear. The streets they traveled were dark and mysterious. The buildings blocked out the sun. The route was mostly stepped alleyway that weaved around residential buil
dings. Wesley felt many eyes boring into his back. It was his one survival skill. It was an instinct. He could sense that someone was watching.
As they traversed the city, timid people moved out of their way, but several men stood their ground and dared Wesley to confront them. Brother Ivan led him around those men.
“Why does everyone seem to be on edge here?” Wesley asked.
“It is the world as it is today,” replied the monk philosophically. “Stay close to me. Someone may also be following us.”
“What do you mean?” Wesley asked in a tone that bordered on panic as he swiveled his head in an attempt to spot a watcher.
“This city is in the middle of a great many changes. We, our church, were once very powerful here,” Brother Ivan explained. “Emperor Constantine made the city a jewel and gave it his name. He moved the Roman Empire here to be closer to the vast Roman holdings, but actually he wanted to get away from his enemies in Rome. Many centuries later, after the ‘Great Schism of 1054,’ Constantinople became the head of the Eastern Orthodox Church. The Orthodox Church is the second largest Christian church in the world, after the Roman Catholic. The city remains as the head of the church, but another religion has swept into the city and is changing everyone and everything. We are now the minority here. Many of the men you see are spies or worse.” Ivan pointed to a bearded thug a few paces away.
“But I know that Islam is a peaceful religion. I’ve read about it,” replied a confused Wesley. He knew that the Ottoman Empire had annexed Constantinople, but he didn’t realize the changes were so sinister.
“It is peaceful only if you are a Muslim. We are called infidels, non-believers, and many of their holy men preach that we should be banished.”
“From the city?” an incredulous Wesley asked.
“No, from Earth.”
***
Their wanderings eventually led them to a small red door. Brother Ivan stopped and swiveled his head around several times, checking for anyone following them. He then knocked three times rapidly and followed with one short knock. The door opened. They were quickly ushered inside as the door swung shut. Taking in the bleak surroundings, Wesley said, “I thought we were going to a library of the church. This is a dungeon.”
“This is our secret library,” the monk emphasized. “We cannot trust our most holy items to be anywhere that the Muslims could find them. Too much is at stake, so our most precious items are stored underground.”
The doorway was actually a tunnel that faded into darkness. The smell of wet ground was now added to the sensory assault. A second monk who carried a lantern led the way down the sloped tunnel. It ended in a large cave which stretched out beyond the light of several lanterns. There were many shelves of strong, old wood that lined the walls and the middle of the room. It does look somewhat like a library, Wesley mused, likely from the sixteenth century.
In the center of the cave stood a large oak table with reams of scrolls and books decorating the corners. Seated at the middle of the table was a man with a long white beard, a white robe, and a very sad aura about him. He didn’t seem to notice the visitors, as he remained engrossed in his reading. When the second monk nervously tapped his shoulder, the older man looked up.
“Ah, you must be Professor Wesley, from America,” the man spoke in a Russian dialect. His eyes were now wide open and seemed very intense, with an expression Wesley thought bordered on insanity. The man unraveled, rather than stood up, revealing a large body that gave no hint of age. He swept around the desk and offered his hand. Wesley went to shake it and realized the hand was very large, immensely strong, and calloused. The man had worked in the fields.
“I am your humble servant, Grigori Rasputin,” the man announced as he spread his long arms and bowed gracefully. “I am the one who summoned you from America.”
Wesley knew more than one dialect of Russian and pegged the man as a northern native, maybe from the western part known as Siberia. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Wesley sincerely spoke in the same dialect. “How may I be of service to the Church?”
“Ah, you Americans are very straight to the point. Let’s have some refreshment before we begin.” Rasputin waved Wesley over to a section of the cave that had chairs on a Persian rug. On the small table in the center sat a bottle of clear liquid and several glasses. Rasputin filled two glasses and passed one to Wesley.
“Vodka is hard to get here. The Muslims do not believe in alcohol of any kind. This is from my private stock. Now we drink.”
He tossed his head back and poured it down his throat. Wesley watched and followed suit. The liquid burned his throat, but Wesley knew the ritual was required. A shudder ripped through his body as the liquid hit bottom. Rasputin was intently observing.
“I have never tasted vodka before,” commented Wesley. “It warms the body—very sensible for a Siberian winter.”
“Ah, so you are good at recognizing a man’s tongue,” replied the monk as he gestured with his glass. Wesley wanted to present his credentials in a subtle way.
“I understand many languages, both written and spoken,” replied the confident Wesley.
“Good, you may be right for the task,” Rasputin acknowledged as he slapped his knee and roared with laughter.
“I’m curious,” Wesley spoke. “Why bring someone all the way from America for translations of languages that are local? Surely you can find someone here who can do what is required.”
“We cannot trust anyone from Constantinople,” the monk snarled. “There are too many spies who would like to ransack our artifacts and destroy our religion and faith. We need someone from America, someone who will pass as a westerner, and someone who is discreet. Let us show you the library while Brother Ivan explains.”
A hand gesture from Brother Ivan brought the men from their chairs, and they began to walk through the large library. Wesley immediately noticed there were many ancient scrolls, drawings, and pictures which the monk called “Icons” everywhere. He could immediately tell they were very old. Dust covered almost every item, telling Wesley that not many people had visited the library shelves in the last hundred years. He began to get excited.
“How did all this get here?” Wesley was stunned by the number of artifacts hidden in the deep, dark cave.
The brother smiled as if he had been asked a question that he was prepared to answer. “Emperor Constantine brought them here from Rome around 313 AD. That was when he declared the ‘Edict of Milan.’ It gave all citizens of the Roman Empire religious freedom. He moved the center of the Roman Empire to Byzantium and changed the name of the city to Constantinople. He had many enemies in Rome and also wanted to be near a more strategic location to govern the sprawling empire. As you know, Rome continued to be the center for the Western Empire, and the main religion continued to be Roman Catholic, even here in Constantinople. Eventually, the Roman Empire split to East and West and then the religion split as well.”
“Yes, it was a very bold move,” responded Wesley. “The two centers drifted apart, but Constantinople stayed under the empire until the mid-fifteenth century when the Ottoman Empire invaded. The Turks have changed the name of the city to Istanbul, but most people still refer to it as the holy city of Constantinople. For hundreds of years, it was the largest and wealthiest city in Europe. Constantine was a remarkable man with great vision.”
“All that is true, but there is much that you don’t know about Constantine,” the monk spoke as he pointed to a scroll. “That is the actual biography of the man. A scribe wrote it while Constantine was on his deathbed in 337 AD. It contains stories of the emperor which no one alive knows. There is another scroll here,” he pointed. “Alexander the Great wrote this one. I think you will find similarities in both records.”
Wesley shifted on his feet. A bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. The monk now had his complete attention. “We also have a manuscript—more like a diary—that was found in an off-building in a place called Transylvania.” The monk flowed in
his robes to a shelf across the aisle and pointed to a black book cover.
“Dracula,” whispered Wesley, mostly to himself. He had devoured Bram Stoker’s book when it first had been published in 1897.
The monk nodded in confirming the owner of the diary. “His real name was Vladimir Tepes. He was a ruler of parts of what is now Romania around the mid-fifteenth century. He was very cruel and often tortured his victims for days before impaling them on a stake. He was given the nickname of ‘Vlad the Impaler.’ They were often alive when impaled. Rumors were reported that he would drink their blood; therefore, the legend of Dracula became well known in the Balkans. He also spent time in Constantinople. The Ottomans captured him during one of their many campaigns. While here, he converted to the Orthodox Church and was given access to our library. When he left, he took something from the library with him.”
“How do you know he took something?” Wesley asked as he looked around the much-disheveled cave.
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