The House of Wisdom: The Last Librarian, #4

By John C De Groot

In 1258 Wazir Marzban saves the House of Wisdom, the great library created in the round city of Baghdad, from destruction by the Mongol army. In 2018 Professor Hakim Azzi seeks out Amanishakete and Sabine in London to help rescue the entire library that history had wrongly recorded was totally destroyed by the Mongol Horde.

 

But Azzi has already sold two documents from the House of Wisdom on the open market, starting a race between Wolfram von Sternberg a German Count and his son Paul, Edward Maltravers a less than honest dealer in antiquities and Amanishakete and Sabine, to find the House of Wisdom.

 

When the dimensional veil, created by Marzban to protect the House of Wisdom, goes wrong they all find themselves confronted by the Mongols in the year 1258.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John C De Groot
• Release date: Jan 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215923511

John C De Groot

Albert Einstein said that ‘it is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge’. That was certainly the case with my high school history teacher, who brought history alive and started my fascination in Ancient and Early Modern history. There are countless mysteries that still remain unsolved and I have a real suspicion that we have lost or forgotten more knowledge than we have ever gained. After a career in business, business support and as a trainer for Dale Carnegie, I did some consulting. It was a client who once said to me that ‘I was a useful man to have around’, based to some degree on my ability with the written word. When retirement loomed his words, my interest in history and a very patient and supportive wife encouraged me to ‘put pen to paper’ and with heart in hand resulted in my first book ‘The Quest for Eternal Life', the first in the ‘Last Librarian’ Series. That was several books ago in a growing portfolio.

Book preview

Chapter One – An Unexpected Visitor

Amanishakete, Princess of the Royal Kushite Nubian House of Meroë, stood naked before the long mirror in her dressing room the blue undertones in her freshly showered dark Nubian skin clear to see. Her noble bearing unmistakable.

‘How many thousands of times over the centuries’ she thought, ‘have I stood before this mirror and many others before it’.

Now in the winter of 2018, she objectively examined the reflection of her body. It hadn’t changed for nearly 2050 years. Over six feet of lean athletic build, broad shouldered and narrow waisted, yet overpoweringly feminine. Long slim, finely muscled arms and legs promised speed and strength. Small well proportioned breasts proud on her chest as she straightened her shoulders, the nipples hardening as the warmth of the shower was slowly replaced by the coolness of the winters day creeping in from outside.

It was only when she looked closely that the scars could be seen. The line of a knife wound across her left shoulder, always carefully covered by her clothes. Another across her belly, just above the triangle of dark tightly curling pubic hair. Small narrow scars scattered across her back from shrapnel and the latest, a tiny round puckered scar on her left calf from a bullet fired by the now deceased Oscar Reynolds. There were others, many that would only one day be seen if ever her body was autopsied.

She’d been the younger sister of Amanikasheto, both daughters of Amanirenas, who'd been the Queen Candace of Meroitic Kush since 40BC. History often referred to Meroë as the third great empire of the Nubians. Amanirenas was, like the queens before and after her, a warrior. She'd lost an eye in battle with the Romans who she'd successfully repelled from Kush over five years of war.

As the younger sister Amanishakete would be unlikely to become queen and her frustration, compounded by her outspokenness and often abrasive nature, had caused her to leave the court of Amanirenas to study in Alexandria. There following Alexander the Great’s conquest, the great Alexandrian Library was being created by the new dynasty of Ptolemaic Pharaohs of Egypt, Ptolemy I Soter and then Ptolemy II Philadelphus.

She had done well there learning new languages, studying sciences and humanities under the great scholars of the day, who were attracted to gather at the most famous seat of learning and study in the known world. There to translate, study and codify the growing library. She matured there, but that was a very long time in the past.

‘There had been men’, she thought casually, ‘but there had only ever been one true love, her husband, Percival Waddington’. He'd succumbed to a cobra bite in the sands of the Sahara over a hundred years ago. ‘It was unlikely’, she thought, ‘that there would ever be another’. Proud to be carrying his name and wear his ring, which she rarely removed from her finger. His silver backed hairbrush set still lay on their dressing table beside a small monochrome photograph of him, taken when photography was still in its infancy. There was also an oil painting of him on her office wall.

There were also the few personal pieces she'd brought with her from the court in Meroë. A gold hand mirror, that originally held a round piece of highly polished copper, then later one of Venetian glass and now a modern silvered mirror. A beautifully crafted rams head and cobra pendant, a small alabaster bowl that was so fine it was translucent and contained a small collection of gold and silver earrings. Kushite artisans had been renowned across North Africa and the Mediterranean for their exquisite craftsmanship in gold, ivory and silver.

She shook her head slightly to clear her thoughts before sitting at the dressing table to wind her long plaited hair onto her head and add one last thing. It was a small silver metal flower with five petals surrounding a round milky stone in the centre. It had been given to her by the wise man, Peter of Alexandria, whom she'd met on her mission to find eternal life. He'd told her to ensure she kept it with her always. Worn on a silver chain round her neck or wrist, she’d used it to call on him in the past.

Amani and Percival had bought this fine Georgian town house in London’s Mayfair and had named it Batalimus House. Now, more than a hundred years later it was still the headquarters of the Batalimus Company and the Guardians of Knowledge, who protected the Royal Alexandrian Library. Amani and Percival had made their comfortable home in half of the top floor, where once it provided accommodation for several maids a housekeeper, cook and butler. Amani had added the convenience of electricity and later, central heating.

In the other half of the top floor Sabine, her companion for those same 2050 years, had also made her home, but always alone except for the ethereal contact with her father Iken Malik and his long ago graduated apprentice Idir.

Both Amani and Sabine were destined to live forever after their successful quest to find the ingredients described in an ancient Chinese script, provided by Aurelius the Chief Librarian of the Great Alexandrian Library, just before it was sealed off from the Roman conquest of Alexandria in 29BC.

Amanishakete was destined to be the Last Chief Librarian with Sabine her eternal partner.

But today started as did many with them meeting in the gym, a floor converted in the mews cottage immediately behind Batalimus House. Once used to house the stables and carriages of the nineteenth century, it now provided parking for cars below the wooden floored gym.

Amani now in black tight-fitting Lycra, padded barefoot along the cool passage between the third floor of Batalimus House and the gym. Sabine was already there, warming up.

Their greeting was a brief smile. After all the years they rarely needed to exchange words. Once together a look, sometimes with a brief nod or a smile, was all that was needed for them to be connected. Those close to them, like Jean-Paul Picard the third member of their inner circle, had grown to recognise this subconscious and telepathic connection that existed between them. He also knew that beyond the veil of this dimension, they were connected to others from their past.

Of smaller stature, more ballerina in appearance than lithe warrior, Sabine also wore the same black Lycra. Her pale skin almost translucent, large ice blue eyes blazed from her pale heart shaped face, short light brown hair held back by a band. In her hand a fighting stick. Amani picked a fighting stick from the tube stand in a corner and they started slow almost dance-like movements, parrying and half striking until they were warm. Then, without obvious warning, the stick fight became a mesmerising high speed blur of motion, as the sticks clacked and hissed in parry and thrust strike and sweep and the two bodies whirled and stepped.

Amani had been stick fighting since a child in the Royal nursery of Meroë and had progressed to a high standard. She’d taught Sabine, who was a willing student and had quickly become a worthy opponent.

At one end of the gym was an old red brick chimney stack, and on either side fitted cabinets. To the right the cabinet was secured with locked steel doors. Inside were modern weapons and ammunition. To the left the cabinet was glass fronted and contained equally lethal, but less explosive weapons. Pride of place in the cabinet was taken by two Takoba swords and two Tellak daggers, traditional weapons of the Tuareg, but these were very special. They had been presented to Amani and Sabine by the Elders, a group of ten high ranking, powerful individuals who brought their influence to bear on private and public matters across the world, where decisions and action needed to be taken without delay. Many years before they’d agreed to bring their experience to bear for the benefit of Batalimus and the Royal Library. One of their momentous decisions, proposed by Batalimus, was to pass the Royal Library of Alexandra, protected and developed for two centuries by Amani, Sabine and the Guardians of Knowledge, to a new wing of the British Museum, under whose care their security and value would be safe into the future in a world that had become smaller and more dangerous.

This left Batalimus with the Secret Library, containing those texts describing lost secrets that if made available to the public, would likely be a danger to the safety of mankind. These texts and those which had commercial value in terms of the founding Principles, laid down and agreed by the original Ptolemy's were housed secretly in an old Cold War bunker deep in the hills near Glastonbury.

One of those texts disclosed how the metal Adamantine was made. This was the metal referred to in mythology as the metal of the Gods and described as being unbreakable, untarnishable, lightweight, resilient and able to cut through anything. Perseus was said to have used an Adamantine sword to decapitate the Gorgon Medusa and it was used by the gods to chain Prometheus.

The two swords and daggers in the cabinet had been made of Adamantine by scientists at the Ministry of Defence Science and Technology Laboratory at Porton Down, using a secret process described in the scroll from the Royal Library. They glowed blue gold.

They’d been first used in anger when, on their way home after the presentation by the Elders, Amani and Sabine had been ambushed by an arch enemy Oscar Reynolds intent on revenge. It had resulted in the death of Reynolds and serious injury to one of his men. The Adamantine weapons powerful in their own right, were even more so in the hands of Amani and Sabine, who lent their own powers to the weapons.

The stick fight had ended, they nodded respect to each other, cooled down and showered again for the day.

Professor Jane Jenkins had come up from the bunker in Somerset to report on progress with the Secret Library. Together with Jean-Paul, they were seated around the meeting table in Amani’s office when a call came up from reception. There was a brief discussion before Amani said, send him up with an escort.

Seems we have an unexpected visitor, Amani said to the others. Claims to have some documents we should be interested in.

The door to the office opened and a heavy set Guardian in a dark grey suit ushered a small round shouldered, wizened, nut brown man into the room who immediately removed his cap to reveal a bald brown head. A wispy grey beard straggled several inches from his chin. He wore round wire rimmed glasses behind which were small round intelligent brown eyes. Amani noticed Jane take a sidelong squint at the man and then purse her lips.

How can we help you? Amani asked standing and towering over the man.

I have something you will find interesting, the man said in a surprisingly rich voice, with only a trace of Arabic accent.

Who are you? Amani asked.

Hakim Azzi.

I knew it! Jane declared loudly, standing up and surprising everyone. I thought I recognised you!

The man seemed to see Jane for the first time and his eyes widened.

Oh! Professor Jenkins. I did not know you were here! Azzi responded.

No! Obviously not. You scoundrel!

Oh dear. Oh dear, the little man said moving self-consciously from one foot to the other.

This is Professor Hakim Azzi, Jane said almost spitting out the word 'professor'. He is a thief!

I protest, Professor Jenkins. Nothing was ever proven. Azzi responded.

Enough! Amani said commandingly. What is this all about Jane?

I was on a dig in Iraq many years ago. A horde of Abbasid gold coins was discovered and then disappeared, at the same time as this man, she pointed at Azzi, also disappeared!

I didn’t ... Azzi started to say, but Amani put up a hand to stop him.

Let us see what Professor Azzi has brought and then we can move on. She beckoned Azzi across. Show us what you have.

The little man took a folder from under his arm, placed it on the meeting table and opened it. Inside was an ancient document.

Amani turned the folder around and moved it towards Jane.

What do you think? she asked.

Jane put on a pair of white cotton gloves, that she habitually had with her, and examined the single fragile looking sheet. She became increasingly engrossed the more she looked at it, accompanied by some mumbles and grunts. Eventually she looked up.

Abbasid, probably tenth century. Paper may have been manufactured in Baghdad, but I’d need to analyse it more closely. Arabic translation of part of Ptolemy’s Almagest, I believe.

Where did you steal it? Jane demanded.

I didn’t steal it. I, I, I borrowed it. Azzi stammered.

Like you borrowed the gold dinars, most likely! Jane mocked.

There was a silent exchange between Amani and Sabine.

Why did you bring this to us Professor? Sabine said gently, her ice blue eyes capturing the small man.

Hakim Azzi seemed to grow larger and appear more confident under Sabine’s gaze.  

I believe, he cleared his throat and his voice became a little stronger, that this is from the lost library of the House of Wisdom.

Amani could see that Jane was about to say something derogatory, and catching her eye, subtly shook her head. Jane calmed down and bit her lip.

With his focus still held by Sabine, Hakim Azzi continued.

You know of the ancient city of Ctesiphon, the capital of the Sassanian Persians.

Sabine nodded. She, Amani and Jean-Paul had been there when they’d met Aleah Pahlavi, the descendent of the last Shah of Iran, and seen the end of the power hungry Farhad Kordestani, but Azzi would be very unlikely to know that.

I have a friend, Hakim Azzi continued, who has been digging under the Taq Kasra. He says they’ve found the Persian kings palace and now they’ve uncovered a hall of books.

So, why would we be interested, Professor? Sabine asked."

I believe you protected the Alexandrian Library until it was moved to the British Museum, he answered. The House of Wisdom would be a fine addition to the Alexandrian Library, but there are others who would see it destroyed and even more who’d want to possess it.

Amani could see that Jane was getting angry again and stepped in.

One document is no proof of the existence of an entire library, Professor Azzi. She stated.

I have pictures, Hakim Azzi quickly added, taking a memory stick from his pocket and handing it to Amani. Amani passed it to Jean-Paul who inserted it into the smart screen on the wall and taking a remote, found the first picture.

A rather dark photograph appeared on screen. They could just make out what appeared to be an arched roof over a large space. To either side and on the floor, there seemed to be a muddle of documents, scrolls and books.

The next picture was brighter and was a closer view of some of the documents. Several other, similar pictures, followed.

If this is part of the House of Wisdom what is in it for you Professor? Amani asked sternly.

My reputation was almost destroyed by the theft of the gold dinars. Azzi looked sideways at Jane as if expecting some retort.

There was a hurrumph from Jane.

I want to regain my reputation, Hakim Azzi continued seriously. Being involved in the discovery of the House of Wisdom could do that, if I worked with you.

There was silence for a few seconds. Everyone was waiting for Amani to respond.

Will you leave us this document to examine further Professor Azzi? she said. We could then discuss your proposal in a few days. How long would you need Professor Jenkins? Amani asked turning to Jane.

Three days. Jane answered promptly.

Hakim Azzi hesitated only for a moment, before agreeing.

Then let us meet here again on Thursday morning at nine. Amani concluded.

As Hakim Azzi was shown out, Amani motioned to Jean-Paul. He knew exactly what she wanted and arranged for a Guardian to follow Azzi.

Chapter Two – A Challenge

S o, Conrad, what do you think?

The question was posed in a New England accent by the younger of the two men, as they sat at a white table and chairs on the Ocean Terrace of the Oyster Box hotel in Umhlanga Rocks, KwaZulu Natal. Just beyond the swimming pool below them stood the red and white Umhlanga lighthouse and beyond that, the seemingly endless blue of the Indian Ocean. The remains of their lunch were just being cleared by the white aproned grey waist-coated waiter, as the older and plumper of the two men slowly rolled a brandy glass in his palms.

It’s a lot of money for something I’m not sure I want Edward, the older man finally responded, his accent the Queen’s English.

First edition bibles are very rare, Conrad.

Yes, but I have a Gutenberg and not many people can say that. I’d like something different.

What did you have in mind?

The older man took a sip of his brandy and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

Conrad De Vere was reputedly the third wealthiest industrialist in the world. His factories had single handedly created more carbon emissions than some entire developed countries.

At sixty five, and over six feet, he was still an imposing figure. An athlete in his youth, he’d often represented Oxford, his Alma mater. Now, his large square head boasted a couple of chins and sparse grey hair, but he was no fool and would tolerate none. Keen grey eyes under heavy brows surveyed the world with a hint of cynicism born of a lifetime of the cut and thrust of commerce, but his features were fine, distinguished and commanding and he attracted attention wherever he went. Knighted for his contribution to industry he rarely used the title and found those who addressed him as Lord Oxford, except in an official capacity, exceedingly tiresome. Even though he was the first Lord Oxford since 1703.

With two ex wives still living comfortably off his money, he’d married his third, Caroline, nearly ten years ago. Even now he was still puzzled by the love - combative relationship they’d developed. He admired beautiful women with brains and Caroline was a prime example. She could beat him in many intellectual debates and unsettle him when he was being cavalier with the truth, with a carefully raised, perfectly presented eyebrow and a knowing look. What made it worse, was an example that had happened earlier, when lunch was being served. A tall, slim woman with short ash grey hair had passed their table. He’d caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. Was it her. Was it Caroline? Had been his immediate reaction. He’d whipped round to realise that it wasn’t, but just the thought that it might have been was enough for him to wish it was and momentarily unsettle him. For a man whose childhood had been singularly marked by having no siblings and parents whose attention was fleeting and occasional at best, his emotion towards Caroline was puzzling, but he’d returned to the conversation with Edward Maltravers with just a passing frown.

Edward Maltravers, the slim younger man, seemed at ease in his crisp white cotton short sleeved shirt and navy blue slacks. He was traditionally good looking, with short wavy light brown hair and regular features. A casual observation may have produced the impression of spoilt foppishness, but a closer inspection would have dispelled that and replaced it with the certainty that here was a man with tightly wound kinetic energy, competent and possibly even dangerous.

So, come on Conrad, what’s it to be? Maltravers pressed.

I want something unique. Something that’s known about, but been considered lost to mankind, De Vere said a little wistfully as he looked out across the Indian Ocean. It must have been created by hand, maybe translated and written by ancient scholars. If the Alexandrian Library hadn’t been found and given to the British Museum, that would be a perfect example.

So! Maltravers exclaimed, a little sarcastically, a nice, easy commission!

Nothing that’s not beyond your abilities Edward. Now I must get on. Come and see me when you have something, but it must be above board as usual.

With that Conrad De Vere got to his feet and strolled from the terrace acknowledging the nods of the staff as he left. Two tables away from the one he and Maltravers had been occupying a man and a woman also rose from their chairs. The man quickly caught up with De Vere and remained a few paces behind him. The woman called a waiter across and settled the bill. By the time De Vere had reached the red carpet at the hotel’s entrance a dark blue Rolls Royce Phantom was waiting. De Vere stepped in to the salute of the red sashed, white uniformed hotel staff. Behind, the young man and woman got into a black Mercedes S500 and almost immediately the two cars pulled off, turned into Lighthouse Road towards the N2 and then north to King Shaka International airport.

Edward Maltravers was left looking contemplatively out over the Indian ocean as De Vere had before him.

Can I get you anything, sir? a waiter asked.

Double espresso, please, Maltravers replied without looking up.

This is going to be interesting, he said softly under his breath. Something unique, lost to mankind. Something like the Alexandrian Library.

He ran through his memory of unique books, manuscripts and libraries. It was mind boggling. He knew a lot about old books, but it was just one of his areas of expertise.

Nearly ten years ago he’d stumbled onto an opportunity that had proven to become highly lucrative, if often illegal, but he didn’t mind that.

His mother had died whilst he was still a child, but his father had lived on and been reasonably well off, having spent his life selling Americana and New England antiques. When he died he left everything to Edward as his only child, but Edward had only a little interest in antiques and no interest in being tied down continuing the business. He decided to sell it. He’d learnt quite a bit from his father, more by osmosis than study, and wanting to get the best penny for the business he went through the old home and the antique shop carefully. That was when he found the manuscript.

In a bottom drawer of his father’s bureau was a black cardboard folder tied with faded red ribbon. It was dusty and clearly hadn’t been opened in many years. Inside was a copy of the American Declaration of Independence. Nothing unusual, he’d thought. But it niggled at his mind. His father had been no fool, so why keep it tucked away. Some research and a visit to an expert revealed that after the original handwritten document had been signed by the Founding Fathers, several hundred first edition copies had been printed in Philadelphia, to be distributed throughout the Colonies. Even though none of the copies were signed, the one that Edward now had was attested to be one of the original first edition copies.

He sold it for $7.5 million Dollars.

That was when he realised that there were people who would pay huge sums for scarce or unique items.

He set too, with his new found financial security, to find those things that the rich would pay for. His new career fed his desire for travel, change the unexpected and money and he quickly discovered that it was the hunt and chase that he loved most.

Now, ten years on, he was the go-to man for those who wanted something special, something unique, and were often not too particular how it was obtained. Conrad De Vere had been one of his clients for several years and an honest one at that. Now he needed to do some research, to find something that would fit the commission De Vere had given him, but before that he had some unfinished business to attend to.

Chapter Three – Revenge

South Africa is a dangerous place, even for tourists, but Edward wasn't one. He'd worked there in the past when the looting and graft had started after the death of Nelson Mandela.

Mandela's presence and international standing had just about held together the change from a white Nationalist government to a Black democratic one. But stability, fairness and equality had been almost entirely embodied in Nelson Mandela himself. Once he'd gone, the vultures had started to pick apart the body and bones of a once thriving country for their own benefit. Anything was for sale, particularly Government contracts and institutions, with the proceeds going under the table to dishonest and corrupt officials, politicians and businessmen.

South Africa is a young country by international standards, it's relatively civilised history a mere dot on the timeline of the worlds story, but it had moveable assets that were ripe to be picked by the young Maltravers just then starting out on a new career. He was happy then to buy and sell in the tens or hundreds of thousands of US Dollars, rather than the millions he often dealt in today.

He'd been lured by an official, Busiso Delani Zulu, who promised he could obtain original artworks by Pierneef and Sekoto and Edward Maltravers had a customer who would buy them. Having paid a 50% deposit, he'd chartered a plane and flown into Waterkloof military airbase, under cover of darkness, with the assurance that his visit wouldn't be recorded. Everything seemed to go according to plan. The plane landed and taxied to a remote corner where he was met by his contact and a sealed wooden crate. The sealed crate in itself should have made him suspicious, but the excitement of the deal had made him careless. Edward had demanded that the crate be opened so he could inspect his purchases, but a heated discussion ensued when Zulu refused to open it saying that it was too dangerous to hang about.

Suddenly the area was flooded with lights, the crate quickly loaded and the plane airborne. Edward had been duped. The crate contained some cheap canvases and he was several hundred thousand Dollars worse off. It was a hard lesson to learn, but now there was to be a reckoning for Busiso Delani Zulu.

Zulu had made a fortune, from illicit and dishonest dealings, and lived in luxury in the hills just outside Pretoria. His home was surrounded by high walls, electric fences, CCTV and AK47 armed guards, but Edward had one talent that was perfect for the job.

He'd spent a great part of his youth in the outdoors of New England, where he'd honed his marksmanship with the .22 long rifle his father had bought him. He'd bet and won pocket money from friends, hitting targets that they thought it was impossible for him to hit. He'd gone on, as a teenager, to become highly proficient in competitions where the prizes were more valuable.

It had been more than five years since Zulu had stolen his money, but for some things, Edward had ultimate patience.

Staying on a friends farm in the Gauteng veld he'd shown interest in a Mauser Karabiner 98k bolt action sniper rifle in his friends firearms safe. Willingly lending Edward the rifle to try out on the expanse of the farm, Edward spent time carefully calibrating the sights.