Damned by the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  Surely, he knew the answer, so why torture her like this? “I don’t know. I can’t remember,” she said, quietly. She focused on her shoes. Black polished leather. A picture flashed into her mind. Sitting on a train. Looking down at her dusty boots.

  “I don’t…remember.”

  “Look at me.”

  She resisted, but her face moved upward anyway.

  “Gabriele. Such a pretty name. What is your surname?”

  Tears filled Gabriele’s eyes. She struggled to recall it, as she had every day since she had regained sufficient awareness to be concerned with it. It wouldn’t come. She shook her head.

  “I can’t remember. You must know who I am. You took me away from my home, my family, everything, and for what? The portrait is done. And don’t forget…the dagger.”

  “The dagger. Ah yes, the dagger that is no longer any use to you. Without the armlet, you cannot summon the dagger and, believe me, you have seen the last of that armlet. Now is the time for honesty. Let’s start with your name. It is Josefa.”

  “What?”

  “Josefa Lederer. You are my cook.”

  Gabriele stared at him. What new insanity was this?

  “Your cook? That’s impossible. I’m no cook, and my name is Gabriele.”

  “How do you know? You only know your name is Gabriele because I told you so. Now I am telling you that your name is Josefa Lederer and you are a cook. You have been working for me since your husband died tragically soon after you were married.”

  How could he say this? “No, you’re lying. I’m Gabriele. I have never been married…” Or had she? How would she know?

  “No, my dear Frau Lederer. You are mistaken. Butters took pity on you and employed you on my behalf when I was in Egypt.”

  “Then why can’t I remember any of this?”

  “You don’t remember being ill? You were so sick, it’s a miracle you survived. The doctor prescribed strong pills. You had lost your memory and he warned me you would become disoriented and delusional. But it will pass, in time.”

  “But I don’t know how to cook.”

  “I can assure you that you do. You are a fine cook.”

  Gabriele thumped the heels of her hands into her forehead. “I am Gabriele. I am from…from…”

  “Accept what I say. It will go far easier for you. Butters will look after you. I believe he has taken quite a shine to you.”

  She lowered her hands. It couldn’t be true. But what reason could he have for lying about something as crazy as this? “You’re telling me that I am not Gabriele but some cook called Josefa?”

  “Precisely.” Quintillus rang the bell and Butters came in a few seconds later. “Ah, Butters. Frau Lederer has forgotten who she is again. I am afraid she still thinks she is called Gabriele.” He turned back to her. “You see, when you came here, you didn’t know who you were and we had to call you something. Gabriele seemed to suit you and is such a pleasant name. Then Butters asked around and we found out who you really were. But I’m afraid that other name sticks in your mind on occasion.”

  Why wouldn’t her mind clear? Why couldn’t she remember any of this? She said the first thing of which she was certain. “I sat for Herr Klimt.”

  “Indeed you did, and a fine job you made of it, too. Now, go with Butters and he will explain everything, and remind you of your duties again.”

  She followed the silent butler down into the basement kitchen. Nothing looked familiar. I don’t belong here.

  “Mr. Butters, this is madness. You know I’m not the cook. I can remember my room and the dining room. I can remember nothing of this kitchen.”

  Butters frowned. His German was clipped, with a slight accent. “Your room, Frau Lederer? You don’t mean the room you have just been in?”

  “Of course. Surely that’s been my room ever since I was brought here.”

  Butters shook his head. “Oh no. That is one of the guest rooms. Your room is on the top floor and, as for the dining room, of course you have been in there. The master has summoned you there on occasion to compliment you on your cooking. Now, do you recall any of your duties, or shall I go through it all again? You can surely remember how to cook?”

  Could she cook? Gabriele—no, she must call herself Josefa now. Josefa. It sounded so strange. Unfamiliar. But so much of her recent past remained a blur. It must be right. If only she could concentrate. Recall anything that would tie her to the Gabriele identity. But she drew a total blank. So she was Josefa Lederer. Why did that name mean nothing to her?

  Butters was studying her face and she read something surprising in his expression. His dour features had softened. If she wasn’t mistaken, Quintillus was right. Butters was quite taken with her. When he spoke, his words were almost tender.

  “Dear Josefa. I have watched you struggle so hard with your identity and the terrible grief you have had to bear. Please remember, I am always here to support and help you.” He shook his head. “I have learned in my time that sometimes it is better to leave your past behind and embrace a new life.”

  A bell interrupted her troubled thoughts and the butler went to answer it. The moment had passed. When he returned, carrying a small phial of a bronze-colored liquid, his face had once more assumed its tight, closed expression. Gabriele sensed he knew he had already said too much. She would get nothing further from him.

  “The master says you are to drink this. It will make you feel better. I will mix it with a little brandy.”

  She stood and waited while he poured the contents of the small bottle into a tumbler and added a small amount of cooking brandy. He handed it to her and she took it.

  “Drink it all now.” She hadn’t imagined it. His voice had grown much softer.

  She looked at it warily. What if they intended to poison her? She pushed the thought away. If she was indeed Josefa Lederer, the cook, there were much simpler ways to dispense with her.

  She sipped the liquid, wincing at the mix of the bitterness of the concoction and the burning of the alcohol as it slipped down her throat. She coughed.

  “Just a little more. Drain the glass,” the butler said.

  Josefa drank it down and handed him the empty tumbler. Almost instantly, a warm blanket of soothing sensations swept over her. The butler steered her to a chair and she sank down into it, closing her eyes. She heard his voice fading into the distance as her mind clouded over, then cleared.

  She opened her eyes and realized she was on a boat, gliding along the still waters of a mighty river. On either side, the banks rose up, desert on one side, fertile land on the other. The cloudless, cobalt-blue sky and warm sunshine caressed her and she sailed onward, neither knowing nor caring about her destination. She closed her eyes and lay back, letting the sun’s rays warm her. In the distance, a gentle thrum, rhythmic, growing louder.

  Louder.

  Louder.

  She opened her eyes. She was no longer lying on a boat. The river had vanished, the sky had turned gunmetal gray. The gentle thrum had become a rushing wind, tearing toward her, scattering rain-filled clouds. She needed shelter. All around her, brown dust whirled. She choked as she swallowed some. Then the rain came. The dust turned to sludge. Still the wind roared as she had never heard it before. Unreal. Unnatural.

  Lightning flashed and struck the ground. Sparks flew upward. Once, twice, three times, then so fast she couldn’t distinguish one from another.

  One massive bolt lit up the sky so brightly, she shaded her eyes with her hands. There was something in that flash. Something that stayed when it expired.

  In front of her, in the swirling maelstrom of wind and dirty rain, a female figure took form. A woman who belonged in another age. Another country. A woman in a flowing scarlet gown who stared at Josefa with such intensity, she couldn’t meet her eyes.

  The woman spoke, in a language Josefa didn’t und
erstand. But when the outstretched hand touched her shoulder, a sword of pain sliced through her. She sank to her knees. The woman loomed over her. This time when she spoke, Josefa understood every word.

  “Your body shall be mine and your spirit released to cross the desert and find peace.”

  To be at peace. Yes, that would be good. No more worrying about who she really was, where she had come from and what her future might hold. This woman wanted her body? She was welcome to it. It no longer felt like her own anyway.

  “Do what you must,” Josefa said, softly.

  The storm blew itself out like a snuffed candle. In the distance, another figure approached. A godlike creature, part animal and part man, who raised a curiously shaped staff.

  The woman moved closer to Josefa, who readied herself for what would come.

  The god opened his doglike mouth and roared. The woman put out her hands and grasped Josefa’s shoulders. A momentary sharp tug at the very core of her being, and then she was out. Released. Witnessing the scene from above. Her body. Another woman inhabiting it. Standing alone. But who had she become?

  One name floated into her consciousness.

  Arsinoe. And she carried her golden dagger.

  The body that had so recently been hers moved. Its new occupant flexed arm muscles, examined long, tapering fingers that had so recently done Josefa’s bidding.

  Her spirit stirred as memory returned. No. Not Josefa. Not anymore. Gabriele.

  Finally, she knew who she was.

  Now she could go. Her spirit soared, as a great white bird bore her away.

  * * * *

  In the kitchen, Arsinoe looked out of new eyes. It only took her moments to adjust to her new body. She had done this so many times before.

  The butler was speaking to her. His expression changed from one of concern to one of confusion and then momentary fear before his features set in a hardened look of resignation.

  Arsinoe smiled and the confusion returned. Confusion mixed with fear.

  The butler pointed at her. “Your eyes. What’s happened to your eyes?”

  Chapter 19

  The butler looked crushed. He stared at Arsinoe as if he had never seen her before.

  “Your eyes,” he repeated. “The color. How can they have changed? You had brown eyes. I know you had brown eyes…” His voice trailed away.

  Arsinoe knew what he saw. The woman he knew variously as Gabriele and Josefa now had the deep violet eyes of Arsinoe and her sister Cleopatra—the only physical change—but this man would notice. After all, he was in love with the cook. Such a faithful servant. Colluding with his employer in the tissue of lies and deception he had forced on the girl whom he had imprisoned and drugged for his own ends. How he loved to wield power over people. Power! Compared to her, the man barely knew the meaning of the word. And all because of his obsession with her treacherous, murdering sister. But that’s what made him so useful to her.

  Arsinoe would have pitied the so-proper English butler if she could. If she had still been Gabriele; but all trace of her humanity had left her. In life she had possessed precious little anyway. In her family, to show compassion was to show weakness, and to show weakness was to invite your murderer.

  Her father had shown no compassion for her eldest sister, Berenice. He had ordered her murder in order to recapture his throne. Arsinoe had learned from his actions. But he had taught her sister Cleopatra even better, and on her orders Arsinoe had been hacked to death on the steps of the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus. Her vengeance ran deep. Her sister must pay the price for Arsinoe’s early death. Instead of lying in peace near her lover, Mark Antony, Arsinoe had long ago determined that Cleopatra should not rest but should be doomed to wander between the worlds of life and death.

  Quintillus’s obsession with Cleopatra played into Arsinoe’s hands. Now she had a way of not only torturing her sister’s spirit by keeping it in limbo, she could also torture it by dragging it into the world of the living and forcing her to live with a man who was obsessed with her.

  Arsinoe set about her new tasks in her new body. Quintillus wanted the woman he had chosen to call Josefa to cook for him? She would do so, and soon she would help him achieve his goal. She would pose as his ally and reveal her true identity to him. Cleopatra would be reborn, conscious of being ripped away from the man she truly loved and forced into this new, unwanted existence.

  Arsinoe smiled to herself. The centuries had taught her to be patient; that getting what she wanted made everything worthwhile. Even to the extent of working as a humble cook. All she needed was to focus on her ultimate goal.

  Quintillus knew how to be patient, too. After Gabriele had slipped from his clutches in Berlin, he had followed her to Vienna. The search for Cleopatra’s tomb had taken longer than expected and the artist—Klimt—needed to be tried out first. Only when everything was ready did Quintillus make his move on the girl. Now, Arsinoe would benefit from that. Oh, she would continue to look like Gabriele, but the butler would know. He saw it in her eyes already. Quintillus would simply have to wait a little longer for his prize.

  Butters left the kitchen quietly. His confusion showed in the frown, the slight shake of his head.

  * * * *

  “Frau Lederer. I wish to compliment you on a most excellent meal.” Quintillus set his brandy glass down on the small table next to him. “I am pleased you have settled into your role here and that we are to have no more confusion as to your identity.”

  Arsinoe smiled. “Thank you, Herr Doktor. Indeed, I am well aware of who I am, but perhaps you are not.”

  Quintillus’s expression held only questions.

  “I will show you.” Arsinoe raised her hand and pointed to the ceiling painting. In a corner of it, the river bank was covered in dense foliage. Quintillus watched. The painting became misty, indistinct, then hidden from sight. Quintillus continued to stare, transfixed.

  The mist cleared and, in that corner of the picture, a new figure emerged, painted wearing a scarlet dress and holding back the reeds that obscured her view. Her visible features resembled those of Cleopatra on her golden barge, though sufficiently different to suggest a sibling relationship rather than a depiction of the same person. The figure stood in silhouette as did Arsinoe herself, and Quintillus looked from one to the other.

  “You have painted yourself into the picture, but how have you done that?”

  “To know the answer to that, you first have to believe. You, Quintillus, do believe. You searched for my sister, found her, and believe you can bring her back to life. To a life where she will live with you. Be your wife. Love you as much as you worship her.”

  “It was my life’s work to find her. I succeeded in bringing her back to life. For a time at least, and with the help of the gods. But, ultimately, I failed. This time it will be different. I know now what I should have done. I have the powerful statue of Set, and ashes from her tomb. The artist mixed them with his paint to give the portrait power. This time, I have all I need. I can bring her back. The scroll told me so.”

  “You think you have all you need, but you do not. Without my power you are doomed to failure. The girl, Gabriele, is not yours. She would have done you no good. I have a proposition for you. I have a score to settle with my sister. You wish to possess her for all time. I can help you achieve your life’s ambition and keep my sister from her eternal rest.”

  “But how will it be done?”

  “You will see.”

  A glow began in the far corner of the library. It pulsed, grew, became defined.

  The god Set stood before him. Alive, powerful.

  Arsinoe smiled. Now, my sister. Now I will have my revenge.

  Vienna 2018

  Chapter 20

  Ryan knocked back a slug of brandy and poured himself another. “You know I’ve had trouble believing all this stuff, but too much has been hap
pening and I can’t explain any of it. Not one bit. God knows I’ve tried.”

  “I know, Ryan. I know. I would feel the same way as you if I hadn’t experienced what I have. Quintillus is real. He’s powerful and he means us harm. It’s not as if moving away will help us. Look at today in Madame Tussauds.”

  “Heidi couldn’t tell you why he wants her?”

  Yvonne shook her head. “She seems to be getting her information from Paula somehow. Quintillus is utterly ruthless. He was obsessed with Cleopatra his entire life and that obsession is what keeps him earthbound now he’s dead. At least, that’s the gist of what I can make out from Heidi. He’s made numerous attempts at reincarnating Cleopatra, but they’ve all ultimately failed. In some cases, as a result of Cleopatra’s own actions. Whether he thinks that using a child as some kind of medium will make the difference, I don’t know.”

  Ryan ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t get my head around this at all. Are we actually having this conversation? This sort of thing happens in films, books…not in real life.”

  Yvonne put her arms around him and he laid his head on her shoulder. In that moment, she felt closer to him than she had for months. She shared his pain and she knew he was as scared as she was.

  Ryan lifted his head. “What the hell do we do now? Get an exorcist? A priest?”

  “I don’t think it would do much good. Paula tried that and look what happened to her and Phil. Not to mention the woman they brought in. We should call the police. If there really are two bodies in the basement—and I truly believe there must be.”

  Ryan disentangled himself from Yvonne’s arms. “What would we tell them? They’ll never believe the truth and at best they could prosecute us for wasting police time. At worst we could end up being suspects.”

  “Well, we can’t just stand by and do nothing. Our daughter’s life is in danger.”

  “I’m calling that locksmith. We’ve got to find out one way or another exactly what’s down there.” Ryan took his phone from his pocket and found the number. The call was answered almost immediately and a rapid exchange of increasingly frantic German followed.