Wrath of the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  In daylight, the yellowing scroll looked ancient, worn and stained. Professor Mayer carefully unrolled it. He laid it down on the desk, placing paperweights and books to hold the corners flat. All four edges were torn and ragged, the bottom in worse condition than the others. Adeline leaned over. The handwritten script used an alphabet she didn’t recognize.

  The professor bent and peered closely at the cramped words. “Ancient Greek. Cleopatra and her family were of Greek descent, you know.”

  “Can you understand what it says?”

  “I’m a little rusty, but, yes. I should be able to translate this. It would appear to have been written by a contemporary of Mark Antony and Cleopatra’s. Someone who took great pains to provide an accurate account of exactly where she was buried and also of the dire consequences for anyone who should attempt to separate her from her beloved.”

  “Do we know who wrote it? Is there a signature?”

  The professor studied it carefully. “There doesn’t appear to be. In any case, the writer of this wouldn’t consider his name to be of any consequence. He—and it was almost undoubtedly a male—acted out of love and loyalty to his queen.”

  Professor Mayer removed the weights and rolled up the scroll, which he placed in his bag.

  “Now I can see why you brought that,” Adeline said.

  Professor Mayer smiled. “I hoped I might find something to put in it today.”

  “But Professor, if we’ve angered whatever is down there sufficiently, aren’t we in danger of ending up like Dr. Quintillus?”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it. My dear Adeline, stay calm a little longer. I am convinced that the answers lie in this scroll, which I will begin work on as soon as I return to the hotel. If I run into difficulties, I can always use their telephone to talk to one of my former colleagues. Please try not to worry. I will meet you tomorrow at six thirty in the lobby of my hotel. We shall have some dinner in their excellent restaurant and I shall report my progress. In the meantime, I suggest you stay out of this room except when you’re working, and on no account venture down into the basement or up to the late doctor’s room.”

  “I can assure you I have no intention of doing either of those things. And I will take your advice about this room.”

  Not that it would stop the picture from manifesting itself on her bedroom wall. Adeline tried to put that thought out of her mind.

  * * * *

  That night, she slept better and woke refreshed for once. The strange events of the previous day seemed impossible. If she had been alone, she could have probably convinced herself she had imagined or dreamed them.

  She glanced at the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. No picture. She washed and dressed and went down in time to see Butters crossing the hall with her breakfast tray in his hands.

  “Good morning, Butters,” she said.

  He stopped and turned. “Good morning, madam.”

  Still the disdainful formality. Adeline chose to ignore it.

  Butters laid the tray in front of her.

  “Did you have an enjoyable day off yesterday?” she asked. Butters seemed taken aback. He obviously hadn’t expected to be asked such a question.

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Good.” Adeline had begun to wonder if he had heard her. His expression had changed. His eyes were wide and staring at a point over and behind her head. His complexion blanched.

  Adeline turned her head to follow his gaze. She jumped out of her chair at the sight of the green incandescence, barely perceptible, but clearly pulsating. She moved round the desk.

  “How often have you seen that, Butters?”

  The strange glow vanished. The butler drew himself together. “Seen what, madam?”

  “That green light.”

  “I saw nothing, madam.”

  Adeline went back to her side of the desk and faced the butler. Anger coiled cobra-like in her stomach. “Why are you lying? You saw that green glow as clearly as I did. Now, how many times have you seen it before?”

  “I don’t know what you are referring to, madam. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  He left her alone. Adeline chewed her lip. That butler knew far more than he was prepared to reveal, and he was easily as scared as she was. That might prove useful.

  * * * *

  A few days later, Professor Mayer was waiting for her in the lobby of his hotel, a glass of Madeira in front of him and a black notebook placed next to it. Adeline sat down opposite him.

  “How are you getting on with the scroll?” she asked.

  “Very well. Better than I thought. It’s funny how it all comes back to you. Even though I believed I’d forgotten so much classical Greek, as soon as I began, the words started to return and I have completed almost half of it.”

  “And what have you learned?”

  “That the late doctor should have taken heed of the entire contents of the scroll and not only the parts that led him to Cleopatra’s tomb. The scroll says that Cleopatra was buried clutching the gold statue of Set to protect her in the afterlife and keep her spirit close to Mark Antony’s. Should the statue be removed, her spirit would accompany it. This much I already gathered, but what I didn’t know until now was the precise nature of the dire warnings of what would happen to anyone removing that statue. These are the warnings the late doctor chose to ignore, at his peril. I, on the other hand, am inclined to give them credence. Especially after what we saw in the basement.”

  “What was the curse? That Dr. Quintillus would be killed?”

  “Not just killed. The curse read that anyone removing the statue from the tomb would suffer death from every drop of liquid being drained from the body. All that would remain of them would be a dry husk, doomed to walk the place of their incarceration. In Dr. Quintillus’s case, that, I believe, is the basement of his own house.”

  “But he didn’t die until two years after he stole the statue. He even had chance to write his memoirs. And what about the portrait?”

  “I was coming to that. As for the time delay, it is not uncommon, in legend at least, to read of such a curse not being enacted for months or even years after the event which has precipitated it. It’s like a ticking clock, attached to a bomb. Only the one who issued the curse knows when it will go off. As for the portrait, the scroll describes the potency of the mummy of the deceased queen. Dr. Quintillus must have deduced that, by using the dust in the creation of the painting, he would be able to make Cleopatra live again.”

  “And the model for the portrait?”

  Professor Mayer shook his head. “I have no idea. The scroll doesn’t mention that. At least not yet. I should imagine he searched for someone who looked a lot like her. Maybe he even brought her back with him from Egypt, although I’m assuming he didn’t mention this.”

  “No.”

  “Then that at least will have to remain a mystery. For the moment, at any rate. The scroll also hints at the great age of the statue. It says it was blessed by the god himself. I cannot possibly pass judgment on that.”

  The professor leaned on his stick to hoist himself to his feet. Adeline assisted him.

  “Thank you, my dear. Let’s go and eat. I am famished. They do an excellent pike-perch here. Have you ever eaten Zanderfilet?”

  Adeline shook her head.

  “It’s often called pike-perch because it has characteristics of both fish. A delicious local specialty.”

  Frau Lederer’s dishes were always tasty and well-cooked, but tonight Adeline felt pampered, even to the extent of a glass of chilled, white wine. It lifted her spirits and managed to dampen down some of the raw edges of her apprehension.

  After the dishes had been cleared, Professor Mayer leaned closer. The restaurant was almost full, with plenty of chatter to drown out their conversation.

  “Now I come to the diffi
cult part of my discoveries today.”

  Adeline inhaled deeply.

  “By the way you’re talking, would I be right in guessing this is the part that concerns me?”

  “Yes, my dear, I’m afraid you would, if my deductions are correct and, of course, there is always the possibility they may not be.”

  But Adeline knew the professor well enough to know that if he had even the slightest doubt of his facts, he wouldn’t mention them to her. She steeled herself.

  “The scroll says that most of Cleopatra’s children were raised in Rome by Octavia, who had been the first wife of Mark Antony. There was a set of twins—Alexander Helios and Cleopatra Selene—born out of the union between Cleopatra and Mark Antony. All of this is in recorded history, but the scroll goes onto state that, should the gold statue be removed and the curse be enacted, only one person will be able to set it right and that is a direct descendent of Cleopatra and Mark Antony. You once told me of the old legends in your family. That you were directly descended from Cleopatra.”

  “But that was fantasy. No one really believed it.”

  “I think you should begin to believe it, my dear, because proof will shortly be on its way from Oxford.”

  “How can there be proof? This happened two thousand years ago. No one can trace their family line back that far.”

  “You told me that your mother had been brought up believing she was descended from Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Her mother had told her, and her grandmother had passed on the legend to her. Why isn’t it possible that each successive mother has told their children the same thing?”

  Adeline’s mind raced. “But even assuming for one moment that I am related to her, there must be thousands of us. It’s not beyond the bounds of coincidence that Dr. Quintillus’s lawyers would happen to choose one of us. We probably walk past relations every day, but we don’t know them.”

  “Very true, my dear, but you see, there is a little more to it than that. I said proof of your genealogy was on its way and then you will see. My Oxford friend informed me that he had become convinced beyond all reasonable doubt that you are Cleopatra’s descendant and it is most important for Dr. Quintillus that you should be.”

  “But why, Professor? I don’t understand. He’s dead. Killed by a curse he was responsible for triggering.”

  “Dead, yes, but not resting in peace. His spirit still longs for his beloved Cleopatra. To spend eternity with her. Only one person can make that happen. It has to be a direct descendant of Cleopatra herself. This is why you were chosen. My friend told me a firm of solicitors contacted him a year or so ago and asked him to research the descendants of Cleopatra and Mark Antony. He did so, spending many months on his painstaking work. Most of the lines petered out as yours will, should you not have children. This resulted in a surprising few. Around fifty are alive today, scattered all over the globe, anywhere from Russia to Africa and Asia. Most do not speak or write English. In the end, there were just two who did. One of those is in the United States and is elderly and infirm. That left you.”

  Adeline had listened, wide-eyed through all of this. “But supposing I hadn’t been a typist?”

  “That was their good fortune—or, should I say, the doctor’s. However, I believe the manuscript is a ruse. Dr. Quintillus never expected it to be published. Indeed, it if it was, all would be lost. His beloved queen’s final resting place would be revealed for all the world to visit and gawp at. It would be no time before her mummified corpse would be put on display at the British Museum or some such place.”

  Something else puzzled Adeline. “If the doctor was the only one still alive who knew the whereabouts of the scroll—and what it contained—who arranged for the lawyers to find me? If this happened a year or so ago, he was already dead.”

  “He may have known his fate before he died. Or, more likely, someone else acted out of loyalty. Someone in whom he may have confided.”

  “Butters?”

  “Perhaps. You said he had a cook who still works there?”

  “Frau Lederer, yes. Do you know, in all these weeks, I have never so much as laid eyes on her? She stays downstairs in her kitchen—”

  “Downstairs you say?” The professor’s eyes lit up.

  “Yes.” What a curious question.

  “The kitchen would be at the same level as the basement then?”

  “I suppose so, yes. Hopefully with a window or two though.”

  “And you have never been down there, or met her?”

  Adeline shook her head.

  “Then I would suggest it’s high time you did. Make up some excuse. Say you wish to compliment her on her delicious food. Anything you like, but get down there. Tomorrow if you can. I have a feeling what you learn may be of great interest to us. But do be careful.”

  “Oh I will. Frankly, Professor, I’m far too scared not to be. I would give anything to be able to pack up my typewriter and leave Vienna forever.” Adeline’s eyes filled with tears. The professor laid a comforting hand over hers. “I’m sorry,” she said, “All my life I longed to be able to visit the city my grandfather loved so much and for it to turn out like this… It’s like my whole world has come crashing down on me again.”

  * * * *

  The next day, she started on the latest pages. By now, Dr. Quintillus had moved on to write about the planned portrait of Cleopatra.

  My dilemma continues. To find the right model. The blend of striking looks and personality that will lift the picture off the canvas and make it live. In the hands of a master such as Herr Klimt, this will not be difficult, but a good artist must firstly have good material on which to exercise his supreme talent…

  Two pages on, success.

  I have found her! She was so close, but I failed to realize the essence of her existence, her true nature, until my eyes were opened… Yet there is something disquieting about the way she looks at me. Although she is my ideal of Cleopatra, she seems, at times, removed from reality. I noticed it first when I showed her the statue of Set. She held it for a second and a tremor passed through her entire body. She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time and her eyes stared through me. Her gaze was almost one of contempt. She handed me back the statue and the moment ended, but still I wonder. Did something pass from the statue to the woman? She seems different since that day…

  Adeline skipped through the rest of the day’s pages, searching for more on the enigmatic woman, but not once did Quintillus offer a name, location or any other detail except constant references to the woman’s beauty and queenly—if sometimes disturbing— presence.

  I will take her each day to Herr Klimt’s studio and I will wait for her. If I leave her alone with him for one second, I fear for the consequences, although not for the further extension of the artist’s reputation as a womanizer. Rather, I am concerned about what she will do. She barely speaks to me these days and eyes me with such contempt I would in other circumstances be inclined to sever all contact with her. Yet I need her. She is not my Cleopatra, I know that now, but her face is as near to the original as I am ever likely to get. She is beautiful, especially when she is dressed as my beloved queen. But deep within this woman lies a darkness, a blackness of soul such as I have never before encountered. It disturbs me greatly—and so does she.

  Around Adeline, the library was silent except for the crackling of the logs in the fire. She looked at her watch. Eleven fifteen. Time to put her plan into action. Her stomach churned with butterflies. Deception and duplicity were not in her nature, but she had to do as the professor and she had agreed.

  Outside the library, the hall was empty. No sign of Butters or Magda. Before she could lose her nerve, she made her way to the servant’s entrance and paused on the short landing. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her skirt and carefully made her way down the flight of stone steps. The warming aroma of roasting meat wafted up and the clatter of pa
ns told her the cook was about.

  At her approach, the woman looked up from her pastry-making. “Madam?”

  The voice belonged to a much younger woman than Adeline had expected. She had drawn her black hair into a tight bun, and wore a clean, white apron over a long mauve dress. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, exposing olive skin. Her face was unlined, with distinctive dark blue—no, violet—eyes.

  “Frau Lederer?” Adeline’s mouth ran dry. There was something familiar about this woman.

  “Yes? What can I do for you?”

  The dark eyes scrutinized her.

  Adeline swallowed. “I came down to say that I won’t be in for dinner again tomorrow, and also to introduce myself. I have been here for six weeks and we have never met.” Adeline completed her descent of the steps, dropped her skirt and put out her hand to the cook, who ignored it. “I am Adeline Ogilvy.”

  “Yes, madam. I know.” The woman spoke with a noticeable accent. German was clearly not her first language, despite her Teutonic surname.

  Adeline lowered her hand and glanced around the immaculate kitchen. On the walls, copper pans gleamed. Shelves, laden with all manner of bowls, dishes and plates, spoke of a busy household, not the quiet almost uninhabited one that remained. Indeed, when had it ever required so much kitchen equipment?

  Light filtered into the room from two large windows, through which steps leading up to ground level were visible.

  At the far end of the kitchen, a fire burned brightly and Magda sat on a chair, quietly mending a pillowcase.

  Butters hurried into the room. His expression sour.

  “Can we help you, madam?”

  “I came to tell Frau Lederer that I would not be in for dinner tomorrow. I forgot to mention it to you this morning, Butters, and I didn’t want her to go to any trouble on my account.”

  “That is quite all right, madam. Isn’t it, Frau Lederer?”

  The two exchanged glances, impossible for Adeline to read. “Indeed, Herr Butters,” the cook replied.

  The two stared at her. Magda carried on sewing. She hadn’t even acknowledged Adeline’s presence.