Damned by the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  “What is the matter, Herr Ziegler?” Quintillus’s expression was one step away from a sneer.

  Ziegler licked dry lips. “Nothing, Herr Doktor. Nothing at all. It is a very fine piece.”

  “From the same location. I found both pieces buried not three feet from each other.”

  “I am sure we shall be able to agree on a fair price.”

  “Quite.”

  Quintillus seemed in no hurry to leave. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver cigar case from which he selected a thin black cheroot. He flicked his silver lighter and puffed as a tall flame licked the end of his cigar.

  The curator lit another cigarette. His stance was awkward, almost as if he was holding his ground against his visitor. Quintillus showed no inclination to sit and Ziegler had no desire to remain in this man’s company any longer than strictly necessary to conclude their transaction. Was it just he who was aware of the awkward silence that had descended on them? Quintillus puffed away at his cheroot, apparently oblivious to his host’s discomfiture, unless… Yes, unmistakable this time. A sneer. Quintillus was enjoying himself, at the curator’s expense.

  “Will you be returning to Egypt soon?” Ziegler asked. Anything to clear this atmosphere.

  “In the autumn. I understand your daughter is returning from her studies in Vienna today.”

  Ziegler flashed him a look. How could he possibly know that, and of what interest could it be to him? “I cannot think my daughter’s whereabouts have anything to do with our business transactions.”

  Quintillus made an expansive gesture with his hands. “I was merely making conversation. I understand she is a talented artist. Shall we enjoy the pleasure of seeing her exhibit before long?”

  “Possibly. I don’t know.” He wished he could think of a way of getting Quintillus off this subject but all ideas eluded him.

  Quintillus picked up a silver frame containing Ziegler’s favorite photograph of his daughter. “Is this the young lady in question?”

  Ziegler nodded. He wanted to snatch the frame out of Quintillus’s hands. The man defiled it simply by looking at it but Quintillus replaced the photograph on the mantelpiece and threw his cheroot in the fire.

  “Most attractive. She does you credit, Herr Ziegler. Now, if you could give me a check, I will be on my way.”

  Ziegler forced himself to take his time, unlocking his desk drawer, removing the checkbook and writing in an amount he knew would satisfy the money-hungry archaeologist.

  He handed Quintillus the signed check. “I trust this will be acceptable, based on our previous transactions, Herr Doktor.”

  Quintillus glanced at it. “Quite acceptable. I wish you good day.” He replaced his hat on his head and left.

  Ziegler sank down in his chair and exhaled. The two artifacts sat side by side on his desk. The one translucent alabaster, and the other glittering in its golden splendor. He stared at them for a few moments, then stood and went over to his safe. He unlocked it and picked up the alabaster statuette before placing it carefully on the shelf. Then he reached for the statue of Set. His fingers made contact. He let out a cry. The agonizing pain of a thousand needles punctured his skin. He shook his hand. The statue stood firm. Where he had touched it, his skin looked red and sore, as if he had been burned or scalded. Without taking his eyes off the statuette, he removed a clean handkerchief from his top pocket and shook it out. He carefully wrapped it around his undamaged hand and picked up the little statue, relieved to find the material provided the necessary barrier between him and further injury.

  With the two artifacts safely locked away, Ziegler left his office, his hand still throbbing painfully. How could an ancient statuette inflict such pain? Did Quintillus have something to do with it? He had certainly looked pleased enough at Ziegler’s earlier discomfort.

  * * * *

  Gabriele Ziegler tucked a stray strand of unruly black hair behind her ear and secured it with yet another clip. She smoothed down her fashionable green traveling dress and put on her gloves. The mantel clock chimed the half hour. Time to go. The train wouldn’t wait, and her luggage would be going without her if she didn’t make haste.

  Outside, people hurried about their business. Motorcars jockeyed for position with horses and carts. Trams clattered and trundled along their iron rails. Intrepid souls gambled with death on their bicycles.

  Gabriele had only been in Vienna for less than a year, but already it had become almost as much like home as her beloved Berlin. She knew her way around and loved nothing more than visiting the museums and art galleries that abounded there.

  She sat next to the window on the tram that would take her to the station. Peering down, she caught sight of her boots and frowned. They had been gleaming when she left home but now they were dusty. The habitual problem in Vienna. The city always seemed to be coated in a layer of the stuff. Goodness knew where it all came from.

  In a few hours she would be home again with Papa. Unfortunately, that also meant being in the company of the woman he had married a few years earlier. Hilde. Papa would prefer if Gabriele called his new wife “Mama” but nothing would persuade her to do that. Besides, the woman was hardly motherly. She preferred those two dogs of hers. Blitzi and Fritzi. Dear God, the woman had the imagination of a dullard. Yappy little things. They liked to nip at ankles, and Gabriele had received more than one bite from them. As for the woman herself, Gabriele wished her no harm, but the less time she spent in her company the more she liked it. She could have studied art in Berlin but Vienna put more miles between them. Now she would have to share the same house with her again, but at least it was only for a few weeks and it would be wonderful to be with Papa.

  The train sped through a countryside bathed in sunshine, each minute bringing her closer to Berlin. Gabriele reflected on a conversation she had had recently with a fellow student. Angela had been asking her about her father’s work. When she told Angela he was the curator of the Lorenz Museum, her friend had become most interested.

  “My father’s had dealings with an archaeologist who supplied artifacts to that museum. Dr. Emeryk Quintillus. A really odd, eccentric person but quite fascinating, apparently. At least, that’s what my father said. He first met him years ago. There was always something a bit shady about him, though. A bit…well…dangerous is probably the right word. No one ever seemed to know much about him. If you get a chance to meet him, do grab it. I would love to hear your impressions. Then tell me all about it next term.”

  Gabriele had agreed she would. Angela had gone on to describe him. “Papa said that even if you were in a room full of people you would recognize Dr. Quintillus. Tall, with long, flowing black hair and a neat beard. He always wears a stovepipe hat for some reason. Oh, and Papa also said he had a piercing gaze—whatever that means.”

  Whatever it meant, Gabriele thought he sounded intriguing. She could not remember her father ever mentioning anyone by that name but then Papa dealt with so many people in the course of his work.

  The train slowed and Gabriele readied herself. The carriage was busy and many people were getting off here. She jostled for position with a large man carrying a suitcase. Two nuns and a harassed mother with three young children also required her to employ some nifty footwork to avoid a collision. As she stepped down from the train, Gabriele inhaled the familiar Berlin smell of smoke, oil, and humanity. Home.

  * * * *

  The crowd surged toward him, pouring off the train. Ziegler searched for his daughter, and there she was. So like her late mother, with her generous mane of black hair and her dark eyes shining. She waved. As always, the hat she wore perched precariously, as if it might blow off at the slightest puff of wind. In her smart coat, she looked every inch the young lady, and her smile radiated warmth and happiness.

  The station thronged with people milling around, arriving, departing, welcoming, waving good-bye. Ziegler opened
his arms to greet his only child.

  “Papa. It’s so good to see you again.” She threw her arms around him and they hugged. Tears welled up in Ziegler’s eyes.

  “Dear Gabriele. I have missed you so much. You must tell me all about Vienna. But first, where is your luggage?”

  He released his daughter. She looked around. “Ah, there he is.” A burly porter, puffing on a pipe, bustled toward them. He proceeded to follow them out of the station to a waiting cab.

  Ziegler watched as one bag after another was piled on. “I sincerely hope you haven’t spent your entire allowance in the shops on the Kärntnerstrasse,” he said, smiling.

  Gabriele laughed. “Oh no, Papa. That’s much too expensive. I shop in the suburbs. It’s far cheaper.”

  So like her mother. Lara had been born in Hungary and, in her youth, had known real poverty. Her thriftiness had stayed with her all her too-short life, and it appeared her daughter had inherited more from her than simply her dark beauty.

  Gabriele chattered all the way home. Ziegler learned about her fellow students and how a group of artists was breaking with the traditional art forms. “They’re called Secessionists and they’re very controversial. Quite daring. Of course, our teachers don’t approve of them but I find their work exciting and fresh. Vienna is certainly a stimulating place to be if you’re an artist or a musician, but our teachers are always warning us to tread carefully and not upset anyone we might wish to impress in the future.”

  “And are you following their advice?”

  “Oh yes.” A cheeky grin spread over her face. “Most of the time. It’s nice to break the rules a little bit, though.” Her face clouded over. “How is Frau Ziegler?”

  “Oh, Gabriele, we’ve spoken about this. I wish you wouldn’t call her that.”

  “Well I’m certainly not calling her ‘mother.’ Mama died five years ago. I can’t think why you married this one.”

  There were times Ziegler wondered that as well. Hilde Müller had been his wife’s best friend, although for the life of him, he couldn’t think why. The two women couldn’t have been more different. Where Lara enjoyed sewing, reading, music, and the arts in general, Hilde preferred to go on long, strenuous walks in the countryside, preferably with a stiff wind blowing and a dog at her heels. She tried unsuccessfully to interest her new husband in her country pursuits but he always managed to find something else that required his urgent attention.

  But Hilde had a kind side to her nature and she had been a wonderful companion when Lara had died unexpectedly at the age of thirty-eight. A severe cold had turned into pneumonia, leaving him with sole charge of a lively fifteen-year-old. Hilde was willing to take her on and it seemed the best solution all round. Unfortunately, Gabriele quickly made it clear she would not entertain any replacement for her beloved Mama and, once they were married, had begun calling her “Frau Ziegler,” much to the couple’s dismay.

  “It isn’t as if I don’t try with the girl. I do,” Hilde would plead.

  “I know, my dear. But she and Lara were so close and she lost her at such a tender and impressionable age.”

  “I would be a good mother to her if only she would let me.”

  Time and again Ziegler refrained from telling her that this was precisely what his daughter didn’t want. “Give her time, my dear. She’ll come round. Eventually.”

  Four years later, Gabriele was, if anything, more resolute than ever. Her father could stay married to Hilde but she had made it clear she would never accept her into her life.

  * * * *

  The following morning, Gabriele breakfasted alone. She had slept late, tired from her journey, but was now refreshed and ready to enjoy herself. Sadly, it appeared the weather had other ideas and had taken a turn for the worse. Rain streaked the windows.

  She stood, sipping her coffee and looking out at the sodden street, where people scurried along, buried under large umbrellas.

  Outside in the hallway, the dogs started yapping. Frau Ziegler came into the dining room, pursued by the two Pomeranians: Blitzi, the white ball of fluff, and Fritzi, the sand-colored hurricane. They made a beeline for Gabriele, nearly sending her flying. Her coffee spilled into her saucer and a sharp nip at her ankle made her wince.

  “Fritzi, don’t do that. Naughty dog.”

  It would help if Frau Ziegler sounded as if she meant to reprimand them, but the admonishment was half-hearted at best. Gabriele set down her cup and saucer and swept out of the room.

  Rain or no rain, she wasn’t staying in the house one moment longer than strictly necessary. Within ten minutes she was shutting the door and burrowing under her own umbrella.

  By the time she reached the café, the rain had eased off and a tentative sun was peeking out from behind a white cloud. She ordered a lemonade and sipped the tangy drink as she watched the world go by. Unter den Linden had always been her favorite street. Everyone seemed to gravitate there at some point or another. All nationalities, too. Fashionable Berlin ladies, women in brightly colored headscarves and dresses, possibly gypsies or maybe from a country such as Romania. Orthodox Jewish men with their curly side-locks and distinctive hats strolled, deep in earnest conversation, serious expressions on their faces.

  But one man stood out from all the rest. The tall hat, black hair flowing down over his shoulders. It had to be. Dr. Quintillus.

  Gabriele hurriedly paid her check and left. Out in the street, she couldn’t see him at first but then she caught sight of him, peering into a shop window. She hung back so that he did not spot her following him. Was she following him? Well, she had no other plans for the day. When it had been raining she thought she would go to Museum Island, where the Lorenz was situated, and visit one of the other museums. It seemed Dr. Quintillus was coincidentally headed in that direction so she wasn’t really following him, was she?

  He set off again and Gabriele maintained a careful distance. Was he on his way to meet her father? If he did, should she go, too? Not that Papa expected her today. They had arranged to have lunch tomorrow. But what could be more natural than that a daughter, just returned from months away from home, should be anxious to spend time with her father?

  Dr. Quintillus reached the bridge connecting the city with Museum Island. He continued on and Gabriele followed.

  He didn’t go to the Lorenz. Instead, he turned and smiled at her.

  Taken by surprise and flustered, Gabriele’s face burned. He tipped his hat and advanced toward her.

  He stopped no more than eighteen inches away from her. “Fräulein Ziegler, I believe?”

  “Dr. Quintillus? But how did you know my name?”

  “I have seen a charming photograph in your father’s office. I must say, however, it doesn’t do you justice.”

  Gabriele wished she could think of something witty to say in response, but her mind went blank and awkwardness set in. She lowered her eyes. Angela had been right about that gaze of his.

  “You appear to know my name, too, although I doubt you will have seen any photographs of me in your father’s office.”

  “In Vienna. A friend of mine at art school. Her father…” Pull yourself together and speak. She took a deep breath. “I believe you know the father of a friend of mine. Her name is Angela Trautmann.”

  “Ah yes. Georg Trautmann. So you study in Vienna?”

  “Yes. I have wonderful teachers.” Why was she so tongue-tied in his presence?

  Dr. Quintillus took out a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened it, snapping it shut a second later. “Unfortunately, I have an appointment at the Altes Museum now but I hope we may meet again soon. Perhaps for coffee?”

  Gabriele’s heart fluttered. “I should like that very much.”

  “Then perhaps I may drop you a note at your home?”

  “Do you know the address?”

  “I do. For now, good day to y
ou, Fräulein.” He took her hand in his and a shock like electricity shot up her arm. She jumped. He smiled.

  “Good day, Herr Doktor,” she mumbled.

  He left her and she stood for a few moments, gently rubbing her arm, then she started to wander slowly back the way she had come. Angela was right. What a fascinating man. But beneath the polite and charming exterior lurked something else. Something dark. Maybe even… What was it Angela had said? Dangerous.

  It thrilled her.

  * * * *

  “You have a letter, my dear.” Ziegler handed it to her. “Who is it from?”

  Gabriele took it from him and examined the envelope. “I don’t know. The handwriting’s not familiar. Maybe one of the girls.”

  “It’s postmarked Berlin.”

  “I’m not the only Berliner at the art school, Papa.” She stuffed the envelope in the pocket of her skirt. “Right now, I’m starving.” She helped herself to eggs and sausage, with a strong cup of coffee.

  “What are your plans for today?” her father asked her.

  Hilde came in and sat down. Gabrielle ignored her and addressed her reply to her father alone. “I thought I would go to your museum today, Papa. I haven’t been for ages and I want to see all the wonderful new Egyptian exhibits you have been acquiring.”

  “It will be good for you to get out in the fresh air,” Hilde said.

  An awkward pause ensued. Gabriele ate her breakfast. Ziegler sipped his coffee, and Hilde patted her lips with her napkin and tried again. “I believe it will be a fine day today. Such a change from all the rain we’ve been experiencing.”

  “Yes,” Ziegler replied. “A most welcome change. Perhaps a stroll in the Lustgarten would be in order. You can visit the museum as well since it’s so close by.”

  If only Gabriele would at least look at Hilde from time to time, but this she steadfastly refused to do.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” she said, avoiding Hilde’s eye. She stood, kissed her father on his cheek, and left the room.