Damned by the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  Quintillus could do no more to him. His pain had reached its zenith. Every pore of his being agonized his brain. He fought not to scream out in the lacerating torment attacking his body.

  He grew weak as his blood drained out of him.

  Quintillus stood and watched, seemingly enjoying the spectacle of a dying man.

  Ziegler closed his eyes. His head buzzed as the pain retreated into a cloaked and cloudy background. Blackness descended as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  It was the noise that brought him back. Hard, metallic clicking. Scarab beetles with their iridescent carapaces crawled all over him. Biting, chewing. Eating him alive. Quintillus had left him. Ziegler opened his mouth. Screamed. Screamed. Again and again. The beetles rushed into his mouth, bit down on his tongue. Still he screamed until his voice gave out and all that emerged was a faint whimper.

  A voice called out. Female. The scarabs vanished as if they had never been there. His brain went into a fever of insanity. Reality was meaningless. He could feel no pain. Nothing. The young woman stared at him, horrified. She said something. He replied. One word.

  “Quintillus.”

  Right before his mind shut down.

  Vienna, 1908

  Chapter 16

  Gabriele peered out of her bedroom window in the elegant house. How long had it been? She didn’t know. Had no way of knowing. She had been so ill. Dr. Quintillus said so.

  Gabriele could remember so little. She couldn’t remember coming here, or anything from her past. She lost count of how many pills she took in a day. Not so many now, of course. He told her she was getting better, but there were still days that passed from morning until night, with nothing in between and no rational thoughts to occupy her.

  He had found her. His queen. Cleopatra, lost for so long in the desert wastes of Egypt. Buried somewhere with someone whose name she could never remember. Butters, the butler, seemed to be forever feeding her a cocktail of pills that sent her into a twilight world.

  Most of the time, she had been too out of it to be able to think of leaving. She could never remember where she came from. So much remained a blur. She believed she had a father. Somewhere. She didn’t think it was in Vienna but she hadn’t a clue where.

  Quintillus was civil to her now that she could understand a little more of the day-to-day activities, and fed her well, if sparingly. He didn’t want her likeness to his beloved queen to be ruined by weight gain. Now he had found Cleopatra’s tomb, he was ready to go ahead with the portrait and, whatever else she didn’t know, she knew the portrait was the most important thing in her life. Her reason for living. Dr. Quintillus told her so. Too many times. She had grown to hate the very mention of it. At least when the drugs took over, it didn’t bother her. But then nothing did when the pills were in charge.

  Today he had told her she would be visiting the studio of Herr Klimt, who had agreed to paint her. She mustn’t speak to the artist, communicate in any other way with him or even look at him, except in the interest of the portrait—and as that was to be in profile, there would be little opportunity for eye contact.

  Insofar as she could feel any emotion, excitement mounted at the prospect of encountering the great Gustav Klimt. In the recesses of her befuddled mind she knew he was someone she had longed to meet. She believed it would also be the first time she had ventured beyond the grounds of this house. She hadn’t even been far beyond this room and the dining room. Once she had begun to be aware of her surroundings, Quintillus had ensured she had an adequate supply of books to read, albeit they weren’t always what she would have chosen for herself. Gabriele preferred romantic fiction or a crime story, but Quintillus seemed to be keen for her to learn as much as she could of the woman she was about to portray.

  Apart from the damned portrait, why was he keeping her there? She had no clue. As far as she knew, he had never tried to seduce her or rape her. In fact, at no time had she experienced any sense of danger, although an increasing resentment at the loss of her liberty grew in proportion to the weaning off from the drugs.

  The door opened and Quintillus strode in, carrying a white gown she recognized but couldn’t remember why. “I see you are already dressed. However, you will not be wearing those clothes for your visit to Herr Klimt today.” He handed her the gown. “This will fit you perfectly I believe, and you will also wear this.” He handed her a gold serpentine armlet. This too looked familiar but surely she had never owned anything like that? How would she know? For a long time she couldn’t even remember her own name, until Dr. Quintillus reminded her.

  Gabriele took the dress and jewelry from him.

  “Change now, and I will return in five minutes.”

  He left her and she did as she was bid. The gown was of soft silk and flowed elegantly down her body to her feet. What about shoes? Was she to go to the artist in bare feet?

  Stranger things had happened to her during this time. The usually dour Mr. Butters could be offhand one day and attentive the next. Once he almost seemed to want to tell her something important, but stopped short, clammed up, and was his usual noncommunicative self for days afterward. What had he wanted to tell her? He wouldn’t be drawn on the subject, though she had tried many times.

  Maybe this was the only home she had ever known. She didn’t even know why she was with Quintillus. He wasn’t her parent or guardian. She had established that much.

  Perhaps she had been involved in an accident. That would explain the memory lapses. No, that had to be the drugs. She had to take those. Dr. Quintillus told her it was for her health. Sometimes, like now, she believed him, but then there were the other times, like earlier, when she was convinced he was keeping her prisoner.

  Her mind reeled from the competing thoughts clashing together. A seed of resentment lodged in her mind. However confused, however little made sense, she was determined to nurture it.

  When Dr. Quintillus returned, bearing a pair of golden sandals, he smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

  “You look beautiful, my dear. Only the finishing touches now.” With the skill of a coiffeur, he braided her hair. Then he outlined her eyes with kohl, added eyeshadow and lip rouge, and after a few deft strokes, she stared back at a reflection she barely recognized as her own. She had a hazy memory of staring into a bowl of water and seeing an image—the image that now gazed back at her from the mirror. Quintillus told her she looked like Cleopatra. If only she could have her fearlessness.

  She touched the golden amulet, coiled like a serpent around her arm. It writhed under her fingers and she took a sudden sharp breath. In the mirror she saw Quintillus momentarily startled. On the dressing table in front of her, a golden dagger gleamed. That wasn’t there a moment ago. She picked it up and Quintillus backed away a couple of steps before recovering himself.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  Gabriele shook her head. A vague memory stirred. More like a dream than reality. “I don’t know…someone gave it to me…a long time ago.”

  A flicker of something almost like fear flitted across Quintillus’s face. He reached into his pocket and she caught a gleam of gold. The little statue he always carried about his person.

  Gabriele turned the dagger over in her hand.

  Quintillus reached out his hand. “Give it to me.”

  The dagger pressed itself harder into her palm. She raised it, unsure what to do with it.

  It vanished.

  The moment had passed but, in that instant, Gabriele had learned a valuable lesson. Quintillus could be shaken and, with the dagger, she had the power to do it.

  * * * *

  Passion poured out of Gustav Klimt’s eyes. Gabriele could hardly miss the desire she read there. She wanted to tell him he was on dangerous ground but she sensed he was already wary of the man he called “Herr Doktor.”

  When he touched her hand
lightly to change its position, her skin tingled but, despite her earlier small triumph, she feared the consequences from Quintillus too much if she showed him she enjoyed it. How strange to be able to feel. Had she experienced such sensations before? She searched her mind but no memory surfaced. Yet somehow she knew that if things were different, she could have enjoyed herself with this man. His sensual gaze and the smile that lit up his face warmed her, but with Quintillus in the next room, all she could do was stare straight ahead, keep her back ramrod straight and say nothing.

  She soon realized that Dr. Quintillus had reduced her dosage for his own ends, nothing whatsoever to do with her health. If he kept the drug levels as high as they had been she wouldn’t have been able to pose for the portrait. She would have been asleep or so dopey as to be a useless model. His actions weren’t without benefits for her, though.

  As day succeeded day and Dr. Quintillus kept the dosage low, she became increasingly aware of herself and her situation. Her mind began to clear and she now knew, with every fiber of her being, she had no business being there. No matter. He would have to let her go soon anyway. He had kept her there for one reason alone and that was about to be fulfilled.

  If only she could control the dagger…

  Chapter 17

  The artist twirled the fragrant pink rose in his hands. He inhaled the scents of his garden in late summer. Warm, sweet grass, honeysuckle. And roses. Always roses. He had planted a rose garden when he first moved into this house. This year the display had grown more abundant than ever. Soon though, autumn would be upon them. Already he could smell it in the air.

  A mewing near his feet distracted his attention. His black-and-white cat weaved his way around his legs.

  The artist leaned down and scooped the little bundle of soft fur up into his arms. The cat licked his human’s beard and purred before head-butting his chin.

  “You want your breakfast, little one, and so I shall get it for you. Come on. I have an important visitor in half an hour.”

  He set a saucer of chicken on the kitchen floor and the cat ate hungrily.

  “Not so fast, my little friend. You’ll make yourself sick.”

  The cat paused, blinked at the artist, and carried on as before. The man laughed. “Always your own way. Like me. No one owns us. You, the cat, make your own rules and I, the artist, make mine.” Except that wasn’t always true, was it? Occasionally he needed to compromise. Like now.

  Klimt returned to his studio and fetched a sketch pad and some pencils. He had worked with this client before, three years earlier. An eccentric man. Dr. Emeryk Quintillus was far more prescriptive than he would like, but when bills needed to be paid…

  Last time it was a ceiling in Quintillus’s home. This time, a portrait, and he had insisted on supplying the model. Klimt had almost turned the commission down but then Quintillus had doubled his fee. He had swallowed his pride and accepted. Now he wished he didn’t have to. There was something about this commission. He couldn’t explain it, certainly not yet, but he had a feeling of unease about it. Could it be down to the almost feverish passion in his client’s eyes when he outlined his requirements? Cleopatra. In profile, wearing the royal diadem. There would be gold leaf, bright colors. But it was his insistence that none of Klimt’s models would do; that only the woman of his choosing could possibly pose for such a subject.

  Klimt continued to ponder on his strange commission as he changed into his bright blue smock. Now he was ready for work.

  The cat wandered into the studio and proceeded to wash his face in long, rhythmic strokes.

  “You don’t like the man, do you?” Klimt asked.

  The cat paused, then licked his paw.

  “I trust your judgment, my friend. Unfortunately I must work with him, or you and I starve.”

  A sharp rap at the door announced the arrival of his visitors. Klimt took a deep breath and went to let them in.

  “Herr Klimt.”

  Klimt took in the eccentrically dressed archaeologist who, despite the warmth of the day, wore a long black jacket and stovepipe hat. His dark hair flowed unfashionably over his shoulders and his bearded face gave no hint of a smile.

  “Herr Doktor,” Klimt said.

  Quintillus stepped aside and a young woman of striking appearance moved into view. It was all Klimt could do to keep from gasping out loud. Her jet-black hair hung in tight braids down to her waist, and her gown appeared to be pure white silk, cinched at the waist by a gold belt. Adorning her head, she wore a circlet of gold with a cobra’s head encrusted with lapis lazuli and other gemstones. Her bare arms bore golden bracelets, one of which was a coiled cobra.

  Her heavily made-up face was in keeping with the ancient Egyptian style of her dress. Her eyes were strongly outlined in black kohl and her lips painted a rich red. Her prominent, slightly hooked nose gave her a uniqueness that Klimt longed to capture.

  She waited, hands lightly clasped, as Quintillus entered and Klimt led the way to his studio. He invited his guests to sit. The woman arranged herself on the wooden chair, while Quintillus continued to stand. Klimt sat by his easel. He still didn’t know the model’s name although at that moment, he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn her name was Cleopatra. Now he understood why Quintillus had been so insistent about using his own model. Neither Emilie nor Mizzi would have had anything like the same authenticity—attractive though they were. Theirs was a distinctly modern beauty. This woman—whoever she was—appeared to have stepped off the wall of an Egyptian temple.

  “Can I get you some coffee perhaps?” Klimt addressed his question to the woman but Quintillus answered.

  “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary, Herr Klimt. As you know, the commission is for a portrait in profile of the lady I have brought with me. I understand today you will be producing some preliminary sketches from which I shall choose.”

  “That is correct, Herr Doktor. I would welcome an introduction to this lady.”

  “That too is unnecessary. I shall bring her to you each day and wait for her. Two hours should be long enough for a sitting, I believe.”

  “And I am not permitted to know the lady’s name?”

  “You are painting Cleopatra. That is the only name you need to know.”

  A chill passed over Klimt. The woman continued to stare ahead, not focusing on him or on her companion.

  “I expect you will want to start straightaway, so I will wait in your living room. I look forward to the sketches.”

  His statement required no response. Klimt stood and went over to the woman. He took her hand and she snatched it away.

  “I’m sorry, madam. I merely wished to adjust your position.” Not a flicker. Maybe she didn’t understand German. “If you could sit sideways to me so that I can get your profile.”

  She stood, repositioned the chair and then sat down, ramrod straight, her prominent nose giving her a haughty, disdainful air.

  “Thank you, madam.”

  For two hours, the woman didn’t move a muscle. No twitches, no shifting in her seat. She barely even blinked. Disquiet built up in Klimt and he fought to suppress it. After all, he had been commissioned to paint a portrait, not get to know this woman or understand what was going on in that mind of hers.

  He sketched quickly, capturing the essence of the ethereal, yet enigmatic nature of his subject. Time and again he reminded himself that she was merely a model, playing a role. She was not Cleopatra herself. But whoever she really was, she played her part superbly.

  Quintillus entered the studio. “We will return at the same time tomorrow. Will you have sketches ready by then?”

  “One or two, certainly.”

  “Good. Thank you, Herr Klimt.”

  The woman stood easily, with no sign of stiffness despite having maintained the same pose for so long. Still she said nothing.

  As Klimt shut the door beh
ind them, he shivered. His cat reappeared from under his bed and gave a tentative meow. “Yes, it’s safe to come out now, little one. The strange people have gone.”

  For the rest of the day, Klimt worked on his sketches, tearing off sheet after sheet, discarding some, retaining others. His dreams that night were all of a strange, exotic woman who, for some reason, wanted to kill him.

  * * * *

  Promptly at eleven the next morning, the rap came at the door. Within minutes, he was showing Quintillus his sketches. His client looked through each of them, creating two piles. When he had finished, he picked up one pile. “These are the ones I wish you to work from. You have worked quickly and well, Herr Klimt.”

  “Thank you, Herr Doktor. Your friend makes an excellent subject.”

  The woman sat as before, hands in her lap, unmoving, not registering the compliment he had paid her. Klimt shifted in his seat. Yes, he had worked quickly and he intended to carry on doing so. The sooner this commission was complete the better.

  “I will create some color sketches for you, which should be ready in about a week, then we can start on the portrait itself.”

  “Excellent.” Quintillus stood. He turned to the model. “Come, my dear, that’s all for today.”

  The woman stood silently and followed Quintillus out into the hallway. “Until next week then, Herr Klimt. We shall return at the same time.”

  “That will be…convenient,” Klimt replied.

  This time, after his guests had left, he took a bath, feeling an urgent need to wash off all traces of the encounter.

  * * * *

  Klimt worked hard, long into the night, drinking black coffee to keep him awake as he made his subject come alive with gold, vivid purples, and sumptuous reds for the background—but dominating everything was the profile of this woman. He had to make her as real she had been in his studio. Cleopatra. Full, sensuous lips, the eye that seemed to follow you around the room. When this was committed to oil it would be a worthy addition to his growing body of work. But he hated it.