Icejacked
Chapter 8

The Drive to St. Gallen

“How do they work?” Leddicus asked as I turned onto the motorway in the direction of St. Gallen.

“What?” I knew full well what he meant, but felt mellow and distinctly uncommunicative.

“The doors.” He moved his hands back and forth to indicate the automatic doors closing and opening.

“They just do,” I said.

I’m an historian, not a scientist! I tried to hang on to my mellow mood and not become surly.

He sulked quietly for a while. I hoped he was beginning to recognise when I had enough of explanations. The sun was still fierce even though it was late afternoon. It seared the patchwork fields and low mountains, relentlessly drawing moisture from their silent, unprotesting backs. The air-conditioner protected us from its stark heat. We sat in a cool, peaceful cocoon as we drove through the sultry day.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Leddicus glancing across at me from time to time. My conscience pricked me just a little.

“What’s up?” I asked.

He grinned with relief. He hated to be quiet. “The hospital. What did they say is wrong with me?”

“Well, that’s good.” I turned to him briefly and grinned back.

“What is?”

“At least you want to know how you work, not the doors, the key, or the—”

“Okay, okay!” He gave my shoulder a friendly punch.

Do they have friendly banter in every era, or is he taking his cue from me?

“Tell me. What did they say to you? When I asked them, I didn’t understand the answer.”

“They don’t know for sure. Without putting too fine a point on it, you are a one-off. The told me that they thought you had post-traumatic stress.”

“Please!” He spread out his hands in frustration.

“I know you don’t know those words, but try them out. Then I’ll tell you what they mean.”

“Post-traumatic stress,” he said obediently.

Since he had begun to learn English, I had always pushed his understanding beyond the basics, even though he often got weary of me doing this. If he were going to make his way in this unforgiving era, he needed to broaden his vocabulary.

“Post-traumatic stress,” he said again. “Please explain!”

“Calm down. I’m getting to it. It means that, after something very bad has happened, your brain and emotions can sometimes be badly affected. Let’s take those words one at a time. Post means after, traumatic means something shocking or disturbing, and stress means pressure or tension.” I paused and glanced across at Leddicus to see if he were getting this. I felt it was important not just that he understand the words, but that he fully understood what had happened to him emotionally. He looked back at me and nodded for me to continue.

“The medics think that being frozen on the mountain has caused your memory to blur, to get mixed up, and to shut out the shock of what happened. They think that’s why you have started to imagine all sorts of odd things and why you think you are someone else.”

“I see,” he said calmly. “Thanks. That helps a lot.”

“They think you have completely forgotten who you really are.”

“And you? What do you think?”

“It doesn’t compute. It just doesn’t add up.” I looked at him briefly. He was listening intently. I spoke slowly to be sure he understood. “If you are not who you say you are, then you are a fantastic fake. You know so much about that era, which, of course, you could have read in any number of books, but then there are the clothes you were wearing, the coins you were carrying, and your amazing grasp of Latin, Aramaic, and ancient Greek.”

“No one can live for two thousand years. That’s impossible,” Leddicus interrupted. He rarely got agitated, but the pitch of his voice rose. “I know I don’t belong in this world. It makes no sense to me.” He clenched his fists and tried to contain his frustration. “And I know I have a family, children, and business. Where are they now? Who am I, Gerhardt? What has happened to me? How did I get here?”

“Leddicus, I wish I knew. I am as confused by this as you are. I have never seen or heard anything like this in my life,” Sensing his mounting frustration, I said it gently. “What were those papers you were carrying?” I hoped to deflect his angst. “What were they all about?”

But my attempt at distraction only made things worse. He went from tense and talkative to stressed and silent.

I wasn’t the most sensitive of people, but it was pretty obvious that questioning him about the papers had touched a raw nerve. We drove on a while. His hands were clenched, and the knuckles were white. I was intrigued.

“What troubles you so much about those papers?” I probed.

“Please, I cannot tell you. It may put my life in danger,” he said quietly.

“I think I can safely say that whoever was after you is long gone.”

He relaxed, very slightly. “Perhaps I can trust you.”

“You can!” I said, not entirely sure I meant it, but willing to say whatever it took to get to the bottom of this new mystery.

“We must be very careful who we tell about what is in the letters. Many people cannot be trusted, and if you tell the wrong person, he will pass it on to the authorities, and we will be arrested, beaten, imprisoned, and perhaps even killed.”

“What on earth is in the papers that is so life threatening?”

“The letters tell of the way.”

“What way? Now it’s your turn to help me understand.” I smiled wryly.

His eyebrows shot up and disappeared into his lopsided fringe. “You haven’t heard about the way? But it is talked of in the whole world! Everyone has an opinion on it.”

“Well, I’m not one of them, so fill me in.”

“There was a man in , and many followed him because he always did so many good things. Some even thought he was the prophesied Jewish Messiah, but the Romans and Jewish leaders got together and lied about what he had done. As a result of their lies, he was crucified.”

“Would this man, by any chance, be called Jesus?” I interrupted.

“He is the man!”

“You knew him?” I was on the edge of my seat now.

“No, not personally, but word gets around. We Romans love to discuss and replace out what is happening.”

“Why is there danger in having papers about him?”

“After he was killed, word got around that he came back to life.” He spoke slowly and carefully. “When someone is crucified for … how do you say it … causing people to be against the leaders?”

“Political activist?”

He frowned. His struggle to replace the right words frustrated him.

“It’s okay. I know what you mean,” I said to get the story flowing again.

“When someone caused a disturbance or said things that were not in line with the local laws, he was usually tried and killed. Afterward, the followers would melt away once the leader was dead.” He paused, unscrewed the top of the bottle of Evian, took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and continued. “That didn’t happen this time. His followers disappeared for a few weeks. But then to everyone’s surprise, they reappeared, more bold than ever, saying he had coming back to life.” He still spoke slowly, searching out the right words and with reluctance. I assumed it was because of his fear. “I listened to what they said, and I was convinced they were telling the truth, and I became a follower.”

“You still haven’t said why it’s dangerous to tell about the papers?”

“The Jewish authorities are furious and trying to stamp out the lies about someone coming back to life. Followers of the way also believe that this man was the Messiah, and that gets the authorities even madder.” He paused and looked at me quizzically. “How do you not know all this if you know his name?”

“Go on,” I said.

“The people in Caesar’s household are in danger if the authorities replace out they are following the way. I need to give them these papers in secret, and the message will encourage them to keep going.”

“You’re not thinking straight, my friend, but I won’t hold that against you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are, understandably, very troubled and not thinking clearly. If you are as old as we both think you are, what do you reckon has happened to all the people in Caesar’s house?” I paused to let this sink in. “And where do you think all the Jewish leaders are?”

He didn’t answer. He just let out a long sigh and then breathed slowly and deeply a few times. As we rounded the next bend, the Swiss border loomed into view. My heart started to beat a little faster in anticipation of a long interrogation when they saw the papers on which Leddicus travelled.

“Border control.” I slowed down. “We’re about to leave and enter .”

I pulled up at the checkpoint and waited for the official-looking guard to saunter to my car. I couldn’t gauge his attitude. He had his peaked cap pulled low, and his dark glasses hid his emotions. A sliver of sweat trickled down from his temple to his jaw. He gave me a humorless nod as I held out the papers with my passport on top. He glanced at it, checked the motorway screen sticker and number plate, which was Swiss, and then waved us through without speaking a word.

I heaved a sigh of relief, pressed the accelerator, and watched as the checkpoint shrank to a dot in the rearview mirror. I was full of gratitude that I had an acceptable passport.

“Yes!” I punched the air.

“You are happy?”

“Indeed I am. If they had looked at your papers closely, there could have been a lot of difficult questions. I’m too tired for that. I just want to get home.”

It was after midnight when I pulled into the underground car park. Leddicus was too tired to be surprised as I pushed a button on my sun visor and the garage door rolled up. The lights came on automatically, which was very comforting, but he just sat there in a daze and yawned every five minutes.

The lift whisked us swiftly up to my flat, and it had never felt so good to be home. I showed Leddicus to his room and gave him a quick tour of bathroom and kitchen, including the food in the fridge. Ah, the joy of having a housekeeper as part of the rental agreement.

He followed me slowly, not saying a word. He might have been sleepwalking. I opened the door to his room and popped the case on the floor.

“Get some rest,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.