Icejacked

The Hospital

The sun shimmered through the thin curtains and gradually roused me from my tossing and turning into full consciousness. I remembered yesterday’s confusion, so I sat up, put my head in my hands, and groaned. I needed to get some clarity and try to make some sense of the dramatic turn of events. I showered, dressed, and made my way to the hotel dining area. It was basic, but provided all the necessities spread out on a long, well-scrubbed pine table. I poured a large bowl of muesli, helped myself to a cup of steaming coffee, and began to muse over my predicament. I had driven to Italy to what I imagined was a big adventure and the chance to improve my ambition of becoming a professor of note, with high hopes that this ancient body discovered in the ice would be a great leap forward for me. I had managed to obtain excellent support from the university, Archiv, and my parents. But now, to my huge disappointment, I had discovered my iceman was alive and well at the hospital and, for all I knew, eating a bowl of muesli. Good for him … bad for me. My hopes and dreams of fame and fortune were fading as fast as the early morning mist.

He’s one lucky tourist … but a rather odd one if the morgue were to be believed. A tourist, apparently wearing authentic Roman clothes that smelt badly of urine, carrying a little leather bag containing what appeared to be ancient coins. What on Earth was a tourist in fancy dress doing on the mountain? Why would anyone venture into the snow dressed in sandals and thin outerwear? And how had he survived being frozen solid in a block of ice?

My thoughts ran round in circles. I topped up my coffee and sat gloomily pondering what to do next. Should I go back to St. Gallen? Tell the magazine it was all a mistake? Let the university know I would continue with my normal studies?

So many possibilities were crushed. So many hopes were dashed.

By the time I finished my second cup of coffee, I had made up my mind. I would go and meet this iceman for myself. I decided to go and take a look at him.

It was a cold, fresh day. The hospital, a short drive from my hotel, was set on the edge of well-manicured farmland, and beyond, I could glimpse a heavily wooded area. If I had more time, I would have loved to go and explore, but instead, I parked and headed toward reception with very little idea of how I would gain access for my visit. The receptionist was vaguely aware of the odd person who had arrived from the morgue yesterday and quizzed me about my connection to him.

“Are you a family member or a friend?” She looked at her clipboard.

“Well, neither really.” I then launched into the only idea I could come up with. “I’m from Archiv. I’ve been sent to interview him for the St. Gallen History Magazine.” I handed her my business card.

To my surprise, she bought it and made a call. “There’s a gentleman in reception.” She glanced at my card. “Gerhardt Shynder. He’s here to interview the mystery man.” She listened for a moment and then smiled at me. “Mr. Bernard, our press officer, is on his way. Please have a seat.”

I sat down, but remained anxious. I’d heard how officious these hospital press officers could be. I didn’t have to wait long. My fears were unfounded. A cheery-looking young man strode up and offered me his hand.

“Mr. Shynder, you’re in luck. Mr. Beck from the morgue has already called me to let me know you would probably be popping in. We don’t normally let the press in. In fact, we never do, but Mr. Beck told me that your main role is that you are a history professor working with the research team on this case. The standard procedure is that the press must remain off the premises, and when required, we brief them outside. Strangely, they have not arrived yet, but I’m sure they will. You mark my words.”

“Thank you. Access to this man is vital if we are to get to the bottom of what has happened.”

“This is a very curious case. I’ll take you down to see him, although he isn’t very communicative, but it should be all right for you to spend a little time with him. I’ll let Sister Franz know who you are.” I handed him my Archiv card and trotted after him as he scuttled down a zigzag maze of corridors.

The young man stopped outside a side ward. The door was open. Inside, a man with thick, curly, dark hair was sitting bolt upright in bed. He was slim and slightly built. His pallor was pale beneath his dusky skin.

“I’ll just tell the sister you’re here. Please let her know when you are finished.” Mr. Bernard left the room and hurried away.

I stood quietly in the room for a while, but the man in the bed did not acknowledge me. I moved closer to him.

“Hello!” I put out my hand for him to shake, but he made no movement and gave no response. His dark brown eyes were veiled and empty. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep all right? Are you being well looked after?” As I kept talking, he turned to his head very slightly toward me, but said nothing. His eyes stared vacantly.

This would make excellent copy for Archiv and my uni reports, I thought gloomily.

A chair was in the corner of the small ward, and I slumped into it just as a tall, white-coated, angular man entered the room. He glanced at me perfunctorily and then busied himself with Mr. Iceman: temperature, pulse, and a quick check of his chest with a stethoscope. He poked and prodded the ears and throat. He meticulously noted the results onto the chart located on the clipboard at the end of the bed. He nodded at the silent man and headed out of the ward.

I jumped up and followed him. “What is the prognosis for my friend?”

He looked a little irritated. “We’re not sure what’s wrong, but he’s quite possibly traumatised and has therefore been struck dumb. We are planning to get in a psychologist to run some tests and find out what is going on. I can tell you no more at this stage.” He strode away before I could ask him anything further.

I walked slowly back into the ward. Mr. Iceman was still sitting to attention. Stark white sheets surrounded him. I dragged the chair up close to the bed and wondered what to do next. I started to play a little game to see if I could get any response.

I pointed to myself and said slowly, “Gerhardt.” I pointed again and repeated, “Gerhardt.” Then I pointed my finger at him and kept quiet. I did this about five times with no response.

Finally, he turned his glazed, unfocusing eyes in my direction and said quietly, “Leddicus.”

Now I’m getting somewhere.

“Gerhardt Shynder,” I said slowly, again pointing to myself.

This time, it was clear he understood the game. He pointed to himself and said weakly, “Leddicus Palantina.”

“Hello.” I took his limp hand firmly in mine and shook it gently. “Hello, Leddicus.” I repeated it a few times. “Hello, Leddicus.” His cold, dry hand still rested in mine.

A little frown developed between his eyebrows. “Hello, Gerhardt.” He formed the words slowly in a monotone.

I grinned at him and walked over to the window. I pointed to myself. “Gerhardt Shynder.” Then I pointed out of the window and said, “.” Leddicus was looking a little more alert now. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the game.

He slowly raised a pale arm and pointed to himself. Again, he said slowly, “Leddicus Palantina.” Then he pointed out of the window as I did and said, “Caesarea Philippi.”

My head jolted away from the window and I stared at him, my mouth open, I sat down in the chair with a thump. I felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Now I was the one struck dumb. I knew where Caesarea Philippi is … or was. It was once a very great city. Today, it was an archaeological site located in the .

What could this mean? My thoughts were whirling in confusion. I then had a brain wave. I needed to find that doctor.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” I said to him while making indecipherable hand movements.

I walked out into the corridor and headed in the direction I thought the doctor had gone. I poked my head into each of the side wards as I went. I eventually caught up with him.

“Doctor, could you spare a few minutes?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m in the middle of my rounds.” He began walking away.

“Do you speak Latin?”

He stopped and half-turned toward me. He did not look at all amused.

“I think my friend speaks Latin. He says he comes from Caesarea Philippi.”

He turned directly towards me me. His face was closed and hard. “Is this your idea of a joke. I’m far too busy for this,” he said without emotion.

“No, no, truly, it’s not a joke!” I shook my head firmly, but I could see my words were having no impression. He was checking his watch. “And surely his recovery will be helped if he can talk to someone.” His shoulders slumped in resignation. His mouth was a thin, taut line as we walked back along the corridor the way he had come.

As the doctor entered the ward, his demeanour changed completely. He sat down close to the bed and placed his hand gently on Leddicus’s arm. “Latine loqueris?”

Leddicus was suddenly alert. The veil dropped from his eyes. “Sane, paululum linguae Latinae dico.” A weak smile played at the corners of his mouth.

The doctor and Leddicus began talking together, quietly and hesitantly. After a few minutes, he stood up, said something in Latin to Leddicus, and made some notes on the clipboard. Without looking up, he said, “I really must get on with my rounds.”

“Could you tell me what he said?” I called after him and then followed him out of the ward and down the corridor until I was eventually walking alongside him. His loud sigh of frustration made me acutely aware that I was hounding him, but I didn’t care. I kept walking, and then he began to talk in clipped phrases. His voice was stripped of emotion.

“It was difficult for us to understand each other. The way we speak Latin is very different. As you said, he thinks he comes from Caesarea Philippi. As far as I can ascertain, he thinks he has died and is now in the hereafter. He also wanted to know how the little people survived in the box. I’m unsure what he means by that. He obviously has big psychological problems.” He turned down a corridor and stopped at a ward entrance. “I can tell you nothing more. Good day.” He dived into the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

I stood in the corridor in confusion and frustration and then wandered slowly back to Leddicus’s room. When I got there, I hovered in the doorway, feeling foolish. At which point, a nurse bustled along the corridor and pushed past me into the room. She began fluffing the pillows and straightening the sheets.

“He needs to rest. I’m sorry, but you need to leave now.” She eased Leddicus into a more comfortable position of sitting bolt upright.

“Good-bye.” I lifted my hand to wave.

Leddicus’s tousled head turned slightly toward me as it lay against the fat pillow. Small creases formed between his eyebrows.

“I’m going home now. I shall see you tomorrow.” As I spoke, I was also gesticulating, pointing out the window, pointing down the corridor, and making little stepping movements. I got no response from him except I noticed the creases between his brows getting deeper. The nurse wafted her hand at me as if she were shooing away a fly.

As I was on my way out, I remembered the request the press officer made so I obediently went in search of Sister Franz to let her know I was leaving. I found her at the nurses’ station, talking loudly on the phone and gesticulating to one of the nurses to sort out a patient who was wandering down the ward in just a vest.

She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Mr. Shynder?”

I nodded.

She finished the conversation and started riffling through the files on the desk. “Did you get anything out of our mystery man?” She looked at the files, not me.

“Hardly anything. A very strange case. What is your prognosis?”

“We have very little to go on at the moment. Obviously traumatised, hence no communication. Seems to be in reasonable physical shape though.”

A nurse rushed up and thrust a folder at her. “Excuse me, Sister, could you sign these off? The lab is waiting for them.”

The sister bent down and started scribbling on the files. She looked up at me briefly, gave me a crooked half-smile, and shrugged her shoulders, her way of indicating the discussion was concluded.

I turned to leave, but as I moved away, I said over my shoulder, “His name is Leddicus Palantina.” I raised my hand in farewell, but no one reciprocated.

I walked out of the hospital and noticed the sun slanting across the trees from the west. I had been there longer than I realised. I was disappointed, mystified, intrigued, and very hungry. My mobile began to chirrup. I flipped it open. It was my head of department.

“Gerhardt, I’m sorry to say that you’re being pulled. A representative from the Italian Historical Research Centre called me. I’m sorry about this, but they reckon they have someone with more experience. I told them I doubted it.”

I took the phone away from my ear and looked at it in disbelief. “Do you know who they have lined up? Is there anything I can do or say?” I rubbed at my temple with my thumb. I could feel stubble sprouting.

“If you want to give them a call, I’ll endorse that. I’ll text you the number.”

“Where are they based?”

I could hear him riffling through papers. “They actually have a small office in .”

I checked my watch. Three thirty in the afternoon. “Were you speaking to a rep from that office?”

There was a pause. “By the look of the area code, yes, his name is Calabro. Eduardo Calabro. I’ll send you the details.”

I ran to the car. I was already pulling out the map as the text pinged onto my phone. I was soon driving through the late afternoon sun and praying he would still be there. The parking was horrendous, and when I eventually stood outside the heavy oak door, I was breathing heavily, hot, and sticky. I pushed my hands through my hair and straightened my jacket. Just as I was about to enter, a tall man with wispy grey hair came rushing out and almost walked straight into me.

I took a chance. “Mr. Calabro?”

He looked a little startled, but gave a single nod. “Yes. And you are?”

“I’m the Roman history specialist from St. Gallen.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What are you doing here? I’ve already spoken to your head of department.”

“I know. I understand that, but if you could just give me ten minutes, I’m sure I could convince you to keep me on this case.”

He shook his head and looked at his watch. “I doubt that, and anyway, I haven’t time. I have to be across town for five thirty. I need to catch a train.”

“I have my car here. I could drive you, and we could talk on the way.”

“Fine. That’s appreciated. But I can assure you that it won’t make any difference. I plan to take up this case.” He clipped his seat belt into place.

“I’m sure you’re eminently suited.” I pressed my temple with my thumb to ease the rising tension. “But I doubt anyone has longed for this opportunity more than I have.”

“Is that so?” He shrugged. “And why would that be?”

“I read my first Roman history book when I was five years old and thus began a lifelong love affair.”

He gave a low whistle. “And what book would that be then?”

“Asterix the .”

Mr. Calabro laughed aloud and slapped me on the knee with his huge hand. “And because you liked that comic, you think I should let you lead on this project?” He laughed again.

I had expected this reaction. I was ready with my comeback. The words tumbled out. “By eight years old, I had consumed every Roman fiction and nonfiction book in my local library. I then begged my parents to take me further afield to bigger libraries with more resources. By ten years old, I had spent every spare minute logging Roman history in copious notebooks. I had charts on every spare wall in my bedroom.”

“Bit of a loner, were you?”

“You could say that.” I agreed with him reluctantly.

He checked his watch, something he had done regularly throughout my monologue. “I make that eleven minutes, Gerhardt. Pull over. A coffee shop is at the end of this block. The place I need to go for my appointment is just around the corner.”

We sat in the dimly lit café, he with his double espresso and me with my Americano. We chatted for another half hour. He finally drained his cup, steepled his hands, and looked me in the eye.

“I’m convinced about your knowledge. I can see you’re obsessed. My main problem is your experience. I’m sure you would deal admirably with the research, but there are a host of other logistics in a case like this, not least the press.”

“I’m keenly aware of your concerns, but with support from your organisation and St. Gallen, I know I’m the one to deal with this case, and I’ve already spoken to him.”

“Who?” He motioned for the bill.

“The iceman. He can speak fluent Latin.”

His thick eyebrows veiled his expression. His body language gave nothing away. After a minute, he threw some euros onto the silver tray the waiter had placed on the table.

“You are even keener than you led me to believe.” He stood up, and I followed him out to the street. “I am also keen to get stuck into this. It all sounds too incredible, but I am already heavily involved in another high-level project. If I give this to you, you must keep me fully updated. At the moment, we have exclusive rights to this. We must keep that at all costs.” He checked his watch. “I’m late. I need to go. Call me at eight o’clock this evening, and I’ll give you my decision.” He gave me his card. “We’ll speak soon, Mr. Shynder.” He took my hand in a viselike grip and shook it once. Then he was gone.

I watched him turn the corner. Then I went back into the café, ordered a large whisky, and downed it in one gulp. I was about to order a second, but changed my mind and picked up the menu. I needed to keep my wits about me. Mr. Calabro would not be employing a tipsy researcher. I beckoned to the waiter and ordered a dish of bucatini carbonara and a beer. He brought me my beer and a local paper, and now I became the clock watcher.

At seven forty-five, I was back in my meager room and regretting yet again how tiny it was. It was impossible to pace up and down. At ten past eight, I was on the phone to Mr. Calabro and silently punching the air. As soon as he cut the call, I took out my laptop and worked into the small hours.