The Lost Choice

by Andy Andrews

  Tate tried to chuckle politely but was so nervous that his laugh came out like a gargle. Nevertheless, he answered. “Actually, yes, they are. The marble has always been white and the blocks weighing in excess of thirty tons. It is a bit of a mystery how they were placed to begin with. Certainly, removing them has been ridiculously difficult. Incidentally, I apologize for my obviously bumbled attempt at subterfuge a moment ago. A person of Mr.Vanderbilt’s position is often the target of those willing to take advantage of his generosity. I needed to have some assurance that you’d really found Constantine XI.”

  Changing the subject, Dr. Osborn asked, “Mr. Bailey, what do you know about Constantine?”

  “A mite,” Nigel answered with a shrug.“You don’t rattle a man’s bones and not become a speck curious about what was happening when they were walking about! In any event, I know you gents are on a schedule. So am I. You want it straight? Here’s what I know: Emperor Constantine XI”—Nigel crossed his arms—“taken by the invading Turkish forces of Sultan Mehmet in 1453. Offered his life in exchange for the safety of his people, Constantine was rumored to have been slain by the sultan himself. His heroic death was legend, perhaps burnished a bit by the fact that no one knew where the bloke was buried. At least until yours truly hacked him out with a shovel.

  “It was the mystery of a lifetime . . . buried in a secret location, giving rise to all manner of pious tales about ‘the sleeping emperor,’ in seclusion, one day to awaken, driving out the bloodthirsty barbarians and restoring the Holy Roman Empire. In conclusion: one, it’s really him. Two, I’ve got some of his stuff. And three, I’ve seen the man. He’s not sleepin’. He’s bloody dead. My point being, he doesn’t need the items anymore. They’re worth a fortune and I’d like to sell them to you.There .That straight enough for you?”

  Vanderbilt’s eyes twinkled as he leaned forward. “Fine, Mr. Bailey. But you still haven’t told me what you found inside the tomb.”

  Nigel kept a straight face. He had dreaded this question, for in truth, he had been unhappy with his haul. All the dead kings in the world, he thought, and I have to find the tomb of the only poor one! The carvings and pottery had a certain value, he knew, but there was nothing spectacular with which to fan the flame of a buyer’s desire. Especially a buyer as cultured as the one before him.

  “I have everything secreted away,” Nigel replied calmly. Maintaining eye contact, he drew the medallion from his pocket and passed it to Vanderbilt.“But there’s a sample. Keep it. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement on the rest.”

  “Possibly,” the wealthy man said as he took the object. It was circular, flat, and about the size of his palm—plain and exquisite all at once. Vanderbilt was quite sure that the man before him was running a bit of a bluff. He was presenting this, the best of the lot, as a gift, and gambling that the remaining items would be purchased sight unseen. And indeed,Vanderbilt knew, he might do just that. In this gentleman’s mind, Vanderbilt mused, there is only merit in gold. He would never understand that I do not want or need another jewel. A centuries-old clay pot, now, I will spend some money on that!

  As Vanderbilt held the medallion up to catch the window’s light, Nigel was glad he had taken the time to clean and polish it. While the disk had been reddish-brown and covered in dried organic matter, it was now a rich, gleaming bronze.

  On one side of the medallion, carved letters wound around its outside edge. They were of a language with which Nigel was unfamiliar. In its center was an empty space about the size of a thumbnail, rough to the touch, as if something had once been there and was now broken off. On the other side of the disk, however, carved into its surface in a circular pattern,were dozens of the letters—symbols— tiny, but clearly defined. With a small stick and a rag, Nigel had taken hours to clean the grooves of the script. The medallion was not gold, but it shined like the sun itself. “See the hole?” Nigel said.“Strap went through it. Man wore it around his neck.”

  Vanderbilt nodded, concentrating instead on the script. Tate leaned toward the medallion and, when he was noticed, reached out and said,“May I?”

  Vanderbilt gave him the object and was alarmed as the expert held it into the light and immediately frowned. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, Tate nervously directed another question to Nigel.“You found this on the emperor?”

  “That’s right.”

  Tate looked at Nigel briefly as if to confirm that he had answered in the affirmative, then back to the medallion. His frown deepened.

  “Lawrence, tell me,” Vanderbilt said. “Is it bad news?”

  Denyer, the valet, rose instantly, Nigel noticed, as if to be ready to protect his boss. If he’s trying to be subtle, Nigel thought, he’s failing miserably. “Have a seat, mate,” he said aloud. “I’m not coming across the table.” To Tate, he directed a question.“Let’s be having it. Why the long face?” Tate looked up, momentarily confused. He looked back and forth between Nigel and Vanderbilt as he spoke. “The piece is authentic. It’s gorgeous. It’s just that it doesn’t fit the timeline history has established for Constantine. It’s no problem actually—the emperors collected antiques just as we do.” They stared blankly at him. “What I mean is that Constantine died in 1453.This medallion is at least a thousand years older than that—maybe much older. And it’s not Roman. It’s Sumerian or...well, about that, I am not totally certain. Without a doubt, however, it is from that region of the world. The script is Akkadian or Aramaic. It just doesn’t follow that a Roman emperor would be wearing . . . this.” “What did you say the script was?”Vanderbilt asked.

  “Akkadian . . . Aramaic . . . I’m not prepared to make a determination at this juncture. They are both closely related and written in common symbolic arrangement. I can translate it, given some time. The larger letters on this side are . . . well, that is a symbol that means ‘with’ or ‘by’ and there are three symbols that spell or represent ‘people.’” He paused. “Alfred, I know you are in a hurry . . .”

  “Take your time,”Vanderbilt said.“We have a few minutes. Can Ronald help?”

  “Yes, actually. Ronald, take these notes for me, please. Before you leave, I’d like to understand this part, at least.”

  Tate huddled with the valet as the other three continued to talk and sip tea and coffee. “Business in Europe, Mr. Vanderbilt?” the Australian asked.

  “Of a sort,” he answered. “I’ll be directing a meeting of the International Horse Breeders Association, but my main purpose in making the crossing is to offer a fleet of wagons to the Red Cross Society. I’ll also offer myself as a driver. War is raging over there, as I am sure you are aware.” “Yeh. Certainly is in places. I barely made it out. Any farther north than Genoa, and all bets would’ve been off.” Nigel couldn’t help but ask a question of the statement Vanderbilt had hung in the air. “Not enough to give ’em the wagons? You’re volunteering to drive them yourself?”

  Vanderbilt gazed out the window for a moment and didn’t answer. Then he said simply, “I don’t feel as though I am doing enough.”

  “Excuse me,” Dr.Tate said, bringing the attention back to the medallion and its translation. “I have several words finished on this side. Here you are. See this line of symbols that run the edge?”The men indicated that they did.“Here we have several word choices available. One scholar might translate this one way while another shifts a word or two.

  “It makes little difference, however. Here is what I mean: I make it,‘With one’s hand, safety is for all.’ It could also read, ‘By one’s hand,’ or ‘By your hand.’ The second part also contains options. ‘All are saved’ or ‘All will be saved.’ ‘The people’ or ‘the population’ will or shall be saved . . .” Tate gestured with his hands as if to say “whatever.”

  Vanderbilt reached out and took the disk. “By one’s hand, they will be saved?”

  “It didn’t do Constantine a lot of good,” Nigel pointed out wryly.

  Vanderbilt turned the ob
ject over and ran his fingers across the smooth surface.“According to the story,” he said, “it was Constantine’s hand that did the deed; it was the people who were saved.”

  Nigel, Osborn,Tate, and Denyer each contemplated that thought, patiently drinking their beverages while Vanderbilt studied the disk. “Any idea what’s on the other side?” he said to Tate.

  “There are well over a hundred symbols there. Each symbol might, by itself, represent a word or phrase. And there are more symbols I didn’t complete on this side. I can do it, but it’ll take some time. Leave it with me and I’ll have it done by the time you return.”

  Vanderbilt seemed to ponder the offer briefly, then slipped the disk into his jacket pocket.“No, if you don’t mind, I wish to carry it with me. ‘With my hand’ and all that . . . a bit of fire in my pocket perhaps—inspiration if you will—while I’m driving a Red Cross Wagon for the fighting men.”

  Momentarily the millionaire appeared to be deep in thought. Then, as if having made a decision, he said, “Lawrence, I’d like you to travel with me, if you don’t mind. I want this translation as soon as possible. You can do it on the trip.”Tate appeared startled, but catching Osborn’s eye, agreed immediately.

  “Ronald?” Vanderbilt continued. “Arrange passage for Dr. Tate when we reach port. First class, including his return. Since we’ll be departing immediately and Dr.Tate is not prepared, make certain he has an unlimited account on board ship for clothes and essentials.”

  Vanderbilt turned to Nigel. “Mr. Bailey, at your leisure, sir, do drop by Dr. Osborn’s office at the museum on Seventy-seventh. Please bring the remaining items from the tomb.” He turned to the director. “Henry, you are hereby authorized to negotiate on my behalf and pay him from the fund we’ve established. Be fair with the man. I like him.”Vanderbilt nodded at Nigel.

  “Thank you, sir,” Nigel said, shaking Vanderbilt’s hand as they all stood.

  The coach was waiting as Alfred Vanderbilt exited the pub. The driver held the door as he, then Dr.Tate, and at last Ronald stepped up into the finely appointed carriage and settled in for the trip to the port of New York. As the horses lurched forward, Alfred thought about the meeting that had just taken place. He shifted in the seat and removed the medallion from his pocket.

  Seeing him examine the object, Ronald Denyer spoke. “It’s beautiful, sir.”

  Vanderbilt nodded. “I think so too.”

  “Curious, though,wouldn’t you say? The translation, the emperor, everything about it . . . just curious.”

  “Yes, it is,” Vanderbilt agreed as he returned the object to his pocket. He was quiet for a time,watching the people on the sidewalks as the coach sped by. The rain had stopped altogether, he noticed.“Did you pack my evening shoes, Ronald?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man. Have you familiarized yourself with the layout of the ship?”

  “Yes, sir. And when we arrive, the Cunard representatives will meet us at the gangplank. I understand Captain Turner will welcome you personally.”

  “What suite did you reserve? Do you remember?”

  “Yes, sir. I do. You are staying in the Regal. That’s suite B-65 and 67. It is the best on board, sir.”

  “Thank you, Ronald,” Vanderbilt acknowledged. “As usual, you have outdone yourself.” Then, to Dr. Tate, he said,“We are in good hands with this man. You’ll see, there will be nothing to worry about. Within a few minutes of our arrival, he’ll have taken care of everything but an on-time departure.”Then, turning back to Ronald, he teased, “Or have you seen to that, as well?”

  The valet chuckled politely. “Not up to me, sir. But I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. A schedule set in stone is a particular point of pride with Cunard.Yes, sir.The Lusitania is always on time.”

  FOURTEEN

  NEW YORK CITY

  SHE WAS A MIRACLE OF MODERN ENGINEERING, the largest of her breed. Docked at the Cunard line’s Pier 54, the Lusitania was a portable skyscraper—her mastheads towered 216 feet into the air—blending easily with the New York City skyline. She stretched an astounding 785 feet, well beyond the Cunard docks and into the Hudson River, which had been dredged to accommodate her. A single walk around her promenade deck measured more than a quarter-mile.

  Thousands of people crowded the docks, all to see the great ocean liner. Some managed to shake Vanderbilt’s hand as he made his way amid the cheers and popping flashbulbs to the gangway. Striding up the incline ahead of his valet, Vanderbilt saw that the captain did indeed wait for him at the top.

  “Bowler Bill”Turner was a commodore of the Cunard line. Fifty-nine years old, he was a large man with a close-cropped beard and white hair. Earlier that day, he had been questioned as an expert witness in federal court. Judge Julius Meyer presided over the legal proceedings that had been convened to determine the financial liability of the White Star Line in the sinking of the Titanic. Asked by the court what lessons the shipping industry had learned from the disaster, Captain Turner, having solemnly sworn to tell the whole truth, responded,“Nothing. And it will happen again.”

  Turner’s appearance in court had made headlines in every New York paper, and now, as he reached to shake the captain’s hand, Alfred Vanderbilt fleetingly thought of his own narrow escape from that particular tragedy. In 1912, two weeks before the ill-fated voyage, he had actually reserved and paid for a suite on the Titanic, but had backed out at the last minute.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. Vanderbilt, sir,” Captain Turner boomed as he grasped the millionaire’s hand tightly.“It is an honor to have you with us.”

  “Captain Turner, the honor is mine!”Vanderbilt countered humbly. “I consider it a privilege to be placed under your command.”

  The captain laughed heartily. “I shall endeavor to keep you from the dirtier work! I regret Mrs.Vanderbilt will not be joining us.”

  “I shall miss her as well. As you may know, we have two young sons. For their sake, she has chosen to stay in New York and endure the squalor of our Park Avenue Hotel.”

  At that moment, as if on cue, a uniformed young man stepped forward. “Steward,” the captain addressed him, “escort Mr.Vanderbilt to his suite.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the steward said crisply. Quickly, he relieved Denyer of a portion of his burden and led the way. In a few short minutes, sixteen-year-old William Hughs swung open the door for his charge. The Regal Suite, Vanderbilt admitted, certainly lived up to its name. One of two such staterooms on the ship, it contained two lavishly appointed master bedrooms, a private dining room, baths and toilets, all with ceilings burnished in gold. Marble fireplaces surrounded by oversized chairs were in each room. There was even a separate bedroom for Ronald, the valet.

  After admiring the room,Vanderbilt left Ronald to take care of Dr. Tate and set out to explore the ship. He was pleased to meet an old friend, Charles Frohman, the impresario who had produced more than 500 theater productions on both sides of the Atlantic. Elbert Hubbard and his wife, Alice, Frohman informed him, were also passengers. Hubbard, the great American author, had sold 45 million copies of his most recent work, A Message to Garcia.

  Making the turn and strolling the port side of the promenade deck, Vanderbilt stopped in the gift shop and, on impulse, purchased a jewelry box. It was of the finest-grade mahogany with a sliding grooved top. Its size was approximately four by six inches and the outside of the box had been covered in a fine, deep-purple fabric. Beautiful, he thought, and a perfect resting place for the medallion. Opening the box on the counter in the store, he removed the disk from his jacket pocket and placed it inside. Closing the top, he carefully carried the box back to his suite and put it on the shelf in his closet.

  The sun finally burst through the clouds as the Lusitania got underway at 12:20 PM. With three earth-shattering blasts of her horn, the great ship gathered speed and sailed away. The crowds on the dock cheered, waved their handkerchiefs, and threw confetti as the ship’s orchestra played “Tipparary” from one end of the boat deck whil
e the Royal Gwent Male Singers sang “The Star Spangled Banner” on the other.

  Despite the knowledge that they were sailing into a European war zone, few of the passengers boarding had noticed that the ship’s name and port of registry had been painted over in an effort to disguise her identity. Fewer still had seen the warning posted that morning in several New York newspapers. It was small—less than four inches high—and framed in black.

  It read:

  NOTICE!

  Travelers intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists between Germany and her allies and Great Britain and her allies; that the zone of war includes the waters adjacent to the British Isles; that in accordance with formal notice given by the Imperial German Government, vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or any of her allies, are liable to destruction in those waters and that travelers sailing in the war zone on ships of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk.

  IMPERIAL GERMAN EMBASSY

  Washington, D.C.

  Submarines in the vicinity of the British Isles had recently become a challenge for the Royal Admiralty. Prowling the English Channel and Irish Sea, the wolves of the ocean snapped at the heels of the stronger British Navy and had (more than a few times now) dealt crippling bites.

  Most passengers, however, were not aware of the warning until the ship was on its way. Cunard and Captain Turner made every effort to downplay the notice and assure them that the Lusitania, at twenty-five knots, was much faster than any submarine could ever hope to be. “And besides,” they scoffed,“the ‘Lucy’ is a cruise vessel. We have no military significance whatsoever! After all, there are only passengers onboard.”