Babel : Or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution (9780063021440)

That worried him. This had all been too easy. He’d been sure he would face more resistance, but the room seemed utterly subdued. Even the professors did not move; indeed, Professors Leblanc and De Vreese huddled together under a table, as if bracing for cannon fire. He could tell them to dance a jig, to rip the pages out of their books one by one, and they would obey.

They would obey because he threatened violence.

He couldn’t remember why the thought of acting had scared him so before. Griffin was right – the obstacle was not the struggle, but the failure to imagine it was possible at all, the compulsion to cling to the safe, the survivable status quo. But the whole world was off its hinges now. Every door was wide open. They’d moved past the realm of ideas now, into the realm of action, and this was something Oxford students were wholly unprepared for.

‘For God’s sake,’ snapped Professor Playfair. ‘Someone apprehend them.’

A handful of graduate fellows stepped forward, looking uncertain. All Europeanists, all white. Robin cocked his head. ‘Well, come on.’

What happened next was not dignified, would never be shelved next to great epics of valour and bravery. For Oxford’s scholars were sheltered and coddled, armchair theorists who wrote of blood-stained battlefields with smooth and delicate hands. The seizure of Babel was a clumsy, silly clash of the abstract and the material. The fellows approached the table, reaching with hesitant arms. Robin kicked them away. And it felt like kicking at children, for they were too fearful to be vicious, and they weren’t nearly desperate or angry enough to really hurt him. They seemed unsure of what they even wanted to do – pull him down, grab his legs, or simply graze his ankles – and so his retaliatory blows were, similarly, perfunctory. They were playing at a fight, all of them, amateur actors given a stage direction: struggle.

‘Victoire!’ he shouted.

One of the scholars had climbed up onto the table behind her. She spun around. The scholar hesitated a moment, looked her up and down, then threw a punch. But he hit like he only knew about the action in theory, like he only knew of its component parts – plant feet, draw arm back, extend fist. He’d misjudged his distance – the effect was nothing more than a light pat on Victoire’s shoulder. She struck out with her left foot. He doubled over his shins, whining.

‘Stop!’

The fracas ceased. Somehow, Professor Playfair had acquired a gun.

‘Stop this silliness.’ He pointed it at Robin. ‘Stop this right now.’

‘Go ahead,’ Robin breathed. He had no idea where this ridiculous fount of courage came from, but he felt not a shred of fear. The gun, somehow, seemed more abstract than real, the bullet wholly incapable of touching him. ‘Go ahead, I dare you.’

He was gambling on Professor Playfair’s cowardice, on the fact that he might wield a gun, but he wouldn’t pull the trigger. Professor Playfair, like every other Babel scholar, hated getting his hands dirty. He designed lethal traps – he never wielded the blades himself. And he didn’t know how much will, or panic, it took to really kill a man.

Robin did not turn around, did not look to see what Victoire was doing. He knew. He spread his arms, keeping his eyes locked with Professor Playfair’s. ‘What’ll it be?’

Professor Playfair’s face tightened. His fingers moved, and Robin tensed, just as a shot rang out.

Professor Playfair reeled backwards, scarlet exploding across his middle. Screams erupted around the tower. Robin glanced back over his shoulder. And Victoire lowered one of Griffin’s revolvers, smoke tendrils curling up around her face, her eyes enormous.

‘There,’ she breathed, chest heaving. ‘Now we all know how it feels.’

Professor De Vreese dashed suddenly across the hall. He was going for Professor Playfair’s gun. Robin jumped down off the table, but he was too far away – but then Professor Chakravarti threw himself at Professor De Vreese’s side. They hit the floor with a whumph and began to wrestle – a clumsy, inelegant sight, two paunchy, middle-aged professors rolling around on the ground, their gowns flapping over their waists. Robin watched, astonished, as Professor Chakravarti wrenched the gun out of Professor De Vreese’s grasp and pinned him down in a messy hold.

‘Sir?’

‘Received your message,’ panted Professor Chakravarti. ‘Very well done.’

Professor De Vreese jammed his elbow at Professor Chakravarti’s nose. Professor Chakravarti lurched back. Professor De Vreese wriggled out of his hold, and the wrestling resumed.

Robin scooped the gun off the floor and pointed it down at Professor De Vreese.

‘Stand up,’ he ordered. ‘Put your hands above your head.’

‘You don’t know how to use that,’ Professor De Vreese sneered.