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

‘It’ll do a better job warding off troops than you think,’ said Abel. ‘It’s not just about the walls – though they’ll hold, you’ll see. It’s psychological. The barricades create the impression that there’s a real resistance going on, while the Army currently thinks they’ll be marching on the tower unopposed. And it emboldens our protestors – it creates a safe haven, a place to retreat.’

‘And what are you out here protesting?’ Victoire asked cautiously.

‘The silver industrial revolution, of course.’ Abel held up a crinkled, waterlogged pamphlet. One of theirs. ‘Turns out we’re on the same side.’

Victoire cocked her head. ‘Are we?’

‘Certainly where industry is concerned. We’ve been trying to convince you of the same.’

Robin and Victoire exchanged a glance. They both felt rather ashamed now of their disdain for the strikers over the past year. They’d bought into Professor Lovell’s claims, that the strikers were simply lazy, pathetic, and undeserving of basic economic dignities. But how different, really, were their causes?

‘It was never about the silver,’ said Abel. ‘You realize that now, don’t you? It was about the wage-cutting. The shoddy work. The women and children kept all day in hot airless rooms, the danger of untested machines the eye can’t track. We were suffering. And we only wanted to make you see it.’

‘I know,’ Robin said. ‘We know that now.’

‘And we weren’t there to harm any of you. Well, not seriously.’

Victoire hesitated, then nodded. ‘I can try to believe that.’

‘Anyhow.’ Abel gestured at the barricades behind him. The movement was preciously awkward, like a suitor showing off his roses. ‘We learned what you were up to, and thought we might come up and help. At least we can stop those buffoons from burning the tower down.’

‘Well, thank you.’ Robin was unsure what to make of this; he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. ‘Do – do you want to come inside? Talk things over?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Abel. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

They stepped back through the door, and invited him in.

And so the battle lines were drawn. That afternoon commenced the strangest collaboration Robin had ever witnessed. Men who weeks ago had been screaming obscenities at Babel students now sat in the lobby among them, talking over tactics of street warfare and barrier integrity. Professor Craft and a striker named Maurice Long stood with their heads bent over a map of Oxford, discussing ideal locations for more barriers to block off Army entry points. ‘Barricades are the only good thing we ever imported from the French,’ Maurice was saying.^* ‘Over the wide roads, we want low-level obstructions – paving stones, overturned trees, that sort of thing. It takes time to clear, and it keeps them from bringing in horses or heavy artillery. And here, if we cut off the narrower access points around the quadrangle, we can keep them restricted to High Street . . .’^*

Victoire and Ibrahim sat at a table with several other strikers, dutifully taking down notes on what sort of silver bars might best aid their defences. The word barrels came up quite a lot; Robin, eavesdropping, gathered they were planning to raid some wine cellars for structural reinforcements.^*

‘How many nights are you going to stay here?’ Abel gestured around the lobby.

‘As long as it takes,’ said Robin. ‘That’s the key; they can try everything they’ve got, but they’re hamstrung as long as we have the tower.’

‘Do you have beds in here?’

‘Not really. There’s a cot we take turns using, but mostly we just curl up in the stacks.’

‘Can’t be comfortable.’

‘Not at all.’ Robin gave him a wry smile. ‘Keep getting stepped on when someone heads down to use the toilet.’

Abel hummed. His eyes roved around the expansive lobby, the polished mahogany shelves, and the pristine marble flooring. ‘Quite the sacrifice.’

The British Army marched into Oxford that evening.

The scholars watched from the rooftop as red-coated troops rolled in a single column along High Street. The arrival of an armed platoon ought to have been a grand occasion, but it was hard to feel any real fear. The troops looked rather out of place among the townhouses and shops of the city centre, and the townspeople who turned out to cheer their arrival made them look more like a parade than a punitive military force. They marched slowly, making way for civilians crossing the street. It was all rather quaint and polite.

They halted when they reached the barricades. The commander, a richly mustachioed fellow decked out in medals, dismounted from his horse and strode to the first upturned wagon. He seemed deeply confused by this. He glanced around at the watching townspeople, as if awaiting some explanation.

‘Do you think that’s Lord Hill?’ Juliana wondered.

‘He’s the Commander in Chief,’ said Professor Chakravarti. ‘They’re not going to send in the Commander in Chief to deal with us.’

‘They ought to,’ said Robin. ‘We’re a threat to national security.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic.’ Victoire hushed them. ‘Look, they’re talking.’