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

‘I do love the campus at Christmastime,’ said Griffin one night. ‘It’s the season when Oxford leans most into the magic of itself.’

The sun had set. The air had gone from pleasantly chilly to bone-cuttingly cold, but the city was bright with Christmas candles, and a light trickle of snow floated down around them. It was lovely. Robin slowed his pace, wanting to savour the scene, but Griffin, he noticed, was shivering madly.

‘Griffin, don’t . . . ’ Robin hesitated; he didn’t know how to ask politely. ‘Is that the only coat you have?’

Griffin recoiled like a dog rising on its hackles. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just – I’ve got a stipend, if you wanted to buy something warmer—’

‘Don’t patronize me.’ Robin regretted instantly that he’d ever brought it up. Griffin was too proud. He could take no charity; he could not even take sympathy. ‘I don’t need your money.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Robin, wounded.

They walked for another block in silence. Then Griffin asked, in an obvious attempt at an olive branch, ‘What’s on for Christmas?’

‘First there’ll be dinner in hall.’

‘So endless Latin prayers, rubber goose, and a Christmas pudding that’s indistinguishable from pig slop. What’s really on?’

Robin grinned. ‘Mrs Piper has some pies waiting for me in Jericho.’

‘Steak and kidney?’

‘Chicken and leek. My favourite. And a lemon tart for Letty, and a chocolate pecan dessert pie for Ramy and Victoire—’

‘Bless your Mrs Piper,’ Griffin said. ‘The professor had some frigid crone named Mrs Peterhouse in my time. Couldn’t cook to save her life, no, but always remembered to say something about half-breeds whenever I was in earshot. He didn’t like that either, though; I suppose that’s why he let her go.’

They turned left onto Cornmarket. They were very near the tower now, and Griffin seemed fidgety; Robin suspected they would soon part ways.

‘Before I forget.’ Griffin reached into his coat, pulled out a wrapped parcel, and tossed it at Robin. ‘I got you something.’

Surprised, Robin pulled at the string. ‘A tool?’

‘Just a present. Merry Christmas.’

Robin tore away the paper, which revealed a lovely, freshly printed volume.

‘You said you liked Dickens,’ said Griffin. ‘They’d just bound the serialization of his latest – you might have already read it, but I thought you’d like it all in one piece.’

He’d bought Robin the three-volume set of Oliver Twist. For a moment Robin could only stammer – he hadn’t known they were exchanging gifts, he hadn’t bought anything for Griffin – but Griffin waved this off. ‘That’s all right, I’m older than you, don’t embarrass me.’

Only later, after Griffin had disappeared down Broad Street, coat flapping around his ankles, would Robin realize this selection had been Griffin’s idea of a joke.

Come back with me, he almost said when they parted. Come to hall. Come back and have Christmas dinner.

But that was impossible. Robin’s life was split into two, and Griffin existed in the shadow world, hidden from sight. Robin could never bring him back to Magpie Lane. Could never introduce him to his friends. Could never, in daylight, call him brother.

‘Well.’ Griffin cleared his throat. ‘Next time, then.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Don’t know yet.’ He was already walking away, snow filling in his footsteps. ‘Watch your window.’

On the first day of Hilary term, the main entrance to Babel was blocked off by four armed policemen. They appeared to be engaged with someone or something inside, though whatever it was, Robin could not see over the crowd of shivering scholars.

‘What’s happened?’ Ramy asked the girls.

‘They’re saying it was a break-in,’ said Victoire. ‘Someone wanted to pilfer some silver, I suppose.’

‘So what, the police were here at precisely the right time?’ asked Robin.

‘He set off some alarm when he tried to get through the door,’ said Letty. ‘And the police, I think, came quickly.’

A fifth and sixth policeman emerged from the building, dragging the man Robin assumed was the thief between them. He was middle-aged, dark-haired, bearded, and dressed in very grimy clothes. Not Hermes, then, Robin thought with some relief. The thief’s face was contorted in pain, and his moans floated over the crowd as the police pulled him down the steps towards a waiting cab. They left a streak of blood on the cobblestones behind them.

‘He’s got about five bullets in him.’ Anthony Ribben appeared beside them. He looked like he might vomit. ‘Nice to see the wards are working, I suppose.’

Robin balked. ‘Wards did that?’

‘The tower’s protected by the most sophisticated security system in the country,’ said Anthony. ‘It’s not just the Grammaticas that are guarded. There’s about half a million pounds’ worth of silver in this building, and only spindly academics around to defend it. Of course the doors are warded.’

Robin’s heart was beating very quickly; he could hear it in his eardrums. ‘By what?’