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

Victoire’s voice was so soft that they could barely hear her. ‘We can go home.’

Yusuf nodded, considered this a moment, and then moved to stand beside her.

And it was that simple, the determination of who fled and who died. Robin, Professor Craft, Meghana, Ibrahim, and Juliana on one side. Yusuf and Victoire on the other. No one pleaded or begged, and no one changed their minds.

‘So.’ Ibrahim looked very small. ‘When—’

‘Dawn,’ said Robin. ‘They’re coming at dawn.’

‘Then we’d better stack the bars,’ said Professor Craft. ‘And we’d better place them properly, if we only get one go.’

‘What’s the word?’ Abel Goodfellow demanded. ‘They’re inching right up to us.’

‘Send your men home,’ Robin said.

‘What?’

‘As quick as you can. Get out of the barricades and go on the run. There’s not much time. The Guards – they don’t care about casualties anymore.’

Abel registered this, then nodded. ‘Who’s coming with us?’

‘Just two. Yusuf. Victoire. They’re saying their goodbyes, they’ll be ready soon.’ Robin pulled a wrapped parcel from inside his jacket. ‘There’s also this.’

Abel must have read something in his face, heard something in his voice, because his eyes narrowed. ‘And what are the rest of you up to in there?’

‘I shouldn’t tell you.’

Abel raised the parcel. ‘Is this a suicide note?’

‘It’s a written record,’ said Robin. ‘Of everything that’s happened in this tower. What we stood for. There’s a second copy, but in case it gets lost – I know you’ll find some way to get this out there. Print it all over England. Tell them what we did. Make them remember us.’ Abel looked like he wanted to argue, but Robin shook his head. ‘Please, my mind’s made up, and there’s not much time. I can’t explain this, and I think it’s best if you don’t ask.’

Abel watched him for a moment, then seemed to think better of what it was he was about to say. ‘You’ll end this?’

‘We’re going to try.’ Robin’s chest felt very tight. He was so exhausted; he wanted to curl up on the ground and go to sleep. He wanted this to be over. ‘But I can’t tell you more tonight. I just need you to go.’

Abel thrust out his arm. ‘Then this, I suppose, is goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’ Robin grasped his palm and shook it. ‘Oh – and the blankets, I forgot—’

‘Think nothing of it.’ Abel wrapped his other hand over Robin’s. His grip was so warm, solid. Robin felt a catch in his throat; he was grateful that Abel was making this easy, that he hadn’t forced him to justify himself. He had to go swiftly, resolute to the very end.

‘Good luck, Robin Swift.’ Abel squeezed his hand. ‘God be with you.’

They spent the hours before dawn arranging hundreds of silver bars into pyramids at vulnerable points around the tower – around the base supports, beneath the windows, along the walls and bookshelves, and in veritable pyramids around the Grammaticas. They could not predict the scope, the scale, of the destruction, but they would prepare for it as well as they could, would make it near impossible to salvage any material from the remains.

Victoire and Yusuf left an hour after midnight. Their farewells were brief, constrained. It was an impossible parting; there was too much and yet nothing to say, and there was a sense that everyone was holding back for fear of opening the floodgates. If they said too little, they would regret it forever. If they said too much, they’d never bring themselves to part.

‘Safe travels,’ Robin whispered, embracing Victoire.

She choked out a laugh. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

They clung to each other for a long time, long enough that at last, once everyone had left to give them privacy, they were the only two standing in the lobby. Finally she stepped back, glanced round, eyes darting back and forth as if she was unsure whether to speak.

‘You don’t think this will work,’ said Robin.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You’re thinking it.’

‘I’m just terrified that we’ll make this grand statement.’ She lifted her hands, let them fall. ‘And they’ll see it only as a temporary setback, something to recover from. That they’ll never understand what we meant.’

‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think they were ever going to listen.’

‘No, I don’t think they were.’ She was crying again. ‘Oh, Robin, I don’t know what to—’

‘Just go,’ he said. ‘And write to Ramy’s parents, will you? I just – they ought to know.’

She nodded, gave him one last, tight squeeze, and then darted out the door to the green where Yusuf and Abel’s men were waiting. One last wave – Victoire’s stricken expression under the moonlight – and then they were gone.

Then there was nothing to do but wait for the end.