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‘Mr Swift, please, listen to reason—’
‘Turn out your pockets.’ Robin raised his voice, speaking over the ringing in his ears. ‘Take nothing with you – not silver, not ledgers, not notes you’ve written to yourself.’ He kept waiting for someone to interrupt him; for Victoire to intervene, to tell him he was wrong, but no one spoke. He took this silence as tacit approval. ‘And if you leave, I’m sure you know, you can’t come back.’
‘There is no path to victory here,’ warned Professor Chakravarti. ‘This will only make them hate you.’
Robin scoffed. ‘They can’t hate us any more than they do.’
But no, that was not true; they both knew it. The British did not hate them, because hate was bound up with fear and resentment, and both required seeing your opponent as a morally autonomous being, worthy of respect and rivalry. The attitude the British held towards the Chinese was patronizing, was dismissive; but it was not hatred. Not yet.
That might change after the bridge fell.
But then, Robin thought, invoking hatred might be good. Hatred might force respect. Hatred might force the British to look them in the eyes and see not an object, but a person. Violence shocks the system, Griffin had told him. And the system cannot survive the shock.
‘Oderint dum metuant,’ he said.* ‘That’s our path to victory.’
‘That’s Caligula,’ said Professor Chakravarti. ‘You’re invoking Caligula?’
‘Caligula got his way.’
‘Caligula was assassinated.’
Robin shrugged, wholly unbothered.
‘You know,’ said Professor Chakravarti, ‘you know, one of the most commonly misunderstood Sanskrit concepts is ahimsa. Nonviolence.’
‘I don’t need a lecture, sir,’ said Robin, but Professor Chakravarti spoke over him.
‘Many think ahimsa means absolute pacifism, and that the Indian people are therefore a sheepish, submissive people who will bend the knee to anything. But in the Bhagavad Gita, exceptions are made for a dharma yuddha. A righteous war. A war in which violence is applied as the last resort, a war fought not for selfish gain or personal motives but from a commitment to a greater cause.’ He shook his head. ‘This is how I have justified this strike, Mr Swift. But what you’re doing here is not self-defence; it has trespassed into malice. Your violence is personal, it is vindictive, and this I cannot support.’
Robin’s throat pulsed. ‘Then take your blood vial before you go, sir.’
Professor Chakravarti examined him for a moment, nodded, and then began turning out the contents of his pockets onto the middle table. A pencil. A notebook. Two blank silver bars.
Everyone watched, silent.
Robin felt a flash of irritation. ‘Would anyone else like to voice a complaint?’ he snapped.
No one else said a word. Professor Craft stood and walked away up the stairs. A moment later, Ibrahim joined her, then Juliana; and then the rest until only Robin and Victoire stood in the lobby, watching Professor Chakravarti stride down the front steps towards the barricades.
