CHAPTER 60: SNITCHES GET STITCHES
The bodyguard writhes frantically against the shackles and widens his eyes in horror; he fixes his gaze on the gleaming blade, incapable of looking away.
Sherlock observes the scene and comments dispassionately, "Well, this certainly gives a new meaning to the expression 'Sword of Damocles'." *
Giulia flashes him an outraged look. John elbows the detective between the ribs, hissing, "Charmingly said."
He doesn't have the time to lecture Sherlock on the basic rules of tact because Moriarty takes back the reigns of the discussion.
"Dear Giulia, now that you have so bravely decided to play this round, if you want to prevent your double-crossing bodyguard from being pierced from side to side, you will have to provide the right answers," he announces.
Holmes arches a brow, "Answers, plural?"
In response, Jim snaps his fingers, and the door from which they entered earlier opens, letting three of Moriarty's men come in. Each of them is carrying a box; they silently put down the three boxes on the table, next to the marble statue and the weighing scale, before exiting again.
"Answers, yes. Let me lay down the rules for you," Moriarty nods at that new addition. "In each of the three boxes, you will find three objects. You will only be allowed to choose one object from each box and place it on the weighing scale. There's only one correct combination. If you choose all the right items, the total will amount to a predetermined weight, and the scale will be perfectly balanced, in which case, the sword will remain at its place on the ceiling."
"But if we pick the wrong objects…" John trails off.
"Slash," Jim exclaims, mimicking with a hand the lighting movement of a blade and making Giulia jump.
"And soon after, things would get pretty incandescent in your room, as well," he shoots an eloquent look at the line of nozzles on the wall. They suppress a shiver at the memory of the little demonstration that he gave a few minutes before.
"No time limit, this time; just some pretty strict weighting limitations," he declares in a singsong voice as his image fades away.
The screen doesn't switch off completely, and the monitor shows a peculiar screensaver: a white background with a sequence of straight and curved dash marks.
– ᴗ ᴗ – ᴗ ᴗ – ᴗ ᴗ – ᴗ ᴗ – ᴗ ᴗ – /
They shoot a dazed look at it, still grasping the difficulty of that challenge.
"Do you think it is a coded message in Morse code again?" John asks. "After all, the signs resembling the bottom half of a circle might be considered dots. However, I don't see how the consecutive repetition of five letters 'N' would mean anything," he speculates, resorting once again to his military skills.
"If there's one thing that Sherlock has always made clear is that Moriarty doesn't repeat himself," Giulia remembers the mantra that the detective has been reciting since the first appearance of the criminal mastermind.
Holmes nods, "And I stand by that. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We don't possess enough information, yet. We can worry about the screen later," he waves a dismissive hand in the air, and they simultaneously move closer to examine the boxes on the table.
On each lid, there is a handwritten label – just a small sentence. They start with the first one to the left bearing the writing 'The beginning from which a lot of misery and suffering derived.'
The detective delicately lifts the lid to reveal three fruits: an apple, a pear, and a strawberry.
He snorts, "This one's easy. Adam, Eve and the tempting snake; nothing screams 'beginning' like the Genesis — the very beginning of the world, for those who believe that. What more suffering and misery could derive from the expulsion from the garden of Eden?" he pronounces matter-of-factly, fetching the apple and juggling it in the air.
He catches it and cocks a brow at Giulia's perplexed expression. "I think it's the perfect fit… unless someone has problems with my answer," a pinch of irony enwraps his words.
"I admit that's where my first thought went as well," the doctor confirms, and yet the girl keeps frowning.
"I only have problems with your implicit assumption that religion is equivalent to epic myths," she gives a nod to the statue of the Muse of epic poetry.
"I understand that to an atheist like you, the Bible or other religious books are nothing more than works of fiction, and I certainly don't intend on raising a theological discussion right now. All I meant to say is that I'm not entirely convinced that your explanation for choosing the apple, albeit logical, would be consistent with the epic theme of this room. Why don't we just postpone our decision on the first object and proceed with the other boxes, in the meantime? Maybe we could find some links to corroborate your proposal," she diplomatically suggests.
"Or to contradict it," he smirks at her, dissipating the sudden tension between them. After all, they have already been down that path, in Molly's room; this time, they can't let their differences oppose them. They all are on the same side, and everyone must agree with each answer.
John approaches the second box and reads the label out loud, "The trick that put an end to a long dispute."
He removes the cover and takes out three items: a handwoven blanket, a miniaturised wooden rocking horse, and some building blocks. He turns them around in his hands, astonished, "Truth be told, I don't see how anyone could ever use a toy to break up a dispute or end a tantrum. When I was a kid, whenever I was fighting with my sister, it was always over toys, but those were the problem never the solution," he points out.
Holmes squints his eyes at him, failing to follow his reasoning, "Why would you assume we are talking about children?"
"Look, Sherlock, I suppose you didn't have a regular childhood, and I imagine that in your early days, you and Mycroft were mostly bickering over who could use the microscope and the chemistry set… But take a look at these objects: these are clearly kids' toys," he insists.
The detective rolls up his eyes. "Indeed, but what if they were symbols for something else? Something a bit more epic-related, perhaps?" he gestures towards the sculpted Muse on the table.
Giulia takes the blanket from John's hand and brushes her fingers against the fabric. "This one looks like it was handmade."
"Yes, but someone got lazy, apparently," the doctor notices, pointing at several strands hanging loosely from one end. He pulls one thread, and a portion of the cloth unravels.
Sherlock gawps at the scene and lets out in a whisper, "Penelope's shroud."
Giulia follows his gaze, and when she catches the meaning of his suggestion, her eyes grow wide. "It's a story told in the epic poem Odyssey. Penelope was Ulysses' wife, and she waited for twenty years for her husband to come back home. She always remained faithful to him, even though many suitors asked for her hand to become kings of the island of Ithaca, but she had no intention to remarry."
Sherlock intervenes to complete the story. "Which is why she devised a trick," he emphasises, nodding to the label of the box. "She promised to the suitors that she would choose her future husband once she was done weaving a burial shroud for Ulysses' father. However, she used to weave the shroud by day and unravel it by night, postponing the moment of choice indefinitely."
John scratches the back of his neck and sighs, "For the sake of my ego, remind me to never play a trivia night with the two of you".
Then he ponders the myth for a second and frowns, "Anyway, I hate to be a naysayer here – especially when you two seem to be on the same page for once, but according to the label on the box, the 'trick' is supposed to have 'put an end to a long dispute'," he quotes. "The story of the shroud did precisely the opposite; it let Penelope avoid solving a contention. Besides, from what you two said, I got the feeling that Penelope was a real symbol of marital fidelity; don't you think it clashes a bit with the whole treason concept?" he argues as his eyes subconsciously travel to the bodyguard beyond the glass.
The detective and the girl exchange conflicted looks.
"He is right," Sherlock concedes, saving Giulia the embarrassment of contradicting him for the second time in a row. "I would advance an alternative hypothesis by theorising that the building blocks might stand for the construction of the Tower of Babel**, but I already know what's your opinion on the relation between epic poetry and biblical narrative," he flashes her a sarcastic smile.
She wrinkles her nose at his hypothesis and simpers, "Then I'll just stick to the obvious objection that the Tower of Babel is an origin story used to explain the presence of different languages across the globe and the occurrence of misunderstandings and language disagreements," she pronounces defiantly.
One second later, her face clouds over. "Again, it's the exact opposite of what the label says. We're in a stalemate," she murmurs gloomily.
Sherlock notices her mood change and nods pensively, "We should sharpen our wits if we want to prevent your over-sharer of a guardian from ending up like a human skewer."
The doctor looks daggers at him. "You have the emotional sensibility of a hangman. But I hate to admit that you're right; we do need to get to definitive answers with a plausible level of confidence for the survival of everyone in this room." He clears his throat uncomfortably, "Maybe we just need to have the whole picture. Everything will probably become clear after we open the third box."
Three pairs of eyes instinctively stare at the third label: A tragic ending to make space for new beginnings.
Both the detective and the girl give the doctor a side glance. His pep talk was decent, but this doesn't bode well.
Holmes lifts the box lid, and his lips twitch slightly to mask his confusion. "I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this," he declares, pulling out a stuffed animal in the shape of a dragon.
"Maybe you can add it to your collection of toys," he mocks John, throwing the plush dragon at him.
Then he dives his hand into the box again and extracts a matchbox and a horn resembling an instrument anciently used to sound the alarm.
"I have no idea what the other two objects mean, but I might have a theory about this stuffed animal," the doctor waves the plushie in the air. "I wasn't the most attentive of students in school, but I remember studying the Old English epic poem of Beowulf; if I'm not mistaken, the story ends with the hero Beowulf slaying a dragon."
"Correct," Giulia confirms, forcing a smile, but her quivering lips betray her agitation. "But how does it make space for new beginnings? Beowulf gets mortally wounded in the fight with the dragon, leaving his people deprived of their main champion and defenceless to the attacks of the enemies. It doesn't work," her voice breaks, and she clenches her jaw to control a mounting wave of panic.
"Any other ideas on the other items?" she presses the detective, who is staring intently at the horn in his hand.
"Only one," he affirms in a low voice. "Speaking of heroic death, the ending of the epic poem Song of Roland came to my mind."
The girl narrows her eyes at the horn and immediately understands, "The olifant, Roland's horn."
Sherlock smiles at her; her knowledge can rival his. Impressive.
John sighs and shakes his head. "Just go ahead with whatever story you have to tell; I'll make myself comfortable," he jests, leaning a shoulder against the nearest wall and crossing his arms over his chest.
Holmes explains, "The Song of Roland is a milestone in French literature. According to the story, the hero Roland was Charlemagne's nephew, who was leading the rearguard of Charlemagne's army when they were ambushed by the Saracens. At first, he refused to blow his horn (the olifant) to call for help from the rest of the army. He fought bravely, but in the end, he was outnumbered and blew the horn to summon revenge by Charlemagne. Notable addition: the Saracens' ambush was possible because Ganelon - Roland's stepfather, betrayed the Franks and informed the enemies of the route that the rear guard of the army would take."
Giulia stares at him throughout the whole explanation.
Yeah, he was definitely into medieval stories of knights duels when he was young, she mentally comments.
Then she gapes in sudden realisation, "It all came from an act of treason. Not to mention that Roland was yet another knight. It all fits."
"Sure, it sounds plausible, but what is the connection with the objects from the other boxes? Do we have our final answers? Are we even sure about the combination?" John rationally objects. He wishes he could be more supportive, but he feels like they are building on quicksand. All their lives are at stake; they can't afford to make mistakes.
Giulia blinks repeatedly as if she had just realised that they have been providing only partial and tentative answers so far, and there is nothing certain; her spirit drops.
"We haven't even considered other options for all the remaining objects. We came to the point where we're just guessing," she grumbles, pacing the room back and forth.
She comes to a halt in front of the glass; for an instant, she meets Thomas's gaze, and their eyes lock. He looks right back at her, terror painted all over his face. She forces her head to turn away to prevent him from guessing the powerlessness in her eyes.
"What are we even doing?" she whines, taking her head in her hands, desperate.
"It's the first step. We are just brainstorming," John answers distractedly, staring at the open boxes.
She scoffs and raises her voice, "No, I mean that we shouldn't be in this situation. What are we doing?"
She spirals out of control as despair and fear get a hold of her.
"What am I doing?" she screams to herself. She can't help but question her choice: she should have never agreed to play that round. She shouldn't have listened to that rigorous little voice inside telling her that no one gets left behind. No one.
John gives her a tender, encouraging look, "Giulia, you are saving a man's life."
She doesn't meet his gaze but shakes her head. "No, I'm stubbornly obeying a counterintuitive moral code. I was so obtuse, so obstinate," she brings her fist up to her mouth and bites her hand, letting her teeth dig into her skin.
She wonders if she made a mistake; the choice seemed so clear when she made it, but everything is getting blurry now. And maybe that was her original sin: not being able to accept the blurred lines of moral behaviour.
"Maybe I should have accepted Moriarty's offer. All my life, I've believed that nobody is expendable, but what if I was wrong? What if I've always been wrong to abide by the rules of my stern moral compass? Human actions aren't just black and white; sometimes, people do something bad for the greater good. What if I just took a step that I can't take back?" she yells, her voice laden with painful hesitation. "We wouldn't be here risking our lives now. I should have never dragged you two into this," she moans again, clenching her fists so hard that her nails poke in her palms, scratching her skin.
She throws punches in the air. All her convictions are collapsing. She got nothing left, not a single certainty to hold on to.
Sherlock stares helplessly at that spectacle. He doesn't know what to do, what to say to comfort her. He never had to battle with his moral code; he isn't sure that he even has a moral code.
He studies her movements, incapable of taking his eyes off of her; she is tightening her arms around her chest as if she was afraid that if she doesn't hold tightly enough, she will crumble to the ground in a million pieces. He has never witnessed her so torn. She has always been unwavering, but this round has taken an unexpected turn.
Among all the concerns for her crisis of conscience, he perceives another unfamiliar feeling: guilt. He feels like he is part of the problem; if he hadn't acted so stupidly jealous and had been more supportive, maybe she wouldn't be double guessing her choice. And the truth is, he was never even opposed to her decision of playing that round. He was just… distracted.
Unlike the immobile detective, John limps up to Giulia's side and gently places a hand on her hunched shoulders, murmuring, "That was never an option, and we all know that. Look at me," he encourages her by lifting her chin to meet his gaze.
He fixes his eyes on her reddened ones. "Giulia, you are doing the only possible thing – the right thing. Do not let Moriarty worm his way into your mind and destroy you from the inside, like a virus."
She sniffles and pays careful attention to his words. After one second, she widens her eyes in sudden realisation and whips her head around to look at the boxes.
"Or like the Trojan horse," she mumbles and rushes to the table.
"What?" John furrows a brow, and the hand that was under Giulia's chin half a second ago remains raised mid-air – he is too confused to even lower it.
He watches, baffled, as she takes the miniaturised rocking horse in her hands. She nods vigorously and puts it aside, rummaging through the boxes until she can review all the items on the table, then she gasps loudly.
"That's it; that's the answer," she pronounces, panting.
"You think that the rocking horse symbolises the Trojan horse, making it the correct answer for box number two?" the detective arches a brow, struggling to follow her reasoning.
She slowly turns around, "No, I think that I just found the answer to the entire challenge: the Iliad," she beams at him, before taking the apple from the first box.
"You got the first object right, but for the wrong reason. The apple is indeed the correct fruit, but it has nothing to do with Adam, Eve, and the Book of Genesis. Do you know what the Ancient Greek epic poem Iliad is about?" she asks him, polishing the apple with an edge of her dress.
He shoots her an offended look and spits out, "Of course I do. It's the story of the war of Troy, featuring a bunch of famous heroes such as Achilles, Hector and Paris. But I don't see how…" his voice dies in his throat as he lowers his gaze to the fruit in her hand, then he exclaims, "Oh! The apple of discord, quite literally. It's the mythical explanation behind the beginning of that war, isn't it? The parents of Achilles didn't invite Eris – the Goddess of discord, to their wedding, so to take revenge for having been snubbed, Eris let fall on the banquet table a golden apple with the inscription 'To the Fairest One'. As all the goddesses began fighting over the recipient of that fruit, Zeus appointed Paris, Prince of Troy, to select the fairest. Paris gave the apple to the goddess Aphrodite who to bribe him, had promised him the love of the most beautiful woman in the world: the infamous Helen, wife of the King of Sparta Menelaus," he sums up.
"I didn't know any of that, but I agree; the apple must be the right choice since Moriarty mentioned 'the apple of discord', earlier, when talking about Giulia. It's his usual wordplay," John realises; he has learnt to pay careful attention to Jim's words.
Then he reflects on Sherlock's words and tilts his head to the side, "Wait… doesn't this story remind you of something?"
"The movie Troy starring Brad Pitt, perhaps?" Giulia taunts him, and he glares at her.
"Jim made an explicit reference to this myth, previously. I think he said something about women being capricious and the necessity to wage a war to win them over. Also, he said that they can be ungrateful, referring to the fact that Thomas had offered to treat Giulia like a queen, but she had preferred someone else over him. Come on, I can't be the only one to see the similarities with Helen of Troy," he points out, earning impressed looks from both Sherlock and Giulia.
"Very observant, John," the detective compliments him, and Giulia joins in.
"You're a fast learner. I hadn't noticed, but now that you've flagged it, it's unmistakable. Jim found a very creative way of mocking us but throwing in a reference to the love triangle at the origin of the Trojan War. I believe it counts as further confirmation that the Iliad is the underlying connection among the objects of the boxes," she declares, getting closer to the weighing scale.
Her eyes remain fixed on the metal plate for a couple of seconds, then she slowly lays down the apple. The weight of the fruit causes the balance pan to lower slightly. She holds her breath and instinctively looks above Thomas's head. Nothing happens. Still too early to say whether her reasoning is correct.
"Good, we're finally making some progress. We have just demonstrated that the apple was indeed The beginning from which a lot of misery and suffering derived," Sherlock intervenes, quoting the label on the first box.
"And if we assume that the story at the heart of the Iliad really is the main motive of the combination, as per your theory, I imagine that out of the three items of the second box, you will choose the wooden rocking horse: you said it – like the Trojan Horse. Nothing would be a better fit for The trick that put an end to a long dispute," he quotes again, taking the toy in his hands and stepping closer to Giulia, who nods at him.
"Far be it from me to question your answers," he pronounces with a hint of sarcasm, "But to be nit-picking, the deception of the horse statue filled with Greek soldiers that assaulted Troy wasn't narrated in the Iliad, at all."
Giulia stops for a second to ponder his words.
"That's true," she confirms. "As a matter of fact, it was detailed in the Aeneid…" she makes a pause then her eyes glimmer and her head jerks up to meet Sherlock's eyes.
"Which is another epic poem," they exclaim in unison.
John looks at the scene with a permanent frown. "Sometimes I wish I could live inside your heads. It must be a dark place, but boy, do you know so much stuff," he murmurs in awe. "Still, I feel like I should play the devil's advocate here: why are we suddenly switching from one poem to another, from the Iliad to the Aeneid? Were they from the same author?"
"No. The Iliad was written in Greek, and its presumed author is Homer, while the Aeneid is a masterpiece of Latin literature written by Virgil," Giulia clarifies. She would have never thought that one day, all those lectures on epic poems by her private tutors would be crucial in a matter of life and death inside a London theatre, in thrall to a sadistic criminal.
"Then what's the connection between those two works?" the doctor asks, perplexed.
"They deal with subsequent stories; the events told in the Aeneid are a chronological derivation of the end of the Trojan war, which is the main subject of the Iliad," the girl replies.
She frowns: she is getting closer to the answer – she can feel it. Yet, she is missing the ultimate confirmation.
She can't help but shoot a fleeting glance at Thomas; he keeps his head bowed down; his eyes are fixed to the ground. He looks as if he had accepted his fate. But if he is doomed, it means that everyone else also is. Correction: it means that she doomed them all. And she keeps battling within herself, double guessing her choice to play, her moral code, all her beliefs. There is nothing more excruciating than questioning the very essence of oneself. If she can't trust her principles – the one thing that kept her sane and focused all her life, what has she got left?
"Alright, but that's a bit flimsy. There must be another clue," John argues, giving voice to her thoughts.
At his words, her eyes travel to the screen from which Moriarty has been taunting them by throwing around allusions and hints that only became clear after they started connecting all the dots.
The monitor is still in standby mode, showing the same sequence of straight and curved dash marks.
– ᴗ ᴗ – ᴗ ᴗ – ᴗ ᴗ – ᴗ ᴗ – ᴗ ᴗ – /
She freezes: she knows what it is. How did she not recognise it earlier?
"What about the only clue that we haven't considered yet?" she hints at the monitor with a nod of the head.
"You mean the obscure message in Morse code?" John appears unconvinced.
She shakes her head. "That's not Morse code. Those are syllables; more specifically, those symbols indicate the dactylic hexameter – also known as the meter of epic. It is nothing more than a rhythmic scheme."
"Which is precisely the meter used in both Homer's Iliad and Virgil's Aeneid," Holmes concludes her reasoning and gapes.
"Brilliant," he breathes out in a whisper.
"Yeah, Moriarty is proving to be quite ingenious," she comments with a mixture of irony, admiration, and pure hatred.
Sherlock half-turns towards her and curves a corner of his lips, "I wasn't talking about him."
She holds his gaze for a second, blushing slightly. "Does it mean that you agree with me, now?" she teases him, looking down at his hands.
He lowers his gaze as well and realises that he has been holding the rocking horse all along. He nods and gently places it on the scale next to the apple. The metal plate swings lightly under the added weight; yet again, nothing happens in Thomas's room, even though the bodyguard can't help but raise his petrified gaze at the sword hanging over his head.
"Now we should focus on the third box," Watson proposes, drawing his friends' attention back to the last piece. "Enlighten me: how does the Iliad end?"
"That's the tricky part," the detective replies, folding his hands under his chin in his praying position. "The fact is that the last thing written in the Iliad is the funeral of Hector."
"I was expecting something a bit more spectacular, but I guess that a funeral can be considered enough of a tragic ending. Should we settle for a funerary horn, then?" the doctor ventures.
"Here's the problem, John. The end of the poem is one thing, but the true ending of the story of the Trojan War is a whole different matter. At the end of the war, after the Greek soldiers came out of the wooden horse, the city of Troy was burnt to the ground," Sherlock lectures him.
John glances at the objects displayed on the table.
"The matchbox," he whispers, and Sherlock nods silently, a grave expression on his face. He feels uncomfortably unsure, and they can't get it wrong; even a single mistake could be fatal.
"Ruling out the stuffed animal, it still leaves us with a 50% chance of getting the last object right, which makes for a huge hazard ratio," Watson moans while a shiver runs down his spine.
Giulia widens her eyes as the final piece of the puzzle seems to fall into place. "We just said it; the trick of the Trojan horse was told in the Aeneid, and the same goes for the burning of Troy. We shouldn't focus on the ending of the poem Iliad but the end of the war. It makes perfect sense; the hero Aeneas fled Troy and touched land in Italy. Aeneas's descendants will later become the founders of Rome and its imperial power. Indeed, A tragic ending to make space for new beginnings," she casts a glance at the label of the last box.
"I just wish we could have one final confirmation," she murmurs.
Sherlock registers her explanation and shuts his eyes closed, bringing his hands up to his temples to retrieve the words previously spoken by Moriarty. Giulia's explanation has sparked an epiphany in him, and he gets it three seconds later when he cracks his eyes open slowly.
"You are right, and I mean not only the exactness of your poetic and mythological knowledge, but you are also right at pointing to the content of the Aeneid. And we do have one final proof," he affirms confidently, nailing her with his intense gaze. "Giulia, I'd be ready to bet that Rome is also your hometown, isn't it?"
She nods, goggling at him, "How did you know?"
He gives her a faint smile. "Jim said it; this round is all about you."
She finally understands. "The Aeneid was written to extol the greatness of the Roman people. That epic poem was all about Rome epic's origins. And if this round is all about me, it means that…"
"The matchbox symbolising the flaming destruction of Troy that epically led to the subsequent foundation of Rome is the correct answer," Sherlock ends her sentence.
She feels her legs move mechanically towards the table as if a force other than her brain was controlling them. She reaches out a hand, and her fingers wrap around the small box. It can't weigh more than 15 grammes, but she knows that if it is the right object, it will be enough to keep the scale in balance, and consequently the sword in place. If it is the right object. If. And that uncertainty is eating her up alive.
She turns her face towards her flatmates while her mind tries to work up some words of goodbye just in case, but she immediately gets a lump in her throat. She looks at the ceiling to choke back tears and lowers her gaze to give them one last glance.
"If anything happens… run," she murmurs in a half-joking tone. Gosh, she hopes that those will not be the last words that she ever spoke to them.
She moves unnervingly slow towards the scale, as everyone follows her movements with rapt attention. She stops and lifts her arm just above the metal plate in front of her. She casts a quick look at the other two items on the scale; it's ironic to think that three seemingly meaningless objects such as an apple, a rocking horse, and a matchbox will seal the fate of four people.
She takes a deep breath and slowly lowers her hand towards the scale. Before she can place the last object on the plate, everyone instinctively looks at the dangers in the room; John turns his head toward the fire nozzles, praying that they won't activate, while Thomas lifts his eyes to the menacing sword above his head. Giulia follows his gaze and keeps staring at the shining blade, even when her fingers are about to release the matchbox onto the scale.
Only Sherlock seems to disregard all mortal dangers as his eyes remain fixed on Giulia. He is confident about their joint line of reasoning and their choice of objects, yet he has to consider the possibility that they didn't correctly interpret Moriarty's intentions and made a mistake along the way. And if that truly is the end, he wants her to be the last thing he sees before he dies.
Giulia eventually drops the matchbox, and it lands on the weighing scale with a muffled thud that echoes in the silent room.
Author's Note: For those of you who might be interested in delving a bit deeper into some of the topics mentioned in the chapter, there you go:
* Sword of Damocles. The expression 'having the Sword of Damocles hanging over the head' indicates that a life of luxury, wealth, and power is constantly threatened by the thought that something terrible could happen at any time.
It originates from a Greek moral parable about the tyrannical king of Syracuse, Dionysius, and a court flatterer named Damocles. Damocles envied the powerful and wealthy life of the king, so Dionysius offered him to sit on his throne for one day and enjoy that life that he considered 'so blissful'. As Damocles was treated to opulent food and all sorts of lavish services, he noticed that Dionysius had hung a sharp sword right above the throne, held only by a single horsehair. Since that moment, the constant threat over his life made it impossible for Damocles to enjoy all the treats of that experience, and he begged Dionysius to leave the throne and go back to his status as a courtier, finally understanding that those in power always live under threat.
** Tower of Babel. As Giulia explained, the story of the Tower of Babel is an origin myth found in the Book of Genesis of the Bible. It is used to explain why people speak different languages in the world.
According to the biblical narrative, after the Great Flood, there was just one united human race on the globe, speaking only one language. They decided to build a city and a tower tall enough to reach the sky, and consequently heaven. Determined to punish their act of arrogance, God confounded their languages, making them speak different idioms, thus making it impossible for them to understand each other and continue work on the tower.