CHAPTER 60: SNITCHES GET STITCHES
Thomas 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, "This certainly gives a new meaning to the expression Sword of Damocles." *
Giulia flashes him an outraged look, her eyes still brimming with tears, and John elbows the detective between the ribs, hissing, "Very charming."
He doesn't have the time to lecture Sherlock on the basic rules of tact because Moriarty takes back the reins of the discussion. "My dear Giulia, since 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'll have to provide the right answers."
Sherlock furrows a brow. "Answers, plural?"
Jim snaps his fingers, and the door from which they entered earlier opens, and 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 points 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 weighing 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 flinch. "And soon after, things would get pretty incandescent in your room, as well." He shoots an eloquent look at the nozzles on the wall, and they cringe at the memory of the little demonstration he gave a few minutes before.
"No time limit this time. Just some pretty strict weighting limitations," he croons in a singsong voice as his image fades away.
The screen doesn't switch off completely, and the monitor shows a peculiar screensaver: a sequence of straight and curved dash marks on a white background.
– 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 an encrypted 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 five consecutive letters 'D' and a final 'T' would mean anything," he speculates, resorting once again to his military skills.
Giulia shakes her head. "If there's one thing Sherlock has always made clear is that Moriarty wouldn't repeat himself," she recites that mantra.
"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." Sherlock 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.'
Sherlock delicately lifts the lid to reveal three fruits: an apple, a pear, and a strawberry.
"This one's easy. Adam, Eve and the tempting snake; nothing screams 'beginning' like 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?" Holmes says matter-of-factly, fetching the apple and juggling it in the air. He catches it and frowns at Giulia's perplexed expression. He teases her, "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," John confirms.
Giulia cocks a brow and gives a nod to the statue of the Muse of Epic Poetry.
"I only have problems with your implicit assumption that religion is equivalent to epic myths. 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 want to start a theological discussion right now. But I'm not entirely convinced that your explanation for choosing the apple, albeit logical, would be consistent with the epic theme of this room, that's all. Why don't we just postpone our decision on the first object and proceed with the other boxes? Maybe we could find some links to corroborate your solution," she diplomatically suggests.
"Or to contradict it." He smirks at her, dissipating the sudden tension between them. They have already been down that path in Molly's room. This time, they can't let their differences oppose them. They are all on the same side, and everyone must agree on 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 lid 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 use a toy to break up a dispute or end a tantrum. When I was a kid, whenever I was fighting with my sister Harriet, it was always over toys, but those were the bone of contention, never the solution," he points out.
Holmes squints at him, failing to follow his reasoning. "Why would you assume it's anything to do with 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 or the chemistry set. But these objects are clearly kids' toys," he insists.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Indeed. But what if they were symbols for something else? Something a bit more epic-related, perhaps?"
Giulia takes the blanket from John's hand and brushes her fingers against the fabric.
"This looks like it was handmade."
"Yes, but someone got lazy, apparently," John notices, pointing at several strands hanging loosely from one end. He pulls one thread, and a portion of the cloth unravels. "Oh, damn, I didn't mean to."
Sherlock gawps at the scene and lets out in a whisper, "Penelope's shroud."
Giulia lowers her gaze to the half-undone blanket in her hands and catches the meaning of his suggestion with a two-second delay.
"Right. It's a story told in the epic poem The Odyssey. Penelope was Ulysses' wife and waited for twenty years for her husband to come back home from the Trojan War. 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 of remarrying."
Sherlock intervenes to complete the story. "That's why she devised a trick," he emphasises, gesturing at the label of the box. "She promised 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 never to 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.
Sherlock and Giulia 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 and theorise that the building blocks might stand for the construction of the Tower of Babel**, but I already know your opinion on the relation between epic poetry and biblical narrative." He flashes her a sarcastic smile.
Giulia wrinkles her nose at his hypothesis and simpers. "Good. Then I'll just stick to the 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."
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.
Sherlock notices her mood change and nods pensively. "We should sharpen our wits if we want to prevent your over-sharer of a former guardian from ending up like a human skewer."
Watson looks daggers at him. "You have the emotional sensibility of a hangman. But I hate to admit you're right. We 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 Sherlock and Giulia give John a side glance. His pep talk was decent, but this didn'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, and he catches it mid-air. Then Sherlock 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," John 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 against the enemies' attacks. 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," Sherlock says in a low voice. "Speaking of heroic deaths, the ending of the epic poem Song of Roland just came to my mind."
Giulia 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 leans a shoulder against the nearest wall, faking a yawn and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Just go ahead with whatever story you have to tell. I'll make myself comfortable," he jests.
Holmes explains, "The Song of Roland is a milestone in French literature. According to the story, the hero Roland was leading the rear guard 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 happened 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 explanation. He was definitely into medieval stories of knights' duels when he was young.
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?" 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, realising they have been providing only partial and tentative answers so far, and her spirit drops.
"We haven't even considered other options for all the remaining objects. At this point, 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 eyes. He looks right back at her, terror painted all over his face. She forces her gaze away to prevent him from guessing the powerlessness in her eyes.
"What are we even doing?" She whines.
"It's the first step. We're just brainstorming," John answers distractedly, staring at the open boxes.
"No, I mean, 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 herself telling that no one gets left behind. No one.
John gives her a tender, encouraging look. "Giulia, you are saving a man's life."
"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 clear when she made it, but everything is getting blurry now. And maybe that's her original sin: not being able to accept the blurred lines of moral behaviour.
"I should have accepted Moriarty's offer. All my life, I've believed that nobody is expendable, but what if I'm 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 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 shouts again, clenching her fists so hard that her nails poke into her palms, scratching her skin. All her convictions are collapsing. She has nothing left, not a single certainty to hold on to.
Sherlock stares helplessly at her. 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 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 were afraid that if she didn't hold tightly enough, she would 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 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. The truth is, he was never even against her decision to play 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 as she takes her head in her hands, desperate. He murmurs, "That was never an option, and we all know that. Look at me." He gently lifts her chin to make her meet his gaze and fixes his eyes on her reddened ones.
"Giulia, you made the only possible choice. You're doing the right thing. Don't let Moriarty worm his way into your mind and destroy you from the inside, like a virus."
She sniffles and listens carefully to his words. One second later, 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 an instant 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 and puts it aside, rummaging through the boxes until she has placed all the items on the table, and then she gasps.
"That's it. That's the answer," she says, panting.
"You think the rocking horse symbolises the Trojan horse, making it the correct answer for box number two, right?" Sherlock arches a brow, struggling to follow her reasoning.
She slowly turns around and shakes her head. "No. I think 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 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 the ripped 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? Achilles' parents didn't invite Eris (the Goddess of discord) to their wedding, and as revenge for being 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 fruit, Zeus appointed Paris, Prince of Troy, to select the fairest. Paris gave the apple to the goddess Aphrodite, who bribed him by promising him the love of the most beautiful woman in the world—the infamous Helen, wife of the King of Sparta Menelaus. So the two fell in love, causing the Trojan War."
"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, isn't it?" 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?" 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. He also said they could be ungrateful since Thomas offered to treat Giulia like a queen, but she preferred someone else over him. Come on, I can't be the only one to see the similarities with Helen of Troy," he says, earning impressed looks from both Sherlock and Giulia.
"Very observant, John," Holmes compliments him, and Giulia joins in.
"I hadn't noticed, but now that you've pointed it out, it's unmistakable. Jim found a very creative way of mocking us by 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 for the objects of the boxes," she says, walking 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' head. Nothing happens. Still too early to say whether their reasoning is correct.
"Good. So, the apple was indeed The beginning from which a lot of misery and suffering derived," Sherlock intervenes, quoting the label on the first box. "Assuming that the story at the heart of the Iliad is the common thread, as per your theory, I imagine that out of the three items in the second box, you will choose the wooden rocking horse: 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 says 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. In fact, it was detailed in the Aeneid." She pauses, then her eyes glimmer, and her head whips up to meet Sherlock's eyes.
"Which is another epic poem," they say in unison.
"Sometimes I wish I could live inside your heads. It must be a dark place, but man, you do know so much stuff," John murmurs in awe. "Still, I'll play the devil's advocate: why are we suddenly switching from one epic 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 was 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?" John asks, puzzled.
"They tell interconnected stories. The events told in the Aeneid are a chronological derivation of the end of the Trojan War, which is the subject of the Iliad," she replies, then frowns. They are 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 fixed on the ground. He looks as if he has accepted his fate. But if he is doomed, it means that everyone else also is. Correction: it means she doomed them all. She keeps battling within herself, questioning her choice to play, her moral code, all her beliefs. There is nothing more excruciating than doubting 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.
Her eyes travel to the screen on the wall. 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 we haven't considered yet?" Giulia hints at the screen with a nod of the head.
"You mean the obscure message in Morse code?"
"That's not Morse code. Those are syllables; they are the symbols of the dactylic hexameter—also known as the meter of epic. It's a rhythmic scheme."
"That's precisely the meter used in both Homer's Iliad and Virgil's Aeneid," Sherlock concludes her reasoning and gapes. "Brilliant."
"Yeah. Moriarty is proving to be quite ingenious," she comments with a mixture of irony, admiration, and pure hatred.
"I wasn't talking about him."
She holds his gaze for a second, blushing slightly. "Does it mean 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. "Enlighten me: how does the Iliad end?"
"With the solemn funeral of Hector," Giulia replies, a far-away look in her eyes, her mind lost after a thought that seems constantly out of reach. Something keeps eluding her.
"I was expecting something a bit more spectacular, but I guess a funeral can be considered enough of a tragic ending. Should we settle for a funerary horn, then?" John ventures.
"Here's the tricky part," Sherlock says, folding his hands under his chin in his praying position, with the same concentrated expression as Giulia's. "The end of the poem is one thing, but the true ending of the story of the Trojan War is a 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."
John glances at the objects displayed on the table.
"The matchbox," he whispers, and Sherlock nods silently, a grave look 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, since I see no connection to dragons, it still leaves us with a 50% chance of getting the last object right. That makes for a huge hazard ratio," Watson moans as 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 on the end of the war. It makes perfect sense; the hero Aeneas fled Troy and touched land in Italy. Aeneas' descendants will later become the founders of Rome and its imperial power." She casts a glance at the label of the third box. "A tragic ending to make space for new beginnings indeed. I just wish we could have one final confirmation."
Sherlock shuts his eyes, 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're right. And I mean not only the exactness of your poetic and mythological knowledge, but you are also right at pointing to the Aeneid. We have one final proof," he affirms confidently, nailing her with his intense gaze. "Giulia, you never told us, but I'm ready to bet that Rome is your hometown, isn't it?"
She goggles at him. "How do 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; it was all about Rome's epic origins. 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 completes her sentence.
Giulia feels her legs move mechanically towards the table as if a force other than her brain is controlling them. She reaches out a hand, and her fingers wrap around the small box. It probably doesn'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. That uncertainty is eating her 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 says in a half-joking tone. Gosh, she hopes those won't be the last words she ever spoke to them.
Everyone follows her movements with rapt attention as she moves slowly towards the scale. She stops and lifts her arm just above the metal plate in front of her. She looks 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 plate of the scale. Before she can place the last object down, everyone's eyes dart instinctively around; John turns his head toward the fire nozzles, praying 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 deeper into two topics mentioned in the chapter, there you go:
* Sword of Damocles. The expression 'having the Sword of Damocles hanging over the head' means 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 the life that he considered so blissful. As Damocles was treated to opulent food and many 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 those pleasures, and he begged Dionysius to let him 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, in 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 communicate with each other and continue working on the tower.