OUR LIVES CHAPTER 42: THE JUDGMENT OF ROY MUSTANG

(The Trial of Roy Mustang, part 3)

By The Binary Alchemist, 2-14

"STOP THE PRESSES! Holy crap, this is the scoop of the century!"

The hearing had only been adjourned for less than five minutes before every phone booth on Parliament Square was jammed with the bodies of frantic newshounds, jamming cens into the coin slots and screaming into the receivers that Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist and President of Amestris, was going to resign from office—that is, if a certain powerful Cleric declared him accountable for his crimes during the Ishballan War. "Yeah, that's what I heard," Frank Archer bellowed above the ruckus. "Bet this will send Samuelson's ratings through the roof!" Roy's opponent in the presidential race had taken a huge dip in the polls once his war chest of ready cash quickly ran out after Olivier Armstrong cut off his purse strings. She'd have preferred to cut off something else—his balls, for example—for inciting violence against alchemists with his inflammatory speeches. "I'd geld you," she told him heatedly over the phone, "but you were born without your manhood. So I'm cutting off your….compensation." Samuelson's campaign has been floundering ever since.

But on the call in lines on Radio Capital, the first wave of reaction from the citizens of Central there was a surprising trend: the people were actually supporting the President's startling decision to let the Ishballans decide his fate. Garrison Moyers, recently appointed as news director, grabbed a pair of headphones and began taking live calls on The Morning View, which aired just before Midday Amestris.

"Y'know…it takes guts to do this. I mean, it was a war and all. Things happen and the army brass did what they thought they had to do at the time. But you gotta be a real man to face the people you tried to wipe out and let them judge you. Don't think I could do that."

"…no, I don't think he's bowing to our former enemies. I mean, if he steps down, Prime Minister Ingro will be in charge, right? I think he's doing this as a peacemaker, and—"

"—I hope he they do pardon him. We can't change the past but he's done so much to-"

"Hey Garrison! Suck my-"

"We've got time for one more caller. Go ahead, ma'am. You're on the air."

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a woman clearing her throat."Hello, Garrison…my name is…is…Maude…and I think-"

#####

"Hadn't we better get back in theMrfrffff!" Not that Edward was ever averse to demonstrations of Roy's affection, but this fierce embrace in the private counsel room had taken him by surprise. But it felt good, and Ed leaned into it, chin resting comfortably on his husband's shoulder. "What brought this on?"

"A need of moral support." After a moment, Roy drew back and studied Edward's face very carefully. "Maes told me. Satori, they call it. The shift of perception. I've read of such things, but nobody ever talks about it—at least not in my hearing."

"I thought it was superstitious bullcrap. Trying to wrap some sort of mythic or religious window dressing on something as basic as alchemy."

"Huh. Basic for you, maybe." Reaching into Ed's pocket, he pulled out the offensive spectacles. "Here. You're still short-sighted. Developing abilities aren't going to be an excuse if the police stop you for driving without corrective lenses….not that they improve your driving all that much. You and Maes tend to leave a trail of wrecked fenders wherever you go."

"Bite me."

"Anyway," Roy continued, straightening his collar and smoothing his hair, "we need to head back. If anybody goes out of focus or starts glowing or anything strange, keep it to yourself. There's a limit to just how eccentric an 'eccentric genius' is allowed to be before the men with the butterfly nets come after you."

Ed responded to that sally by grabbing Roy by the shoulders, kissing him hard and noisily and then mussing up Roy's hair before darting out the door before his husband.

Roy gazed after him, his expression sobering. "'To keep in the dark an awakening mind—that is a dangerous thing'," he quoted softly from the Pearl Sutra of Xerxes, one of the most ancient alchemic texts ever uncovered in Xing.

"You'll have to leave, Ed. And soon…."

#####

"Welcome back, Maude." Mustang slid into his seat and turned behind to wave at his unauthorized biographer. "Hope you didn't break any nails dialing your collaborator, Archer."

"Nope. She did call into Morning View," Havoc answered for her. "Kain caught her on the wireless."

"Really." Mustang looked amused. "Well, it's a free country—at least it is during this administration. If Maude wants to voice her citizen's opinion about me on the air, far be it for me to tell her no. "

He then turned his attention to his legal team, ignoring her completely.

After several long minutes, Maude Kelly Winchell began to fidget in her seat. One manicured hand worried at her left earring. A pink leather handbag was snapped open and closed as she rooted for something she couldn't find inside, mainly because the security guards and Colonel Hawkeye had confiscated everything except her wallet, a tube of lipstick and a roll of breath mints.

She shifted from one butt cheek to the other. She sighed. She nibbled on her lower lip.

Eventually she cracked, as Roy knew she would. "Aren't you even slightly interested in what I said about you on the radio?"

Roy didn't even bother to turn around. "No."

Breda leaned in, voice low. "But sir, she—"

"Easy, Breda," his President answered, smothering a grin. "She's far more entertaining this way. And frankly," he lifted his eyes and nodded as Priyanand Lowe and his priests swept back into the chambers, "right now, I can use all the laughs I can get…"

#####

"Grand Cleric." The Prime Minister rose, tapped her gavel on the bench and gestured for the Ishballan leader to rise. "You may continue your testimony."

Lowe stood and bowed humbly. "I shall not take much more of your time. The remainder of my testimony shall be brief. Then I will, as requested, offer my judgment for the consideration of this court."

#####

Winters are a test of the soul for those who dwell in the desert, brutal and unforgiving. But thanks to the efforts of the General and his alchemists and his team, we had much to look forward to in the spring ahead of us. The earth was resting after being tilled and dug and shaped into irrigated fields. "Let the land rest over winter," the wise woman Izumi told us, so we tended our goats and built and planned for what was to be the first of many seasons of plenty when the spring arrived.

The General had been invited to return to Central to assist President Grumman. He declined, replying back that he had a lifetime of work ahead of him and had hardly made a dent in it. "We're provisioned enough to just make it through the winter, but if there's sickness—"

But there was none. Food was not abundant but everyone was fed enough. One evening after we had met to discuss the spring plantings, I had invited him to my home for supper. "Yalta has made goat's head soup with barley, a very fine supper indeed. She told me to tell you she is expecting you at sundown."

He looked uncomfortable. Seldom did he ever accept anyone's hospitality, and then only because it is a custom among the Ishballan people to share whatever they have, for to feed someone is to share Ishballah's blessing. "Come, my friend. You cannot refuse Yalta's hospitality."

With reluctance, he accepted. Without a word, he changed directions, walking towards the souk. 'Yalta likes figs, right?" I hid my smile to salve his dignity. What he was intending to say without words was that he would not break bread with us unless he could contribute to the supper. "Colonel Hawkeye bought some this morning. Said they were better than usual."

"Yalta would enjoy them, yes."

"Should be some dried apricots this season. And walnuts. Jaya's favorite."

"If we have figs and apricots and walnuts, then Yalta will teach you to make chikki. A sweet we make for feast days. We grind dried fruit and walnuts and date sugar in a mortar and add cardamom and rose water-"

He stopped abruptly, holding up his hand. On the other side of the souk, someone was shouting and cursing in a drunken voice. We heard the crack of a whip and the General took off without me, marching straight through the stalls to find out what the commotion was all about.

Pride is mankind's downfall, and my people are not exceptions. We try to live a godly life, yes, but we are, all of us, struggling from day to day with our baser desires and temptations.

Now, Ishballah gave us the juice of the pomegranate to quench our thirst and taught us to press wine that lifts our hearts when we sing his praise—but one must know when to put the cup down and fold the wineskin away. A cup of pomegranate wine, warm and spiced in the winter, will drive the chill away, but it is potent, as our Amestrian guests had learned. A cup will warm you body and soul; more that this and a man will forget his dignity and honor and as his fit of drunkenness takes over his mind he becomes lower than a dog. And only a man who has fallen lower than a dog would stoop to whipping a pregnant mare in the souk at dusk, cursing at her as if the poor creature bore the burdens of all the man's sorrows.

Is there any sound more heart-rending than the scream of a terrified horse? You must understand—to the people of the desert, one's horse is one's trusted companion. "You may keep secrets from your wife and your brother, but to your horse and your God, you must always tell the truth." Even in this day of automobiles and motorcycles, the horse is essential to our culture. Beating a dog is a terrible crime, but lashing a horse in anger seemed incomprehensible to me.

Pandak—I knew him but not well. Some men cannot give up their anger and trust to Ishballah. His temper was a thing he would not govern; it had caused his wife and son much sorrow and they had abandoned him a year before. He spent his coin in the wine seller's stalls, drinking without thought or caution.

Now, Pandak had a splendid mare named Bulbul—Nightingale—which was groom-gift to him from his wife's dowry when they married . Bulbul was bred to only the best stallions and each year Pandak has profited from the sale of a foal each winter. But since his wife had left him the mare was not well cared for. Her withers had become bony and her mane and coat badly kept. She had been bred the year before but had not prospered; the foal was lost. Now he stood here in the dusk as the torches were lit, flailing wildly at the poor beast's flanks and shouting. "I should sell you for dog meat, you bitch! Jumping the fence and letting some strange beast mount you! Nobody will buy a foal by an unknown sire! I ought to beat that foal out of your belly and-"

I did not have time to shout, it happened so quickly.

Arching above my head, a thin ribbon of flame danced at the command of the Flame Alchemist, and as bystanders screamed, my companion directed it straight at Pandak. There was not one soul in that souk that saw the fire that did not scream in terror, remembering well what this Amestrian had done here before…

…but with delicate precision, it was the whip—not the man—that burst into flame. Pandak was granted a brief instant to blink in surprise before the General's fist slammed into Pandak's jaw, slamming the drunken fool face down into the sand. The mare, Bulbul, fled in terror, stampeding through the stalls like a mindless thing.

Yanking Pandak roughly to his knees, Mustang's face was twisted with fury. He cocked back his arm to strike Pandak again but checked his own anger, giving him a hard shake instead. The General's voice was the low growl of a desert lion. "That's enough!" Ripping the braid from his shoulder, he quickly bound Padak's wrists behind his back. "Lowe, have the village watch take him away. Keep him under guard until he's sober, and they let your people judge him. Get him out of my sight!" He rose to his feet. "I'm going to find the mare before she gets hurt."

A glob of spit struck the General's coat. "Hey, you! Amestrian bastard! You tried to burn me alive and now you steal my horse?"

The General gazed at Pandak coldly, then reached inside his coat to draw out his wallet. Removing his identification cards, he stuffed the wallet inside Padak's shirt. "Have the watch count it for you. It should be more than enough, including that foal you wanted to sell for dog's meat. " He turned to the shopkeepers. "Heard and witnessed?"

"Heard and witnessed," they answered to a man, and Pandak was led away—a richer man, for certain, but unfortunately none the wiser…

)O(

"This is bad. Really damn bad."

The poor beast shivered in agony. Galloping blindly, Bulbul had stumbled among the rocks and fallen badly, ungainly from the weight of her unborn foal. One foreleg was bent at a sickening angle. Her eyes were rolling in her head and her dusty coat was slick with sweat even in the chill of nightfall. The sounds she made were fearful to hear. "She cannot be healed of this. You must do what is merciful, my friend," I told Mustang. Laying my hand upon the creature's brow, I whispered a blessing. "Do it now. I can't bear to see her suffer."

"Neither can I," Mustang answered grimly, "but there's another life at stake here." He touched her heaving belly. "Go back and get Marcoh. He can—"

"Doctor Marcoh is East City. You told me that yesterday."

Mustang swore sharply under his breath. "Then get Doctor Lin. If she can deliver a baby, she might know something about foaling. If there's anybody in the village that can help, get them out here." He shivered in his coat. "Can you get some firewood? I need to get her warm. She's in shock. If I can't save her, I have to save the foal if I can."

)O(

In the end, there was nothing that could be done. The lady doctor hurried out in her jeep, bringing water, blankets, milk for the foal in a feeding pitcher, and one of our stablemen who knew more about beast medicine than she did. "I've got morphine," she told the General, "but if I give her enough to ease her pain it might make it difficult for her to foal—and that that's going to put them both at risk."

"What do we do?" he asked simply.

"I've got lidocaine. I can try a local anesthetic for her limbs and give her a moderate analgesic, but, again, since she's in labor…."

"She will not survive, " the stableman told me frankly. "I would cut the foal from her belly. Take the little one now and it may have a chance."

The mare screeched and puffed frantically. Mustang had seen enough. "End it—and try to save the foal."

The stableman brought out a long, cruel-looking spike and a heavy mallet. "Like that?" Doctor Lin asked with a frown. The stableman nodded.

Mustang shook his head and drew his service revolver from where he kept it, concealed inside the folds of his greatcoat. "I'll take responsibility." He knelt beside the mare, speaking softly and gently to her. He made those strange, soothing sounds a rider makes to his horse as he caressed her sweaty forehead, pushing her tangled mane out of the way. "It's what my father would have done."

)O(

It was bloody business cutting the foal from its dam's belly. I stepped away but Mustang never moved, never leaving Bulbul's side for even a moment. "My father was a cavalry officer, y'know," he had told me. "Don't have a lot of memories of him—my mother died when I was born, but Father and I had a few years together. I think my aunt told me Father took me riding the day I was born, because he was grieving for my mother. Just climbed up in the saddle with me inside his coat and galloped away so no one could see his tears. My best memories were of Father and horses and being together…"

Now he watched another soul cut from its dead mother just as he had been, and there was an intense emotion in his eyes that I could not define if I tried. Practical Havoc had gotten some soldiers to erect an army shelter tarp over us, bringing lanterns and jugs of hot coffee. The lamplight revealed a harsh determination on Mustang's face that the newborn, a filly, would survive.

As soon as the little one was freed from its mother, Mustang crawled to it and began rubbing it down briskly with the blankets the doctor had brought. "C'mon," he kept saying. "C'mon, damn it…live. Live. Don't you dare die on me."

"Easy, Chief," Havoc told him. "I was raised on a farm, you know? Sometimes they make it, sometimes they don't. You never know with animals-"

I would not have wanted to be in Havoc's shoes when I saw Mustang's reaction.

"It's life. And I intend to fight like hell to protect it."

)O(

He said he would fight like hell to protect a life. I am a witness to this. I watched how he worried over my people's well being. I saw him take his own superiors to task for not seeing to the needs of my people. He ate cucumbers and gave up his own rations to feed others. He bargained with smugglers to get rare drugs into my country when sickness came over the land the next summer. He fought to get schools built, wells dug and roads paved. In his own gruff way, he was a kind and protective as a second father to my son Jaya and his friendship with my family has been tested many times and has never been found wanting.

This pale, grim-faced stranger walked among us, a spindly black filly following at his heels as faithfully as his own shadow. He smiled seldom. His laughter was rare and always sounded slightly bitter. And when my young son hugged him as he would have hugged a beloved family member, the General would freeze as if he dreaded being touched by another…he held us at arm's length when we would have embraced him as one of our own.

He made our suffering his own.

"Abba," my son asked me again, "is it possible for an Unbeliever to be one of the Saddiq?"

I nodded towards the pale man and the dark horse at his side. "It is not for us to say, my son," I told him. "But Unbeliever or not, Ishballah sees to it that even the smallest of candles drives away the darkness of the world. And it is His will and by His grace that the Tinderbox of War has lit the flames of peace between our peoples."

#####

"However….that being said….the heart may change but deeds are written as if in stone."

Ed's hand clamped spasmodically on Roy's arm. "Ohh fuck…fuck no…"

"It is for his deeds in the Dahlia Campaign I have been asked to judge him, not for all he has done in the years that followed."

The Grand Cleric drew a deep breath. "And for those deeds….I must pronounce him guilty…"

There was a tiny gasp from the seats behind Roy Mustang. It might have been triumphant, but it wasn't. Maybe it would have been if Maude Kelly Winchell hadn't spent so much effort trying to discredit him, sneaking after him, eavesdropping for any crumb of information…

…and finding, much to her disgust, that he was a good man.

And when Garrison Moyers had given her a chance to speak her mind on Radio Capital, the caller 'Maude' had found herself utterly tongue tied, unable to lash out with the petty daggers of spite that she had so wanted to spew over the airwaves.

"He's…." she finally mumbled, "okay."

And now she listened intently with the whole assembly as Roy Mustang rose from his seat to accept his judgment from the people he had once massacred, so many years ago.

"General Roy Mustang," Priyanand Lowe intoned solemnly. "I pronounce you guilty—heard and witnessed by the Elders and General Miles and your own Parliament. And it is the judgment of the Ishballan people that you-" Lowe drew in a deep breath, "—be sentenced to….a lifetime of service. Service to Amestris. Service to Ishbal. Service to Aerugo…to Creta, to Drachma, to Xing, to the Milos….in short, in service to life itself.

"You are needed, Roy Mustang. I name you Agni Shantideva, the Flame of Peace. You have work to do. I suggest you and your people stop this idiocy and that you get on with it."

….TO BE CONTINUED…