The courtroom was packed for a military tribunal. Basically, this kind of event did not take place in the courthouse, and especially not in such a large committee – although the audience in the back largely consisted of new recruits who had attended the events three days ago. Because the subject did not simply concern the military domain, it was a matter of national order, about an anomaly that could endanger the tranquility of the country.
They always do too much.
Jeanne remembered the last time such an event had taken place in this white room, which was illuminated by the rays of the sun outside. It was almost three years ago now, a memory that didn't really make her want to jump for joy. Fortunately, this time, she was in the witness box, just to the right of the tribunal's platform where the president of the tribunal was to sit. Next to her, there was Captain Gueye, Captain Ndour, and Captain Bass – who seemed in a better mood than on the day of the ceremony, the logistics must have ended well. There was also, at the other end of the box, the agent who had been present and had tried to put the boy named Georges's consciousness to sleep – Jeanne had torn his name from his older brother. His presence greatly exasperated Jeanne but he said nothing, as usual; one could almost believe that he didn't exist.
El Hadji, in his green military uniform, was having a low-voiced discussion with Bachir in a series of whispers. The Loucar captain seemed reluctant to listen to his colleague; Jeanne suspected that such a generous soul would not accept the plan, even 3 days later.
They were all in military uniform, in the different colors of their respective army corps. Even Jeanne had to accept her fate and wear the beige uniform of the Paddaans, her golden insignia shining on her chest on the side of her heart. She had, however, half-removed her jacket, still held by the brown belt with the black and gold guard that surrounded her waist, and had left her white shirt slightly unbuttoned. Legs crossed, body slightly leaning back, the young Paddaan took full benefit of the air conditioning above her, evaluating her surroundings.
Above the platform, separated from the rest of the room by a wooden railing, there were six seats, one of the middle ones was elevated compared to the others, behind a massive, carved wooden desk. The four seats on either side were already occupied by the assessors. Sitting next to the presidential seat, there was the one who was to act as scribe, in a black uniform almost identical to that of the Top agent in the witness box. He was already taking notes, Jeanne didn't know of what. Apart from a few slight, very slight murmurs, especially from the audience, there was nothing to report. The trial had yet to begin, so there was no need to impose silence.
The other four seats, on either side, were occupied by two military judges, a civilian magistrate, and a state judge, all in official attire, not robes, which disappointed Jeanne. In this heterogeneous mix of justice, militarism, and politics, few exchanges took place. Most of the time, they just stared at the empty defendant's bench behind a movable lectern where oaths must be sworn. On either side, behind a sober table, there was the defense to the left (consisting of Captain Touré, seconded by Second Lieutenant Ndao, both visibly tense, around the defense lawyer) and the military prosecutor to the right.
And behind, in slightly raised wooden boxes, there was the audience. Two Ndimbelanes watched the aisles, their faces grim. In the front row, there were some high-ranking officers, each representing their army corps in this story. These were mostly the corps commanders of the various brigades of Keur Massar, with straight and proud postures.
The atmosphere in the room was a mixture of tension and excitement, plunged into an almost fearful anticipation of what was to come. Then, the sound of the door opening seemed to hold everyone's breath. In a clear and solemn voice, the officer just in front of the entrance announced:
_ Please welcome the Chief General of the Dakar division, Moustapha Traoré, in charge of this exceptional tribunal.
Everyone, from the audience to the assessors and witnesses, stood up silently. The general's boots echoed in the silence, loud and regular, almost with authority. Jeanne could only see him after he had passed the audience with his slow and majestic pace. He wore a green and white military uniform, topped with a coat of the same color barely held on his shoulders, the sleeves swirling with his movements. All over his chest, there were several golden emblems and medals that shone slightly under the light. His long jacket was attached to his waist by a black belt with a golden guard representing a lion. He looked old, with his white hair on his head, barely covered by his green and gold hat, and his beard shining like clean cotton. But his stature was imposing, and the scar carved along his jaw gave him the air of a veteran warrior. He embodied a kind of quiet strength, an aura that Jeanne respected.
The division general took the wooden railing of the platform, went around the seats to the left before reaching his own. He took off his coat and placed it on top, revealing his epaulets adorned with two golden stars surrounded by other embroideries and ornaments, and with a gesture, motioned for the assembly to sit down.
For a few seconds, only the sound of fabrics and benches moving slightly was heard, then a new silence. The general, for his part, began to take off his jacket and fold it carefully, taking his time. He placed the pile on his table, right next to the clerk, smoothly took off the tie around his throat and placed it on top of the pile. He raised his arms with a sharp gesture, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and unbuttoned a button before sighing with relief.
_ Excuse me, the general said with a smile, repositioning himself in his seat, his voice deep and slightly trembling, I'm getting a little old and the heat is infernal.
He let out a small laugh that relaxed the atmosphere a little, bringing slight smiles to a few faces.
_ Well, let's start with the first case quickly, he announced, crossing his fingers, bring in the accused.
The doors to the left, right next to the witness box, opened to let Officer Nabil pass, flanked by two guards who pushed him forward. The sound of the negation chains, preventing him from using sembou, echoed with each of his steps as he was led to the defendant's bench. He looked completely recovered from his duel, at least apparently. Jeanne didn't like the gleam in his eyes, and even less the slight disturbance she felt in his being.
He's not going to play the insanity card, is he?
In any other trial, it might have been a good strategy, but not in a legal tribunal that judges diambars. After all, who would want a dysfunctional tool?
By chance – at least for him – Officer Nabil seemed sane enough to docilely walk to his chair and mount the platform of the oath lectern. The soldiers escorting him stood on either side of him. With a sharp and clean gesture, General Traoré raised his right hand, highlighting a black tattoo of a sword and a rifle intertwined under a star and surrounded by two laurel branches. Officer Nabil did the same, revealing a rune representing a shield surrounding a baobab – the seal of the old order's oath, the pact of the Ndimbelanes. Now that she thought about it, the rune was just a simplified version of the Ndimbelanes' emblem.
_ Do you swear, the general declared in a loud voice, on Atemit and on the old order, that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?
_ I swear, Nabil replied in a slightly subdued voice, on the honorable oath that binds me to the nation.
_ Good, the general concluded, lowering his hand and busying himself with the papers in front of him. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat gravely and motioned to his clerk to be ready.
_ Military Tribunal of Sunday, September 29, 327 Post-Barrier, the general recited – next to him, the clerk began to furiously take notes – for the judgment of Ndimbelane Nabil Camara, of the 68th squad of Keur Massar P.A., 308th promotion, accused of insubordination in the matter of the crisis that occurred on Thursday, September 26, 327 P-B. A military infraction that could have clearly tarnished the authority of the Ndimbelanes in Keur Massar, and even throughout the country, especially in these most unstable times.
The general sighed wearily after reading all that in one go, as if he was getting too old for it. Then he resumed, looking at Officer Nabil:
_ You are Nabil Camara, 19 years old, born on January 8, 308 P-B, of the 68th squad, 308th promotion?
_ Yes, that's correct.
_ You are accused of insubordination during the ceremony of Thursday, September 26, 327 P-B, by engaging in the Rag with Georges Badji, a young 13-year-old clandestine chosen one, without the approval of his hierarchical superiors present. How do you plead?
Nabil took a deep breath before answering.
_ Guilty.
The answer caused slight murmurs in the room. On the defense side, Jeanne could see Second Lieutenant Ndao and the captain exchanging serious glances and nodding. It seemed that everything was going as planned. The hazy agitation that reigned immediately dissipated under the imperious gaze of the general who swept the room from side to side before returning to Officer Ndao.
_ Thank you for making things easier, he said, lowering a sheet onto the pile. If you have nothing to add, we will proceed to the defense.
_ If I may, General, Officer Nabil asked, raising his hand, I would like to add something.
The general looked at him with curiosity, his long white eyebrows slightly arched.
_ We are listening.
_ This… thing I was fighting was not human… it's a monster.