CHAPTER 135: EXECUTIONS

"Don’t let them out of your sight, Vicente," I reminded him as I petted the mane of his horse.

The teniente smiled and picked up the straw hat hanging on the horn of the saddle. "You did not need to tell me, Heneral."

I nodded, then turned and walked towards the kalesa where Alicia and Isabela were seated. The girls were peering out of the small carriage, their eyes drawn to the plaza and the newly constructed wooden frames that had appeared in recent days. The function of the structures was obvious—the ropes swaying gently in the breeze, the stools beneath them placed with cold precision.

A sizeable crowd had already gathered around the gallows. Word had spread in the past few days, and villagers from outlying barrios had arrived in town to witness the event. For many, it would be the first time they saw justice take such a public and final form.

"Don’t worry... it will be over before you return," I assured both girls as they remained quiet.

Isabela’s brow had not gone down since we left the house. She stared at me, lips trembling in subtle, aborted movements. She wanted to speak—perhaps to plead on behalf of the condemned—but the words caught in her throat. For all her innocence, she understood that death demanded payment in kind.

"I was told you were sewing me my own banner? You even asked Dimalanta for help with the design," I said, hoping to lift her mind away from the gallows.

She managed a small smile. "Yes... you’ll like it, papa."

But the smile was fleeting, and her eyes drifted back toward the plaza.

"If I am not mistaken, this will be the first time you’ll introduce Alicia to your aunt and cousins. I hope they like her," I said with deliberate cheer.

As expected, the mention of Alicia did the trick. The girl perked up, blinking in surprise before offering a nervous smile. Isabela frowned, offended on Alicia’s behalf.

"Of course they will. Who wouldn’t like Alicia?" she said, pulling the girl into a hug. The two of them giggled, their moment of joy brief but genuine.

"Well, enjoy your time there. Listen to Vicente and your aunt," I reminded them as I nodded toward the waiting officer. "See you tomorrow!"

The girls waved as the kalesa creaked into motion. Vicente rode ahead, cutting a path through the townspeople, while several mounted soldiers from the escolta followed from the rear. I had considered confining the girls to their quarters, but the walls would not shield them from the sounds soon to echo through Boac. In Buliasnin, they would be far enough away—far from the screams, the gasps, the executioners’ calls.

"Heneral... should we start?" Dimalanta asked from behind me.

I waited until the kalesa disappeared into the maze of townsfolk, who had flocked to see the spectacle, then answered. "Let us get this over with."

Originally, I had planned the executions to follow the burial of our fallen soldiers—swift, brutal justice. But Padre Trinidad had intervened, reminding me of the novena, the sacred nine days of mourning and prayer. Violence during that span was a grave transgression. I relented, if only to maintain appearances.

Instead, I expanded the plan. Rather than keeping the act local, I summoned the principalia from across the province. Let them see firsthand the price of rebellion. Let them carry the tale back to their towns.

I climbed the steps of the Casa Real and took my place on the balcony. Senior military officers were already seated in a row of wooden chairs under the shade of a canvas awning. Sharing the best vantage point were the gobernadorcillos: Don Fernando Lagran of Mogpog, Don Suarez of Santa Cruz, Señor Ornate of Gasan, and the recently appointed Don Paras of Buenavista and Señor Mercado of Torrijos.

Below us, four hastily built sheds lined the plaza. Constructed from bamboo frames and thatched with coconut leaves and nipa, they housed the rest of the invited principalia. Nearly a hundred of them had come—more than I had anticipated, but not surprising.

With the successful Pulajanes campaign, my name now echoed across Marinduque. This event was not just justice; it was theater—a projection of strength meant to cement my authority and unify the province under one banner.

The rest of the plaza was packed to bursting. Townspeople jostled for space while villagers crowded behind them. I estimated the turnout to be in the thousands. Their energy was deafening when the first batch of prisoners emerged.

The cultists were marched into the center of the plaza where the gallows stood—a simple construction of heavy beams, each bearing ten evenly spaced nooses. A wooden stool rested beneath each rope.

The executioners had been selected with care. Hardened veterans from the escolta and from Lorenzo’s and Roque’s platoons, led by Dimalanta and Guzman, were assigned to the task. The crowd hurled curses and rotten fruit at the bound prisoners, who were too weak and resigned to resist.

Padre Trinidad stood solemnly at the base of the gallows, prepared to offer last rites. Some cultists, once fanatical in battle, now wept as the priest spoke Latin prayers over them. His presence was the last mercy they would ever receive.

The first round went quickly. As the stools were kicked out, the bodies dropped. Most convulsed for several seconds before going limp. The crowd erupted.

Six more rounds followed—sixty more men. The crowd grew more frenzied with each drop. Among the principales, many joined the chorus of approval, though not all. I noted Señor Mercado sitting stiffly at the edge of his seat, tears streaming down his face. He made no sound.

Finally, the main event arrived.

Papa Hilario, the so-called pope of the Pulajanes, was brought forth. Unlike the others, he showed no fear. He walked with serene defiance, head held high. He refused the priest’s offer of sacrament, prompting Padre Trinidad to spit at his feet.

Perhaps Hilario believed himself too divine for death—that the rope would snap, that angels would descend, or that he would rise on the third day. But gravity does not obey madmen.

He was a large man, and his body dropped heavily. His neck snapped instantly. He did not twitch, did not struggle. One moment he lived, the next he did not. His followers had long claimed he would rise from the grave. He would not.

Then came Gabriela—the priestess.

No one asked why she had been saved for last. She had not led battles. She was no general. But I knew she was the reason I had lost Isidro.

She was dragged up to the gallows, her wrists bound tightly behind her back. When she stood on the stool, I rose from my seat.

She began shouting, perhaps to fulfill her threat of revealing the truth of Isidro’s death.

Nobody heard her words. They were swallowed by the shouts and jeers of the crowd.

"Whore!""Heretic!""Cultist!""Rebel!"

The insults were flung at her, together with small stones and rotten fruit.

She glanced in my direction. I smirked.

She snarled at me, but fear quickly consumed her face. The stool was kicked. Her body dropped. She struggled, trying to free her tightly bound hands.

I thought she would soon tremble—for the death throes to take over.

The crowd hushed at the sight.

Half a minute in, and the woman was still alive. Her legs kicked wildly. The rope that bound her hands finally gave out, and her arms reached toward her neck.

The audience grew quieter until I could hear her gag and choke.

We had failed to consider that her being a petite woman would have needed a longer drop for instant death.

Dimalanta stood frozen at the sight, unsure of what to do.

I was scared myself. I hated her with all my guts, but I would not subject her to this cruelty.

"Shoot her!" I screamed from the depths of my soul.

Dimalanta’s trembling hand reached for his sidearm.

A point-blank shot to the chest finally ended her misery.