Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes
Chapter 129: Hypocrite

Chapter 129: Hypocrite

The beaches of Marinduque were breathtaking, no matter where you found yourself on the island. We picked a spot in Buenavista, not too far from town, and it was every bit as beautiful as Pedro’s seaside residence.

I could imagine building a summer house there—maybe a hundred meters from the shore, where the ground wasn’t yet soft sand. A modest cottage closer to the water, a hammock strung between two trees. It wouldn’t be hard to acquire the land. Property here was cheap... especially considering the kind of wealth I now commanded.

But the view was ruined by the stench of blood and the noise of a gathered crowd.

I sat behind a table facing the waves, their gentle lapping lost beneath the murmurs, sobs, and shouts to my left. A rowdy group was penned in by Cristobal’s men—wives and sixteen-year-old-and-up sons of pulajan fighters, herded from their homes and the town square, dragged straight from the crowd. They were here to be questioned, their fates decided with help from my witnesses, to determine if they had taken part in the massacre of the principales weeks ago.

Two had already been executed, their defiance unshaken to the end. Blood pooled beneath them, trailing down the sand and disappearing into the sea.

"Did you take part in the killings done by your cult?" I asked the third in line. A young man—about the same age as the kadete. He trembled but tried to hide it, clenching his fists and growling under his breath.

"No..." he spat bitterly.

I turned to my line of witnesses: a few cazadores, Don Ernesto, and a handful of civilians he’d handpicked—locals he deemed trustworthy.

"Ese niño es culpable..." said Teniente Medina, pointing at the boy. "I know his face. He fought with the pulajanes. I saw him drop his weapon when things turned against them and slip into the crowd like a coward."

I had no way of confirming whether Medina spoke the truth. But the boy was strong and broad-shouldered—more built than most of our own recruits. He didn’t look like someone relegated to support roles.

No one else had understood Medina’s words. Only Vicente and I. I gave a small nod to Sargento Guzman. He motioned to one of the escolta soldiers, who stepped forward without hesitation.

The soldier grabbed the boy, forced him to his knees facing the sea, and raised his rifle. The shot rang out before the boy could plead for his life. His body crumpled forward into the sand.

The crowd flinched at the report of the gunshot. Some of the women stifled screams.

The soldier turned to me, blood flecked across his face. He gave a smirk. I smiled back.

The escolta had lost many of their own during the previous fighting. I’d arranged for them to carry out the executions—revenge by their own hands. A dangerous choice, perhaps. I risked radicalizing them, but for now, they seemed satisfied. Focused.

Guzman, at least, had stopped giving me the cold shoulder since I handed him the assignment. There were worse people to blame than me. The pulajanes, for one.

The next "defendant" was brought forward with some effort. A fat, loud woman—those three traits often went together out here—believed to be the wife of a pulajan.

I scratched at my chin, rough with days of stubble, and smirked as the woman hurled curses at me.

"Would you have joined your husband in killing the principales, if you’d been allowed?" I asked, slightly rewording the usual question.

"Yes, I would have!" she hissed. "And I told my husband more than once—we should’ve killed Don Paras, too! If they hadn’t listened to that man from Boac so much, Paras would’ve been buried in the plaza like the rest!"

I didn’t bother looking to the witnesses. I gave Guzman a nod.

He stepped forward and shot her where she stood. Her face froze in a final mix of surprise and fury as she dropped, leaving a deep imprint in the sand. Four soldiers were needed to drag her heavy body away.

I was starting to get bored. These cultists were anything but colorful. Their blank stares, their blind loyalty, their sameness—this was exactly why they’d fallen so easily to the pulajanes’ lies.

Then came one who was different—though not in any redeeming way. A pale, sickly-looking mother clutching a baby to her chest. She looked terrified, like a drenched puppy, but held her head high and bared her teeth at anyone who dared try to take the child from her.

I sighed and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Would you..." I paused, "...have helped your husband kill the principales, if you could?"

"Yes!" she nearly shouted, tears welling in her eyes. "I would."

Guzman stepped forward, unsure whether to raise his rifle or grab the child. But seeing no signal from me, he hesitated, then stepped back.

"You principales... you’re no different than the Spaniards!" she cried, shaking. "You work us to the bone, tax us dry... and now you kill us!"

She broke into sobs but continued speaking.

"You sit in your mansions, eat piles of food... while we live in broken huts, like wild pigs, eating kamote every day. Why? Why is that?!"

Her voice cracked with rage.

"I would’ve killed you if I could," she whispered. "Every last one of you. And when my baby grows up, he’ll do what his father did. He’ll fight. Because no one else will fight for us."

Then, finally, she broke.

She sank to the ground, sobbing quietly, rocking the baby against her shoulder. Her tears soaked his blanket, but she never let go. Even as her body curled inwards, she kept him pressed to her chest, her trembling hands shielding his tiny frame from the world.

I leaned back in my chair, elbows on the armrests, hands folded. I hated how she made me feel like a hypocrite.

"You’re free to go," I said, quietly.

She didn’t react. Not right away. Maybe she didn’t hear me.

I knocked hard on the table. "I said—you’re free to go."

She flinched and looked up. Confused. Suspicious. Then afraid, as if expecting a trick.

No one moved.

"It’s thanks to your baby boy," I said. "Try to give him a better life than the one you planned. He saved your life today—remember that."

She stared at me for several seconds. Then, slowly, she stood. Her knees wobbled, but she steadied herself. Clutching the child close, she shuffled backward, never turning her back until she was well past the line of soldiers.

Only then did she begin to walk.