I didn't like how the sack looked. It was made from the kind of rough burlap typically used for hauling rice, and from the looks of it, it had seen better days. Dirt clung to its surface like crusted mud, and the cloth was mottled with stains. It must have been stored in some dingy, rat-infested bodega where the rain got in.
The bottom portion was darker—wet, with red-tinged blotches that had soaked through the fibers. A round bulge suggested something heavy and solid inside.
Dimalanta accepted the sack from the man with visible reluctance. He and Capitan Mendez had been stationed in a nearby barrio, awaiting further orders from me. Earlier they had received my messengers and had marched into town with two hundred men under their command—an even split of Santa Cruz and Mogpog recruits.
They were given a more cautious welcome by the townsfolk, whose expressions betrayed a blend of relief and fear. Three hundred soldiers squeezed in a small town was no doubt, intimidating.
