Ciudad de Manila

Guelio nervously unpacked every one of the bags he was carrying. The one for clothes, the one for books, the one for scientific equipment, and even the one for pasalubong. He was worried, not for what he was carrying -- he specifically made sure that nothing incriminating was present with him -- but for the contents of Rodrigo's case. After the luggage and he was frisked, the Guardia Civil let him go forward. He then turned to Rodrigo.

Rodrigo was ordered to give the bag to the constable. His heart raced the moment the long bag passed hands. He could feel his heart beating as he slowly unzipped the top of the bag, revealing the metal types inside, including some bolts, welded iron and small stacks of parchment. "¿Que es esto? [What is this?]", he was asked, while the guardia tried to take out the stack of parchment inside. Rodrigo explained quickly that he was working for a periodical being published called La Hispania, and that they were ordered to bring new types for the presses, as part of their expansion.

The guard just nodded his head slightly to Rodrigo's answer, while probing the rest of the bag to look for anything else. He continued checking every crevice of the bag, until he sensed another stack of smooth papers. He pulled it out, and saw correspondences between Guelio, Rodrigo, and many other students. Guelio and Rodrigo remained unflinched, even while the man in front of them, ready to maim, torture and kill them with shallow evidence. Besides, one of the letters contained the actually pamphlet, and that isn't shallow, not one bit.

Suddenly, the soldier opened one of the letters and read its contents. Contrary to the liberties that the great American republic, European quasi-monarchies and even British colonies in Asia enjoy, in the Philippines, it was perfectly legal to confiscate and investigate private and personal belongings. He read the letter quickly, and his countenance suddenly became furious. He turned around, and angrily opened the many other letters in his hand until he had accessed the one with a copy of Sa Aba ng Filipinas in it. Rodrigo and Guelio's tenseness suddenly exploded. 

Rodrigo and Guelio jumped onto the constable, forcing the letter out of his hands. The uniformed man tried to overpower the two, but their combined weight and force was too much to handle. Eventually, Guelio took the paper, nearly ripped to shreds, off his hand and bolted to the direction of the horse stables. Rodrigo, for his part, turned one hundred and eighty degrees, running back toward the Baluarte de San Diego and the walled city.

He kept running until he was stuck in the maze of streets that make up Intramuros. Feeling stuck in the labyrinth of bodegas, stone and houses and towering commercial headquarters, he ran left and right, looking until he could find a way out. All this ambling led him right onto Calle Santa Lucia. Immediately in front of the Headquarters of the Guardia Civil. What's worse was that the constable whom he knocked out before, was now standing just meters away from him, bloodied but ready to pick a fight.

He started running again, to the direction from whence he came, but instead of running outside of the City, where there was probably a detachment alerted of the presence of batterers of Guardia Civil, he instead followed the towering church spires just above the treeline and took a left onto the bustling Calle Real de Palacio, along which stands the Iglesia de San Agustin.

The church, a two hundred foot Baroque edifice, is the oldest Catholic temple in the colony, built by the Order of Saint Augustine after the old wood and bamboo building was destroyed. Made from stone quarried from Maycauayan in Bulacan, it came with a monastery and was declared the Parish Seat of Saint Paul. Though it was severely damaged by the war and occupation of the British and eight tremors that struck Manila, it withstood everything thrown at it, and remains the pinnacle of Intramuros, just behind the Metropolitan Cathedral, the Ayuntamiento and the Palacio del Gobernador.

This same resilience was one Rodrigo was hoping for, in trying to escape those who wanted to arrest him. He could already feel his body tiring out, and in a few meters, he could very well pass out on the streets, ready to be picked up by the Spanish. In the distance, in fact, he could see soldiers with Mausers donned with dark blue: the Guardia Veterana. The prime of the force, tasked with policing Manila, and handling the increasing threats of tulisanes.

He could feel his legs aching, his lungs and heart pumping faster, and his stamina diminishing. He was starting to lean on the stone and brick of the walls surrounding the Church as support for his tired body. Jittering and panting, Rodrigo stopped closed his eyes and let himself rest. Before a hand pressed on his shoulder and he was forced on the ground.  His hands were bound in front of his chest and he was dragged along by the man he hit earlier, bruised but slyly smirking. As if he was  dragging the stray dog that pounced on him.

Rodrigo couldn't believe his misfortune. He carried a bag full of suspicious and downright subversive material, smacked a Guardia, tired himself by running across the Southern quarter of the capital, arrested by an entire detachment of guards, and will be tried and probably executed for inciting sedition.

Having heard stories of torture, assault and mishandling by the Spanish, he feared for the next part of his life. The secrecy he swore to protect in Spain, was starting to look very expendable in the Philippines.

'I didn't expect myself becoming one of the victims of persecution I wrote about,' thought Rodrigo to himself. 'And now, I understand why people that I have detested would be traitors to their own people just for their own survival.'

'I want to live, I want to survive this.'

Soon, he was to be held in a prison some ways from their position, all the way to Fort Santiago, where he'd rot until the kangaroo court would try him without a competent lawyer. So much for the Constitution of Spain, he thought.

However, as soon as they reached Calle Cabildo, they were interrupted by a carruaje that drove and nearly rammed all five of them. The cochero was a man dressed in a vest with suspenders, armed with a double-shot pistol, aiming at the guards. Guelio.

He soon dragged Rodrigo into the carriage, while another man, dressed in camiso de chino, commandeered the vehicle. As soon as they step foot onto the wooden rungs of the ladder, the camiso let a whiplash ring in the air and the horse bolted out in the opposite direction, leading toward the Puerta de Santa Lucia into the Extramuros, the suburbs outside the wall, where the presence of the constables were less prevalent.

Slowly, Guelio hacked Rodrigo's bonds off with his knife, before easing him out of the ropes, and his torn coat. Rodrigo sighed out in relief before collapsing on Guelio's shoulders.

"Muchos gracias, migo. I can't stress how much  I do not and never want to rot in a Spanish prison. Thanks for getting me out, Guelio. Thanks for saving my skin," said he, mumbling on Guelio's sleeve.

Guelio only pat his head in reply, and sighed too in relief. After a while, he motioned to the cochero his gratitude, and said that he wish to be transported to Santa Ana, where they would board another ride back to Nueva Donostia. Hopefully, without ever seeing a single rayadillo again.

~~~

What was left after the bloodshed and fighting was sent to the superior of the Guardia Veterana. A stray button, some stacks of blank paper, clothes, and a torn piece of whatever pamphlet the filibusteros carried, were carried promptly to his office.

Being largely irrelevant, they were all ignored by the General, except one: the paper. It caught his eye that it was edited in Spain. He was wondering how the Mother Country was slowly imploding. As he was inspecting the paper, he noticed that the writer's pseudonym was left intact, while the rest were words torn into incoherent sentences.

Casanova. Printed with bold letters, just below the title of the editorial. The General smirked, as he puffed on another cigar. He called the commander of the anti-revolutionary detachments to an urgent meeting.

Something was amiss.