The soothing sound of the chalk stick against the blockboard was all that could be heard in the conference room. We watched Vicente write on the board what was written on the piece of paper I had handed him beforehand. He had neat handwriting—plain and utilitarian, as if he had trained himself to conserve ink with every letter.
He moved quickly, and soon enough, the last title and its accompanying colon had been written at the bottom of the board.
I shifted my gaze from the chalkboard to the people seated at the table. Present were the principales of Boac—those who had bent the knee. And they were about to be rewarded.
With my authority established, it was time for a transition. It was time to smoothen the operation of the province under Martial Law. Roles had to be defined. It would be impractical to burden every task on me and my small cabal of officers. The civilians had to do their part.
