Temple of a Thousand Faces (17 page)

“Most men bore me, Lord King,” she finally replied.

“Most men are fools—lead them to a stream and they will only drink.”

“I—”

“But some will do more than drink. They’ll find gold on that shoreline. They’ll hunt the tiger that comes to quench its thirst.” Indravarman rolled over and reached out, tracing the contours of her hip with a calloused finger. “I hear you’ve become close to your countrywoman Voisanne.”

“Yes. Yes, I have, Lord King.”

“She is the woman of one of my best officers. A man named Asal.”

“I’ve seen him.”

“And what do you hear of him?”

“I think he beats her.”

Indravarman grunted, stroking her arm. “I want you to befriend her, to learn her secrets.”

Though Thida longed to recoil from his touch, she lay still, hoping the sight of her nakedness would not stir him as it usually did.

“I don’t trust Asal,” Indravarman said. “And so I wish to learn of his doings. Will you seek them out and share this knowledge with me? Should I dare to trust you?”

“I serve you, Lord King. I’ll do as you ask.”

“Good. Perform this deed and you shall be rewarded. Fail me and your days of comfort shall cease.”

Thida felt the strength of his stare, the ferocity within his eyes, and she unconsciously held her breath. He moved closer. Her heart started to race. She felt his hands on her and began to lie, to tell him about her desire for him, about how she wanted him to fall upon her.

“Give your life to me,” he said, his movements quickening, “and I shall not take it.”

*    *    *

T
he scent of steaming rice gave away the location of the Cham scouting party. Jayavar and his men dismounted, then crawled through the thick jungle, staying as low as possible, moving like shadows. They observed four Chams from a distance, whispered their strategy, and crept even closer. Once Jayavar was certain that they would soon be observed, the seven Khmer warriors stood up and rushed forward. No battle cries were shouted, no warnings given. Instead, the Khmers ran as silently as possible with their weapons held high.

The Chams looked up at the last possible moment. One warrior managed to notch and fire an arrow. The others reached for their spears but were too slow, crying out as Khmer blades pierced their flesh. All but one of the Chams were killed. The last warrior, whom Jayavar had identified earlier as their leader, was captured. As his men bound and gagged the Cham, Jayavar turned to look for Ajadevi, only then realizing that one of his warriors had fallen. The lone arrow had struck him in the neck, and life was flowing quickly from him. Jayavar dropped to his knees and cradled the man’s head, aware that the wound was mortal. He thanked the warrior for his service, asked about special requests, and finally wondered if he would like to be cremated or simply left in the jungle. Most Khmers wanted their bodies to be set in a special place and then abandoned. This way the cycle of rebirth could be continued, slowly and naturally, within a land adored by its people.

The warrior asked that his body be left in such a manner, and Jayavar agreed, comforting him as much as possible. When he finally died, the remaining Khmers lifted his body and set it within a patch of light that pierced the canopy. They made a circle of stones around the corpse, put the man’s sword in his hands, prayed for his rebirth, and stepped away.

Jayavar glanced at the surviving Cham, knowing that he needed to be interrogated as soon as possible. But then the prince
thought about his dead countryman, wondering if the attack should have been done differently. With superior numbers and the element of surprise, no Khmers should have died in the assault, and Jayavar berated himself for the loss of life.

The Cham was bound from head to foot to a dead tree, and Jayavar strode forward, stopping a short distance from his enemy. The man was thickly muscled and kept his face expressionless. Defiance seemed to fill him. Jayavar nodded, then called his men forward, so that they formed a circle around the Cham.

“What are your orders?” Jayavar asked in the warrior’s native tongue.

The man said nothing, his jaws clenching, his fingers working at the bonds that held him.

Though normally patience was one of Jayavar’s strongest traits, he was frustrated by the loss of his countryman and eager to hear of his loved ones. “Gather dry timber and pile it around him,” he said to his men.

Ajadevi shot him an angry stare, but for once he paid her no heed. Instead he walked to the campfire that the Chams had made, emptied their pot of rice, and scooped up some embers. After his men had arranged a pile of wood around the Cham, Jayavar carefully positioned the embers beneath some dried leaves. Flames quickly arose. Twigs crackled. Smoke drifted upward.

“Good-bye,” Jayavar said to the Cham.

“You can’t go!”

Jayavar started to walk back to his horse. Behind him, the Cham began to scream. The flames hadn’t yet touched him but were spreading around him and growing higher.

“Don’t leave! I’ll talk!”

Whirling around, Jayavar strode to the Cham and used his spear to scatter the burning wood. “A falsehood. A denial. Say either of these things and the fire shall return. But I shall not!”

The Cham nodded, sweat dripping from his brow.

“Why are you here?” Jayavar demanded.

“To…to find you.”

“How many other scouting parties are searching this area?”

“Many. But no one knows where you are.”

“Who advises Indravarman?”

“No one. He’s his own man. He—”

“And how many Chams are in Angkor?”

“I don’t—”

“Give me their numbers!”

“Nine or ten thousand warriors. Maybe more.”

Jayavar saw that Ajadevi had taken a fallen spear and was using it to scatter what remained of the burning wood. He knew that she disapproved of his method, but he wasn’t held hostage by his belief in karma, as he sometimes felt she was. He had already killed too many men to have led a pure life. If his soul was reborn at a lower station, so be it.

“What of my family?” he asked. “Tell me what has happened to my family.”

“I’m only a—”

“Tell me!”

The Cham looked away, momentarily closing his eyes. “There’s…a rumor, lord.”

“What rumor?”

“They say…that you’re the only one left of your line. That Indravarman put your family to the sword. I’m sorry, but—”

“Who says this?”

“Everyone, lord. That’s why he’s set a price on your head. Because only you remain to claim the throne.”

Jayavar nodded. Though he had dreaded and expected such news, his legs felt weak. He walked away from the Cham and
leaned against a nearby tree, imagining the faces of his children, faces too young and innocent to know the pain brought by steel. How he wanted to trade places with them, to give up his life in return for theirs.

“He could be wrong,” Ajadevi whispered in his ear, her hand on his shoulder.

“You know he’s not.”

“I’m sorry, my love. So very, very sorry.”

A cicada buzzed in the treetops. Jayavar looked up, his eyes glistening. “If they’re reborn, why don’t I feel them?” he whispered. “Why have they not come back to me?”

“They will. Give them time. They’re young, and the young always need time to find their way.”

Jayavar prayed for their return into his life, asking also for the strength to go forward, to honor them by reclaiming their land. He then stood straight and returned to the Cham. “Release him,” he said to his men, who started forward but stopped, unsure of their action. “I said, release him.”

The Cham was freed.

Stepping close to the prisoner, so close that their noses almost touched, Jayavar shook his head. “Your king was wrong to murder my children.”

“Lord, I—”

“Wait here for five days. Then return to Angkor. Tell Indravarman that I’m coming for his head. And before I take it, I shall take other things from him as well. Things he will not want to part with.”

“Yes, lord.”

“Five days. Leave any earlier and you risk my wrath.”

The Cham bowed low.

Jayavar gripped the man’s topknot, pulling him up. “Tell him
that my children were better than he shall ever be, that they’re bathed in light, while he shall dwell forever in darkness.”

“I’ll tell him…these things.”

“And after you do, you should flee to your homeland. Because soon every Cham in Angkor will be dead.”

Jayavar released the man and then walked into the jungle. His horse was where he had left it. After mounting and assisting Ajadevi up behind him, he kicked his stallion forward, toward his city.

Please, Buddha, he prayed, please let the journeys of my children be swift and uplifting. Their actions, their minds, were noble and good. Their karma was good. They were stars that could be seen on a stormy night. They were beauty in an ugly world. Please reward them for their beauty.

A tear rolled down Jayavar’s dusty cheek. Because he knew that his men were behind him and that for their sake he must remain resolute, he sat tall, resisting the sorrow that came at him like an army.

One step, he told himself. One step followed by another. That’s how I shall endure. That’s how I shall honor them.

A
sal walked past rows of Khmer homes, which were built mainly of thatch and bamboo and supported by tall stilts. Perhaps one structure in four had been burned to the ground during the invasion. Of the undamaged homes, many were now occupied by Chams, though Khmers were also numerous. In the shade beneath the dwellings, slaves labored, dogs rested, and hammocks swayed in the wind. The homes were mostly of one or two rooms, and clustered around communal bathing ponds. To the west, Angkor Wat sprawled in all its glory.

Though Voisanne’s directions on how to find her home had been explicit, Asal had become disoriented by the seemingly endless groupings of houses. He followed a wide and well-kept boulevard filled with Cham warriors, horses, and war elephants as well as Khmer priests, farmers, and children. Asal wasn’t one to be shocked by his surroundings. In his homeland he’d seen officials carried on jeweled palanquins and live snakes being skinned. But some of the sights in Angkor surprised him. A Chinese trader quietly asked about the availability of a slight male prostitute. Khmer workers chiseled gray sandstone blocks as if no invasion had occurred. Young children ran from him, laughing and hiding behind their unsmiling mothers and fathers.

Stepping off the boulevard, Asal headed north, trying to recall Voisanne’s directions. He was expected to report to Indravarman soon and so increased his pace. As usual, he carried a shield and a sword. Most Chams wouldn’t dare to wander on Angkor’s byways without a companion, but Asal was not worried. A bloody death would likely befall him eventually, but that death would come on a battlefield, not in some alley.

He rounded a corner and paused as an unusually large home caught his sight. The structure with its small balcony was as Voisanne had described. A tidy thicket of bamboo rose from beside a nearby pond. A stone statue of Vishnu stood next to the path leading toward the home. Suddenly certain that he was looking upon her house, Asal slowed his pace. Five slaves labored amid the stilts. Women weaved while men chopped wood. Asal studied the slaves but saw no one who resembled Voisanne. These people were fierce and strong, likely captured from the mountains to the north. None were Khmers.

Feeling that he had failed Voisanne, Asal stopped at the statue
of Vishnu. Voisanne had said that her father had helped carve it, and Asal pictured her as a girl watching him work. He could tell by the way she’d spoken about her father that her love for him was strong. Wishing that he’d been older when his parents died, Asal tried to remember them. His father was a serious man who often prayed. His mother had been much more carefree—laughing with Asal, holding him on her lap, and surely adoring him. Yet she seemed so distant, as if part of a dream.

The slaves glanced at Asal, and he started to turn away. Then a girl climbed down the ladder that led from the living quarters. She was thin, long legged, dressed as a Khmer, and he guessed her age to be eleven or twelve. His heartbeat quickened, and he stepped forward, peering at her face. At first she turned her back to him, but he moved closer, ignoring the slaves’ stares. The girl’s face was fine featured and beautiful. In many ways, she looked like Voisanne. Asal was now several paces from her. He started to speak, to pretend that he was lost. But only a few words had escaped his mouth when he saw a birthmark on her chin—a thumbnail-size mark exactly where Voisanne had said it would be.

The girl bowed to him, avoiding his eyes. She seemed preoccupied, and he wanted to tell her that her older sister was alive, that he could bring them together. But a Cham woman shouted from the home above, and the girl stiffened. She hurried to retrieve a nearby bolt of silk and then started up the ladder.

Asal watched her disappear. He turned to the statue of Vishnu, offering a prayer of gratitude; then he walked quickly away. Though he longed to run to Voisanne’s quarters and tell her the news, he couldn’t afford to be late for Indravarman, and so he headed toward the Royal Palace, unaware of the sights that had previously engrossed him.

Voisanne’s little sister was alive. If he could reunite them, perhaps
he could right a wrong that had been done to them, and perhaps Voisanne would no longer see him as a Cham, but as a man whom she might someday consider a friend.

S
oriya’s dream had a tenuous hold on her, like a spiderweb that has temporarily snared a cicada. She saw herself nursing Vibol, milk dribbling down his fat cheek, gathering in the folds of his neck. Humming, she stroked his head, enjoying his soft black hair. He withdrew from her nipple, and she lifted him up, placed him against her shoulder, and began to pat his back. The warmth generated between their bodies made her smile. Nearby, Prak lay on a deerskin, awaiting his turn, patient for the time being.

Shouts arose in the distance. Smoke drifted upward. She looked for Boran, but he was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly people were running past her. She picked up her two sons and was soon fleeing alongside strangers, calling out for her husband. The jungle was on fire. Men and women fell and writhed. An ominous presence loomed behind her—a darkness. She tripped on an exposed root, still gripping both boys as she stumbled. The darkness descended on her, cold and foreign. She screamed.