Temple of a Thousand Faces (22 page)

None of the stories had done anything to change Vibol’s demeanor, and Boran had simply continued to paddle, grateful that his son was alive. As his palms had blistered against the wooden handle, he had listened to Soriya’s tales and Prak’s flute, unable to remember the last time his wife had spoken so much.

Now, as Boran and Prak stood on the shoreline, Soriya leaned close to her son, ensuring that the heat of the fire wasn’t too strong or too weak. His battered face was hardly recognizable, and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from crying. She had never understood the concept of hate, but as she tried to comfort Vibol, she imagined what she might do, if she could, to the men who had hurt her child.

But my hate won’t help him, she thought, still stroking his brow.

Seeing that her herbal pastes had smeared off Vibol’s wounds and needed to be reapplied, Soriya reached down for a large leaf that held a mixture of crushed plants with healing properties. Still humming, she rubbed the paste between her fingers, breaking the concoction down as much as possible before carefully dabbing the places where she had stitched together his split skin. He flinched when she touched him, as if fearful of Cham blades and fists.

“I know they hurt you,” she whispered. “But you’re brave, so very brave to do what you did. And you don’t have any reason to feel shame.”

He leaned away from her, staring into the fire.

“Remember, Vibol, that osprey you found when you were a boy? It had an injured wing. You rescued that bird, and we fashioned a cage for it out of bamboo and spent the better part of the
dry season nursing it back to health. You fed it fish every morning. You spoke to it constantly. Though Prak had always been more curious about animals, the osprey was your pet. You loved it, you healed it, and when it was ready, you stepped back and watched it fly away.”

The fire cracked, prompting Soriya to peer into the jungle. She wiped the paste from her fingers and then placed a fingernail-size piece of honeycomb on his tongue. They had always looked for hives together, as Vibol savored the taste of honey more than anything else.

“Do you know, my son, why we’ve argued so often these past days? It’s only because I feared losing you, like you feared losing that osprey. Not because I thought you were still a boy and needed my protection, but because I couldn’t imagine my world without you in it.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m not strong like you, Vibol,” she continued. “I’m not strong enough to endure a world without you. Do you understand that? I have to go first. Because even though you’re a man, I still look at you and see my baby boy, one of the two miracles I created in this life. When we go into Angkor, people think of me as a poor woman. They pity me. But they don’t know that I’ve created two miracles. They don’t know that you make me feel rich.”

He sniffed, turning slowly in her direction. She saw that his eyes were also filled with tears, and she leaned down, pulling him toward her, feeling the warmth of him and rejoicing that he was not lost.

W
hen night fell, the city of Angkor came to life. Countless cooking fires illuminated temples and homes, flickering like stars in the sky. From atop a banyan tree beyond the great monuments,
Jayavar and Ajadevi studied the scene before them. Angkor had never shimmered with the light of so many fires, and Jayavar could only assume that Cham warriors were gathered about the flames. “Indravarman fears us,” he said quietly. “He keeps the night at bay because he knows we shall attack.”

Ajadevi nodded but made no reply.

Many of the fires seemed to stretch out in lines, and Jayavar imagined formations of Cham warriors. Or the fires could be a ruse, meant to provoke attacks in other areas that looked undefended, but in reality were not.

Cicadas buzzed in the trees. The scent of horse dung drifted up from below. Now that he was so close to his home, Jayavar felt his feelings cresting like the top of a windswept wave. He wanted to rush forward, run through familiar streets, and look for family members and friends. His emotions demanded action and yet his experience counseled patience. He felt torn in so many ways. He dared to hope but knew that he was deceiving himself. He longed to lead his men to victory but needed Ajadevi to pull him forward.

Of all the sights in front of him, it was the silhouette of Angkor Wat that bothered him the most. The wondrous temple was dotted with fires, which made him believe that Indravarman had turned it into some sort of fortress. His men were in its great halls, his horses and war elephants on its grounds. What had become of its priests and artifacts?

The longer Jayavar stared at the fires, the more foreign they felt, inflaming anguish within him. The city had been taken from his stewardship. Even his memories seemed to have been plundered, for the desecration he beheld tainted the few treasures he still carried—the echoes of his children’s laughter, the visions of his people and their creations.

“The Chams…have stolen everything from us,” he said,
keeping his voice quiet so that his men below could not dwell on his words.

Ajadevi moved closer to him on the branch. “And for that we shall drive them from our land. Tomorrow it shall begin. When it will end, I do not know, but tomorrow we shall act.”

“It’s strange…to hate Indravarman, a man I’ve never met.”

“Hate needs no introduction.”

“And what if we fail? He has more men, horses, elephants, and resources. What if he breaks us?”

“Then we shall die together.”

“As one?”

She reached for his hand. “And that’s why, when we do bring the fight to him, I want you to fight with love in your heart, not hate.”

“How can I do that? Hate sustains me…more than you know.”

“Fight with love, Jayavar. Because if you want to be reunited with your children, with me, how shall we find you in death if we don’t recognize you? None of us will recognize a man who dies in an ocean of his own hate. It’s like now, as we look on our city. It is before us, but it doesn’t beckon to us. We fail to rejoice in its beauty because it has changed. And that’s why, Jayavar, if a Cham spear pierces your heart, you must die beholding the joys of your life, not the sorrows. You must celebrate your approaching reunion with your loved ones, not lament your failures. Because if we’re to find you, the spirit of who you are must endure. If I die it will be beside you…and you will feel the light of me as if all these fires had been swept together.”

A shooting star flickered across the sky. Jayavar was certain that Ajadevi would consider it an omen of some sort, but he refrained from asking her about it. “A warrior uses hate,” he finally replied, “to give himself strength.”

“A weak warrior, perhaps. A reed among a field of reeds. But the stoutest warrior fights using love. He celebrates the gifts of his life as he lifts his sword. He feels pain and is reminded of how acutely beautiful his life has been and how beautiful the next one will be. Fight with love, Jayavar, and you shall win. Fight with hate and you shall die alone.”

A
sal knelt in the corner of his room, rereading the message that Voisanne had left for him. He’d already traced her words with his fingers and smiled at the thought of her seeking him out. She had wanted to see him, to leave a note meant only for him.

Breathing deeply, he savored her earlier presence, aware of the lingering scent of her perfume. His room must have been brighter and warmer with her in it, as if a window had been opened to let sunlight work its wonders.

After hiding her note within his blanket, he picked up a small piece of deerskin and some chalk.

After much thought, he wrote:

Your words were a gift to me. You are a gift to me. Thank you, my lady, for being a part of my world.

He folded up his message and placed it within his shield, just as she had done. Will she write back? he wondered. Will she have the courage and desire to return to my quarters?

Though the day had been long and arduous, a newfound energy filled Asal. Realizing that he needed to acquire a second shield so that his old one could always remain in his room, he hurried out into the Royal Palace, moving with the sort of eagerness he had known as a child, when discoveries rather than duties had awaited him, when life was the sum total of so many pleasures.

*    *    *

T
he Chinese section of the marketplace was quiet late at night—though from dawn to midday it was dominated by the well-dressed foreigners who traded gold, silver, silk, lacquer dishes, iron pots, writing paper, umbrellas, fine-toothed combs, needles, and various spices. Usually only the wealthiest of Khmers traded there with their Chinese counterparts, but since the Cham conquest, an equal number of occupiers were also present.

After the sun fell, different sorts of sellers arrived—mostly Khmer women who offered themselves to men of all backgrounds. A bolt of silk would often merit four or five nights of pleasure. A fine needle could be exchanged for a brief encounter. The terms of trades were agreeable to all and disputes rarely arose.

Two of Po Rame’s spies, both Khmer women, worked at night in this area of the market, and he often pretended to barter for their services and then disappeared into a nearby room and encouraged them to pass along rumors. The women, when properly rewarded or threatened, showed no loyalty to their countrymen. They saw Po Rame as a means to an end.

Now, as Po Rame followed one of his informants toward a room she rented, he wondered if she had already lain with another man. Such actions revolted him, and he tolerated the woman only because she provided him with useful information.

The Khmer turned into an alley, passed a pair of begging lepers, and entered a long, narrow building frequented by her kind. Her room was at the far end of the corridor, which Po Rame had insisted on. Low groans and grunts emerged from behind closed doors. Po Rame tried to ignore the sounds as well as the smells of sweat and sex.

The room they entered was empty except for a thatch mat, some candles, and a washbasin. The Khmer woman, who was old for her trade and as worn as a horse’s hoof, lit one of the candles, turned around, and bowed. “Tell me, master, what you seek.”

Po Rame found her disgusting and made no effort to hide his distaste. “You know, flesh trader, what I seek, and you play games with me at your own peril.”

She nodded, sweat glistening on her brow. “The Khmer prince. The Cham warrior. Who will we discuss first?”

“Jayavar.”

“There are whispers that he’s near.”

“Who whispers?”

“A priest. A priest who seeks my services is certain Jayavar is close.”

Po Rame scowled. “To the north? To the south?”

“North.”

“How does this priest know?”

“A group of traveling pilgrims passed Jayavar in the jungle, master. Three days north of Angkor. The priest was their leader.”

The woman continued to speak, but Po Rame’s mind began to race. He had suspected that Jayavar was to the north but was surprised to hear that he was so close. Perhaps he intended to scout the area and then return to his forces.

Po Rame posed more questions to the Khmer, gave her a silver coin, and then shifted his thoughts to Asal, remembering how, many months ago, the warrior had confronted him after he’d poisoned one of Indravarman’s adversaries. Asal had called him a coward—an unforgivable offense—and Po Rame knew that only death would bring finality to their antagonism. The assassin would celebrate Asal’s suffering and downfall as he had few other enemies. He’d celebrate them because Asal had never openly feared him, and Po Rame needed to be feared. Asal’s renowned prowess on the field of battle allowed him to stand tall in the face of threats, but Po Rame had killed men of equal strength. The back of a formidable adversary was no less vulnerable than that of a weakling.

“What of the Cham officer?” Po Rame asked.

“He has a woman, master. A Khmer woman.”

“I know as much.”

“She went alone, unbidden, to his quarters today. He wasn’t there, but she stayed some time.”

Po Rame nodded, wondering how Voisanne could be exploited. “Learn why she lingered,” he replied, handing her another coin.

“Thank you, master.”

“Keep your forked tongue quiet on these matters. Keep it quiet or you’ll lose it. I’ll return in two nights.” His eyes swept over her, and she straightened.

“Would you care, master, to enjoy me? You did once before. You can again.”

Po Rame’s shame was instant and overwhelming. “You promised never to speak of it.”

“I—”

“Be silent,” he said, his voice still quiet and unhurried.

Though the woman was valuable to him, she was just one of many informants. As he saw it, in a moment of great weakness he had polluted himself by sleeping with her. He’d gone from being feared, from following in the footsteps of the Gods, to tainting himself with the stains of her existence. He had acted like an ordinary man when he had no wish to be one.

In one fluid motion, Po Rame pulled his leather garrote from where it was wrapped around his waist. Her lips had barely parted when he whipped it around her neck and wrenched her toward him. Though he could have leaned back and broken her neck with little effort, he let her die slowly, savoring her struggles, prolonging the moment of her passing with skill and cunning. He allowed her to beg, reveling in her terror, in his power over her. Strength rushed into him and he felt himself rising up, as if he were one of the Gods vanquishing a demon.

He left the room. Her body would be found by those nearby, and people would know what he had done to her. Fear of him would spread, moving from Khmer to Cham to Khmer, entrenching his position as someone to be answered, not questioned.

Breathing easier now that she was dead, now that her face was gone from his world, Po Rame washed his hands in a bathing pool before making his way toward the Royal Palace, his thoughts returning to Asal’s woman. If she had gone unbidden to his room, then she might care for him. And if she cared for him, she could be used as a weapon.

As adept as he was with blades, Po Rame preferred weapons of flesh to those of steel. They were more satisfying to wield, and could inflict as much pain, as much horror, as any piece of iron.