Temple of a Thousand Faces (49 page)

Indravarman considered the notion. He could send word via carrier pigeon to his spies in the north. Asal could be targeted. But messages were sometimes intercepted, and if he alerted the Khmers to Asal’s importance, then surely his council would be sought out and heeded. “Send messages,” he finally replied. “But cloak your words in codes. Let your spies know that the traitor is to be killed.”

“Yes, Lord King.”

“But if they fail, Po Rame, then your task will be to discover his whereabouts. If he hides in the jungle, I want him skinned alive and staked to the earth. If he meets us on the battlefield, I want your spear in his back. I want him to suffer, then die.”

“I’ll do all—”

“Because treason is contagious. It festers like a disease, moving from one body into the next, infecting the weak and endangering the strong.”

“I’ll finish, Lord King, what I began with his fingers. And then I’ll steal his soul.”

Indravarman smiled for the first time since seeing Thida’s skeleton. “You’d like that, would you not?”

“Yes.”

“Once again, because it amuses me, tell me why.”

“A man, Lord King, is a collection of lives, of memories, of
knowledge. And when I steal a soul all of these powers find their way into me.”

“And that’s the source of your strength?”

“One source, King of Kings. One source among many.”

A Cham warrior began to urinate on the ashes, and Indravarman shouted at him to stop. The warrior bowed low, holding his stance until his king dismissed him. “He dares to piss on the remains of my woman?” Indravarman said to Po Rame, an edge to his voice.

“A careless weakling, Lord King. A man beneath us.”

Indravarman thought of Thida, wishing that she were beside him, disbelieving that one of his men would so carelessly defile her. “Let me see how you’ll cripple Asal when you meet him on the field of battle. Let me see how you’ll strike him in the spine.”

“On that fool?”

The king nodded, then watched as Po Rame walked toward the warriors, moving with ease and grace, as if his mind were on nothing more than where to place his feet. The men parted again to let him pass, only this time he dropped his hand behind him, into his hip cloth. Steel flashed in the sun. The offending warrior screamed and fell. Other Chams drew their weapons but Indravarman shouted at them to make no move.

The injured Cham tried to defend himself, but his legs were unresponsive. He cried out, asking for help that did not come. Using his elbows, he began to crawl away from his assailant.

Po Rame glanced at Indravarman, who nodded, then stepped closer to see how a soul was stolen.

The knife, now red, descended again, this time with leisure rather than haste. Screams seemed to echo within the clearing. Po Rame bent low, pressing his forehead against his victim’s, holding him tight.

Ashes stirred in the wind.

Whether a soul had escaped or been captured, Indravarman wasn’t certain.

He turned and left.

T
he Citadel of Women was just the reprieve that Ajadevi needed. She was tired of the endless preparations for battle, and though she often attended war councils and was usually pleased to offer her husband advice, she had needed to escape the beautiful yet shadowy confines of the valley. Convincing Jayavar that she would be safe at the temple wasn’t easy, but in the end he had encouraged her to leave—accompanied by ten of his best warriors.

Banteay Srei was located on the plains to the south of the valley. The fertile land was home to many varieties of towering trees—behemoth creations that would have rendered most structures inconsequential but seemed to draw Ajadevi’s gaze to Banteay Srei.

She remembered seeing the temple as a little girl and feeling empowered by it. While countless statues and bas-reliefs of female dancers and guardians graced Angkor Wat, these works of art were a part of Angkor Wat’s landscape. Banteay Srei, conversely, appeared to have been built in honor of women. Of course, carvings of the Hindu Gods were present, but even these seemed of secondary importance to the feminine faces and figures that adorned so many of Banteay Srei’s walls.

Ajadevi stood at the base of the tallest tower. Wanting a clearer view of the grounds, she left the interior of Banteay Srei and headed toward its outer courtyards. She passed through these and came to the southernmost part of the wall that surrounded the complex. The stone blocks that comprised the wall were no longer perfectly joined, allowing her hand- and toeholds that she
used to climb to the top. She sat down, nodding to the warriors who followed her at a distance, thankful for their loyalty and vigilance. Though she tried to stop her mind from going to such a place, she couldn’t help but wonder which of them would die in the coming battle. Surely these warriors would be in the thick of the mayhem, eager to avenge their families and country.

After saying a prayer for the men below, as well as for their wives and children, Ajadevi stared to the south. Soon the Chams would come. Keeping the presence of nearly eight thousand Khmers and Siamese a secret was an impossible task. A spy would arrive, assess the military strength of the force, and then depart for Angkor. Perhaps Indravarman already knew of their location and was merely making his preparations. Armies, Ajadevi was well aware, were not made for speed. They were assembled, instructed, and then laboriously moved from one place to the next.

Still, the Chams would come. Jayavar preferred to fight them in a place of his own choosing and would soon lead his forces to the south. They were waiting for a final contingent of Siamese mercenaries. When these men arrived, Jayavar would have more than seven thousand warriors under his command—a respectable force for certain, though he would still be outnumbered by the Chams. One of the reasons he wanted to fight close to Angkor was that he hoped once the battle began, Khmers from the nearby city would join the fray. If enough ordinary Khmers joined the fight, the balance of battle could be tipped in their favor.

The loud flapping of wings caused Ajadevi to look up. She was surprised to see an osprey flying past. The bird with its white chest and black wings was large and swift. Within its talons it carried a piece of fluttering red silk larger than one of its wings. Ajadevi had seen the nests of such raptors, which were often composed
of bits of cloth as well as sticks and branches. The osprey must have found the red silk from the Siamese part of the nearby encampment.

The bird flew south, disappearing behind the canopy of a broad tree. Ajadevi thought about its arrival, intrigued that she had seen such a beautiful bird and that it had carried a piece of red silk. Surely the bird was a sign, though one she could not yet interpret.

A fly buzzed about her head, but she paid it no heed. She envisioned the osprey, wondering where it had gone and why it had sought out the red silk. Did it warn her of coming blood? Of betrayal? Or was Jayavar in imminent danger?

Frustrated by the lack of answers, Ajadevi closed her eyes, certain that she was meant to see the silk. She had been sent a sign, yet it was up to her to properly read it. Standing up, she began to walk along the wall. The stone blocks were warm against her feet. She passed from sun to shadow, constantly thinking about the bird and the silk. When she reached the eastern edge of the wall she turned around and headed back, unaware of the lizards that scurried away from her approaching feet or the warriors who followed her every movement.

When the answer finally came to her, she stopped. The bird had carried a banner. Her people had always fought under banners, yet those had been the standards of kings. Perhaps it was time to create a new banner, one that celebrated people rather than a man. They needed a symbol to fight under, something to inspire them, to show everyone that what they bled and died for was noble and grand.

“Angkor Wat,” she whispered. “It has to be Angkor Wat.”

She imagined how the flag might look. The strip of red silk in the osprey’s talons should be a part of the image, as should the central towers of Angkor Wat. Her people would die for those
towers, she knew. Under a banner of Angkor Wat, they would bring the fight to their foe.

Pleased with herself, Ajadevi was about to step down from the wall when, to her surprise, the osprey returned, this time without the fabric in its talons. It flew from the south, high above the treetops, toward their distant encampment. She watched it for a moment, clucking her tongue as it disappeared from view.

What are you trying to tell me? she asked. Why have you come again?

At first, the sky was devoid of answers. But the more she contemplated, the more apparent it was that the flight of the bird, the direction in which it had traveled, hinted to her that someone was approaching. This person would be a stranger to them but should be heeded. He or she would come with open arms, seemingly weak but in truth far from it.

Ajadevi had always believed in signs. She had seen her first one as a young girl. She could still remember the sight of the staggering ox that was a prelude to her father’s illness. The ox had died before her eyes, and shortly thereafter, her father had died with her beside him. Life was a series of echoes, she believed—moments in time that came and went, different with each cycle and yet connected.

The osprey had once carried a banner. It had returned, flying in the direction of her husband. Someone was coming to him, someone who had no banner but who could be trusted in the dark days ahead.

She climbed down the wall and asked the ten warriors to accompany her back to their king. Certain she had been drawn to the temple to see the bird, Ajadevi asked the men to move with haste. Soon events would unfold of which she could foresee only part, events that were infinitely larger than she was. If she did not act with care, she and, more important, Jayavar
would be overwhelmed, as powerless as ospreys in the midst of a storm.

B
ack at the Khmer encampment, Soriya and Boran knelt inside their shelter, oblivious to the activity around them. Boran’s fingers were blistered from training with a spear and shield, and Soriya was in the midst of wrapping them in thin strips of fabric that she had soaked in a healing paste. Though his hands were hardened from many years of fishing, it seemed that the hilt of his sword and the handle of his shield rubbed against him in all the wrong places. Soriya could have wrapped his fingers faster, but she wanted to talk with him and meant to delay his departure. She knew he wouldn’t like what she had to say and needed more time to steel her resolve.

“I should return,” he said, clenching and unclenching his right fist. “Vibol and Prak are with some officers describing how the Chams are positioned on the Great Lake. I should be with them.”

“But our boys are so eager to be men. Maybe they should be left alone to speak as men.”

“Yes, but I’ve spent more time at the Cham base. I might remember something that they’ve forgotten.”

“Then go. But if you would…please wait a moment. There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What?”

Her pulse quickened, and she shifted on the thatch mat that covered the ground beneath their shelter. “I’ve been talking with other women,” she said quietly. “Many intend to travel with their men when the army marches south.”

“So?”

“So…I’d like to travel with you. As would Prak.”

“But you agreed to stay here together.”

“That was before I heard from the other women. They said I should come.”

Boran shook his head. “If the battle is lost, the Chams will find our women. They’ll hurt them.”

“If you lose, the Chams will also come here. Our fate would be no different.”

“That’s not true. You’d know of our loss. You and Prak could hide. We hid once before and were never found. Why not hide again?”

“Because I don’t want to leave you and neither does Prak,” she replied, taking his bandaged hands in hers. “Please, Boran.”

He swore, something she rarely heard him do. “You’d put yourself at too much risk,” he replied. “Put Prak at too much risk. If we lose the battle, Khmer riders will be sent here. Whoever stays will be warned.”

“And the Chams will hunt them down like animals. Better to die there, with you, than to hide here for a few days in terror. That’s what many of the women think. And I agree with them.”

His hands tightened upon hers. “But you might escape. It’s possible.”

“The king’s wife is going. She’ll be there with him. Why shouldn’t I be there with you? Why should we be different?”

“He can find another wife! He can find ten more!”

“No. Everyone knows he loves her. He’d wither away without her. And she without him. That’s why she’s going. Because she refuses to hide in the jungle here. She’d rather live or die by his side.”

“But Prak. You must think of Prak. The Chams would take him as a slave. He’d spend the rest of his life enduring beatings and taunts. Is that how you’d have him live?”

Soriya started to reply, but the image created by Boran’s words made her eyes well with tears. “That…that wouldn’t happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because those of us who go…we go with poison. If the battle is lost…the poison is used.”

“No!”

“It’s what Prak wants. He agrees.”

“You speak of horrors.”

“But the queen will do the same. It was her idea. She’s bringing enough for everyone, but even so I collected some red-capped mushrooms. They—”

“And so our people would die. Rather than flee, rather than survive to fight another day, our people would die.”

“As one. We’ll live or die as one.”

“Then the queen isn’t as just as I thought. Nor as wise.”

It was Soriya’s turn to shake her head. “That’s not true, Boran. To live or die as one is wise. And it will be life, she thinks. She believes that you’ll win.”

“We’ll be outnumbered! Even with the Siamese.”

“I know you always think of me, and of our sons,” Soriya replied. “So please think of this—what if the king follows Prak’s plan? How can he not be there to see his own plan unfold? If you lose, he can’t run away in fear, in shame. And if you win, then let him share in the glory. Let that one moment carry him forward for the rest of his days. Because he’ll need something to lean on when we’re gone.”