Temple of a Thousand Faces (13 page)

Jayavar reached for her, but she spun from him and walked downstream along the shoreline. She stopped at his pile of stones, kneeling beside them, her hands against her face. She seemed to shudder, and he looked past the bamboo thickets, ensuring that
his men were not near. He saw no one else, and so he turned back to her, watching her until she regained her composure. To his surprise, she began to construct a pile of stones next to his. She worked with care, never looking in his direction.

Only when she finished her pile did he turn his attention to the fish. In a week or two the pool of water would dry up. Though he would never release his children, never accept their fate, he bent over, scooping away the damp soil between the pool and the river. He worked with determination, glancing at the fish, wanting them to be free. Soon he created a channel between the bodies of water. He deepened the channel, then stood up and walked to the far end of the pool, herding the perch forward. They entered the channel, swam into the river, and disappeared. Though he doubted that the turtle needed his help, he picked it up and placed it also in the river.

Ajadevi remained near the two piles of rocks. For the first time in several days, Jayavar considered her losses. Some of her loved ones might still live, but others had certainly died, and he chastised himself for being selfish. Sometimes her strength was so apparent that he forgot about her grief.

Walking farther upstream, Jayavar headed toward a ficus tree that had fallen over the water. Dozens of purple orchids grew along the rotting trunk. Jayavar removed several of them from the damp wood and then pulled off their petals, dropping them into the water. The petals drifted toward Ajadevi, reminding Jayavar of lotus flowers in the moat around Angkor. Ajadevi saw the petals and looked toward him. He lowered his head, bowing to her, acknowledging her pain. Though he wanted to go to her, he also needed to respect her moment of mourning.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

Then he turned away and headed into the bamboo stand, toward the men who longed for him to lead, to carry them forward
with his belief in the future. He would have to find inspiration from his wife and bury his grief, deep down, where others couldn’t see it.

In the darkness of night he would honor his loved ones. But in the light of day he would honor those still living, those who rode by his side and who would soon fight for a better tomorrow.

T
he afternoon had passed quickly for Asal. He’d heard a rumor that Jayavar was raising an army to the north of Angkor and, followed by a hundred good men, Asal had searched a wide area. His force had found several dozen scattered Khmer warriors, and brief skirmishes had ensued. But no one knew the whereabouts of the prince. The Khmers all believed that Jayavar was alive and would return, yet it was as if the jungle had swallowed him up.

Asal had endured Indravarman’s displeasure at the failure of the foray. The king was tired of rumors. He wanted facts. And when Asal had had no facts to give him, Indravarman had smashed his fist onto a dais and waved his advisers away. Asal had bowed and left to find ten Hindu priests to execute—the task that Indravarman had given him.

Though Asal wasn’t a deeply religious man, his father had been, and he wished that the priests didn’t have to be killed. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his plan spared the lives of children, but he still felt empty as he climbed the steps of Angkor Wat, heading for the summit of the temple where the oldest priests tended to congregate. He paused, gazing toward his homeland in the north. Suddenly he missed the sea. He’d been born in a coastal village and remembered hunting in the shallows for horseshoe crabs with his brothers. His mother had always set the crabs on embers, cooking them whole, making her children eat their pungent eggs for extra nourishment.

Of all his loved ones, her death had pained him most, because she had seen her children die and her misery had seemed without end. She hadn’t been able to protect them from the cholera, a failing that killed her with greater swiftness than the disease. She had thought that Asal would die as well and had clutched him against her chest as she took her final breaths, trying to sing a song that he’d always liked.

Asal had lain against her body for two days until he finally recovered. Then he’d dragged the bodies of his family members to a field overlooking the sea. As was customary among his people, he didn’t bury or burn them, but left them in the open, so that nothing would impede their path to rebirth.

At the top of Angkor Wat, having reflected on the death of his family, Asal thought about the priests, about their memories and regrets. He didn’t want them to be executed and mused over how he might help them while still fulfilling his duty. An answer of sorts came to him, and he found an old priest. They spoke in hushed tones. They nodded and prayed. And then Asal returned to the Royal Palace, where he asked one of his men to bring him Voisanne.

While Asal sat in his room, he looked over the dinner that a slave had prepared for him. Like everyone of high rank within the palace, Asal ate from golden bowls and plates. The bowls contained rice, slices of mango, and fish sauce. The plates held eight sets of skewered frog legs that had been grilled. To protect the food from flies, squares of red silk had been draped over everything.

Waiting for Voisanne, Asal used a narrow bamboo tube to sip rice wine from a silver flask. He didn’t drink often, but alcohol soothed the aches of battle, the memories of seeing a foe die on his blade, and let him sleep for at least half of any night. After he had taken another man’s life, he always settled down and asked for rice wine. He wasn’t alone in this practice.

Asal had made certain that there was ample food and drink for Voisanne. Though he was hungry, he neglected his food, continuing to wait patiently for her return. He wanted to apologize for kicking her, for dragging her down the long corridor. His man must have struggled to find her from amid the five thousand concubines in the Royal Palace, for by the time she arrived, the meal was cold. She glared at him as he thanked the warrior, who shut the teak door behind him.

The food had been placed on a rattan mat, and Asal motioned for Voisanne to sit. She stood for a few heartbeats, then moved as far from him as possible, kneeling at the opposite end of the mat. He asked if she was hungry. He encouraged her to eat. But she didn’t move, not even after he whispered an apology, explaining that he’d been afraid of what Indravarman might do to her when she so openly disagreed with him.

She ignored his words, and he began to eat, using his right hand. Several times he washed his fingers in a golden water bowl. He had always been a slow eater, but in her presence, he moved like smoke, fluid and graceful. Placing the bamboo tube to his mouth, he sipped from the flask of rice wine.

“You’re a kingdom of murderers,” she said, her brow furrowed, her knuckles white in her clenched fists. “None of you can do anything other than kill! You sit here in our palace, using our bowls and plates and silks. You pray in our temples. You use our women! You’re nothing more than a pack of wild dogs!”

Asal washed his hand. “Not all of us are—”

“Yes, you are! All of you! You killed my family, and you took everything in the world from me. And it matters not that you sit here and eat like a prince. You’re nothing like a prince. And your king is no more a king than a fly on a pile of dung!”

“Keep your voice low.”

“You don’t rule me!”

“No, but I shall muzzle you if necessary.”

Voisanne glared at him, a drop of perspiration running from her brow to her nose. “I’m not afraid of you. I don’t tremble before you like you do before your king.”

“Because I’m not wicked,” Asal replied softly.

“Yet you kill. Ten priests, each as innocent as the day he was born, will be executed.”

“Better ten priests than ten families. I was trying to protect—”

“Better no one!”

Asal took another sip of his wine, grateful for its calming effect. “You assail me, and yet you don’t know me.”

“I know that you’re a coward! That you understand right from wrong and do nothing to prevent the latter.”

“Listen,” Asal whispered, leaning toward her. “Listen to me.”

“Why should I listen to a coward?”

“Please.”

“Tell me why!”

“Because I tried today, tried to do something good.” When she made no reply, Asal set down his flask. “I went to your temple. I found an old priest and we prayed together. I told him about the ten lives I needed, about how those ten lives would quench Indravarman’s rage.”

“So?”

“So I asked him to help me, to select ten priests who are sick, who are close to passing from one body to the next. He agreed. Later, he volunteered to be among the ten.”

Voisanne nodded. “A lesser evil…is still an evil.”

“True enough. So I asked the priest to spread the word, to let the ten lives be the end of it. If Chams aren’t attacked within Angkor, if we aren’t killed, then there shall be no further reprisals against Khmers. I asked Indravarman to promise as much. And he did.”

“A promise means nothing to a king. Especially to that demon who wears your crown.”

“Please…lower your voice.”

“A thousand promises were broken when you Chams arrived. Promises made between wives and husbands, mothers and daughters.”

“Yes. And I am sorry for those failings. But there is always tomorrow. Promises may be fulfilled tomorrow.”

She started to speak, but stopped. “Then what do you promise? What do you promise to me?”

“I would rather wait to make such an oath.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know you. How can I promise you something of importance when I don’t know what matters most to you?”

Voisanne shifted on the mat. Asal studied her face, her beauty reminding him of the female guardians carved into Angkor Wat. But most of the guardians smiled. He had never seen her smile.

“Did you kill my family?” she asked.

“What?”

“I have to know if you killed my family.”

“I’m a warrior, not a murderer. The day Angkor fell, I was outside these walls, fighting your king’s men.”

She nodded, and he was surprised at the swiftness with which her eyes filled with tears. “They…shouldn’t have died,” she whispered. “Your words mean nothing to me because they shouldn’t have died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“May I go? Please, let me go.”

Asal glanced at the door, then at her face. Tears descended her cheeks, dropping to her breasts. She seemed so young and vulnerable, as if she were a child rather than a woman. He stilled a desire
to reach for her, to comfort her. Though he longed to let her know that she was not alone, he knew she didn’t want his touch and so he made no effort to offer it.

“You may leave,” he said quietly.

She hurried from him. In her absence his room was too still, too empty. He reached for his sword, then stepped through his door into a wide corridor. Though the ceiling towered above him, even the grandness of the Royal Palace seemed stifling. He needed to get outside.

His countrymen bowed to him, but he paid them no heed. Instead he followed a well-traveled road that led from the Royal Palace to Angkor Wat. He thought about Voisanne, about how tears seemed to connect them. His many sufferings, which he had buried so deep, seemed to rise to the surface whenever she spoke about her family. Her pain rekindled his.

Later, after his emotions had settled, Asal stepped into Angkor Wat. He wanted to find the old priest, to ask why the Gods allowed such pain and to wish him well on his journey.

A
t the far north end of Angkor, night fell quickly as massive ficus, banyan, and teak trees blocked out the fading light. The imposing square wall that surrounded the city was about fifteen feet high and four feet wide on the north side. Cham guards were stationed every fifty paces atop the wall. The warriors held spears, but no lanterns, as it was easier to peer across the moat within a cloak of darkness. The distant shore was illuminated by sporadic fires that marked concentrations of Cham warriors. Though there seemed to be only a scant chance that the Khmers would try so soon to reclaim the city, Indravarman wasn’t one to take risks.

Dressed as a guard, Po Rame studied his surroundings from his position atop the wall. The body of a Cham warrior was hidden
below in a clump of bushes. Even under the light of a full moon, the corpse was barely visible. Po Rame had climbed the wall, slit the man’s throat from behind, and carefully lowered the body into the bushes. He’d been waiting ever since, watching a nearby building that held twenty Khmer prisoners. Earlier in the day, Po Rame had interrogated four prisoners separately, promising that their families would be burned to death if the Khmers didn’t escape, discover Jayavar’s whereabouts, and return with the information. Po Rame showed each man five golden coins, saying that they came from Indravarman and that the Khmers would be given the coins and their families would be freed once Jayavar was dead. Two of the men had agreed to the plan. Two others were defiant, and Po Rame had killed them slowly.

Now, as Po Rame waited on the wall and cleaned his teeth with a silver pick, he wondered when the Khmers would make their escape. The two Khmers had been told to convince their fellow prisoners to break out in the dead of night. Po Rame had ensured that only six Chams guarded the Khmers. And twenty men, though they were fools, ought to be able to overpower six unsuspecting guards.

The building where the prisoners were being held was set apart from the rest of Angkor’s structures and surrounded by trees. Yet it was possible that another Cham might see an escape. To mitigate such a risk, Po Rame had given the two Khmers detailed instructions on how to flee and which route to follow. He was confident of his plan, which he hadn’t shared with Indravarman. It was better that the king remain unaware of his methods of deception.

Most men wouldn’t have noticed the melee when it finally came, but Po Rame heard the faint splintering of wood, a strangled cry, and several grunts. He saw shadows struggling against one another. Some fell and stood up. Some did not move again.