Temple of a Thousand Faces (24 page)

An unseen monkey screeched. Vibol flinched at the noise, then glanced behind him. “What will Father say?”

“He’ll agree.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve already told him. Because when they hurt you, they hurt him. And he wants us all to live as we did before, without the threat of such pain. That’s what he said to me last night, when Mother was with you. He wants life to return to what it was before, and he thinks we have to drive the Chams from our land to make that happen.”

Vibol pointed toward his brother. “And you? What do you think?”

“I want the old Vibol back—the blundering, babbling fool who longed to bathe with pretty girls, who was more concerned about having clean teeth than picking up a sword. And the only way I’ll get him back is to drive the Chams from our land. So I’ll help Father and I’ll help you.”

“And Mother?”

“As long as none of us gets hurt, Mother will be fine. Because when she thought you were dead, she seemed to die too. So don’t walk down that road again. Just stay safe and by my side. Together we can do things that neither of us can do alone. Together we can make the Chams regret ever coming to Angkor.”

T
he road into Angkor was crowded. Massive teak and ficus trees provided shade for groups of travelers—warriors, commoners, priests, and pilgrims. The dusty road was littered with horse and elephant dung. Slaves carried ornate palanquins upon which sat high-ranking Cham officials. Clusters of monkeys begged for food near roadside stalls, often dodging rocks thrown by annoyed vendors. A listless breeze came and went, doing little to carry away the scents of animals, sweat, urine, and spices.

Sitting beneath the shade of an old banyan tree, Jayavar and
Ajadevi watched the endless procession of travelers. Both were posing as beggars covered in filth, with matted hair and empty bowls. They mumbled to themselves as if mad, uncaring of the flies that landed on them, of the taunts from passing strangers. Every so often someone would drop a coin into one of their bowls, and they would bow deeply.

On several occasions Jayavar was tempted to tell one of his countrymen who he was and what needed to be done, but he decided to wait until the right sort of person came by. It would be easy for someone to betray him, and so he called upon his reserves of patience and continued to beg, pleading for kindness and mercy.

The sun was growing hot, and he often looked across the road toward the moat. Already thousands of Khmers were bathing in its waters. He longed to join them but worried what would happen when his disguise washed away.

“It’s good for you to beg,” Ajadevi whispered, when no one was near. “One day, when you rule this land, you shall remember the suffering of your people.”

“You think I need reminders?”

“Not reminders, but memories.”

“And the difference between the two?”

“Reminders are for those who cannot remember. Memories are for those who want to remember.”

Jayavar thought about his children, visualizing each of their faces, starting with the youngest. He envisioned them when each had seemed happiest. His little girl, Chivy, laughed as she rode on his shoulders. His eldest son, Kosal, rejoiced at the birth of his own child. He wished them well, as he often did, taking his time with his thoughts, trying to connect with his loved ones.

“I think memories make us human,” he finally replied. “They give substance to our spirits.”

“They do.”

“I’m…afraid of how I will remember this day. Of what I will be told. Despite what that Cham said, I still cling to hope.”

She reached to him, resting her hand on his dirty knee. “I know. As do I. But whatever we learn, Jayavar, don’t give up hope. For as long as you live, new memories can be created. They’re not finite, like the days of youth. They can be made forever.”

He considered her words, understanding that her belief in a series of rebirths made such a view possible. She had often spoken to him about her vague recollections of past lives, of voices that she heard while drifting to sleep, forgotten voices with which she felt distant attachments. Though he’d tried to open himself to the same experience, it had always seemed that his mind was very much grounded in this time and place. Still, he shared her beliefs. He saw how the world went through rebirth each day and imagined that somehow he would be a part of that process.

A group of Cham warriors marched past, pulling a chain that connected scores of Khmer prisoners in a long line. The Khmers, all men, were tall yet emaciated. Jayavar assumed that they were former warriors who now served as slaves. He wanted to go to them, to free them, but only tightened his fists.

“Look who shadows them,” Ajadevi whispered, pointing toward a lone man who walked behind a horse-drawn cart but seemed to be intent on the prisoners. The man was broad shouldered and stout. Though he carried a farmer’s hoe, he didn’t stoop like a man who’d spent a lifetime in the fields. He walked upright, with pride.

Without a moment’s pause, Jayavar stood up and moved toward the road, keeping his head low. He approached the Khmer, dodging the cart’s wheels and then looking up. “Help an old fool, my son,” he said quietly, “and I shall tell you how to free your friends.”

The Khmer’s brow furrowed. He glanced at the departing prisoners, then back at Jayavar. His shoulder twitched as he lowered the butt of his hoe to the ground. “I have no friends.”

Jayavar nodded. “Kindly follow me and I shall explain.”

The man’s indecision was obvious, but he finally turned to his left and followed Jayavar to the side of the road. There they sat next to Ajadevi, who smiled at the stranger. No one spoke as a large number of Cham warriors passed by, each holding a shield and a spear.

Jayavar kept his head bowed low until the Chams moved on. Finally he looked up. “Where did you fight against the Chams?” he asked.

“What?”

“I see the warrior in you. So tell me, where did you fight them and how did it go?”

The stranger’s eyes narrowed. “What does it matter to you, old man?”

“It matters much.”

“If you must know, I was stationed inside Angkor’s western wall. I saw them coming, and our line held for a time. But eventually we were overrun.”

“Were you an officer?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how you feel about the Chams.”

“Better to ask me how I feel about maggots. I’d prefer their company.”

Jayavar pursed his lips. “What I share with you now I do at great risk. And when I tell you what I must, act as if I have said nothing unusual. Our lives shall depend on it.”

“What are you—”

“I am Prince Jayavar, and this is my wife, Princess Ajadevi.”

The warrior’s mouth opened, but he did not speak. A passing
elephant trumpeted. A trio of priests walked past, chanting rhythmically.

“We’ve been hiding in the north,” Jayavar continued. “There are nearly a thousand of us, and I wish to raise an army, to drive these maggots from our land.”

“My lord…”

“What is your name?”

“Phirun, my lord. Please forgive my affronts to you. I failed to recognize you.”

“Nothing needs forgiveness. Now tell me, Phirun, what happened to my family, to my other wives and children?”

Phirun lowered his head. “You…won’t want to hear it. I’m sorry.”

“Tell me.”

“We tried, my lord, to save them. A few of us heard about the imminent…executions and we started to plan. But we moved too slowly. Again, please forgive me.”

Jayavar shut his eyes. A ringing filled his ears and he had to place his hand on the ground to keep from falling to the side. Ajadevi said something to him, but her words were as loud as clouds, merely passing above him. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “how it happened.”

“My lord, hundreds of our people were executed, not just your family members. They weren’t beaten, or tortured, but…but each was killed from behind, with a blade to the neck.”

“You saw?”

“Alas, I did, my lord. Many Khmers did. They killed your kin and then made us bow to their king.”

“Even my little ones?”

Phirun nodded. “I saw them die, my lord. There’s a rumor that one of your sons still lives, that he’s chained atop Bapoun. But it’s a lie.”

“How do you know?”

“Because three of us went to free him late one night. But whoever was in that cage was no son of yours. He was dressed as a Khmer, but when they fed him I heard him offer thanks in their tongue.”

Jayavar rubbed his temples. Though the warrior had only confirmed what he suspected, his hopes had been among his most precious possessions. Still, he forced himself to focus, to set aside his grieving for a later time. “How many…of our warriors still live?” he asked, his voice as weak as the breeze.

“Thousands, my lord. A few are scattered in the city. Most are said to be in the jungle—men who were fixing the levees and beyond the reach of the first Cham attack.”

“Can you send them to us? In small groups?”

“Yes, my lord. But word is bound to spread, and when it does, Indravarman will come for you.”

“Let him come. He’ll be deceived when the time is right. But for now, tell men and women you trust to steal away to Banteay Srei. There they will meet us.”

Phirun bowed slightly. “My lord, I will serve you here. I’ll send our people to you. And then I’ll find you and fight for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Our people are not beaten, my lord. They still believe in Angkor. And when they hear that you were here, in the very shadow of our enemy, they will rejoice.”

Jayavar took Phirun’s hands within his, holding them tight. “Let them know that my wife and I live, that many of us live. And spread a second tale, Phirun. Let Indravarman know that I shall come for him. That after my army defeats his, I shall use ropes and stakes to bind him to the road leading into Angkor. Any Khmer who wants to can step on him as they enter our city. The days will be long for him, and when his death finally approaches,
he’ll beg his Gods to give it speed, to bring an end to his suffering.”

“Yes…my lord.”

“His end will be our beginning. Angkor will flourish once again and will be celebrated far and wide. The time for vengeance will be over. Instead we will rise to the light of a new dawn. We’ll rise, and we’ll build something beautiful, Phirun, so beautiful that the brothers and sisters and children who have died before us will smile from wherever they may be.”

L
ater in the afternoon, storm clouds rolled over Angkor—an unusual sight during the dry season. For a short time, the skies turned dark, opening up, cracking with lightning and thunder. Rain fell in thick sheets, turning dusty streets into muddy quagmires, overwhelming stale smells with fresh, wholesome scents. The rain was celebrated by all.

On the second level of Angkor Wat, there were four square basins, each about eight feet deep and forty feet across. These immense basins were filled with rainwater that rushed down from the temple’s vast rooftops. The height of the water in the basins was controlled through an elaborate system of drains managed by the priests, who could reach the bottom of each basin by way of a single sandstone stairway.

Open-air hallways lined on both sides with columns separated the deep pools of water, so that they were barely visible from one another. The basins had been designed to accommodate religious ceremonies and represented the cosmic oceans. Priests used the water for rituals dedicated to purification and creation.

Standing next to one of the thick, square columns bordering a basin, Asal watched an old Khmer priest walk down the sandstone
stairway. In his cupped hands he held two lotus flowers, which he set carefully on the water’s surface. He chanted, bowed, and then walked away. Other priests also chanted in low voices, lighting candles that surrounded the basin. Asal wasn’t sure what the candles symbolized. Perhaps stars. Perhaps life. Entranced, he opened his mind to what was transpiring and looked above to the imposing central tower of Angkor Wat. The ornately carved tower aroused something within him, fueling an unknown desire to take flight, to soar toward the heavens and leave his insignificant existence behind.

“They know how to build, don’t they?”

Asal turned toward Indravarman, who leaned against a column that bore carvings of female dancers. “Yes, Lord King,” he replied.

“What do you think of this place?”

“I think…that compared to the magnitude of this place, my life is but a drop of water in the ocean.”

“And my life?”

Asal started to speak but paused, studying the king. Indravarman was dressed elaborately. As usual, he carried a shield and a sheathed sword. But he also wore a golden crown that was designed to mimic a series of connected flowers. A colossal pearl hung from his neck. And his fingers, toes, wrists, and ankles were decorated with golden hoops inset with precious jewels.

Asal wasn’t certain why Indravarman seemed increasingly interested in such opulent displays. Maybe he saw the beauty around him and needed to stand brighter in its presence. Whatever the case, Asal was careful with his words when he finally replied. “I believe, Lord King, that your life is much more important than my own, though no life can equal an ocean.”

Indravarman smiled. “You’re a warrior and a politician, Asal. A dangerous combination.”

“Perhaps, Lord King, but my sword will always carry much more weight than my words.”

“As my sword, how would you strike Jayavar? We know that he hides to the north, rebuilding his army. Yet we cannot find him. How can we bring him to us?”

“Entice him, Lord King,” Asal answered, knowing that Indravarman had placed a boy atop a temple and circulated a rumor that the child was Jayavar’s. Though he thought the ploy lacked honor and grace, he found it clever.

“Do not answer me with ambiguity, Asal. Ambiguity is for those with no strength of heart.”

“I—”

“I want specifics!”

Asal saw several priests glance over at Indravarman’s outburst. They quickly returned their stares to the still water and the reflections upon it. “We have everything he covets, Lord King,” Asal answered. “So we have much with which to entice him. But to defeat us on a field of battle, he must neutralize the advantage of our war elephants. He must scatter them or, better yet, capture them.”