Temple of a Thousand Faces (33 page)

The problem was that Jayavar wasn’t sure how best to retake Angkor. He would be outnumbered on all fronts—in men, horses, elephants, and resources. His only solace was that several large contingents of Siamese mercenaries had already joined his force, with more to follow. And while payments to the Siamese would nearly bankrupt his treasury, Angkor could not be retaken without their aid.

As usual, Jayavar’s thoughts stalled when it came to planning his attack. A bird took flight from the jungle far below, drawing his gaze. For the second time in as many days, he sensed someone watching him from the distance. He started to reach for the hilt of his sword, but stopped, trusting his intuition but also aware of
the perils of paranoia. His grandfather had constantly obsessed over real and imagined threats, a distraction that had weakened his rule.

Willing himself to relax, Jayavar studied his wife, noting that spending so many weeks outside had darkened her complexion. Her golden bracelets and necklaces were gone, as were all other material indications that she was an exiled queen. Only her upright posture and the sharpness of her stare hinted that she was someone who commanded attention.

Though Jayavar spent much of his time surrounded by his officers, who were bright and brave, he knew that each of them was replaceable. Ajadevi was not. Her counsel was wise, her actions selfless. She made no effort to flatter him when it came to strategy, or to stroke his ego at the expense of making sound suggestions—something that his officers were prone to do. Nor did she claim expertise where she had none. Certainly when it came to planning for the battle, she trusted his judgment more than her own, although she was always ready to debate various tactics.

Since their escape from Angkor, Jayavar had realized that without Ajadevi he would have been lost. The deaths of his children would have overwhelmed him. And while he still mourned their absence in his world, he felt compelled by the needs of his people. Khmers of all walks of life depended on him. Ajadevi illuminated this need, day after day, and gave him the strength to do what must be done.

“If I were a temple,” he said quietly, balancing an oblong stone atop a round one, “you would be the walls that allowed me to reach great heights. Without you I’d crumble.”

She smiled. “One day, when we drive the Chams from our land, you shall be a hero to our people. Your face should grace the sides of a temple, a face for our people to celebrate and remember.”

“It is a plain face. I am a plain man.”

“But you’ll be a hero. And heroes need to be celebrated, immortalized. Without heroes a culture will never aspire to greatness.”

He shook his head. “Then it should be your face. Anything we build to celebrate victory should honor you.”

Far above, a hawk screeched, circling on the still air. “I dreamed last night,” she said, studying the hawk.

“Of what?”

“I saw fire. I saw pain. But from that pain came something beautiful.”

“Tell me more.”

“Most beautiful things—life or wisdom or contentment—are born from pain. And our victory shall be born from pain. We haven’t felt it yet. We haven’t suffered enough yet. But in the end, we shall win. And when we do, Angkor will rise to even greater heights. Our kingdom will be unequalled. Not because of its riches or strength, but because of its people. You will treat them well. You will empower them. And for that you shall be forever cherished.”

He shifted on the boulder. “I cherish you.”

She turned her body toward his. “But, Jayavar, I shall not live forever. This war may claim me. And if it does, you must go on. You must find fulfillment through your people. You must lead them to the destiny that was meant to be theirs.”

“You cannot leave me, my love,” he replied, still trying to balance the stone, using it to distract him from the horror of her words. He knew too well that he’d be unable to endure the loss of her so soon after his children had departed. He would try to lead his people, try to empower them as she wanted, but would fail.

“Tell me about Nuon,” Ajadevi said quietly. “I see that she
wears a bracelet of gold and precious jewels. Such a treasure could only have come from you.”

“Yes, I gave it to her—because she shall need status if she has a son. The bracelet gives them both power.”

“Yet I have seen you smile together. Surely the bracelet means more than just status. Tell me, what is it like…to be with someone so young? Does she make your heart race?”

The stone fell from his fingers as he looked up. “She has a curious and engaging mind, which can be pleasing for a time,” he replied. “But that time is fleeting. It begins; it ends. With you, there is an appreciation of the moment, but never a yearning for what will come next. The present is not fleeting. It does not end. With you, I know a contentment that I don’t experience with Nuon.”

The hawk screeched again. Ajadevi studied the creature, nodding to herself. “You see how it circles us?”

“Yes.”

“If this war claims me, if I fall, that’s how I would circle you, even in death. I shall be reborn, and you shall see me in many places.”

“Tell me…where I would see you…so that I’d know where to look.”

“You shall see me…where there is life. When dawn comes, I’ll be beside you. When you feel water against you, know that I’m there. And when the time is right…when I’ve been reborn into another, I will return to you, and you’ll feel my touch and hear my voice.”

“Do you believe in such things…because of what Buddha said? Because you trust him? Or do you sense truth in his words and follow your own instincts?”

“I believe in what he said. But also because I believe in love. I believe that love binds us together like nothing else.”

He finally succeeded in balancing the oblong stone atop the other. Then he placed his hands on her knees, squeezing them tight. “All of that may be true. I will wish it to be true. But still, please don’t leave me. I must see your face in my world.”

The hawk screeched again, and she knew at that moment that she would die first, that he would have to endure her passing. To flourish as he must, he would need beauty in his life; he would need the promise of hope and love. With her remaining days, whether they were five or five thousand, she needed to bring more light into his life. Because without light he could never be the king that she felt he might be. And her people needed such a king. They yearned for him.

“I love you,” she said, then kissed him. “And you should know that…you heal my wounds as I heal yours. I feel the loss of my loved ones less keenly in your presence. My own shortcomings seem less abundant. And these are precious gifts that you give to me. Nothing can take them away.”

He kissed her.

She thought of the approaching war, of the death and destruction that were sure to come, and closed her eyes.

ayavar yawned, raised his head, and looked at his sleeping wife. He gently pulled a silk blanket over her bare shoulder, reached for his sword, and then moved to his knees. As he stood up, he studied the light of dawn, wondering what kind of day it would be. Outside their quarters, the temporary shelters protecting his people glowed faintly alongside the rest of their surroundings. By his order, all of the shelters were made of bamboo and thatch, configured without patterns or straight lines to camouflage the encampment.

The first contingent of Siamese mercenaries had brought bolts of silk and coarser cloth, as well as weapons, tools, food, and medicine. New arrivals from Angkor also carried essential supplies, and as the days had passed, items that had been scarce became abundant. Only warriors were lacking. As far as Jayavar was concerned, he could never have enough men. Even with the Siamese mercenaries, he expected the Chams to outnumber them two to one. And while the advantage of surprise would likely be
his, the challenge of overcoming such a numerical imbalance stole his sleep and solace.

Careful not to wake the hundreds of sleeping men, women, and children around him, Jayavar made his way around trees, shelters, and fire pits. The river seemed even lower than the previous day, exposing more of the carvings. Glistening images of Shiva and Vishnu dominated the sides of rock faces and captured Jayavar’s stare. He nodded to several guards, then began to follow a trail that led to the top of a nearby hill.

As he climbed higher, the smells and sounds of the encampment were replaced by those of nature. The scent of orchids lingered. Birds scratched at the dirt, trying to uncover worms and grubs. Snails created holes in broad leaves, and millipedes as long as his hand crossed the trail. Somewhere a woodpecker hammered away at a hollow tree trunk or limb.

Jayavar climbed quickly, trying to strengthen his muscles as he would soon need all of his vigor. He was unaware of the soft footsteps behind him, of an elaborately carved spear held by a small hand. As he often did, he thought about how best to attack the Chams, whether he should fight them in Angkor or try to draw them outside the city. If he attacked them in Angkor it was possible that enslaved Khmers would join in the fight. But such a battle might damage the city, and Jayavar loathed the thought of such defilement.

Indravarman would likely expect Jayavar to try to capture the war elephants. With such powerful beasts, Jayavar could negate the sheer numbers of the Chams. Every warrior knew that a hundred war elephants were worth a thousand men. Yet Jayavar hesitated in pursuing the elephants because it was such an obvious tactic. It would be better, he thought, to fight where the elephants would benefit neither side, perhaps in a dense part of the jungle, or the swampy borders of the Great Lake. But how to draw Indravarman
away from his resources was a riddle that Jayavar could not solve.

He reached the top of the hill, which was heavily forested. Though he couldn’t see them, Jayavar knew that sentries were stationed along the spine of the hill, sitting in the tallest trees. These men had the best eyes and ears of all his troops. If the Chams came, an alarm would be sounded. Battle lines would be formed, loved ones protected.

The thought of fighting the Chams in the valley made sweat break out on Jayavar’s back. His breathing quickened. He glanced below, then to the sky. To fight here would be to die, because Indravarman would surround them, and the sheer numbers of his men would wear them down. No, the battle had to be fought to the south, within sight of Angkor Wat. At least then, when Khmers fell, they could look up and see the temple, see the place of their Gods.

Jayavar knelt on one knee. He closed his eyes and began to pray, wishing for the safety of his people, for an end to the Cham occupation, and for the well-being of his loved ones—both the born and unborn. With such focus and longing did he pray that he didn’t hear approaching footsteps. They went from soft to loud, from tentative to rushed. A sword was lifted. Jayavar opened his eyes, recognizing the Khmer warrior, seeing his own death but unable to do anything about it. The sword was raised higher. Then a spear flew from amid the undergrowth. The throw was weak and the spear wobbled. Yet it struck the dirt in front of the attacker, causing him to stumble, his sword to waver.

Jayavar spun to his right, lifting his own blade and deflecting the blow that was meant to take his head. He leapt up, his years of training and experience overcoming his fear. His sword became an extension of his arm, of his will to live, rising and falling, filling the dawn with the sound of its strikes. Screaming a
battle cry, his assailant attacked with renewed vigor, but Jayavar met each sweep and thrust with his own blade. Emotions entered his consciousness. He thought of Ajadevi, and how this man wanted to take him from her. The knowledge enraged him, and his heavy sword suddenly felt like nothing more than a sun-bleached stick. The sword began to dance, to twist and leap and soar.

The assassin was struck in two places before he even hit the ground. By then he was dying. Remembering the spear, Jayavar whirled around, saw a boy, and stepped in his direction. The boy lifted his hands, screaming. Only then did Jayavar halt his blade’s descent.

For a moment, man and boy stood staring at each other, chests heaving, thoughts chaotic. Then the boy fell to his knees, bowing low. Jayavar glanced around and saw that the assassin was dead, but still he did not sheath his sword. “The spear…it is yours?” he asked, his voice unsteady.