Temple of a Thousand Faces (5 page)

Jayavar’s axe shattered a Cham’s wooden shield, then bit deeply into the man’s side. Even though the warrior still lived,
Jayavar wrenched a spear from his hands and tossed it to Ajadevi. She caught it and then lunged toward a Cham. He deflected her blow with a sword, but her attack had left him vulnerable, and a Khmer warrior cut him down from behind.

Coughing from the dense smoke that poured out of the barracks near the Royal Palace, Jayavar tried to calm his raging emotions and make sense of the assault. The Chams had obviously come from the river but must have then spread out and attacked Angkor from multiple directions, creating the greatest possible fear and chaos. There were no lines of attackers and defenders, only pockets of struggling warriors. Several dozen Khmer warriors mounted on elephants and horse-drawn chariots were running rampant against their enemies in open fields, but Jayavar saw too few of them.

“We must leave!” Ajadevi shouted.

Jayavar realized that she was covered in blood. He looked for a wound, then grimaced as a Cham spear glanced off his shield and impaled a Khmer beside him.

“It’s not my blood!” Ajadevi yelled.

“But—”

“Lead us, Jayavar! Lead us!”

He glanced at the Royal Palace, the site of the fiercest fighting, surrounded by thousands of Chams. A sudden despair gripped him. He wanted to fight toward his parents, his other wives, and his children, knowing that they would likely be killed in an effort to sever all links to the throne. But he could not get through to them, not with so few warriors beside him. His family was doomed.

Though Jayavar had never felt the joy of battle, as some men did, he excelled at warfare, and his axe rose and fell in murderous arcs. Seeing their prince take the fight to his foes, other Khmer warriors mirrored his efforts, driving the Chams back.

But the battle was lost. To confirm his fears, Jayavar forced his way to the edge of the temple. Shouting at his men to protect Ajadevi, he climbed up one of the structure’s main staircases, his bloody hands slipping on the feet of the carved lions as he dragged himself up the steep steps. He made it to the top, looked down, and pounded his fist against the stonework as he watched his city burn. Everywhere buildings were aflame and Chams were cutting down the remnants of the once-mighty Khmer army. Some of his countrymen were fleeing into the jungle. Few were pursued, as most Chams were intent on either crushing the opposition or plundering the city.

Jayavar hurried down the steps. Rather than seeking the advice of one of his junior officers, he strode to his wife.

“Angkor is lost!” she shouted.

“My father—”

“Would want you to live. So live!”

“But my children! I have to find them!”

“They’re dead. I am so sorry, my love, but they’re dead.”

“No!”

“You must flee!”

Horns sounded nearby. The noise was foreign, and Jayavar realized that Cham reinforcements were arriving. He thought about his children, fearing that Ajadevi was right but trying to deny the possibility of such a fate. He closed his eyes, his world spinning. Ajadevi tugged on his arm, shouting at him to think of his empire, his people. Stumbling, he took a step in the direction of the Royal Palace, wanting to be with his loved ones even in death. But Ajadevi must have understood his intent, because she said that perhaps some of his children had escaped and that he could never help them if he was slain.

Jayavar looked at those who fought with him—perhaps ninety warriors and an equal number of slaves and citizens—and
realized that she was right. If he ran toward his children, he would die, and would not be able to save them if they had managed to survive. But neither could he stay here; to linger longer would ensure his demise. Surrounding his people was a single line of Chams, men already anticipating their victory, not the blades of their foes.

“To me!” Jayavar shouted at his warriors; then he ran toward a weak point in the Cham force. The jungle lay behind that line, and Jayavar knew that the trees might be their salvation. His despair turning to rage, he parried the spear thrust of a young Cham warrior, beat an axe strike aside with his shield, and burst into the open. Rather than run ahead, he turned, attacking another warrior, fighting and killing until Ajadevi appeared beside him. Her spear was bloody, and she thrust its point into a Cham’s belly. Dropping the weapon, she headed toward the tree line, her skirt cloth impeding her movements. Jayavar caught up to her and with one stroke of his dagger he cut a slit in the garment from her thighs downward.

Now she could run, and she did, less fearful of her own death than of his. They entered the jungle—a towering assortment of banyan, ficus, and teak trees that snuffed out most of the sunlight. Jayavar hadn’t expected the Chams to pursue them, but they may have known that the heir to the throne and his wife were among the small group of survivors, and perhaps they were under orders to kill or capture any member of the Khmer royalty.

Ajadevi had spent countless mornings praying in the jungle and knew which trails to follow. She led the group forward, skirting away from Cham war parties, heading west toward the land of another enemy—the Siamese. She heard fighting behind her and knew that Jayavar would be with the rear guard, struggling against their pursuers. An arrow pierced the arm of a servant beside her, and Ajadevi hauled up the shrieking woman and helped
her continue. Though Ajadevi’s feet were as calloused as any, they began to bleed. Smoke thickened the jungle with its ominous presence. Distant screams resonated. Looking for signs of where to go, Ajadevi forged onward, glad for the first time in her life that she didn’t have children, that she wouldn’t bear the burden of loss that her husband must.

Several hundred paces behind her, Jayavar and his men were fighting a running battle with the Chams. As he thought about his family and people, he was nearly overwhelmed with grief. But he forced his mind to shift to Ajadevi, forced himself to imagine her being raped by the Chams. The image gave him enormous will to fight back, and his men drew inspiration from the fierceness of his assaults. He attacked, retreated, and attacked again. And though he lost men with each onslaught, the Chams were now leery of his blade. They sought to flank his warriors on both sides, and he shouted at Ajadevi to hurry. Then he split his force in two so that each group of Chams could be attacked. Arrows whistled past him, thudding into dirt, wood, and flesh. Men and women fell and didn’t rise. A spear thrown by a distant Cham sliced into the side of his hip, cutting him deeply enough to affect his gait. Still he kept fighting, pausing when he came to a seven- or eight-year-old slave boy who had fallen. Jayavar looked for the boy’s mother, saw that no one claimed him, and so he dropped his shield, threw the child over his left shoulder, and ran forward. The Chams knew that Jayavar was vulnerable and two attacked him at once. Rather than flee, he charged them, swinging his axe so hard that it cleaved through a spear shaft, killing one foe. The other notched and aimed an arrow, and Jayavar turned away, shielding the boy with his own body.

The arrow never flew. Since childhood, Jayavar had piled stones atop one another in the jungle, marking his favorite places. Ajadevi had run past one of his piles, interpreted it as a sign, and
hurried back in his direction. She had seen the Cham aiming his arrow and had leapt onto his back, gouging his eyes with her fingernails.

Jayavar heard her voice, saw her struggling, and killed the Cham. Still holding the boy, he helped his wife to her feet. They started running again, darting like deer through the jungle, following drops of blood left by fellow Khmers.

At some point the cries of their pursuers faded and disappeared. The Khmers continued on, running in streams to hide their passage, leaving their dead where they fell, urging one another forward even as their strength waned. Other escapees joined their ranks. The sun dropped and they followed its flight toward Siam.

The boy wept on Jayavar’s shoulder, and for the first time since they had left Angkor, Jayavar thought about stopping. In the distance a pyramidlike structure rose from the jungle floor. Crudely cut laterite bricks had been stacked upon one another, and though parts of the ancient structure had fallen, a pair of large banyan trees jutted out from its base, appearing to hold the remaining assembly of bricks in place. Jayavar had never before come across these ruins. He paused, gently setting the boy down. A woman ran forward, shouted a name, and picked up the child, tears wetting both their cheeks.

Jayavar limped forward a few steps and embraced Ajadevi. He then turned to their people and told them to expect only a short rest. After Ajadevi bound his wound with a strip of silk from her skirt cloth, he climbed one of the banyan trees. Two of his officers wanted to join him, but he needed Ajadevi’s counsel and asked that only she follow him.

The base of the banyan tree was so full of branches that it almost looked as if the tree had been turned upside down and that the canopy jutted from the jungle floor. Despite wincing from his
wound, Jayavar climbed quickly. His heart was still pounding, and he knew that the Chams would regroup and come again. As the heir to the throne, he was a threat, and threats must be destroyed.

When he finally reached the topmost branches, which placed him higher than most of the surrounding trees, Jayavar paused to help Ajadevi move to a perch beside him. Though other treetops obscured some of their view, they could make out Angkor Wat and smaller structures in the distance. The city was still burning, vast plumes of smoke rising into the sky. Jayavar thought of how his children were likely dead, and the fortress he’d thrust up around his emotions crumbled. He wept, still staring at his home, his blood-splattered shoulders shuddering.

Ajadevi saw his tears but did not cry with him. She would weep later, she knew, after he was asleep. Now he needed her strength. With her love and her fortitude he could lead again. Without them, he would be lost.

She placed her hand above his wound, thankful that the spear hadn’t skewered him. She looked for Chams, saw none, and then closed her eyes and prayed.

“Prayers…shall not help us,” he whispered, though he was almost as devout as she. “They shall not save…my sons and daughters. Nor my mother and father.”

Ajadevi shook her head. “Your parents were old and in pain. Now they’re reborn. If you were them, which fate would you prefer?”

“And what of my children? What of their journey?”

“The young don’t have time to pollute themselves with hate, with crime, with jealousy. Your sons and daughters were all good, and they’re now reborn into better lives. Better lives, my love. They’ve taken one more step toward Nirvana, and no one should lament that.”

“I do. I will.”

Ajadevi nodded, placing her hand against his wound and holding it there. “I know, and I am full of sorrow, so full of it that the beauty seems to have faded from the world. But…but remember what we believe. And trust that your sons and daughters are reborn. As the sun will rise tomorrow, so will they. They are not gone. Someday you’ll be reunited with them.”

He turned to her. “I can’t…lose them like this. Not today. Not ever. So please…ignore my earlier words and pray with me. Pray with me that they still live.”

“I shall.”

Husband and wife prayed together, prayed that a miracle would befall them. Without the hope brought by his prayers, Jayavar knew that he would lack the strength to endure.

“A child should never die,” Ajadevi said. “Remember that. Remember that so when you defeat the Chams you’ll let their young go free.”

“Defeat them?” he asked, watching the distant fires. “My army is gone.”

“An army is nothing more than a collection of believers. Build another.”

“With what?”

“With your will. With what remains of our people, who surely hide in these woods. Live in exile, raise an army, and then return to claim your father’s golden sword. Just as you saved that slave boy, you can save your kingdom.”

“He is but one.”

“A kingdom starts with one.”

“I cannot do what must be done. I cannot—”

Ajadevi pulled her hand away from him. “Before you tell me what you cannot do, think of the Cham king in your father’s bed. Think of those you saw die today, of the women we left behind,
of the children who are now slaves, of the hospitals you wanted to build. Every Khmer is counting on you, Jayavar. Your children, whether alive or dead, are counting on you, either for this life or the next.”

“But I’ve already failed them. My little ones…I’ve failed them all.”

“You can still help them. Indeed, the river runs red today, full of our people’s blood as well as with sorrow, pain, and anguish. But that Cham spear missed you for a reason. You were meant to return to Angkor.”

“I should have—”

“You’ve never doubted me, Jayavar. Please, please, don’t begin to do so now. I need you to trust me. For my sake, please trust me.”

Jayavar was about to respond when he heard faint voices to the east. The voices belonged to his foes, and now that he had rested, a part of him wanted to gather his men and attack the attackers. He wanted revenge.

“We need to leave,” Ajadevi said, tugging on his arm.

“I long to kill them.”

“Later. There’s been enough killing today.”

He closed his eyes, thinking of his sons and daughters, shuddering as he imagined their deaths.

“Come and follow me,” she said. “This is a world of infinite dawns and today is just one day. Tomorrow shall be another.”

“Tomorrow is too far away.”

“Hurry, Jayavar. They draw near!”

“Let them.”

“Stop this foolishness! We run or we die. We run or our city is lost forever. So run. Run now!”

Shouts erupted in the distance. Their trail had been discovered. Jayavar forced himself to push his rage and sorrow aside. He hurried down the tree, told his people to follow him, and was
soon on the move again. His wound opened up, and blood trickled down his leg and fell to the dirt. His dirt, he reminded himself. The dirt of his ancestors. The Chams had come to make it their own. They had killed and pillaged. They had won the day. But the soil was rich from the blood of the Khmers, not the Chams. And someday, Jayavar promised himself, he and Ajadevi would return to reclaim it. They would free those enslaved; they would walk again in the footsteps of their ancestors.