Temple of a Thousand Faces (51 page)

Though Asal knew that in war promises could fall as readily as men, he kissed her forehead, letting her fill him with dreams, daring to believe that they would come true.

L
ong after the Khmers had left the courtyard at the Citadel of Women, and as dawn was about to reveal its colors, a small man untied himself from beneath the raised walkway that led to the temple’s main tower.
The spy had been hiding, strapped under the platform, throughout the entire night. He had positioned himself in such a way for several days, hoping that a group of Khmer officers would elect to discuss strategy in the nearby courtyard. Last night the spy’s efforts had been rewarded.

He shook his hands, which tingled and ached from inaction. Grimacing, he finished untying himself and slowly dropped to the ground, still under the platform. His knees buckled and he collapsed, lying in weeds between two rows of stone columns that supported the walkway.

Gradually sensation flowed back into his limbs. He clenched his fists, wiggled his toes, and flexed his thighs. The sky seemed to be lightening, and he wanted to head south as soon as possible. A horse and supplies would be waiting for him not far from the temple.

Though the spy hadn’t heard everything that had been said between the king and the traitor, he had comprehended enough to know where the Khmers would attack and where they would be vulnerable.

The spy slowly stood up, moving like a shadow. A few fires encircled the temple, and distant conversations drifted toward him. Avoiding the flames and the voices, he shuffled under the walkway, heading toward the entrance to the complex.

Over the past several years, the spy had uncovered secrets that Khmers would have died to protect. Yet this discovery could eclipse all others.

Remembering what Po Rame had taught him, the spy resisted the urge to flee into the darkness, continuing to move slowly, blending in with the landscape.

Only when the temple was far behind him did he start to run, eager to share his secret, to rejoice in the spoils of victory.

North of the Great Lake, Mid–Dry Season, 1178

ollowing markers left by trusted scouts, the Khmer army moved like a giant centipede through the jungle, twisting around trees, splashing across streams, navigating the contours of the land. At the front of the force marched men who held long swords and slashed at the undergrowth, widening the passageway. The work was exhausting, and the men had to be replaced often, rotating to the rear of their brethren. Behind these trailblazers were some of Jayavar’s best warriors, who rode horses and carried shields and spears. If the Chams attacked, these mounted men were to charge their foe, allowing the Khmers time to organize defensive positions.

Farther down the line marched twenty-five hundred foot soldiers, simultaneously watching the jungle and avoiding the steaming piles of dung left by the horses. The middle of the Khmer column was dominated by scores of wooden carts pulled by oxen. The carts were piled high with provisions and each was guarded by a pair of archers. More than fourteen hundred women and children had elected to travel with the force and walked behind
the supply carts. Though normally Jayavar would have insisted that the women and children stay behind, he had expressed a simple concern to his men: If he took all the warriors to battle, who would remain to protect their loved ones?

The very old and very young had been left behind, along with a token force of three dozen spearmen who would keep bandits at bay. Everyone else had marched to the southwest, following a course that would take the army to the Great Lake in a semicircular manner, so as to avoid discovery.

Behind the women and children came another substantial group of Khmer warriors, followed by seventeen hundred Siamese. The foreigners wore their brightly colored tunics and hummed songs as they marched. Secretly worried about treachery, Jayavar had placed two thousand of his best fighters behind the Siamese. At the rear of the column rode five scores of Khmers mounted on horses.

In all, Jayavar commanded about seventy-two hundred men. A sizable force to be certain, but far less than what Indravarman could bring into battle. Jayavar’s plan depended on catching the Chams by surprise both at the lakeside and on the water. When the Chams finally realized what was happening, Jayavar hoped to be headed back toward Angkor. He would then throw all his men into an assault meant to recapture his war elephants. Once he had the elephants, he hoped that Khmer citizens would join the fight. With luck, Indravarman would be trapped between the Khmer army and its citizens, a position that would all but ensure his destruction.

While Jayavar and Ajadevi rode gray stallions near the front of the column, Asal and Voisanne walked among the women. His hands were still tied in front of him, and an experienced Khmer spearman had been assigned to watch his every move. Asal had asked Voisanne to study the jungle, and she did, following
his gaze with her own, becoming increasingly nervous as they drew closer to their enemy.

Soriya also walked with the women. Behind her, separated by a hundred Khmer warriors, strode Boran, Vibol, and Prak. Since most of the men marched beside a companion, Vibol and Prak spoke quietly, while slightly ahead of them Boran asked an older warrior about the coming battle. Prak was interested in what the army looked like, and Vibol described for him the scene of so many warriors and weapons.

“It’s quite a sight,” he added, using the shaft of his spear as a walking stick. “The sunlight falls through the trees, and the spear points and sword hilts glitter like thousands of stars.”

“What else?”

“The Siamese wear so many different colors. I can’t help but watch them.”

“As much as you did the pretty girls in Angkor?”

Vibol smiled. “Maybe not that much. But still, they’re interesting to look at.” Noticing that a web of exposed tree roots lay ahead, Vibol reached for Prak’s elbow. “But what I like most are the battle standards.”

“Tell me about them.”

“They’re tied to the ends of spears. The banners are red silk, but in the middle is a white silhouette of Angkor Wat.”

“Do the men carry them with pride?”

“Yes,” Vibol answered, and then thought about how his brother must feel. “Do you want to carry one? I’m certain I could find you one, and if anyone should carry one, it should be you. The fire and poisoned fish were your ideas.”

Prak nodded. “Yes, though King Jayavar may have other battle plans in mind.”

“Why would he waste time doing that? Your plan is perfect.”

The men in front of them slowed; a cart had broken down.
The split wheel was removed. Then the sound of a hammer thudding into thick wood echoed off the trees. Men grumbled about the delay, but more quickly than anyone expected, the column began to move forward again.

As the warriors spread out, Vibol glimpsed a jagged scar on one man’s back. The scar was as long as Vibol’s hand, and he wondered if the man had been wounded in battle. Thinking about how easily a blade could cut through flesh, Vibol looked up at his spear tip. He’d practiced thrusting it into bundles of thatch and shook his head at the memory, knowing that it would be far different to pierce an enemy’s flesh. The bundles of thatch merely toppled. A man would thrash and bleed and scream.

As he had many times before, Vibol wondered what it would feel like to have steel slice into his flesh. Would the pain make him weep? Would he shame himself? What would happen if his father was maimed? Did his father fear dying or failing his king and countrymen?

The march continued. The odor of the column wafted backward—an unpleasant combination of dung, urine, and sweat, with only a trace of the flowers that the Siamese wore.

The army was as loud as it was pungent. Horses neighed, warriors cursed, carts creaked, and weapons clinked. People were under orders to keep their voices low, but the collected whispers of nearly nine thousand tongues ensured a constant buzz.

As Vibol walked in silence, he continued to think about the coming battle. “If you…if you could see, would you fight?” he asked his brother.

Prak took a few steps before answering. “It’s all right to be afraid, Vibol. We’re all afraid.”

Ahead, a man coughed, then hacked.

“Remember,” Vibol said, “when we talked about finding a pair of pretty sisters in Angkor and marrying them?”

“How can I forget? And it was you who talked about it mostly. You’re the reason we took so many trips to Angkor, why we bathed until our skin was as wrinkled as dates.”

“You enjoyed it too. I looked, but you listened. You listened to their laughter, and I told you when they glanced in our direction.”

Prak smiled. “They usually didn’t.”

“True, but sometimes they did.”

“When they were bored, or maybe when they pitied us.”

Vibol shifted his grip on his spear, lifting it upward. “I want to live,” he said. “I want to laugh with you again, to watch the pretty girls with you and wonder if they’ll come our way.”

“They will, Vibol. I know they will.”

Vibol smiled at the thought. “I hope so. But they must be sisters. Because if they’re sisters, we can always be together.”

A
t the periphery of an immense field within the city of Angkor, Po Rame watched Indravarman inspect his troops, who stood in tight formations, their shields glistening in the midafternoon sun. The men were lined up in long columns with their officers at the front. Indravarman was dressed for battle, a shield strapped to his left forearm, his left hand gripping a stout bar inside the shield. Short-sleeved, quilted armor covered his torso. Though he usually carried a sword, on this day Indravarman wielded a huge war axe that was sometimes favored by Chams. The axe was a heavy, unwieldy weapon compared to a sword or spear, but when used by a man of great strength it could be devastating, shattering shields and maiming flesh.

Po Rame was a hundred paces from Indravarman, but his eyesight was excellent and he saw how carefully the king inspected the men he passed. Occasionally Indravarman would ask
an officer something, but for the most part he walked in silence. Sometimes he pressed his shield against a man’s chest and thrust forward, expecting the warrior to hold his ground. When the man stood firm, Indravarman nodded. When he stepped backward, the king struck him with the edge of his shield or the thick shaft of his axe.

The mood in the field was grim. The warriors in their lotus-flower headdresses seemed eager for battle and looked as if they had prepared for it. Heavy shields were held high and didn’t quiver. Muscled arms and legs remained firm when Indravarman tested them. Though the king was larger than almost every man in the entire field, his warriors stood tall. Po Rame wondered if a fiercer fighting force existed anywhere. When they possessed their war elephants, the Khmers were also deadly, but almost all of the beasts were under Cham control in Angkor.

Po Rame was used to waiting for Indravarman, and he remained patient even as the king went from row to row and scattered clouds drifted across the sky. The assassin stood in the shade of a tree, pleased that he wasn’t baking in the sun like a commoner. Finally Indravarman shouted to the entire contingent of men, who roared a reply and thumped their spear shafts against their shields. The thunderous, rhythmic beat was comforting to Po Rame as he’d heard it before great victories. To an opposing army, the sound would inspire dread.