by John Shors
“Last night,” Ajadevi said, “a vision came to me.”
“What sort of vision?”
“The river was red. The red of both birth and death.”
Jayavar turned away from Angkor Wat, looking to the northeast, toward the land of their enemy, the Chams. “Father shall stay strong enough,” he replied. “He’s always been of stout mind and sound body.”
“Always is an assuming, imperfect word.”
“But nothing of war looms. Our spies are as silent as stones. And our army is ready.”
“You should take care to be even better prepared. The visions tell me that we’re not alone. When the river runs red, it can mean only that war descends upon us, as it has so many times before. We don’t want it, but like the wind, it cares nothing of what we want.”
He thought about his father, who rarely emerged from the Royal Palace. Jayavar’s mind then shifted to the whereabouts of his army. Many of his men were helping to strengthen levees outside the city, as the monsoon rains had been stronger than normal and increased the chances of catastrophic flooding. “What else do your visions tell you?”
“That you love me.”
“You need no visions to tell you what you already know.”
“True enough,” she answered, then closed her eyes.
He wondered whether she was praying. Though most Khmers were Hindus, she was a Mahayana Buddhist, more devout than anyone he had ever met—a seeker of signs. As he watched her, an elephant trumpeted somewhere in the distance. Because of the depth of its voice, Jayavar knew that it was a war elephant, not a working elephant; only the largest of elephants could make such a sound. Somewhere a group of his men was training for battle.
Only when she opened her eyes did he speak again. “I would rather tend to our people than wage war.”
“How shall you tend to them?”
“By building hospitals. Roads. Way stations for travelers. Our city has grown too big. And the needs of our people are too numerous.”
A peacock, bright and billowing with color, wandered down the causeway. Ajadevi studied the bird, wondering what its presence portended. “Your sword is heavy, I know. You tire from carrying it, and your arms sag and crack with the passage of time as a tree’s limbs do. But you mustn’t rest yet, Jayavar. Do what your father should—destroy our foe. Then build your hospitals and roads. Then tend to your people.”
Jayavar turned, looking again to the northeast. Unseen in the distance, past countless homes and the magnificent Royal Palace, stretched a field where warriors trained. The prince imagined the sight of his men, of spearheads striking shields. “We should use our strength against famine. Against leprosy. Such strength shouldn’t be wasted on Chams.”
“The path you walk isn’t yours to choose.”
“What if we ran? If we left here, just you and I?”
“You wouldn’t leave the fate of our people in the hands of others. Nor would you flee your wives and children.”
“True enough. I could never leave my children. But I want you in my hands. That should be my fate.”
She reached for him, her fingers caressing his calloused palms. “Tell me what you’d do with these hands of yours. These instruments.”
“They’d celebrate the softness of you. The hills and valleys that comprise the world that is you.”
“I shall show you this world,” she replied. “Find me tonight, when the moon reaches its zenith.”
He smiled and said good-bye, then walked toward three of his waiting officers, toward where he needed to be, but away from where he wished to be.
Ten miles downstream, an army swept forward. This army rode neither war elephants nor horses, but barges carried by the swollen Tonle Sap River, which, because of the monsoon season, had reversed its normal flow toward the sea and now headed in the direction of Angkor. The barges were stout and long, steered by rudimentary rudders and a variety of handheld poles. Each vessel held anywhere from fifty to one hundred Cham warriors who wore short-sleeved, quilted armor and carried circular shields made of wood, metal, and leather. The Chams had no helmets. Instead, they all wore green and pink headdresses designed to resemble overturned lotus flowers—symbols of enlightenment. Most of the men carried spears, though some had opted for swords, daggers, axes, or bows and arrows.
The Tonle Sap River was part of a confluence of waterways that comprised the Mekong Delta and was constantly intersected by various streams and lakes, a watery maze that had confounded intruders for centuries. The Chams would not have found this route to Angkor if not for the one-handed traitor who stood at the bow of the royal barge and passed along instructions. Though his father was a high-ranking official in Angkor, the traitor cared little for the fate of those who shared his blood. His allegiance had been bought with a bag of Cham silver.
The royal barge was the largest of all the vessels. It carried ten stallions and nearly a hundred men. While the horses neighed nervously, the men laughed and fingered the hilts of their weapons. Almost all were eager for battle, for with battle came plunder. The quickest way to get rich was to conquer, and these warriors craved wealth.
On a dais covered in tapestries and shaded by several silk umbrellas sat the Cham king, Indravarman, who had been born into privilege but had come to power through the sword, and sought to do the same in Angkor. He was clad in decorative armor and gripped a spear made of teak and silver. An oblong pearl the size of a child’s fist dangled from his neck. Gold bracelets and rings adorned his wrists and fingers. A small piece of iron, purposely buried beneath the skin of his belly, brought him good luck. An unusually large man, he had spilled blood before and longed to do so again.
Surrounding Indravarman were dozens of his most decorated officers. These men kept cool under umbrellas held by nearly naked slaves who had been taken from the mountains in the north. As their king spoke of strategy and the future, the officers listened attentively, only the most experienced and brave among them offering suggestions. One such officer, Asal, was younger than all the rest and had been in the army long before he’d become a man. His parents and siblings had died of cholera when he was a child. Somehow he had survived the illness and, in the years that followed, he had stolen vegetables from farms and fish from bamboo traps. He’d been hunted, beaten, and twice left for dead. But each scar had only made him stronger. And once his muscles began to thicken, he had made a spear and sold his services, ultimately protecting the very fields that he’d once plundered. Life had been tolerable until one day when he’d let a starving girl leave with two mangos and, having failed in his duty, quit the very next dawn to join the army.
Though Asal cared little for Indravarman, he respected the king and the way he had come to power. The high rank of the king’s father had provided him with opportunities, but he’d taken more than he had been given. And while Asal didn’t seek to gain through the suffering of others, he coveted power, prestige, and all other trappings made possible by war.
Long ago, Asal had decided that his future lay with ascension in the army, and he had trained himself for such a journey. Not only had he practiced with spears, swords, and shields until his palms bled; he’d also studied military strategy and heeded the counsel of older warriors while other young fighters rushed blindly into battle.
Years of training had hardened his body. Though nearly a head shorter than his king, he was still a large man with broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms and legs. He wore his hair pulled back and bound in a topknot like other Chams, though his locks were slightly longer and swayed when he ran or fought. An inverted lotus-flower headdress partially shaded his eyes. It had been made to provide him with solace on the battlefield, announcing his spiritual enlightenment to friend and foe. Time had not yet imprinted itself on his face, which remained youthful. His smile, when he shared it, was wide and pleasant. His eyes were bright, his skin the color of honey. Unlike most officers, he wore no jewelry. Instead of using plunder to purchase rings and necklaces, he acquired the best weapo
ns and shields.
Daring to shift his attention away from the king, Asal glanced toward the other barges, which seemed as countless as the black hairs bundled together atop his head. Everywhere he looked, steel glistened and men stood in tightly packed groups. The odors of sweat, dung, and vomit hung in the damp air. The sounds of strained voices rose from distant vessels as men dominated other men, exhorting them to fight, to make their ancestors proud.
Several small, fast boats advanced ahead of the royal barge. These boats were filled with archers and strong warriors. When they spotted a Khmer fisherman or hunter, the boats sped forward, and the Cham warriors tinted the water with the blood of their enemies. In that way the army was like a virulent disease, spreading out and killing everything in its path.
Asal looked back at Indravarman. The barges had been Asal’s idea, and he worried that something would go wrong. Perhaps the Khmers had returned from reinforcing the levees and would be alerted and awaiting them on their dreaded war elephants. Perhaps too many of the Chams were sick or ill trained for the ferocity of combat. If his plan succeeded, Asal knew that power and wealth would be bestowed upon him and his unborn children. If it failed, he would be wise to die in battle rather than find himself at his king’s mercy.
As Indravarman spoke of plunder and pillage, Asal reminded himself to avoid such temptations. He wanted to capture the Khmer king or prince. Such an act would grant him further honor, would ensure that his children would never know hunger or shame. While other officers fought over jewels or women, he would forge ahead with a few men he trusted, fighting his way deep into the Khmer stronghold.
Weary of his own thoughts and the constant movement of the barge, Asal focused on Indravarman, noting the way men listened to the king, striving to catch his eye.
“Our struggle against the Khmers has raged too long,” Indravarman said, standing up as he made his point. He thrust the butt of his spear against the deck. Other men repeated this action with their own weapons. “So we shall end that struggle today,” he continued, and then rubbed the piece of iron in his belly for good luck. “Leave their temples for me. But slay their priests, their bureaucrats, their men, their hopes. Let them fear us so much that they shall never wage war on us again. I want their women, their old, their children to be as submissive as a dog that’s been kicked since birth. If a Khmer warrior asks for mercy, spear him like a boar. If a boy sees his father die, then kill the boy also, for revenge is the sharpest of blades.”
Indravarman found Asal’s eyes, held them for a moment with his own, and then nodded. “Once we land outside Angkor, find your men and spread my words. Then follow me into the city, a city that knows no equal, which has cast a shadow on our land for far too long.” Again, Indravarman slammed his spear butt into the deck. “This city that mocks us shall soon be ours. Let me repeat those words in case the blood of battle already fills your ears. Everything that is theirs will be ours. Temples, farms, silks, gems, women—all of these things shall be yours once the men are dead. But wait until every Khmer warrior lies broken at your feet. Wait until this moment, and then enjoy the spoils of victory. Enjoy them as a king would, for on this day you shall all be kings!”
As the officers around him beat their weapons together and echoed Indravarman’s words, Asal looked ahead, toward the city that would soon be torched. Indravarman would watch him, he knew, and he would have to take the battle to his foe. If he was ever to live free and proud, he must be a lion this day.
Closing his eyes, ears, and mind to the clamor around him, Asal gripped the shaft of his spear so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He thought of his unmet wife, his unborn children. The knowledge that their fates rested upon this day gave him a profound sense of strength and determination. Khmers would die on his spear, he knew. They would die in great numbers. But would he create a name for himself? Would his deeds make his future wife and children proud and ensure that they never knew the pain of hunger and fear?
Ahead, his countrymen overtook a trio of Khmer fishing boats. Bodies soon drifted among the barges. The Chams mocked the dead, filling them with arrows and scorn.
Asal tested the sharpness of his spear point against his thumbnail and watched a shaving fall to the deck.
My time has come, he thought. The time of me, of my ancestors, of my family—it is now.
Not far upstream, in a branch off the main river, a father and his two sons sat in their boat and hauled in a long fishing net. Though not even forty years of age, the father looked as worn as his boat, which was nothing more than the trunk of a tree that had been hollowed out. Once, it had been smooth and scar free, but those days were long past. Though still strong and worthy, the boat was marred with wounds. The father was much the same—his face prematurely wrinkled by too much sun, his skin as dark as the muddy waters upon which he plied his trade. And while his body was still muscled and powerful, three decades of hauling carp and catfish from the river had worn him down. The thumb of his left hand was missing. His legs and arms were battered and gouged from countless encounters with knives, snapping turtles, hooks, and crocodiles.
In the front of the boat, the man’s two sons, fourteen-year-old twins, hauled in the coarse net. Like their father, the sons were naked but for the smallest of hip cloths. None of them wore any ornamentation—such trappings were reserved for the wealthy, and even a heavy load of catfish had never put silver in the father’s hands.
The sons bantered back and forth as they worked. Though they looked and acted alike in many ways, there was a stark difference between them—one could see and one was nearly blind. The son with the gift of sight was known as Vibol. His brother was called Prak. Though the father was proud of both of them, he had a deep, secret adoration for Prak, who had never been slowed by his condition. In many ways, Prak was the rope that bound their family together, prompting them to laugh when their nets were empty, to find sources of solace when mosquitoes and misery descended upon them.
Prak called out to his brother. An immense green and yellow eel was caught in the folds of their net. The size of a man’s arm, the eel flopped and twisted, seeking a way out of its entanglement. Though to Prak the eel appeared as only a blurred shadow, he reached down with practiced motions, grabbed its head, and dug his thumbs into its gill openings. Vibol bent over and jammed a short knife into the eel’s neck. It writhed for a moment and then was still.
Grunting, Prak lifted the heavy eel toward the boat, dropping it in a bamboo basket filled with the rest of their catch. “We should leave soon,” he said, dipping his hands in the river. “The market will be open by now.”
“Once the rest of our net is in, we will,” the father replied, pleased with their catch. Known as Boran, the fisherman paddled forward so that the bow of his boat drew nearer to the submerged part of the net.
“We should keep that one for ourselves,” Prak said, nodding toward the eel. “Smoke it tonight and save what we don’t eat.”
Vibol shook his head, drumming his fingers on the gunwale. “I’m weary of fishing. Let’s leave for the city.”
“You’re weary of everything,” Prak answered. “Maybe that says more about you than anything else.”
With the back of his hand, Vibol whacked his brother’s head.
Prak was undaunted. “You just want to bathe with the pretty girls. To pretend that you’re not watching them when even I can see how you stare.”
“We should bathe. After stinking of so many fish, why not bathe like everyone else?”
“Why not wash here? Right now? Why wait until we reach Angkor?”
“Because he doesn’t want to look at our ugly backsides when the view is so much better in Angkor,” Boran answered, smiling.
Vibol splashed his father and brother, who were both laughing. He turned his attention forward once again, reaching for the net, pausing as a group of starlings rose suddenly from a distant tree’s canopy, filling the sky with their dark bodies.
Boran and Prak stopped laughing. While the
father peered into the distance, the son closed his eyes and listened.
“A tiger?” Vibol asked.
Boran shook his head. “Birds have no fear of tigers.”
“A leopard, then? A leopard that climbed into a tree?”
“No.”
“Be silent,” Prak said, his eyes still closed. He was almost immediately aware that the jungle had grown unusually quiet. The day was still—too still. At first he thought that other fishermen were encroaching upon their water, but the wind soon brought unusual scents to him. He smelled cooking fires and dung. A few heartbeats later, he heard the faint neigh of what sounded like a horse. The voices of men found his ears next, only these voices were foreign. “Father,” he said, “I hear men. But…but they aren’t Khmers.”
Boran strained to listen, but heard nothing. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. And they draw closer.”
Staring ahead to where the river they’d been fishing intersected with the much larger waterway, Boran heard a horse’s neigh. The skin on his back tingled. “Cut the net,” he whispered. “Cut it now.”
Vibol drew his knife. “But, Father, we—”
“Do it.”
The net was severed and dropped into the water. Boran quietly paddled their boat toward a massive ficus tree that had toppled into the river, almost cutting it in half. He positioned their craft in the midst of the thickest branches, which lay between them and the main waterway. “Be still,” he said softly.
“Why?” Vibol asked.
“Because I fear we’re no longer the hunters here.”
Time passed slowly, lingering like clouds on a windless day. The voices drew nearer. And yet the larger river remained unburdened, shimmering in the heat. A carp flopped in their basket and Vibol drove his knife into its spine. The father and sons hunched lower as other birds, much closer than the starlings had been, took flight.
