by John Shors
Jayavar shrugged, the rocks falling. He missed his children constantly. “I yearn for them.”
Nodding, she looked above him, her gaze lingering on an immense teak tree that flickered with the light of the fire. She thought about his loved ones and searched for signs. The tree seemed barren and she feared that his sons and daughters were all gone. But perhaps, she thought, she should find a sapling and study it. This tree was too ancient to speak of children. “A king may hope but a king must do,” she finally replied, looking again at his face.
“What do you mean?”
“You may hope that your children live, but you must act as if they do not. Please forgive me, my love, for saying such things. But if your people are to survive, you must act like a king.”
“What would you have me do?”
“You must produce an heir.”
Thunder rumbled, and Jayavar’s face tightened. “No.”
“I cannot give you that heir, and so you must wed a woman whose loins are fertile.”
“I shall do no such thing. Not while my sons may live. Not while you’re at my side.”
Ajadevi’s gaze swept from right to left as she looked for a young teak tree that stood in the shadow of its ancestor. She saw none, which further convinced her that all Jayavar’s children had been put to the sword. “I…I would willingly sacrifice my life to give you a son. But since I cannot give you this gift, you must lie with another. For the sake of your people you must.”
Thunder came and went again, and the rain seemed to strengthen. “What I must do is return to Angkor,” Jayavar said, pulling up his soaking-wet hip cloth.
“Why?”
“To discover if my sons and daughters live.”
“Send a spy. A hundred men would gladly go.”
“While I sit here and hide? You know me better than that, Ajadevi. If my children escaped, if they’re hiding somewhere in the city, I must go to them.”
She looked at the tree again. “Better to send another man. If you were caught, all hope for our people would vanish. You’re now our king, remember?”
“Better, I think, to let our people know that their king lives. I shall return in secret to Angkor, ask about my children, and then, if necessary, disappear into the jungle like a shadow at dusk. Our people will know that I live, that I mean to retake Angkor. And that’s how I shall give them hope, how I shall make an army—by showing my face and spreading my words.” Jayavar nodded to himself, thinking about how he would travel to Angkor with a dozen warriors. He’d find Khmers outside the city and would let them know that he lived, that he was raising an army to reclaim their kingdom. He would learn the fates of his children and either plan their escape or escape himself into sorrow.
“I shall go with you,” Ajadevi replied.
“You should stay here, where our army will grow.”
“The people should know that I’m still at your side.”
Jayavar started to speak but reconsidered. She was right. The people would want to know that she still lived. The path to retake the throne would seem more clear with her beside him. “I worry,” he said, “of our fate if we’re captured. If—”
“If we’re surrounded, we shall use poison to take our own lives. Better to be dead than to have the Chams as masters.”
“You would risk the good standing of your karma? Wouldn’t Buddha frown upon such a fate?”
“Buddha never condemned suicide. But, yes, he saw it as a negative form of action, at odds with his belief in a path toward Nirvana.”
“Yet you seek Nirvana.”
“Yes, but that path is not one to be walked quickly. I have suffered in past lives and can do so again if my karma is tainted. The Chams must never capture us alive, Jayavar. If they do, they’ll use us against our people.” She closed her eyes, smelling the damp air, connecting to the earth. “And so we will carry poison.”
Something moved in the darkness. Jayavar did not sense it, but Ajadevi did. An animal, perhaps? A shift in the wind? Or something more sinister? She asked herself these questions as he cast more branches onto the fire, which crackled and popped, as if protesting the damp wood.
Whatever presence had neared, it now receded. She thought about telling him, about calling to the guard, but she remained quiet. The presence was gone, and they would not find it. Not this night, amid the darkness and the rain. Still, she reached for a curved knife the length of her forearm and placed it by her feet.
“Will we retake the throne?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She made Jayavar repeat his answer, but it was clear to her that he did not believe it. How could he? They had fewer than four hundred warriors, and many thousands of Chams awaited them in Angkor. “Is not life a miracle?” she asked, reaching for his hand.
“What do you mean?”
“We live. We breathe. We drink water that falls from the sky. These things are all miracles. We’re surrounded by miracles, and because of that, your faith must never waiver. Believe that your father’s throne will be yours.”
“How? How can you say such words?”
“Because I feel warmth from a light in the sky. Because I met you amid all the faces that I’ve seen. I believe in these miracles. They’re noble and good and we’re not finished with them.”
He sighed. “You’ve always believed.”
“And that’s why you must find another wife. You must start to train your heir. Start to train him as soon as possible.”
Lightning flashed, followed by thunder. One of their few war elephants trumpeted nervously. “A woman…here in camp?” he finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have doubts about many things, but not about this.”
He nodded, and in his silence the night came alive. A child coughed. The scent of steaming rice lingered in the air. She saw him nod again and was suddenly glad for the rain, glad that he could not see her tears. She pulled him closer, leaning against him, letting his presence carry her away to a place where he would forever be hers and hers alone.
As one of Indravarman’s highest-ranking officers, Asal had a private room in the Royal Palace not far from the king’s chambers. The room, about seven paces across and ten paces long, was far too ornate for Asal’s liking. The floor of dark lead tiles contrasted with the yellow clay tiles that made up the walls and ceiling. Teak beams ran across the ceiling, bearing intricate carvings of elephants, serpents, and fish. Part of the floor was covered by a thick mat woven from bamboo. A cotton blanket lay on the mat, as did a silk mosquito net that could be hung from the nearby wall. Asal’s shield and weapons occupied one corner of the room. Another corner held a dais upon which rested sheets of stretched deerskin that had been dyed black. A wooden bowl contained sticks of white chalk that were used for writing on the deerskins, which Asal did more than he would have liked, as Indravarman demanded daily reports. Like all Cham officers, Asal was required to read and write—skills he had developed as a young man under the tutelage of a Hindu priest.
The most unusual sight in Asal’s room was not made of wood, lead, or clay, but of flesh and blood. Voisanne sat in the far corner, her face blank, her eyes unfocused. She was aware of Asal as he stood near the dais and sharpened his sword, but her gaze didn’t follow his movements. Instead, she tried to prepare herself for whatever he would do to her. As the Cham king had said, she was his. She had seen him slay the Khmer warrior and knew that he was strong and ruthless. He would take from her what he wanted, and though a part of her felt as if she had nothing left to lose, she was frightened. The thought of him ravaging her caused her hands to tremble like those of an old woman. She tried to still her fingers by sitting on them, but then the surging of her heart seemed to become even more pronounced. Her chest rose and fell with increasing speed. Sweat ran down her back. She wished once again that she’d died with the rest of her family. Better to have died with them than to be the Cham’s plaything.
Voisanne still planned to
slay him, and then to end her own life. Later, after she had endured whatever he’d done to her, after he was asleep, she would kill him with his sword. And then she would cut her own throat. As her life bled away, she’d think about her loved ones, letting them know that she was hurrying to reach them.
The Cham stopped sharpening his sword and turned to look at her. He was large and muscled, and she felt his eyes on her body as if they were his hands. She started to breathe even faster, and the room seemed to sway back and forth as if she’d arisen too quickly. Though she wanted to be strong, to honor her ancestors, she began to cry. Would it be better, she wondered, to please him so that he would sleep and then die? Or should she resist as her lover had? Should she fight until she could fight no more?
He walked toward her and then dropped to his knees with the grace of someone much smaller. “Why do you weep?” he asked softly, his accent barely noticeable.
She made no effort to reply but wiped her eyes and looked away.
“Why?” he repeated.
As if to make up for her continued silence, thunder boomed in the distance.
His brow furrowed. “Did you lose someone…in the attack?”
Though she didn’t want to answer him, she found herself nodding. She thought about her lover, her parents, and her siblings. “Everyone,” she whispered.
Asal watched her cry, her tears and shudders reminding him of his youth, of witnessing his loved ones succumb to cholera. Their deaths had not come quickly, and though he had been young, he remembered much. As he watched the Khmer woman, he began to pity her. He didn’t see her beauty or even her face but only her suffering. Having known suffering as intimately as a farmer knows dirt, Asal wanted the woman’s shudders to cease.
He leaned closer to her. “My king,” he whispered, “has given you to me. And he shall…he shall expect certain things of me.”
Voisanne shrugged.
“But I’ll not do these things,” Asal added in a low voice. “I’ll not hurt you. I may carry a sword and I may kill, but I shall never hurt you.”
She looked up at him. “Why?”
“Because that’s not my way.” Someone shouted outside the teak door leading to Asal’s room. He stiffened, his jaw tightening and relaxing, and he leaned even closer to her. “But you must act as if I’ve hurt you. You must give my king and his men what they expect.”
“What…do they expect?”
“You must whimper now. You must cry. You must fool them.”
“I cannot.”
“You can. And you must never speak of what I’ve said. If you do, I shall hear of it and my mercy will vanish.”
Voisanne nodded.
“Now cry,” he whispered. “Let them hear your tears.”
She did as he asked, whimpering at first, drawing on her true sorrow. In her mind’s eye, she saw the Cham spear fly and kill her lover. She felt her brother die in her arms, felt life flowing from him as she desperately tried to keep him whole. Her tears and sobs intensified as her emotions, caged for so long, ran rampant. She thought of her loneliness, of how she should have been wed and in bliss, and her world began to crumble.
Asal yelled at her to be silent. He smashed his shoulder into the nearby wall. He slapped his own thigh, hitting it hard. She knew he was doing these things for her benefit, and yet his rage seemed so real. Such anger had killed her family, had shattered her city. She pleaded with him to stop, and he shouted in reply, demanding that she be still. He picked up the wooden dais, raised it above his head, and slammed it into the tile floor. Again he slapped his thigh, then yelled at her, and the ferocity of his voice made her draw back in fear.
Outside the room’s eastern wall, thunder boomed. A storm rose up, obscuring her cries. Once the thunder became regular, he stopped shouting. She could see that his thigh was red from where he’d hit it, and she closed her eyes, fearing him even though he hadn’t touched her.
His chest heaving, he lowered himself in front of her, his lips drawing close to her ear. “Do you wish to live?” he whispered.
“No.”
“You should.”
“Better…to die.”
He shook his head. “Once I was all alone. I sought death. But now I seek life.”
She drew away from him.
“On the outside,” he whispered, “you must look as if you want to die, as if my beatings pull you toward death. But on the inside, you must stand tall; you must seek life. And know that despite whatever I do on the outside, for the sake of others, I also want you to live.”
Voisanne shuddered, trying to hold back a sob.
“So tomorrow, when you leave this room, leave it as if I’ve broken you. Always leave it as if I’ve broken you.”
“Why?” she said, her voice quiet but ragged. “Why do you help me?”
“Because you’ve suffered enough. I am a Cham. The blood of your people is on my sword, on my hands. But I say you’ve suffered enough and there’s time yet for you to live.”
A tiring but manageable walk to the northwest of Angkor Wat, the ancient, elegant temple of Baksei Chamkrong rose into the dark night. The temple was similar to a stepped pyramid except for the top, which was dominated by a brick tower encased in stucco and carved with inscriptions that praised previous Khmer kings.
Baksei Chamkrong meant “the bird who shelters under its wings” and referred to the legend of a Khmer king who was forced to flee a siege. As he made his way from the battle, an immense bird landed next to him and spread its wings, protecting him. He was then able to stay and fight his foes. Indeed, the temple seemed to have been created to celebrate such protection, because inside the tower a golden statue of the Hindu God Shiva, and his consort, Devi, stood on a raised platform.
The golden statue appeared to sway in the candlelight, and Indravarman studied it carefully. Though he had already plundered Angkor of some of its riches, he wasn’t certain what to do with this statue. He admired it greatly and, now that he was the ruler of Angkor, he was in no rush to destroy its beauty.
Standing next to Indravarman was his chief assassin, Po Rame, who was tall, lean, and well muscled. Though Po Rame carried a spear, his weapons of choice were poison, knives, and a braided cord that he used to strangle his enemies from behind. Hanging from Po Rame’s neck was a tiger’s claw that came from a beast he had stalked and killed. The man’s regal face reminded Indravarman of those of the countless stone statues around Angkor—with mouths fixed permanently in half smiles and eyes that seemed to see all. The assassin’s skin was lighter in color than most of his countrymen’s, which pleased him.
Indravarman looked down into the courtyard that surrounded the temple. Several colossal ficus trees sheltered his men from a steady rain. Standing next to one of the trees was Thida, who had been captured after the invasion and was the most beautiful woman Indravarman had ever seen. Even Angkor Wat, he thought, replete in all its splendor, could not duplicate her exquisiteness. It was as if the sun had never touched her skin, which appeared as smooth as Siamese silk. Her body was sculpted and perfect. Her eyes were wider than those of most Khmers, and her voluptuous lips seemed to celebrate the virtues of her femininity. Her name meant “full moon” and Indravarman thought her parents had been wise to select it for her.
During the past several weeks, the Cham king had reveled in the company of many Khmer women. But earlier that day, once he’d seen Thida, the other women had been sent away. He hadn’t spoken to her yet, however, and now, as he watched her stand in the rain, he wanted to touch those lips.
Suddenly impatient, Indravarman turned to Po Rame. “Jayavar remains a threat,” he whispered. “He may be far from here, but a storm may also be far from a sailor. And as a sailor must watch the sky, I must watch the jungle.”
“We—”
“As long as a claim to the throne exists, I’m in danger, which places you in danger.”
Po Rame nodded, listening to the wind. “My spies, King of Kings, are in the jungle. They search as we speak.�
�� Though Po Rame was vicious, his voice was soft, almost feminine. “Jayavar—”
“Men are not enough. You should send women and children also. He’ll be more suspicious of a man than of a child. And a woman will have more guile than a man would.”
“Yes, Lord King.”
“His chief wife is with him. From what the prisoners say, we should fear her as much as him.” Indravarman paused to rub the lucky piece of iron that lay beneath the skin of his belly. “I want them both dead, gutted like fish. Mount their heads on spears and plant those spears at Angkor Wat for all to see.”
“It will take time, Lord King. Those rats have burrowed deep.”
Indravarman glanced again at Thida, who was now leaning against a tree. She appeared to sway with the wind, as if she might topple. “Take ten Khmer prisoners, the best of their warriors, to the river. Have your men torture one, and let the others escape. They’ll need to kill our fighters for the ruse to work.”
“But we’ll never see them again.”
“You’re no fool, Po Rame, so don’t speak like one,” Indravarman replied. He stepped forward to touch the golden statue of Shiva, wondering if he should have it brought to his sleeping chambers. “Before going to the river, interrogate one of the Khmers, one with a family who lives. Let him know that his family will be burned alive unless he helps us, unless he discovers the whereabouts of Jayavar. When he tells us these whereabouts, he and his family shall go free. Tell him that I’m a man of my word. If he helps us, his loved ones shall live. And they shall leave Angkor carrying gold.”
Po Rame pursed his full lips. “Better to have two such men, Lord King. In case illness or circumstance strikes one down.”
“So be it. And plan it so that all our men die. Otherwise the Khmers will expect treachery. They must believe that we blundered. Convinced of our folly, the group shall find Jayavar for us. And then we shall go to him, with swords in our hands and malice in our hearts.”
Po Rame began to speak again, but Indravarman dismissed him. Lightning flashed, illuminating a massive Khmer war elephant that stood outside the gathering of Chams. Indravarman shouted at one of his men to bring Thida forward. She moved grudgingly, climbing the slick sandstone steps that led to the temple’s covered summit. Glistening from the rain, she appeared more desirable than ever. Once she entered the tower, Indravarman touched her chin and smiled when she leaned away.
