Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  “How high are the rises?”

  “They tower over everything. A handful of sentries could watch in all directions.”

  “And the valley…it’s deep?”

  “Deep enough to cloak our fires, to mask the sound of our mounts. The priests are all gone, I believe. And even though Kbal Spean is only several days’ march from Angkor, few people know of its existence. Khmers have forgotten about it. Chams won’t even know of it. The jungle is so thick that few dare to wander within it.”

  “And—”

  “And less than a day’s march away lies Banteay Srei, the Citadel of Women. This small temple, which I visited as a girl, inspired me in many ways. It could serve as a meeting point. We could spread the word that it’s where we shall gather our forces. But when groups of Khmers arrive, they could be led to Kbal Spean. This way we will have a buffer between our first encounter with strangers and our true base.”

  Jayavar smiled. “You should be king, not I.”

  “Women will rule one day. But that day hasn’t yet come.”

  “Perhaps it should come tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Sunlight filtered through the canopy, warming Jayavar. “How many people could live in this valley? Could live in secret?”

  “Thousands.”

  “And the jungle is thick?”

  “It would be easier to see through a herd of elephants.”

  His brow furrowed. “We could send two men back to begin the arrangements.”

  “They should go soon.”

  “And what of this thought?” he asked. “I have an idea to send two good men into Siam. We’ve fought using Siamese mercenaries before. Why not promise them gold and silver? We have plenty.”

  “Siam is our enemy.”

  “But its warriors are not. The lure of gold would be hard to resist.”

  She nodded, thinking about the Siamese, recalling her encounters with them. “There will be spies and traitors among them,” she said. “For every ten warriors you receive, one will seek to betray you.”

  “I know. We’d have to be careful. We could tell them to come in small groups, to arrive at, as you suggest, the Citadel of Women. A few thousand Siamese, fighting for us, could balance the scale.”

  “Then add them to the scale. But move with care, Jayavar. They’re not to be trusted.”

  An animal’s snarl sounded up ahead. The jungle was full of tigers and leopards, and Jayavar put his hand on the hilt of his sword. His horse trotted ahead in silence, and he relaxed as several of his men shouted to scare off the beast. A ray of light fell from a hole in the jungle canopy, and he reached for it, watching as it illuminated his hand and then his arm.

  “Do you know what you are to me?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “My most trusted adviser, the woman I love, and my friend. How can one person be so many things?”

  “Because I’m a collection of people. I’ve lived many lives, and been beside you during those lives. I’ve been your wife, your adviser, and your friend before.”

  He reached for her hand. “I love you,” he whispered. “More than Angkor, more than my people. If I’m a river, you’re the rain that feeds me.”

  She squeezed his fingers. Though she knew that pride was a weakness and that her karma depended on being pure, she couldn’t help but smile. “We shall go to Kbal Spean, Jayavar. And from there we shall begin anew.”

  The flickering light of six candles illuminated Asal’s room, hinting of the draft that emerged from under his door. A slave had carried away his dinner dishes, and he sat cross-legged on a thatch mat, sipping rice wine through a narrow bamboo tube. Though his parents had been poor, they’d made their own wine, letting him sample it on occasion.

  Asal smiled at the memory, then looked at Voisanne. For a reason he didn’t understand, her beauty seemed more pronounced than ever. He wanted to touch her, to kiss the contours of her flesh. Instead he sipped more of the wine, wondering when she would speak. Music emerged from beyond his door—the beating of drums accompanied by chanting male voices.

  “Did the priests die?” she asked, made uneasy by the drums and needing to break their rumblings.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Swiftly and without pain.”

  She nodded, adjusting a silver bracelet that clung to her damp skin. “Indravarman has ordered that I move into new quarters.”

  “He has?”

  “His men…couldn’t find Thida. So he moved both of us, along with some other women, into a house near the moat. We have a guard and aren’t to leave, except to bathe or if someone comes to claim us. We’re prisoners.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why did you come here? Why did you attack us?”

  Asal had asked himself that same question. “The nature of men is to wage war,” he replied, and then offered her a flask of wine and a bamboo tube, which she took. “Chams. Khmers. Siamese. We all fight.”

  “Perhaps if you were women, if you created life, you wouldn’t be so quick to take it.”

  “That’s—”

  “How many men have you killed? How many Khmers?”

  He looked away, no longer entranced by her beauty. “If I didn’t kill, I’d be destitute. My unborn children would have no future.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because fighting is all I’ve ever known. It is my surest path to a better life for any family I might have.”

  “You could know more. Your mind could be as potent as your body.”

  “Indravarman would…” Asal paused, the muscles in his jaws clenching. “My station is fixed,” he finally replied.

  “My station was fixed too, before you came. So was my father’s, my mother’s, my lover’s.” She sipped her wine. “But you Chams changed all that. You sneaked up on us like a pack of cowards and changed everything.”

  “Our war is an old one. Khmers have attacked Chams just as we attacked you. You have burned our cities, enslaved our citizens. I’ve seen Khmer arrows in the backs of my people—in the backs of women and children.”

  Voisanne shook her head. “But we wanted peace! And Indravarman is worse than any Khmer king ever was. He’s nothing more than a thief and a murderer.”

  “Many Chams are different.”

  “Many? You, perhaps, but not your countrymen.”

  “People are not defined by their ruler.”

  She scoffed at his words. “Yes, they are. Because your king takes what he wants; he kills whom he pleases. And if you follow him, you’re no better than he is. You may be noble, but if you’re his instrument, then you’re an instrument of evil, destined to be hated and scorned.”

  A female servant knocked on the door and Asal sent her away. Though he didn’t fear men or blades of steel, Voisanne’s words shook him. Yes, he’d killed, but he had done so out of necessity. If he hadn’t learned to fight, he would have been killed long ago. Yet this Khmer woman didn’t understand what drove him; she didn’t realize that he wished his fate had been different.

  “Your father’s home,” he asked quietly, “was it near here?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I could walk past it and see who is there. Perhaps someone from your family yet lives.”

  Voisanne started to speak, then stopped. “But…I saw them all killed. They’re gone.”

  “During battle, the eye, the memory, can deceive. Such trickery has happened to me on many occasions. With fighting comes fear, and fear does strange things to the mind.”

  “It does?”

  “I could look,” he offered. “I could inquire.”

  “And you would do that…for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “But…”

  “I want to help you.”

  She bowed low. Then in a rush of words she told him where her home was and described her family members. He had never seen her excited, and her enthusiasm was infectious. Though he was taking a risk in making such a promise, he su
ddenly forgot about Indravarman’s spies and suspicions.

  “It may not happen tomorrow,” he said, “or the day after. But I shall visit your home. I shall be your eyes and ears.”

  She bowed again, deep and long. “I’m sorry for…assailing you, for being so weak when you’ve been so strong.”

  “You needn’t—”

  “I’ve done nothing but insult you.”

  “True enough. And you’re quite skilled at it. But fortunately for you, I understand how pain taints everything it touches. How the very air you breathe becomes bitter.”

  “You’re much more…than a Cham killer. Please forgive me.”

  Asal smiled, feeling as if he’d been released from a prison of his own making. “Nothing needs forgiveness, my lady.”

  She bent back, shaking her head. “My lady? Why…why would you call me that? Especially after how I’ve behaved toward you?”

  “Because it suits you.”

  “I’m a slave.”

  “You’re a lady.”

  She started to speak and then stopped, wringing her hands. “And what shall I call you? What would please you?”

  The concern etched in her face made him smile once again. So many years had passed since anyone had worried about his feelings. “Please call me Asal, my lady. That would please me very much.”

  The Pain and Joy of Truth

  hida pretended to sleep though her eyes were half open, and she gazed toward the far end of Indravarman’s chambers. She lay naked in the middle of his teak bed, on pelts of tigers and leopards. Indravarman was nude next to her, lying on his belly with his head cocked to the side. Near his right hand were several scrolls containing the translated writings of Confucius.

  The king’s room, located in the heart of the Royal Palace, was immense and lined with huge wooden columns. Candles that had burned all night fluttered, their feeble light reflecting off gold and silver treasures that he had plundered from Khmer temples, courtyards, and homes. Statues of Vishnu, Shiva, and Buddha were among his most prized discoveries, though he’d taken only small and elaborate pieces that were easily carried. Bolts of silk, precious gems, parchments of poetry, and carved ivory had been placed in tidy piles. Thida didn’t know what Indravarman did with all of his plunder, but she had seen him give out items as rewards to his most valuable officers and advisers. He was generous, sharing his treasures of gold, jewels, and women. And yet Thida sensed that his men feared him. They bowed too quickly and spoke too little. Those who displeased him did not always return.

  Though Indravarman had never beaten her, she made certain to satisfy him, to meet his demands and even exceed them. As the days had passed, she had learned to anticipate his needs. He asked for her again and again while other women were sent away. It seemed that she alone knew how to please him, which surprised her, because she had never considered herself to be bright or strong. Of course, she’d recognized her beauty, but she hadn’t realized that it could be such a powerful blessing or curse until Indravarman had come into her life. She was terrified of him and let him see her fear since it seemed to entertain him. Though she was Hindu, her faith wasn’t unassailable, and she worried that she would never be reincarnated. If he killed her, there might be only blackness.

  “Why were you never with another man?” Indravarman asked, his accent thick. “All men must have desired you.”

  The abrupt sound of his deep voice caused her heart to flutter. After it settled, she thought about how her father had deserted their family and how her mother had struggled to feed them. They’d lived in the countryside, and once she blossomed into a young woman she traveled to Angkor with a group of pilgrims, instructed by her mother to seek out a wealthy man. Though her suitors were many, she had remained unmoved by their proposals, reminded of her father’s unkept promises, as untrusting of these men as she had been of him. And yet Indravarman had carried her away like a typhoon, his will impossible to deny.

  “Most men bore me, Lord King,” she finally replied.

  “Most men are fools—lead them to a stream and they will only drink.”

  “I—”

  “But some will do more than drink. They’ll find gold on that shoreline. They’ll hunt the tiger that comes to quench its thirst.” Indravarman rolled over and reached out, tracing the contours of her hip with a calloused finger. “I hear you’ve become close to your countrywoman Voisanne.”

  “Yes. Yes, I have, Lord King.”

  “She is the woman of one of my best officers. A man named Asal.”

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “And what do you hear of him?”

  “I think he beats her.”

  Indravarman grunted, stroking her arm. “I want you to befriend her, to learn her secrets.”

  Though Thida longed to recoil from his touch, she lay still, hoping the sight of her nakedness would not stir him as it usually did.

  “I don’t trust Asal,” Indravarman said. “And so I wish to learn of his doings. Will you seek them out and share this knowledge with me? Should I dare to trust you?”

  “I serve you, Lord King. I’ll do as you ask.”

  “Good. Perform this deed and you shall be rewarded. Fail me and your days of comfort shall cease.”

  Thida felt the strength of his stare, the ferocity within his eyes, and she unconsciously held her breath. He moved closer. Her heart started to race. She felt his hands on her and began to lie, to tell him about her desire for him, about how she wanted him to fall upon her.

  “Give your life to me,” he said, his movements quickening, “and I shall not take it.”

  * * *

  The scent of steaming rice gave away the location of the Cham scouting party. Jayavar and his men dismounted, then crawled through the thick jungle, staying as low as possible, moving like shadows. They observed four Chams from a distance, whispered their strategy, and crept even closer. Once Jayavar was certain that they would soon be observed, the seven Khmer warriors stood up and rushed forward. No battle cries were shouted, no warnings given. Instead, the Khmers ran as silently as possible with their weapons held high.

  The Chams looked up at the last possible moment. One warrior managed to notch and fire an arrow. The others reached for their spears but were too slow, crying out as Khmer blades pierced their flesh. All but one of the Chams were killed. The last warrior, whom Jayavar had identified earlier as their leader, was captured. As his men bound and gagged the Cham, Jayavar turned to look for Ajadevi, only then realizing that one of his warriors had fallen. The lone arrow had struck him in the neck, and life was flowing quickly from him. Jayavar dropped to his knees and cradled the man’s head, aware that the wound was mortal. He thanked the warrior for his service, asked about special requests, and finally wondered if he would like to be cremated or simply left in the jungle. Most Khmers wanted their bodies to be set in a special place and then abandoned. This way the cycle of rebirth could be continued, slowly and naturally, within a land adored by its people.

  The warrior asked that his body be left in such a manner, and Jayavar agreed, comforting him as much as possible. When he finally died, the remaining Khmers lifted his body and set it within a patch of light that pierced the canopy. They made a circle of stones around the corpse, put the man’s sword in his hands, prayed for his rebirth, and stepped away.

  Jayavar glanced at the surviving Cham, knowing that he needed to be interrogated as soon as possible. But then the prince thought about his dead countryman, wondering if the attack should have been done differently. With superior numbers and the element of surprise, no Khmers should have died in the assault, and Jayavar berated himself for the loss of life.

  The Cham was bound from head to foot to a dead tree, and Jayavar strode forward, stopping a short distance from his enemy. The man was thickly muscled and kept his face expressionless. Defiance seemed to fill him. Jayavar nodded, then called his men forward, so that they formed a circle around the Cham.

  “What are your orders?” Jayavar asked in
the warrior’s native tongue.

  The man said nothing, his jaws clenching, his fingers working at the bonds that held him.

  Though normally patience was one of Jayavar’s strongest traits, he was frustrated by the loss of his countryman and eager to hear of his loved ones. “Gather dry timber and pile it around him,” he said to his men.

  Ajadevi shot him an angry stare, but for once he paid her no heed. Instead he walked to the campfire that the Chams had made, emptied their pot of rice, and scooped up some embers. After his men had arranged a pile of wood around the Cham, Jayavar carefully positioned the embers beneath some dried leaves. Flames quickly arose. Twigs crackled. Smoke drifted upward.

  “Good-bye,” Jayavar said to the Cham.

  “You can’t go!”

  Jayavar started to walk back to his horse. Behind him, the Cham began to scream. The flames hadn’t yet touched him but were spreading around him and growing higher.

  “Don’t leave! I’ll talk!”

  Whirling around, Jayavar strode to the Cham and used his spear to scatter the burning wood. “A falsehood. A denial. Say either of these things and the fire shall return. But I shall not!”

  The Cham nodded, sweat dripping from his brow.

  “Why are you here?” Jayavar demanded.

  “To…to find you.”

  “How many other scouting parties are searching this area?”

  “Many. But no one knows where you are.”

  “Who advises Indravarman?”

  “No one. He’s his own man. He—”

  “And how many Chams are in Angkor?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Give me their numbers!”

  “Nine or ten thousand warriors. Maybe more.”

  Jayavar saw that Ajadevi had taken a fallen spear and was using it to scatter what remained of the burning wood. He knew that she disapproved of his method, but he wasn’t held hostage by his belief in karma, as he sometimes felt she was. He had already killed too many men to have led a pure life. If his soul was reborn at a lower station, so be it.