by John Shors
“Yes, Lord King.”
Po Rame turned to leave, but Indravarman reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And Po Rame, keep an eye on your old adversary, Asal. I value his services considerably, but he seems to have a softness for the Khmers. He should have executed ten of their most popular priests, not ten invalids. His fate isn’t to choose, but to do as he is told, and I question the reason behind his sense of sovereignty.”
“He’s weak—the stock of peasants.”
“No, Po Rame. He’s strong. Too strong. And that’s why there will come a time when you will have my blessing to kill him. Once we claim Jayavar’s head and the threat of attack is gone, you may do with Asal as you wish.”
Po Rame bowed. “That day can’t arrive soon enough for me.”
“Don’t test my patience with the tediousness of your own desires.”
“Yes, King of Kings.”
Indravarman turned away from his assassin and walked toward the center of the temple. He rubbed the iron beneath his skin for luck, wanting the future to unfold quickly, knowing that he would never be the unquestioned ruler of Angkor until Jayavar was dead.
Though he had done so reluctantly, in the end Asal had agreed that Voisanne could walk past her old home and look for her sister. Voisanne had promised him that she would move quickly and, for the time being, keep her identity secret.
Her heart pounding with increasing vigor, Voisanne followed the familiar streets and alleys leading to her former home. She yearned to run but held her pace in check. She longed to shout for joy but only hummed. The knowledge that her sister lived had kept her up all night, tossing in the darkness, brushing away insects that clung to the outside of her mosquito net. Thida had asked about her strange behavior and Voisanne replied that she wasn’t feeling well, a claim belied by her newfound energy.
She saw her father’s statue, felt a momentary pause in her gait, looked for Chaya, and then spied her beneath their home as she chopped peppers with a small knife. Voisanne unconsciously muttered her name, then covered her mouth with her hands and stepped behind the large statue. Tears dropped to the dusty ground. She closed her eyes as she offered her repeated thanks to the Gods. Somehow Chaya had been spared; she looked well.
Though Voisanne wanted nothing more than to run to Chaya and hold her tight, she remembered her promise to Asal. She also knew that any rash action would only endanger her little sister. It would be far better to contain her joy, to thrive on it, and to plan for their escape. Once that blissful day arrived their reunion would be without end.
Voisanne wasn’t sure if Asal would help them but she believed that he wouldn’t betray them. She felt his decency every time they were together, and after peeking around the statue once more to watch her sister, she needed to rush back to him, to tell him of her profound gratitude.
“I’ll come for you, Chaya,” Voisanne whispered, and then turned, keeping the statue between her sister and herself. She walked quickly, wondering how she could rescue Chaya, how they might flee Angkor and never return.
As Voisanne approached the Royal Palace, the streets became crowded with pedestrians. She brushed past them, moving unusually fast for a woman but uncaring of what others thought. Again and again, she envisioned Chaya cutting the vegetables, and each memory lifted her spirits higher.
Only at the last moment, as she entered the bustling Royal Palace, did Voisanne slow her pace. She lowered her head, deadened the joy on her face, and walked on. The palace’s wide corridors were filled with concubines, slaves, warriors, officials, and servants. Both Chams and Khmers were present, though only the occupiers carried weapons of any sort.
Voisanne neared the living quarters of the Cham officers. The area was quiet, and she passed door after door until finally she arrived at Asal’s room. Her knock was unanswered and she respectfully called out his name. When no reply was uttered, she opened the door and stepped inside.
The room had been left tidy and clean, as if no one had lived in it for many years. Voisanne eyed Asal’s few possessions. To her surprise, his shield rested against the far wall. Though still buoyed by the thought of being reunited with her sister, she realized that she should soon return to her quarters. She’d told the guards that she was going to bathe and if she took too long they would grow suspicious.
But as she reached for the door, Voisanne considered Asal’s position and the risk he was taking by helping her. It had been his idea to search for her sister, and it was he who’d rekindled the flame of life in her. Every feeling of hope and promise that she now experienced had started with him. And she had given him nothing in return, had made no effort to repay his generosity of spirit and action.
Suddenly Voisanne felt an urge to leave him something—a token of her appreciation. But a token, whether a flower or a letter, could be discovered and used against him. Her gaze traveled again to his shield. On several occasions, she had seen him adjust its straps and test its strength and she knew that it was almost a part of him. A note could be hidden within the crevices of the shield, in a place where only he would find it.
His dais held white chalk and various squares of deerskin. She picked up a small piece of hide, glad that her father had let her watch him write and encouraged her to try her hand. Though there was much she wanted to say to Asal, space was finite and precious. The chalk stirred against the hide.
I pray that this shield never fails you, and that one day, in what is to become the best of your days, you set it down and you know the same peace and joy that you have given me.
Voisanne folded up the hide and positioned it on the underside of the shield, in a narrow gap between the iron rim and the teak interior. She then propped the shield up against the wall, so that it stood more proudly than it had before.
She smiled, pleased with her words. As thoughts of her sister flooded into her once again, she stepped from the room and walked ahead, unaware of the throngs of her enemies, gripped only by the promise of an imminent reunion.
Vibol lay silent near the fire. His head rested on Soriya’s lap, and she gently stroked his brow, avoiding the cuts and swollen flesh around his eyes. As she tended to him, she hummed a song that she’d sung to him as a child. Occasionally, she placed a small piece of honeycomb on his tongue. Twenty paces away, near the edge of the Great Lake, Boran and Prak were on the lookout for Chams, the soft notes of Prak’s flute seemingly a part of the land.
Boran had paddled until dawn, trying to create space between the Cham encampment and his family. In an effort to raise Vibol’s spirits, they had taken turns telling him stories about his childhood. Boran spoke about Vibol’s first attempts at fishing. Soriya recalled how, when he was a baby, his gums would ache and he liked to gnaw on her knuckles. Prak relived many of their adventures together, smiling when he recollected how a wild boar they were hunting had chased them into the river.
None of the stories had done anything to change Vibol’s demeanor, and Boran had simply continued to paddle, grateful that his son was alive. As his palms had blistered against the wooden handle, he had listened to Soriya’s tales and Prak’s flute, unable to remember the last time his wife had spoken so much.
Now, as Boran and Prak stood on the shoreline, Soriya leaned close to her son, ensuring that the heat of the fire wasn’t too strong or too weak. His battered face was hardly recognizable, and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from crying. She had never understood the concept of hate, but as she tried to comfort Vibol, she imagined what she might do, if she could, to the men who had hurt her child.
But my hate won’t help him, she thought, still stroking his brow.
Seeing that her herbal pastes had smeared off Vibol’s wounds and needed to be reapplied, Soriya reached down for a large leaf that held a mixture of crushed plants with healing properties. Still humming, she rubbed the paste between her fingers, breaking the concoction down as much as possible before carefully dabbing the places where she had stitched together his split skin. He flinched when she to
uched him, as if fearful of Cham blades and fists.
“I know they hurt you,” she whispered. “But you’re brave, so very brave to do what you did. And you don’t have any reason to feel shame.”
He leaned away from her, staring into the fire.
“Remember, Vibol, that osprey you found when you were a boy? It had an injured wing. You rescued that bird, and we fashioned a cage for it out of bamboo and spent the better part of the dry season nursing it back to health. You fed it fish every morning. You spoke to it constantly. Though Prak had always been more curious about animals, the osprey was your pet. You loved it, you healed it, and when it was ready, you stepped back and watched it fly away.”
The fire cracked, prompting Soriya to peer into the jungle. She wiped the paste from her fingers and then placed a fingernail-size piece of honeycomb on his tongue. They had always looked for hives together, as Vibol savored the taste of honey more than anything else.
“Do you know, my son, why we’ve argued so often these past days? It’s only because I feared losing you, like you feared losing that osprey. Not because I thought you were still a boy and needed my protection, but because I couldn’t imagine my world without you in it.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m not strong like you, Vibol,” she continued. “I’m not strong enough to endure a world without you. Do you understand that? I have to go first. Because even though you’re a man, I still look at you and see my baby boy, one of the two miracles I created in this life. When we go into Angkor, people think of me as a poor woman. They pity me. But they don’t know that I’ve created two miracles. They don’t know that you make me feel rich.”
He sniffed, turning slowly in her direction. She saw that his eyes were also filled with tears, and she leaned down, pulling him toward her, feeling the warmth of him and rejoicing that he was not lost.
When night fell, the city of Angkor came to life. Countless cooking fires illuminated temples and homes, flickering like stars in the sky. From atop a banyan tree beyond the great monuments, Jayavar and Ajadevi studied the scene before them. Angkor had never shimmered with the light of so many fires, and Jayavar could only assume that Cham warriors were gathered about the flames. “Indravarman fears us,” he said quietly. “He keeps the night at bay because he knows we shall attack.”
Ajadevi nodded but made no reply.
Many of the fires seemed to stretch out in lines, and Jayavar imagined formations of Cham warriors. Or the fires could be a ruse, meant to provoke attacks in other areas that looked undefended, but in reality were not.
Cicadas buzzed in the trees. The scent of horse dung drifted up from below. Now that he was so close to his home, Jayavar felt his feelings cresting like the top of a windswept wave. He wanted to rush forward, run through familiar streets, and look for family members and friends. His emotions demanded action and yet his experience counseled patience. He felt torn in so many ways. He dared to hope but knew that he was deceiving himself. He longed to lead his men to victory but needed Ajadevi to pull him forward.
Of all the sights in front of him, it was the silhouette of Angkor Wat that bothered him the most. The wondrous temple was dotted with fires, which made him believe that Indravarman had turned it into some sort of fortress. His men were in its great halls, his horses and war elephants on its grounds. What had become of its priests and artifacts?
The longer Jayavar stared at the fires, the more foreign they felt, inflaming anguish within him. The city had been taken from his stewardship. Even his memories seemed to have been plundered, for the desecration he beheld tainted the few treasures he still carried—the echoes of his children’s laughter, the visions of his people and their creations.
“The Chams…have stolen everything from us,” he said, keeping his voice quiet so that his men below could not dwell on his words.
Ajadevi moved closer to him on the branch. “And for that we shall drive them from our land. Tomorrow it shall begin. When it will end, I do not know, but tomorrow we shall act.”
“It’s strange…to hate Indravarman, a man I’ve never met.”
“Hate needs no introduction.”
“And what if we fail? He has more men, horses, elephants, and resources. What if he breaks us?”
“Then we shall die together.”
“As one?”
She reached for his hand. “And that’s why, when we do bring the fight to him, I want you to fight with love in your heart, not hate.”
“How can I do that? Hate sustains me…more than you know.”
“Fight with love, Jayavar. Because if you want to be reunited with your children, with me, how shall we find you in death if we don’t recognize you? None of us will recognize a man who dies in an ocean of his own hate. It’s like now, as we look on our city. It is before us, but it doesn’t beckon to us. We fail to rejoice in its beauty because it has changed. And that’s why, Jayavar, if a Cham spear pierces your heart, you must die beholding the joys of your life, not the sorrows. You must celebrate your approaching reunion with your loved ones, not lament your failures. Because if we’re to find you, the spirit of who you are must endure. If I die it will be beside you…and you will feel the light of me as if all these fires had been swept together.”
A shooting star flickered across the sky. Jayavar was certain that Ajadevi would consider it an omen of some sort, but he refrained from asking her about it. “A warrior uses hate,” he finally replied, “to give himself strength.”
“A weak warrior, perhaps. A reed among a field of reeds. But the stoutest warrior fights using love. He celebrates the gifts of his life as he lifts his sword. He feels pain and is reminded of how acutely beautiful his life has been and how beautiful the next one will be. Fight with love, Jayavar, and you shall win. Fight with hate and you shall die alone.”
Asal knelt in the corner of his room, rereading the message that Voisanne had left for him. He’d already traced her words with his fingers and smiled at the thought of her seeking him out. She had wanted to see him, to leave a note meant only for him.
Breathing deeply, he savored her earlier presence, aware of the lingering scent of her perfume. His room must have been brighter and warmer with her in it, as if a window had been opened to let sunlight work its wonders.
After hiding her note within his blanket, he picked up a small piece of deerskin and some chalk.
After much thought, he wrote:
Your words were a gift to me. You are a gift to me. Thank you, my lady, for being a part of my world.
He folded up his message and placed it within his shield, just as she had done. Will she write back? he wondered. Will she have the courage and desire to return to my quarters?
Though the day had been long and arduous, a newfound energy filled Asal. Realizing that he needed to acquire a second shield so that his old one could always remain in his room, he hurried out into the Royal Palace, moving with the sort of eagerness he had known as a child, when discoveries rather than duties had awaited him, when life was the sum total of so many pleasures.
* * *
The Chinese section of the marketplace was quiet late at night—though from dawn to midday it was dominated by the well-dressed foreigners who traded gold, silver, silk, lacquer dishes, iron pots, writing paper, umbrellas, fine-toothed combs, needles, and various spices. Usually only the wealthiest of Khmers traded there with their Chinese counterparts, but since the Cham conquest, an equal number of occupiers were also present.
After the sun fell, different sorts of sellers arrived—mostly Khmer women who offered themselves to men of all backgrounds. A bolt of silk would often merit four or five nights of pleasure. A fine needle could be exchanged for a brief encounter. The terms of trades were agreeable to all and disputes rarely arose.
Two of Po Rame’s spies, both Khmer women, worked at night in this area of the market, and he often pretended to barter for their services and then disappeared into a nearby room and encouraged them to pass along rumors. The women
, when properly rewarded or threatened, showed no loyalty to their countrymen. They saw Po Rame as a means to an end.
Now, as Po Rame followed one of his informants toward a room she rented, he wondered if she had already lain with another man. Such actions revolted him, and he tolerated the woman only because she provided him with useful information.
The Khmer turned into an alley, passed a pair of begging lepers, and entered a long, narrow building frequented by her kind. Her room was at the far end of the corridor, which Po Rame had insisted on. Low groans and grunts emerged from behind closed doors. Po Rame tried to ignore the sounds as well as the smells of sweat and sex.
The room they entered was empty except for a thatch mat, some candles, and a washbasin. The Khmer woman, who was old for her trade and as worn as a horse’s hoof, lit one of the candles, turned around, and bowed. “Tell me, master, what you seek.”
Po Rame found her disgusting and made no effort to hide his distaste. “You know, flesh trader, what I seek, and you play games with me at your own peril.”
She nodded, sweat glistening on her brow. “The Khmer prince. The Cham warrior. Who will we discuss first?”
“Jayavar.”
“There are whispers that he’s near.”
“Who whispers?”
“A priest. A priest who seeks my services is certain Jayavar is close.”
Po Rame scowled. “To the north? To the south?”
“North.”
“How does this priest know?”
“A group of traveling pilgrims passed Jayavar in the jungle, master. Three days north of Angkor. The priest was their leader.”
The woman continued to speak, but Po Rame’s mind began to race. He had suspected that Jayavar was to the north but was surprised to hear that he was so close. Perhaps he intended to scout the area and then return to his forces.
Po Rame posed more questions to the Khmer, gave her a silver coin, and then shifted his thoughts to Asal, remembering how, many months ago, the warrior had confronted him after he’d poisoned one of Indravarman’s adversaries. Asal had called him a coward—an unforgivable offense—and Po Rame knew that only death would bring finality to their antagonism. The assassin would celebrate Asal’s suffering and downfall as he had few other enemies. He’d celebrate them because Asal had never openly feared him, and Po Rame needed to be feared. Asal’s renowned prowess on the field of battle allowed him to stand tall in the face of threats, but Po Rame had killed men of equal strength. The back of a formidable adversary was no less vulnerable than that of a weakling.
