Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  A puddle on the trail caught her attention. She studied the muddy water, which would likely be gone before the day was over. “When the Chams come to Banteay Srei,” she said, “we must…send a signal. We must warn approaching Khmers of the danger.”

  “Any signal would need to be visible from far away.”

  She envisioned the temple, remembering how and why it was called the Citadel of Women. A small and elaborate structure, it was surrounded by a clearing and a circle of immense trees. On a hot day, the conditions at Banteay Srei could be almost unbearable. “It’s dry there,” she replied. “The trees are too far removed to provide shade.”

  “And?”

  “We could create a pile of dry timber to the south of the temple. Dry in the middle, but with patches of moss on top. When the Chams approach, as they shall one day, our scouts would light the timber and retreat. The flames and smoke would delay the Chams and warn approaching Khmers that our position has been discovered.”

  “That would buy us time. And save lives.”

  “Yes. We’d bring change to the jungle—a moment of change—but for those who are saved, a lifetime of opportunities.”

  He reached back, took her hand within his, and kissed her fingers one by one. “How many lives have you saved, my love?”

  “One can never save enough lives.”

  “Yes, but one can try. And you’ve done just that.”

  “What I do, I do for our people, and for you.”

  “And what may I do for you? What would make you happy?”

  She briefly closed her eyes, willing herself to be strong. “Did you see…the young woman who joined us today?”

  “Who?”

  “Nuon. Her name is Nuon and we spoke earlier. Her father served yours. He was loyal, as is she. And she is of an age to marry, to bear fine sons. She is wise beyond her years and you should take her as a wife.”

  Jayavar turned away. “I needn’t—”

  “I know that you miss your other wives. More than you claim to. Perhaps Nuon would help you overcome that grief.”

  “My other wives were my companions. You are my love.”

  “Still, you need an heir, Jayavar. If you don’t have one, then all of our struggles, all of our suffering, shall amount to nothing. Even if we’re so blessed as to drive the Chams from Angkor, without a strong heir they will return one day. Is that what you wish? To once again have your land stolen and your people enslaved?”

  He sighed, stroking her thigh with his thumb. “I wish we could have that child. We deserve that child.”

  She looked away from him. “As Buddhists, we’re supposed to accept suffering. But in this area, I struggle to do so. I’m not strong enough. The pain…the want…are too great.”

  “Yet your struggle endears you to me even more.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know that you suffer not only because we can’t produce an heir, but because we can’t behold the beauty that we would create together.”

  She nodded, finally meeting his stare. “It’s I who can’t create such beauty. I who am deficient. I must have done something vile in a past life. I tainted my karma.”

  He kissed her hand once again. “You’re wrong. Because you do create beauty—in the way that you look at the world, in the way that you look at me.”

  “But I—”

  “Think of the unborn daughters and sons you just saved with your idea about the warning fire. With that thought, you created life; you created beauty. And that’s why I shall love you forever. When I see the world, when I see its beauty, I’m reminded of the blessing that is you.”

  Voisanne secretly followed her younger sister, Chaya, through the sprawling outdoor marketplace, which was filled with hundreds of vendors and shoppers. Most every item for sale—whether onions, mangos, peppers, star fruit, lemons, bowls, fabrics, or knives—was displayed on a bamboo mat laid out on the ground. Chickens clucked in cages, while turtles and eels tried to escape from deep pots. People knelt before the mats, haggling over prices and quantities. The majority of shoppers were Khmers, though a few Chams were also present. One Cham, a high-ranking official by the look of his dress, walked with a leashed peacock in tow.

  Located to the west of Angkor Wat in a field that had been cleared of everything except for towering trees, the marketplace smelled of saffron, cooking fires, flowers, and steamed rice. Voisanne had never spent much time there and was surprised to see how adept Chaya was at navigating the crowds and bargaining for various commodities. As she hid behind a tree trunk or a merchant’s wares, Voisanne wondered what Chaya was thinking. Her little sister’s shoulders seemed to slump, yet her gait was brisk.

  Longing to embrace Chaya, but knowing that she must wait until the right moment, Voisanne rubbed her hands together. Her heart thumped with increasing vigor, and perspiration glistened on her skin. She glanced about, looking for suitable places to reveal herself, but seeing only chaotic crowds. To her right, a group of Khmer children kicked a leather bag in the air, keeping it aloft with their feet, knees, and heads. Farther to the west, beyond the market, a few dozen men were gathered around a pen to watch a pair of boars fight. Even from such a distance, Voisanne could hear the men cheering on the creatures and exchanging bets. In this way Khmers and Chams were alike—both groups seemed to enjoy betting on battles between animals of similar size and strength.

  Chaya placed a melon inside her bag and headed back toward Angkor Wat, passing a burned-out structure that had been destroyed in the invasion. She followed the footsteps of an old blind woman who used two poles to make her way. Chaya was about to pass the woman when a puppy ran into the market, chasing a squirrel. The puppy darted about, yapping, and disappeared into an alley bordered by the merchants’ carts and wagons. Increasing her pace, Chaya followed the puppy, calling out to it. She passed piles of bamboo baskets, a man asleep on a hammock, and a woman combing a girl’s hair.

  The puppy’s yelps continued, and Chaya hurried on, turning to her right and walking into an irrigation ditch that was used to control floodwaters. The ditch, now dry, was almost as deep as Chaya was tall. She followed it until she arrived at a brick tunnel that led under a street. Barking emerged from the tunnel. Chaya stooped low and stepped forward.

  At that moment Voisanne said her sister’s name.

  Chaya paused and turned around slowly, as if expecting to be punished. She looked up and her eyes met Voisanne’s. The bag of produce fell to the ground. Chaya started to speak and then stopped, rushing ahead and leaping up even as Voisanne dropped to her knees. They collided, Voisanne falling backward and laughing for the first time since the Chams had attacked, joy overwhelming her.

  The sisters embraced. Words tumbled from each, recent histories revealed, questions asked and answered. Chaya seemed older and stronger minded than when Voisanne had last seen her, and yet Voisanne’s favorite parts of her personality emerged the longer they spoke—her sass and cheerfulness, her energy and humor. It seemed that despite being a slave to a Cham general, Chaya had endured her fate and captivity better than Voisanne could have dared to hope.

  “Are you mistreated?” Voisanne asked while on her knees, stroking the back of Chaya’s neck.

  “He’s not a bad man,” Chaya answered. “His wife is as vile as a viper, but I think he pities me.”

  “He does?”

  “Oh, you should see how he looks after me, Voisanne. He makes sure that I have enough to eat, and he even bought me a mosquito net to sleep under.”

  An image leapt into Voisanne’s mind, and her hand stilled against Chaya’s skin. “He hasn’t…touched you, has he?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’s kind, Voisanne. In some ways he reminds me of Father. I told him that a few days ago, and I think it made him happy.”

  Voisanne hugged Chaya again, squeezing her tight. “How lucky we both are. We were given to good Chams, to men who could have hurt us but chose not to.”

  “B
ut I went to him. I wasn’t given to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I escaped from the Chams who captured us on your wedding day, and I ran straight back home. When the general came I told him that it was my house, that I still wanted to live there even if my family was gone. I told him that I’d wash his clothes and cook his food, that whatever he needed done I would do. As long as I got to stay.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “Of course he did. His wife arrived a week later. She loathes me and makes my life difficult, but I get my revenge on her. Every day I get my revenge.”

  “How?”

  “I put spiders in her bed, a scorpion in with her jewels. She hates it here, and I’m the reason why.”

  Voisanne smiled. “I’m so glad you seem to be doing well.”

  “Now I am. At first I cried for many days and nights. Sometimes I still do. But it feels good to get my revenge, to hear her scream. And I think he likes it when I torture her. Sometimes he gives me a little smile, and I know what he’s thinking.”

  Leaning forward, Voisanne kissed Chaya on the cheek. “We’re going to escape, you and me. But not today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we have nowhere to go. And it sounds like you’re safe for now. Better to plan ahead to ensure that we aren’t captured. Because if we were, we could end up in worse situations.”

  Chaya straightened. “Then I’ll really get her. Tonight when she’s asleep, I’ll drop a—”

  “I’ve missed your jokes,” Voisanne said, helping Chaya stand up. “How they used to make me laugh.”

  “You’ll hear them again when we’re in the jungle. Probably more than you care to.”

  Voisanne handed Chaya her bag. “I want to stay with you, but I must go. So return home. And each day, after the market, walk through this alley. One day I shall await you, and on that day, we’ll leave together.”

  Chaya nodded, squeezing Voisanne’s hand. “Do you think…that Mother and Father can see us?” she asked. “Do they know we’ve found each other?”

  “Yes, I believe they do.”

  “I hope so. That would make them happy. Wherever they are, I want them to be happy.”

  Indravarman had shut down the road leading to and from the city. Under the shade of the towering trees, he stood alongside his highest-ranking officers. The Chams were gathered in a circle around the spot where Jayavar and Ajadevi had begged and observed. A large and smooth boulder was the center of their attention. Khmers had been touching it all morning, flocking toward it as if one of their Gods were standing upon it and granting wishes. The boulder was nondescript, from a distance no different from any other, but upon closer inspection anyone could see that the words inscribed upon its smooth face could inspire a kingdom:

  Angkor shall be ours again.

  —King Jayavar

  Rage flooded through Indravarman as he studied the boulder, believing that it was no hoax, that Jayavar had stood unmolested in this same spot. The Khmer had been here. He had avoided the patrols, slipped past the defensive perimeter, and spoken to his people. He’d inspired them, given them hope. Surely word of his return was already spreading throughout Angkor, arousing a previously vanquished people.

  Indravarman glanced up and down the deserted road. In the distance, lines of Cham warriors kept Khmers at bay. Clouds of dust hung about thousands of restless feet. His fury boiling over, Indravarman drew his sword, stepped to the boulder, and swung his blade at Jayavar’s words. Steel met stone in a bone-jarring jolt and the sword shattered. Still holding the hilt, which was connected to half of the blade, Indravarman spun away from the boulder. His chest heaving, he eyed his officers one by one.

  “I’d have you all on your hands and knees, pushing this abomination into the moat,” he said, glaring at them. “But the Khmers would find that amusing. So let a score of those onlookers do it. And when they’re finished, kill them and add their bodies to the water!”

  No one made a reply. A man standing next to Asal glanced away, as if afraid of Indravarman. What remained of the king’s sword plunged forward into the officer’s belly. His eyes widened; he clutched at the hilt and then toppled backward and writhed upon the ground.

  “I’ll have no cowards in my army!” Indravarman shouted. “You hear me? Jayavar is no coward. He came here, past all our eyes, and mocked us! He gave hope to his people when they should have none.”

  One of Indravarman’s longest-serving generals cleared his throat. “Then kill them, Lord King. Kill them all.”

  “We need the Khmers! How will we feed our army if the Khmers do not harvest their crops? How will we forge new weapons without their blacksmiths? Every day more of our people come, but for now we’re like children who haven’t been weaned from their mothers’ milk.”

  “Then kill only their young men, Lord King. Anyone who might hold a spear against us.”

  Indravarman dropped his ruined sword. “Is that the only counsel I am given? Would it not be better to force these men to labor for us? To hold them accountable for the well-being of their families?” He cursed, then wiped the sweat from his eyes. “Am I surrounded by nothing more than a circle of fools?”

  “Kill Jayavar, Lord King, and the stone will not matter,” Asal said. “Keep it. Mount his head on it, and all opposition to you will vanish.”

  “How do I kill a man who won’t face me?”

  “He must have come here, Lord King, to speak to someone, to convey a message. Discover who this someone is, and you shall discover Jayavar’s whereabouts. A secret so large surely cannot be kept.”

  “And then we ride forth and attack him?”

  “We do. We will.”

  Indravarman turned to study the boulder. Part of Jayavar’s name was chipped from where the sword had struck it. Perhaps Asal was right. Perhaps it was better to embrace the truth than to deny it. “The stone shall stay,” he said. “But make a proclamation that Jayavar’s head will someday adorn it and that whoever brings his head to me will be given its weight in gold.”

  Several of the officers murmured in agreement. Indravarman looked from man to man, aware of their strengths and weaknesses. Most of the officers were loyal, bright, and brave. Despite his words to the contrary, it was a formidable group. Yet not a single man measured up to Asal, neither on a field of battle nor in a debate of strategy.

  Indravarman took the nearby general’s sword, then nodded to Asal. “Walk with me.”

  They headed north, proceeding parallel to Angkor’s moat. Since the road had been secured, the area was quiet and safe. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy above, creating glowing rays that illuminated dust particles. A rooster pecked at the earth, digging for an unseen insect. To their left, the towers of Angkor Wat soared like the peaks of a distant mountain range.

  “Do you not fear me?” Indravarman asked, wondering if he should draw his blade and kill Asal right now, before the man’s power endangered his own.

  Asal had never feared death. His mother had said that one day they would be reunited, and since then he had never run from danger. Yet now, as he thought about his life, about how Voisanne was becoming a part of it, he wanted to see where this path might take him. He could imagine happiness, and so, for the first time in many years, he was afraid of what Indravarman could do to him, could take from him. And yet to acknowledge as much would be a mistake.

  He shook his head. “If I please you, Lord King, I see no reason to fear you. And I will please you.”

  “How?”

  “By finding Jayavar. Not by searching the jungle, but by searching Angkor. Because there are people here who know where he is.”

  “Po Rame is already looking for these same people.”

  Asal nodded. “Then Po Rame and I are bound to meet.”

  “Your old grudge…will it come to light?”

  “Yes, Lord King.”

  “What if I command you to bury it?”

  “Then I shall. But he’ll never do the same.
He’ll come for me one day, and once we meet, the world will have one less assassin.”

  Indravarman nodded. Though he wanted to pit them against each other, to see who would fall, they were both of value to him for the time being. Po Rame was deadlier but also, Indravarman believed, more predictable. He had no decency, no attachments. Asal, alternatively, was perhaps too principled. And that made him dangerous.

  “You’re to leave him be,” Indravarman said.

  Asal agreed, his pace faltering only slightly.

  “I shall tell him to do the same,” Indravarman added, though his words were only half-truths, for once Jayavar was found, Asal would have to die.

  “Yes, Lord King.”

  “We’re all Chams, Asal. We must work together to defeat our common foe. Bring me Jayavar’s head and you shall save your own.”

  Later, after the sun had slid below the horizon and the world went dark, Asal and Voisanne sat on a rattan mat, eating dinner. Asal had grown tired of dining as a king would, with golden utensils and much pomp and circumstance. He’d asked that their meal be prepared in the way that his mother would have made it—with a few ingredients and a simple presentation.

  Holding special stout leaves to scoop up their food, Asal and Voisanne ate fried catfish covered in a thick sauce made from ginger, sugar, garlic, and water. Both ate using their right hands and often paused to wash their fingers in a bowl of water. Rather than sip through bamboo tubes like most high-ranking members of society, they drank palm wine from wooden cups.

  As Asal ate, he glanced occasionally at Voisanne. Since she had learned of her sister’s well-being, her features had become even more radiant. Her eyes appeared fuller and her smile was more enchanting. She had resumed using perfume made from jasmine flowers, as well as wearing brightly colored skirt cloths. Khmer jewelry had been made available to certain women, and several gold hoops encircled her ankles. A silver bracelet inset with circular pieces of jade adorned her right wrist.