Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  The jungle was as dense as any Asal had ever experienced. Thickets of bamboo dominated the immediate landscape, though they were dwarfed by much taller teak, ficus, and banyan trees. Even in the dry season, moss grew on seemingly every stone, trunk, or fallen branch. Slanting rays of sunlight penetrated gaps in the dense canopy, illuminating patches of the jungle floor.

  Though the men around him marched along the trail without pause or concern, Asal’s disquiet increased with each passing moment. Something wasn’t right. His horse seemed skittish, the jungle creatures too quiet. Fifty paces ahead of him, fifteen of his countrymen used swords to hack at the undergrowth. Stalks of bamboo shuddered and fell. Ferns were yanked from the ground.

  Asal had informed Indravarman of the missing scouts, but the king had not shared Asal’s concern. All reports indicated that the Khmers were massing farther to the north, near the old temple. Yet Asal felt as if he was walking into a trap.

  Pulling back on his reins, he halted his horse and called for the men to ready themselves for battle. They looked at him in confusion, and he repeated his order, unsheathing his sword. He peered ahead, trying to understand what his senses were telling him.

  He had started to turn his horse around to confer with Indravarman when the jungle erupted with war cries. The green foliage parted, revealing screaming men who carried spears and large shields and were dressed in colorful hip cloths and tunics. The Chams had a few heartbeats to draw their weapons and brace themselves. Asal realized that he wasn’t about to be attacked by Khmers, but by Siamese.

  Whoever commanded the attacking force had planned the ambush site well. In the confines of the narrow trail, the Cham horses panicked. Several bolted into the undergrowth, tossing their riders. Even as he realized that they were outnumbered and doomed, Asal shouted at the men around him to hold their positions.

  Then the Siamese struck.

  Several hundred paces toward the rear of the column, Voisanne heard the screams and the hiss of arrows, and she remembered Asal’s words. Yelling at Thida to follow her lead, she tumbled out of the padded cart and crawled beneath it. The clash of steel against steel rang out, as did the shouts of Chams, Siamese, and Khmers. Hearing the cries of her countrymen, Voisanne was tempted to crawl from beneath the cart and seek help. But as soon as she moved, men began to fall, clutching at mortal wounds, screaming for aid that did not arrive. Thida shrieked beside her, covering her ears, her eyes wild with fright. The roar of the battle increased. Voisanne moved toward the middle of the cart and was able to see only the feet and calves of nearby men.

  A warrior dressed in a bright red tunic fell, writhing with a spear in his belly. Seeing his agony, Voisanne thought of Asal. She called out to him, though her voice was overwhelmed by the clamor of battle.

  The cart shuddered. A horse toppled, its hooves striking a wooden wheel. Smoke filled the air and soon Voisanne felt the heat of flames. She shouted at Thida that they had to leave. When the other woman only curled into a ball and shut her eyes, Voisanne tried to drag her out from under the cart. But Thida wouldn’t move. Voisanne squeezed her friend’s hand, then left her, suddenly desperate to run.

  Outside the cart, the chaos of battle was overwhelming. She saw packs of Chams fighting against Siamese and a few Khmers. Two of Indravarman’s men stood in front of her, and when they fell, Siamese darted forward, eager to plunder and pillage.

  Voisanne ran, frantic to escape the blood-splattered warriors who seemed to see her and only her. She rushed away from the trail, crashing through undergrowth. Fallen logs and thorny bushes slowed her progress, but she paid such obstacles no heed, ignoring the slashes on her legs and feet. She ran around two immense anthills, fell, and then dashed into a thicket of bamboo. A dozen paces behind her, a man shouted in a strange tongue, and she didn’t need to turn around to know that he was Siamese. Understanding that she was his prey, she ran as never before.

  Yet he ran faster, and slammed the butt of his spear into the small of her back. She cried out, falling into a clump of ferns, bracing for his attack even before he was upon her.

  When his line of men buckled, then collapsed, Asal fled along with everyone else. Only he didn’t dart into the jungle but back toward where he thought Voisanne would be. Aware of how the Siamese would treat her, he ran and fought like a fiend, plowing into and over his enemies, giving little thought to his own well-being. He quickly came to what remained of Indravarman’s personal guard, took a sword strike on his shield, killed the Siamese warrior, and then dragged Thida from beneath a burning cart.

  “Where is she?” he shouted, his voice nearly lost amid the cries of the fighting and dying.

  Thida made no reply but glanced toward a thicket of bamboo. Asal left her, twisting away from a thrown spear. A woman’s shriek rang out. Asal jumped over a crippled horse and ran toward the thicket, battering saplings aside with his shield as he held his sword high.

  A Siamese was tugging at Voisanne’s skirt cloth when Asal burst into the thicket. The warrior looked up, then grunted as Asal’s foot struck him hard in the side. He rolled off Voisanne, reached for his discarded spear, and stared in disbelief when Asal’s weapon cut through his arm, severing it from the spear. The Siamese shrieked. He gazed at his bloody stump, then died when Asal reversed his sword strike, bringing the blade up from the dirt and blood, cutting deeply into his enemy’s neck.

  Hearing cries from other Siamese, Asal dropped his shield. Voisanne was trying to stand but trembled uncontrollably. “Can you run?” he asked.

  She threw her arms around him, and for a moment he wanted to stay there, holding her, comforting her. But the Siamese were shouting triumphantly, so he pulled away from her, cut slits down the front and back of her skirt cloth, took her hand, and led her deeper into the thicket. At first she stumbled and wept, but as they ran together, knocking aside everything in their path, he felt strength flow back into her. She moved with purpose, letting him lead her but not slowing his progress. Pride for her swelled within him, and he increased their speed, knowing that she could keep up.

  At the scene of the attack, the rear guard of the Cham force had regrouped and driven the Siamese back, away from the burning carts and the dead. Indravarman, flanked by his personal guards, fought like a wild beast, his great strength making his sword fast and deadly. Veteran Siamese warriors seemed to offer him no more resistance than children. Enraged by their ambush, he cut them down one by one, pressing into the jungle. Though his officers tried to halt his counterattack out of concern for his safety, he led his men forward, coated in his enemies’ blood. He knew that even with the success of his strike, his army had been crippled. Hundreds of his men were dead or injured, and he would have to withdraw back to Angkor and regroup. Jayavar would live to see another day.

  After he beheaded a Siamese with a sweeping sword stroke, Indravarman realized that Asal had been right. The disappearance of the scouts should have prompted caution. His enemies were running away, and the king turned, looking for Asal, knowing he had been at the front of the column where the worst fighting had taken place.

  Are you dead? Indravarman wondered. Did the Siamese take your life before I could?

  The Chams who still stood shouted in triumph, though Indravarman realized that in most ways he had been beaten. Cursing the dead Siamese, stepping on their bodies, he made his way back to the burning carts. He saw Thida sobbing against the base of a tree. Po Rame was already interrogating a wounded enemy warrior. Most of Indravarman’s other officers were present. But where was Asal? If he had died, where did his body lie? If he lived, where had he gone?

  Within their encampment to the north, Jayavar and Ajadevi sat atop a hill that overlooked their valley. Though the dense foliage obscured much, occasional breaks within the trees allowed glimpses into the base camp. Horses ate from thatch baskets, children played, warriors trained, supplies were unpacked by weary porters, and the river glistened. From so far above, the Khmers were almost unheard, though the clang of metal on meta
l occasionally rang out, as did trumpeting from their few war elephants.

  Jayavar’s gaze swung around the encampment’s perimeter as he studied the outposts of their sentries. It would be impossible for a Cham army to approach undetected. The Khmer warriors would be forewarned of any attack, and would have ample time to prepare their defenses. Women, children, and the elderly would be sent to caves alongside the river while the men formed lines on top of nearby hills. The Chams would have to fight while climbing up the hills or wading in the river—difficult tasks considering that Khmer archers would fill the sky with arrows.

  Still, despite the advantages of the terrain, Jayavar had no wish to engage the enemy here; instead he would take the battle to his foe. The Chams must be driven from Angkor, crushed so completely that they would never return. Repelling an attack in the valley would not accomplish that. Only by retaking Angkor, by celebrating victory within its confines, would they reclaim their kingdom.

  The problem was that Jayavar wasn’t sure how best to retake Angkor. He would be outnumbered on all fronts—in men, horses, elephants, and resources. His only solace was that several large contingents of Siamese mercenaries had already joined his force, with more to follow. And while payments to the Siamese would nearly bankrupt his treasury, Angkor could not be retaken without their aid.

  As usual, Jayavar’s thoughts stalled when it came to planning his attack. A bird took flight from the jungle far below, drawing his gaze. For the second time in as many days, he sensed someone watching him from the distance. He started to reach for the hilt of his sword, but stopped, trusting his intuition but also aware of the perils of paranoia. His grandfather had constantly obsessed over real and imagined threats, a distraction that had weakened his rule.

  Willing himself to relax, Jayavar studied his wife, noting that spending so many weeks outside had darkened her complexion. Her golden bracelets and necklaces were gone, as were all other material indications that she was an exiled queen. Only her upright posture and the sharpness of her stare hinted that she was someone who commanded attention.

  Though Jayavar spent much of his time surrounded by his officers, who were bright and brave, he knew that each of them was replaceable. Ajadevi was not. Her counsel was wise, her actions selfless. She made no effort to flatter him when it came to strategy, or to stroke his ego at the expense of making sound suggestions—something that his officers were prone to do. Nor did she claim expertise where she had none. Certainly when it came to planning for the battle, she trusted his judgment more than her own, although she was always ready to debate various tactics.

  Since their escape from Angkor, Jayavar had realized that without Ajadevi he would have been lost. The deaths of his children would have overwhelmed him. And while he still mourned their absence in his world, he felt compelled by the needs of his people. Khmers of all walks of life depended on him. Ajadevi illuminated this need, day after day, and gave him the strength to do what must be done.

  “If I were a temple,” he said quietly, balancing an oblong stone atop a round one, “you would be the walls that allowed me to reach great heights. Without you I’d crumble.”

  She smiled. “One day, when we drive the Chams from our land, you shall be a hero to our people. Your face should grace the sides of a temple, a face for our people to celebrate and remember.”

  “It is a plain face. I am a plain man.”

  “But you’ll be a hero. And heroes need to be celebrated, immortalized. Without heroes a culture will never aspire to greatness.”

  He shook his head. “Then it should be your face. Anything we build to celebrate victory should honor you.”

  Far above, a hawk screeched, circling on the still air. “I dreamed last night,” she said, studying the hawk.

  “Of what?”

  “I saw fire. I saw pain. But from that pain came something beautiful.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Most beautiful things—life or wisdom or contentment—are born from pain. And our victory shall be born from pain. We haven’t felt it yet. We haven’t suffered enough yet. But in the end, we shall win. And when we do, Angkor will rise to even greater heights. Our kingdom will be unequalled. Not because of its riches or strength, but because of its people. You will treat them well. You will empower them. And for that you shall be forever cherished.”

  He shifted on the boulder. “I cherish you.”

  She turned her body toward his. “But, Jayavar, I shall not live forever. This war may claim me. And if it does, you must go on. You must find fulfillment through your people. You must lead them to the destiny that was meant to be theirs.”

  “You cannot leave me, my love,” he replied, still trying to balance the stone, using it to distract him from the horror of her words. He knew too well that he’d be unable to endure the loss of her so soon after his children had departed. He would try to lead his people, try to empower them as she wanted, but would fail.

  “Tell me about Nuon,” Ajadevi said quietly. “I see that she wears a bracelet of gold and precious jewels. Such a treasure could only have come from you.”

  “Yes, I gave it to her—because she shall need status if she has a son. The bracelet gives them both power.”

  “Yet I have seen you smile together. Surely the bracelet means more than just status. Tell me, what is it like…to be with someone so young? Does she make your heart race?”

  The stone fell from his fingers as he looked up. “She has a curious and engaging mind, which can be pleasing for a time,” he replied. “But that time is fleeting. It begins; it ends. With you, there is an appreciation of the moment, but never a yearning for what will come next. The present is not fleeting. It does not end. With you, I know a contentment that I don’t experience with Nuon.”

  The hawk screeched again. Ajadevi studied the creature, nodding to herself. “You see how it circles us?”

  “Yes.”

  “If this war claims me, if I fall, that’s how I would circle you, even in death. I shall be reborn, and you shall see me in many places.”

  “Tell me…where I would see you…so that I’d know where to look.”

  “You shall see me…where there is life. When dawn comes, I’ll be beside you. When you feel water against you, know that I’m there. And when the time is right…when I’ve been reborn into another, I will return to you, and you’ll feel my touch and hear my voice.”

  “Do you believe in such things…because of what Buddha said? Because you trust him? Or do you sense truth in his words and follow your own instincts?”

  “I believe in what he said. But also because I believe in love. I believe that love binds us together like nothing else.”

  He finally succeeded in balancing the oblong stone atop the other. Then he placed his hands on her knees, squeezing them tight. “All of that may be true. I will wish it to be true. But still, please don’t leave me. I must see your face in my world.”

  The hawk screeched again, and she knew at that moment that she would die first, that he would have to endure her passing. To flourish as he must, he would need beauty in his life; he would need the promise of hope and love. With her remaining days, whether they were five or five thousand, she needed to bring more light into his life. Because without light he could never be the king that she felt he might be. And her people needed such a king. They yearned for him.

  “I love you,” she said, then kissed him. “And you should know that…you heal my wounds as I heal yours. I feel the loss of my loved ones less keenly in your presence. My own shortcomings seem less abundant. And these are precious gifts that you give to me. Nothing can take them away.”

  He kissed her.

  She thought of the approaching war, of the death and destruction that were sure to come, and closed her eyes.

  Found

  ayavar yawned, raised his head, and looked at his sleeping wife. He gently pulled a silk blanket over her bare shoulder, reached for his sword, and then moved to his knees. As he stood up, he studied
the light of dawn, wondering what kind of day it would be. Outside their quarters, the temporary shelters protecting his people glowed faintly alongside the rest of their surroundings. By his order, all of the shelters were made of bamboo and thatch, configured without patterns or straight lines to camouflage the encampment.

  The first contingent of Siamese mercenaries had brought bolts of silk and coarser cloth, as well as weapons, tools, food, and medicine. New arrivals from Angkor also carried essential supplies, and as the days had passed, items that had been scarce became abundant. Only warriors were lacking. As far as Jayavar was concerned, he could never have enough men. Even with the Siamese mercenaries, he expected the Chams to outnumber them two to one. And while the advantage of surprise would likely be his, the challenge of overcoming such a numerical imbalance stole his sleep and solace.

  Careful not to wake the hundreds of sleeping men, women, and children around him, Jayavar made his way around trees, shelters, and fire pits. The river seemed even lower than the previous day, exposing more of the carvings. Glistening images of Shiva and Vishnu dominated the sides of rock faces and captured Jayavar’s stare. He nodded to several guards, then began to follow a trail that led to the top of a nearby hill.

  As he climbed higher, the smells and sounds of the encampment were replaced by those of nature. The scent of orchids lingered. Birds scratched at the dirt, trying to uncover worms and grubs. Snails created holes in broad leaves, and millipedes as long as his hand crossed the trail. Somewhere a woodpecker hammered away at a hollow tree trunk or limb.

  Jayavar climbed quickly, trying to strengthen his muscles as he would soon need all of his vigor. He was unaware of the soft footsteps behind him, of an elaborately carved spear held by a small hand. As he often did, he thought about how best to attack the Chams, whether he should fight them in Angkor or try to draw them outside the city. If he attacked them in Angkor it was possible that enslaved Khmers would join in the fight. But such a battle might damage the city, and Jayavar loathed the thought of such defilement.