Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  “You don’t understand him! He has spies everywhere. He—”

  “Shh,” Voisanne interrupted, putting her finger to Thida’s lips.

  “Maybe…maybe I am weak,” Thida said, “but I’ve heard how his executioners peel the skin from men, gouge out their eyes, cut off their manhood. That’s how Indravarman treats those who cross him. And you will be crossing him, Voisanne. You’ll cross him in the worst possible way.”

  Voisanne glanced around, suddenly afraid. Fortunately, neither Cham nor Khmer was nearby. “But I think…that is how he rules. He creates fear. He depends on it. He believes that your fear has made you a beaten woman, Thida. But you don’t have to be beaten. You don’t have to spend every day in fear. Asal is smart and strong. His plan will be good. And when we’re free, you can go back to being whoever you were before Indravarman swept into your life. Don’t you want to be that person again?”

  Thida nodded, though she looked away.

  “Then come with us. When the time is right, I’ll get you. Just be ready to go.”

  “And you’ll…stay with me?”

  “I promise,” Voisanne replied, taking her friend’s hands. “I won’t leave you again. When I did that, I was afraid, just like you were. And I’m not going to be afraid anymore. Because fear is what Indravarman is counting on. The only way to beat him is to take that away from him.”

  A koi broke the water’s surface—a flash of orange and white that disturbed the reflection of the sky.

  “I’ll…be ready,” Thida said quietly.

  “And tell no one.”

  “I won’t.”

  Voisanne squeezed Thida’s fingers. “It’s all going to be fine. Have faith in the future, Thida. Have faith that goodness will overcome wickedness, that your strength will overcome your fear.”

  Later that day, as the sun had started its descent, Po Rame followed Thida while she walked along Angkor’s streets. One of the assassin’s informants, whom he’d assigned to report on Voisanne, had told him of their emotional meeting earlier that afternoon. Though the informant hadn’t heard what was discussed, he had seen their hugs and tears, and after the meeting he had followed Voisanne back to Angkor Wat, where she had prayed. Oddly, she had then purchased a small cooking pot, spices, and a bag of dry rice. Only when Voisanne had returned to her quarters did the informant seek out Po Rame and tell him about Thida.

  As Po Rame followed Thida down an alley, he wondered why she had been so distraught during her rendezvous with Voisanne. Certainly the woman could have been airing her grievances against Indravarman, or perhaps she was simply lonely. But Po Rame believed that the cooking pot and the rendezvous were connected. Normally household slaves bought such goods and prepared the meals. A woman of Voisanne’s position had no use for the cooking pot and wouldn’t be expected to buy one.

  Thida left the most populated part of the city and headed north, following a tree-lined road. Po Rame trailed her at a distance, dressed as a common Cham warrior, hating the attire but believing it was necessary. He studied Thida’s movements, unaware of a pair of blue butterflies circling each other to his right. Nor did he hear the cry of cicadas or the banter of passing priests. His senses were completely homed in on Thida. She was more a part of his world than the dirt beneath his feet or the trees that filtered out the weakening sunlight. He was convinced that she was still distraught. Her uncertain gait told him as much, as did the way she clenched and unclenched her fists. Something was troubling her, something perhaps that she had learned from her rendezvous with Voisanne.

  Though a part of him wondered if he should expend so much time on a pair of women, Po Rame knew that his old adversary, Asal, was on dangerous ground. His tardiness had almost cost him his life. Encouraged by Po Rame’s allegations, Indravarman had been close to gutting him. And yet in the end Indravarman had let Asal live, mainly because the king counted on him more than he would care to admit. He respected him as well, treated him as more of an equal than any other man, including Po Rame. During the past several months, Po Rame had felt particularly slighted by Indravarman’s favoritism toward Asal. While it was true that Asal had planned much of the invasion of Angkor, Po Rame had also experienced more than his share of successes.

  Despite Indravarman’s reliance on Asal, Po Rame knew that the king would not stand for another failure or betrayal, and Po Rame believed that Asal and Voisanne’s relationship could be exploited. Something between them wasn’t right. He needed only to determine what that something was and then bring it to Indravarman’s attention. At that point the king would allow Po Rame to do what he had longed to do for several years—slit Asal’s throat and watch as his life force emerged and offered itself for the taking.

  The farther Thida walked from Angkor Wat, the fewer people shared the street. She had nearly reached the northern gate to the city, which overlooked a portion of the moat. Of course, the gate was mostly for decorative purposes, as the only way to cross the moat on foot was via the causeway on its western side. Po Rame allowed the distance between himself and Thida to increase. She seemed unaware of him.

  Thida stepped into a drainage ditch that bordered the street. In the wet season the ditch would be full of water that would run into the moat. But now the ditch was dusty and brimming with weeds. She continued walking until she arrived at a smaller street that ran perpendicular to the one she had been following. At this intersection the ditch entered a brick tunnel that ran beneath the secondary street. She paused at the entrance to the tunnel, bent over, and called out.

  Po Rame watched as Thida removed something from within the folds of her skirt cloth. She whistled softly, holding out her right hand. Po Rame was reminded of her beauty as she leaned over, her high, full breasts swaying. Thida’s long, thin legs seemed to glow in the dying light. Suddenly Po Rame felt an urge to extinguish such beauty from the world, to look into her eyes as he choked the life out of her. His victims had been old and young, men and women, healthy and sick. But never had he stolen life from someone as beautiful as Thida. In a world where objects were usually more striking than the people who made them, she was a notable exception. Her face and body were so perfect in their dimensions and contours that surely the Gods must have spent much time creating her.

  Understanding why his king desired Thida, and craving her for himself, Po Rame crept closer. He heard a kitten’s cry come from the tunnel, which prompted Thida to shake her hand and whistle louder. After a Cham warrior leading a horse had passed by, Thida tossed something into the tunnel. She waited patiently, then called again.

  Only when the street was almost empty did the kitten emerge. It had a gray back and a white belly. At first it sniffed at Thida’s outstretched hand, then rubbed the side of its head across her fingers. It nuzzled against her, arching its back. Thida took the kitten in her hands and stood up. She cradled it, kissing its forehead.

  Po Rame moved closer. He was now only about twenty steps from her. He sat down in the shade, set the old spear he carried on the ground, and pretended that he had a splinter in his foot. He plucked at the imaginary splinter, all the time looking at her, listening to her. As long as no one else was present on the street, her words carried to him. At first she told the kitten how good it was to see it. She asked if it was hungry, fed it something, and then stroked its back. The kitten meowed, prompting her to kiss it again.

  An elephant and its Cham rider approached and Po Rame cursed his luck. He wished he could kill with a stare, then imagined the warrior toppling off the elephant and the beast turning away. Neither event happened, however, and Thida turned to her left, placing herself between the beast and the kitten. An instant before her gaze fell on him, Po Rame focused on the imaginary sliver, swearing as he pretended to pick at his heel.

  The elephant disappeared through the northern gate. Po Rame continued to pick away, nodding to himself when she refocused her attention on the kitten. She held it against her chest, saying that she was sorry for not bringing more food, but that the kitten
would have to learn to survive by itself because she would soon be leaving.

  Po Rame’s fingers stilled at her words. As far as he knew, Indravarman had no intention of taking Thida outside the city again. And if that was true, why would she speak of leaving? Did she plan to flee without his consent? Is that why she had been so emotional with Voisanne in the moat?

  For a moment Po Rame considered interrogating her then and there. But Indravarman had not ordered him to shadow her, and if she was innocent of any wrongdoing, the king would be furious with his unwelcome intervention. No, it would be better to continue to watch her. If she fled, he could capture her and return her to Indravarman. At that point, if betrayal had been on Thida’s mind, Po Rame was certain that Indravarman would give her to him.

  His pulse quickening at the thought of possessing her, Po Rame pretended to pluck the sliver from his heel. He stood up and walked toward the northern gate, staying in the shadows, avoiding even the dying light of the sun. Her voice changed to a whisper and she held the kitten close, against her chest and under her chin. What she said to it he did not know. But when she looked up at him, he smiled. If she left Angkor, if she took a step in the wrong direction, he would be there.

  Are you afraid to leave? Po Rame said to himself. Is that why you argued and wept in the moat?

  Still deep in thought, he stepped through the northern entrance to Angkor. Before that day he’d always believed that Thida was too weak to run. But perhaps Asal’s woman was fueling a mysterious fire within her. Perhaps they would run together. If they did, Asal could be blamed, regardless of whether he had anything to do with their flight.

  Eager for the coming days, to see how the plans of his quarry would play out, Po Rame dropped the old spear, his pace increasing. If Thida did run, she would start a chain of events that would be very much to his liking. Three lives might be given to him, to do with as he pleased. Which soul, he wondered, would add the most strength to his own? With Thida came beauty. With Asal came power.

  Voisanne was more of an enigma, but whatever wisdom, knowledge, and strength she had gathered throughout her many lives would become a part of him. And when the light of her passed into him, when he trapped her soul within his own, he would be closer to becoming a God.

  In time people would fall on their knees before him. In time even Indravarman would beg for his favor.

  But first he had to catch those who would run. He had to lay a trap.

  Jayavar thought the cicadas seemed louder that night, even though a nearby fire crackled and popped, hidden within a tall circle of cut timber. The blending of the insects’ buzzes created a constant hum that was strangely comforting. He was certain that his ancestors had gone to sleep listening to the same noise. Did the Hindu Gods hear it? he wondered, thinking about the nearby carvings of Vishnu and Shiva. Or had they created cicadas to lull mortals to sleep?

  In some ways, Jayavar thought, his army was like the cicadas, for though the insects made so much noise, he rarely saw them. Despite their multitudes, they remained all but invisible. His warriors were much the same, a powerful force that blended into the landscape when needed, that would soon fill the air with battle cries.

  Jayavar glanced behind him into the bamboo and thatch shelter where Ajadevi slept. Her belly had ached for much of the afternoon and she had become uncharacteristically downcast, saying that she missed the companionship of her sisters. Her words and pains had caused him to worry. Too many of his acquaintances had developed an ache in the belly, breast, or head and died a few months later.

  As he had several times already, Jayavar prayed for her health and well-being. Her stamina wasn’t what it used to be, and he wished she wouldn’t demand so much of herself. He had asked her to slow down, but it was obvious that she would continue to push herself, and push him, until the Chams were defeated.

  Standing up, Jayavar surveyed the landscape. Though great effort had been taken to cloak the cooking fires, he could still see faint orbs of light that dotted the deep valley, a sight that made him uncomfortable. If a Cham scout happened into the immediate area, surely he would realize that the Khmers had taken refuge here. Prudence demanded the fires be put out, yet Jayavar made no such order. The fires kept mosquitoes, snakes, scorpions, and tigers at bay. Back in Angkor his people lived in stilted homes and slept under fine nets. But in the jungle they had no such luxuries. So the fires were a gift, albeit a dangerous one.

  A man coughed. Jayavar turned toward the sound, worried that disease would find its way into their camp. Dysentery was a curse that had plagued his people since the dawn of time, and on any occasion when Khmers were crammed tightly together, this curse might rise up and claim many lives. Jayavar had no idea how to combat the disease. Healers had told him that fast, fresh water was helpful and he felt blessed by the presence of the nearby river. So far his people had been mostly spared, though a few had succumbed to the fevers of malaria.

  We need to be back in our homes, he thought. We’ve lingered here long enough.

  He crept toward his shelter, smiling at how Ajadevi slept, with her knees drawn toward her chest as if she were still a child. Certain that she was in a deep slumber, he moved behind his shelter where he had hidden some discoveries he’d made earlier that day. A white, crescent-shaped boulder, polished by the passage of the river, first caught his stare. He picked it up, trying not to grunt, and carried it into the shelter. With care he set it beside Ajadevi, then positioned it so that its profile faced in her direction. He walked outside again and gathered five peacock feathers that he’d found on a game trail not far from the river. The feathers, dominated by green threads and blue orbs at their ends, were among nature’s most wondrous creations, he thought. He placed them against the boulder, arrayed to resemble a fan. Last of all, Jayavar collected a pomegranate, star fruit, and mango, which he set beside the boulder.

  Ajadevi liked to awaken to beautiful sights, and Jayavar hoped his arrangement would please her. He had put thought into choosing each object, for she would look from the stone to the feathers to the fruits, seeing purity and purpose in each. She would tell him what she saw, then ask why he had chosen the white rock instead of a red one, or the feathers instead of flowers. They would talk, smile, and the pain in her belly might be forgotten.

  After studying his wife’s face, Jayavar left the shelter. He thought of his unborn child, wondering if the world would be graced by a girl or a boy. A boy would be better for the empire, but Jayavar had always delighted in his daughters and would be happy to have another girl enter his life.

  Whether I have a son or a daughter, I must bring peace back to my people, he thought. Because all sons and daughters deserve peace.

  The nearby fire popped, casting a spark into the sky. Jayavar thought about the coming days. First they would celebrate the Festival of Floats. Then he would address his warriors. And finally his army would march to the south. A battle would be fought, the biggest battle of his life. He’d have to lead his men, and there was a strong chance his life would end and that his succession of rebirths would continue.

  Jayavar wasn’t afraid of death because he believed that Buddha was right—that karma was crucial to the evolution of the soul, and Jayavar had always tried to be kind and just toward others. His soul would most likely ascend. And yet, when the eyes of this body ceased to see, Ajadevi would be taken from him. The greatest gift he had ever known would cease to be the most important part of his life. Ajadevi would be with him in spirit, and she’d come back to him, but the face he so cherished would no longer be the first sight he saw in the morning or the last of the evening.

  The fear of such separation causing his breath to quicken, Jayavar crept back into the shelter. He shifted one of the feathers to the right. He twisted the pomegranate so that a small bruise wouldn’t show. And then he lay down beside her, drawing her close.

  Tributes

  wo days later, not long after the city’s roosters announced the coming of dawn, Voisanne made her way to the
Royal Palace. She had wanted to see Asal the previous day, but he’d been outside Angkor’s gates at an unknown location. No word had come from him until this morning, when a slave knocked softly on her door and handed her a sealed message. The writing was in Asal’s hand, asking her to come to his quarters. She’d left immediately, moving through the darkness like a living shadow.

  The Royal Palace—with its towering ceilings, tiled floors, and columned rooms—was illuminated by flickering candles. Slaves used thatch brooms to sweep the hallways. Cats prowled around open spaces in search of mice. And a trapped swallow fluttered this way and that, seeking an escape from the imposing walls. Most Cham officials and warriors, as well as their servants, slaves, and courtesans, were still asleep.

  Voisanne walked to Asal’s room and pressed her hands against its door, thumping her thumb on the wood. She sensed movement within the room and then the door swung slowly open. Asal reached for her hand and led her inside. She saw immediately that his eyes were bloodshot and his face haggard.

  “When did you last sleep?” she whispered, squeezing his fingers.

  He leaned down and kissed her. Then he touched her face, traced the contours of her jaw, and once again pressed his lips against hers. “I have much to tell you,” he said quietly. Before she could answer, he shut and barred the door behind them. They moved to his bedding on the floor and knelt on his silk blanket, facing each other, their knees touching.

  She saw the concern on his face and leaned forward. “Why did you send for me?”

  “Because the end draws near,” he whispered.

  “Tell me.”

  He nodded, but instead of speaking, he kissed her again. “I’ve missed you, my lady. Only a short time has passed since I saw you, but it felt like an eternity.”

  “I know,” she replied, nodding. “For me as well.”

  “Things that I once cared for have become meaningless.”

  “Such as?”