by John Shors
He shook his hands, which tingled and ached from inaction. Grimacing, he finished untying himself and slowly dropped to the ground, still under the platform. His knees buckled and he collapsed, lying in weeds between two rows of stone columns that supported the walkway.
Gradually sensation flowed back into his limbs. He clenched his fists, wiggled his toes, and flexed his thighs. The sky seemed to be lightening, and he wanted to head south as soon as possible. A horse and supplies would be waiting for him not far from the temple.
Though the spy hadn’t heard everything that had been said between the king and the traitor, he had comprehended enough to know where the Khmers would attack and where they would be vulnerable.
The spy slowly stood up, moving like a shadow. A few fires encircled the temple, and distant conversations drifted toward him. Avoiding the flames and the voices, he shuffled under the walkway, heading toward the entrance to the complex.
Over the past several years, the spy had uncovered secrets that Khmers would have died to protect. Yet this discovery could eclipse all others.
Remembering what Po Rame had taught him, the spy resisted the urge to flee into the darkness, continuing to move slowly, blending in with the landscape.
Only when the temple was far behind him did he start to run, eager to share his secret, to rejoice in the spoils of victory.
Horizons
North of the Great Lake, Mid–Dry Season, 1178
ollowing markers left by trusted scouts, the Khmer army moved like a giant centipede through the jungle, twisting around trees, splashing across streams, navigating the contours of the land. At the front of the force marched men who held long swords and slashed at the undergrowth, widening the passageway. The work was exhausting, and the men had to be replaced often, rotating to the rear of their brethren. Behind these trailblazers were some of Jayavar’s best warriors, who rode horses and carried shields and spears. If the Chams attacked, these mounted men were to charge their foe, allowing the Khmers time to organize defensive positions.
Farther down the line marched twenty-five hundred foot soldiers, simultaneously watching the jungle and avoiding the steaming piles of dung left by the horses. The middle of the Khmer column was dominated by scores of wooden carts pulled by oxen. The carts were piled high with provisions and each was guarded by a pair of archers. More than fourteen hundred women and children had elected to travel with the force and walked behind the supply carts. Though normally Jayavar would have insisted that the women and children stay behind, he had expressed a simple concern to his men: If he took all the warriors to battle, who would remain to protect their loved ones?
The very old and very young had been left behind, along with a token force of three dozen spearmen who would keep bandits at bay. Everyone else had marched to the southwest, following a course that would take the army to the Great Lake in a semicircular manner, so as to avoid discovery.
Behind the women and children came another substantial group of Khmer warriors, followed by seventeen hundred Siamese. The foreigners wore their brightly colored tunics and hummed songs as they marched. Secretly worried about treachery, Jayavar had placed two thousand of his best fighters behind the Siamese. At the rear of the column rode five scores of Khmers mounted on horses.
In all, Jayavar commanded about seventy-two hundred men. A sizable force to be certain, but far less than what Indravarman could bring into battle. Jayavar’s plan depended on catching the Chams by surprise both at the lakeside and on the water. When the Chams finally realized what was happening, Jayavar hoped to be headed back toward Angkor. He would then throw all his men into an assault meant to recapture his war elephants. Once he had the elephants, he hoped that Khmer citizens would join the fight. With luck, Indravarman would be trapped between the Khmer army and its citizens, a position that would all but ensure his destruction.
While Jayavar and Ajadevi rode gray stallions near the front of the column, Asal and Voisanne walked among the women. His hands were still tied in front of him, and an experienced Khmer spearman had been assigned to watch his every move. Asal had asked Voisanne to study the jungle, and she did, following his gaze with her own, becoming increasingly nervous as they drew closer to their enemy.
Soriya also walked with the women. Behind her, separated by a hundred Khmer warriors, strode Boran, Vibol, and Prak. Since most of the men marched beside a companion, Vibol and Prak spoke quietly, while slightly ahead of them Boran asked an older warrior about the coming battle. Prak was interested in what the army looked like, and Vibol described for him the scene of so many warriors and weapons.
“It’s quite a sight,” he added, using the shaft of his spear as a walking stick. “The sunlight falls through the trees, and the spear points and sword hilts glitter like thousands of stars.”
“What else?”
“The Siamese wear so many different colors. I can’t help but watch them.”
“As much as you did the pretty girls in Angkor?”
Vibol smiled. “Maybe not that much. But still, they’re interesting to look at.” Noticing that a web of exposed tree roots lay ahead, Vibol reached for Prak’s elbow. “But what I like most are the battle standards.”
“Tell me about them.”
“They’re tied to the ends of spears. The banners are red silk, but in the middle is a white silhouette of Angkor Wat.”
“Do the men carry them with pride?”
“Yes,” Vibol answered, and then thought about how his brother must feel. “Do you want to carry one? I’m certain I could find you one, and if anyone should carry one, it should be you. The fire and poisoned fish were your ideas.”
Prak nodded. “Yes, though King Jayavar may have other battle plans in mind.”
“Why would he waste time doing that? Your plan is perfect.”
The men in front of them slowed; a cart had broken down. The split wheel was removed. Then the sound of a hammer thudding into thick wood echoed off the trees. Men grumbled about the delay, but more quickly than anyone expected, the column began to move forward again.
As the warriors spread out, Vibol glimpsed a jagged scar on one man’s back. The scar was as long as Vibol’s hand, and he wondered if the man had been wounded in battle. Thinking about how easily a blade could cut through flesh, Vibol looked up at his spear tip. He’d practiced thrusting it into bundles of thatch and shook his head at the memory, knowing that it would be far different to pierce an enemy’s flesh. The bundles of thatch merely toppled. A man would thrash and bleed and scream.
As he had many times before, Vibol wondered what it would feel like to have steel slice into his flesh. Would the pain make him weep? Would he shame himself? What would happen if his father was maimed? Did his father fear dying or failing his king and countrymen?
The march continued. The odor of the column wafted backward—an unpleasant combination of dung, urine, and sweat, with only a trace of the flowers that the Siamese wore.
The army was as loud as it was pungent. Horses neighed, warriors cursed, carts creaked, and weapons clinked. People were under orders to keep their voices low, but the collected whispers of nearly nine thousand tongues ensured a constant buzz.
As Vibol walked in silence, he continued to think about the coming battle. “If you…if you could see, would you fight?” he asked his brother.
Prak took a few steps before answering. “It’s all right to be afraid, Vibol. We’re all afraid.”
Ahead, a man coughed, then hacked.
“Remember,” Vibol said, “when we talked about finding a pair of pretty sisters in Angkor and marrying them?”
“How can I forget? And it was you who talked about it mostly. You’re the reason we took so many trips to Angkor, why we bathed until our skin was as wrinkled as dates.”
“You enjoyed it too. I looked, but you listened. You listened to their laughter, and I told you when they glanced in our direction.”
Prak smiled. “They usually didn’t.”
“Tru
e, but sometimes they did.”
“When they were bored, or maybe when they pitied us.”
Vibol shifted his grip on his spear, lifting it upward. “I want to live,” he said. “I want to laugh with you again, to watch the pretty girls with you and wonder if they’ll come our way.”
“They will, Vibol. I know they will.”
Vibol smiled at the thought. “I hope so. But they must be sisters. Because if they’re sisters, we can always be together.”
At the periphery of an immense field within the city of Angkor, Po Rame watched Indravarman inspect his troops, who stood in tight formations, their shields glistening in the midafternoon sun. The men were lined up in long columns with their officers at the front. Indravarman was dressed for battle, a shield strapped to his left forearm, his left hand gripping a stout bar inside the shield. Short-sleeved, quilted armor covered his torso. Though he usually carried a sword, on this day Indravarman wielded a huge war axe that was sometimes favored by Chams. The axe was a heavy, unwieldy weapon compared to a sword or spear, but when used by a man of great strength it could be devastating, shattering shields and maiming flesh.
Po Rame was a hundred paces from Indravarman, but his eyesight was excellent and he saw how carefully the king inspected the men he passed. Occasionally Indravarman would ask an officer something, but for the most part he walked in silence. Sometimes he pressed his shield against a man’s chest and thrust forward, expecting the warrior to hold his ground. When the man stood firm, Indravarman nodded. When he stepped backward, the king struck him with the edge of his shield or the thick shaft of his axe.
The mood in the field was grim. The warriors in their lotus-flower headdresses seemed eager for battle and looked as if they had prepared for it. Heavy shields were held high and didn’t quiver. Muscled arms and legs remained firm when Indravarman tested them. Though the king was larger than almost every man in the entire field, his warriors stood tall. Po Rame wondered if a fiercer fighting force existed anywhere. When they possessed their war elephants, the Khmers were also deadly, but almost all of the beasts were under Cham control in Angkor.
Po Rame was used to waiting for Indravarman, and he remained patient even as the king went from row to row and scattered clouds drifted across the sky. The assassin stood in the shade of a tree, pleased that he wasn’t baking in the sun like a commoner. Finally Indravarman shouted to the entire contingent of men, who roared a reply and thumped their spear shafts against their shields. The thunderous, rhythmic beat was comforting to Po Rame as he’d heard it before great victories. To an opposing army, the sound would inspire dread.
The clamor continued as Indravarman thrust his fist into the air, climbed on his horse, and headed in Po Rame’s direction. Po Rame untied his own mount from the nearby tree, straddled it, and then rode out to meet the king. Indravarman uttered not a word but motioned for Po Rame to follow him.
The two men galloped across the field, soon heading down a wide road. Chams and Khmers scattered to let them pass, bowing low when they were no longer in danger of being trampled. Dust rose from the hooves of Indravarman’s mount, and Po Rame squinted, wondering why the king seemed to be in such a hurry.
Wheeling to his right, Indravarman guided his mount onto a wide trail that led into the jungle. Many Khmer homes built of bamboo and thatch dotted the area, all supported by stilts. Very few kings, Po Rame realized, would dare to ride without an escort into the land of their enemy, but Indravarman seemed not to give his vulnerability a second thought.
They followed the trail as it climbed toward the top of a ridge. Once at the summit, Po Rame looked to the east and saw that one of the Khmers’ vast canals ran parallel to the rise of earth. Indravarman slowed his mount, leapt off, and tied it to a shrub. He had secured his battle-axe and shield to the stallion and now removed both weapons. Po Rame did the same, glad that he didn’t sweat nearly as much as the king, who shone with perspiration.
Indravarman eyed the canal, which was so wide that the strongest archer would not be able to shoot an arrow across it. “Why can we not build structures such as this?” Indravarman asked, his open hand gesturing toward the length of the waterway. “The Khmers bring water from the Great Lake to feed their crops, to clean their people. They subjugate nature to their needs while creating monuments for the Gods. We fish and make war and try to appease the same Gods, but our efforts are feeble compared to those of our enemies.”
“Yet we defeated the dung eaters, Lord King,” Po Rame offered. “What was theirs is now ours.”
“Is knowledge a possession, Po Rame? Because they have done what we have not. And I don’t think that by conquering them we gain control of their wisdom.”
“I think—”
“When Jayavar is dead and his bones are scattered, I shall have a tower built on this spot to commemorate our conquest. This tower shall have the grace, strength, and permanence of their temples. Yet Chams will make it. And in a thousand years, our people will come to this place and remember the sweetness of victory.”
Po Rame bowed slightly, thinking about the coming battle, hoping that Asal would fight for the Khmers. If he did, he could be found. And Po Rame would cripple him in the exact manner that his king had ordered.
The prospect of downing his old adversary prompted Po Rame to cluck his tongue in anticipation. Asal would beg for a quick death, a warrior’s death, but he’d receive no mercy. On the contrary, Indravarman would demand that Asal’s suffering be increased and prolonged.
“Tell me of your man’s report,” Indravarman said, turning to Po Rame.
“The Khmers march to attack our base at the Great Lake. The rats intend to overwhelm our men and then capture the boats that we have stationed there. The traitor told them about the reinforcements who have sailed from our homeland. The Khmers plan to take the boats that they have captured from us, put on the armor of our dead men, sail out under a false banner, and pretending to be Chams, they will surprise our new arrivals.” Po Rame paused, wishing that his spy had overheard the entire conversation instead of select snippets. Unforgivable, he thought, to place yourself too far away to hear everything.
“And that’s it?” Indravarman asked, his face tightening. “He knows nothing more? How will Jayavar destroy our forces out on the lake, even with the element of surprise? His men will be weakened from their battle on the shore.”
“I don’t know, Lord King. The traitor suggested something, and the false king seemed interested, but my man couldn’t hear what was said.”
“A fool.”
“Yes, Lord King. I should have—”
“Still, his information is useful. If Jayavar puts all of his men into our boats and sails into deep waters, he’ll be vulnerable.” Indravarman smiled, unconsciously lifting his war axe. “We’ll simply let him sail to us. But we’ll have warned our approaching countrymen and will be waiting with our entire fleet. And we shall surround and annihilate him.”
“And our force on the shore?”
Indravarman chopped the air with his axe. “Will be sacrificed. We won’t warn them, won’t bolster their ranks. If Jayavar senses that we know of his plan, he’ll change tactics. And I need him in those boats, Po Rame. In those boats he will be weakest. Men can run from a battle on land. They can hide and regroup. But on that endless expanse of water, there will be no place to hide. Once and for all, I shall destroy every Khmer who dares to stand against me.”
Nodding, Po Rame envisioned how the battle would unfold. Indravarman would have his best men waiting for Jayavar. Every resource at the king’s disposal would be thrown into the fray. Victory would be theirs, and the lake would turn red with Khmer blood. Po Rame’s only concern was that the fight would be over too quickly. Destruction, he thought, should be savored, not hurried.
“The Khmer lover,” he said, “marches with his new countrymen.”
“How do you know this?”
“My man heard—”
“How does this man of yours hear one thing
and not another? How can he please me one moment and infuriate me the next?”
“I’m sorry, King of Kings, for his failings. He has already been punished. But he promised me that the traitor will march.”
Indravarman cursed, chopping the air once again with his axe. It was a weapon that most men would struggle to lift, but he treated it as if it were made of thatch. “Asal is a threat,” he said.
“Do you still want my blade in the traitor’s back?”
“Of course.”
“And if my wound downs him, King of Kings, may I take his life after you’re finished with him?”
Indravarman’s jaw clenched, but he made no immediate reply. “Cripple him, Po Rame, and find his woman for me. Do those things, and you can take his life.”
Po Rame bowed low. “Consider them—”
“Now leave me.”
The assassin nodded, then climbed back on his horse. As he rode back to Angkor, he thought about what might go through Asal’s mind as he died. As broken as he would be, relief might flow within him when the end came. But Po Rame wanted him to fear the end, to weep in terror and sorrow as darkness closed in on him.
His woman is the key, Po Rame thought. Let him know of her fate and he’ll die a thousand deaths. And each time he dies, I’ll be there to steal another part of his soul. I’ll plunder his strength, his boldness, and even his love. For a God must understand love. I don’t understand it, but love makes men behave like fools, makes them risk everything for a woman. So love must be powerful. And whatever is powerful must be mine.
The Khmer army marched all day without rest, finally stopping at a wide and lazy river that fed into the Great Lake. After an elaborate perimeter of lookouts had been established, the majority of warriors, women, and children waded into the river, washing sweat and grime from their weary bodies. Farther downstream, horses were led into the water, where they drank and cooled off.
