by John Shors
Wanting to stay strong in front of the men, she held back her tears. “Return to me. Let me journey with you.” She kissed him once on the lips, then stepped backward, knowing that he should go.
“I shall always love you,” he said, bowing to her.
“And I you.”
He turned away.
She resisted a nearly overwhelming urge to reach for him, to pull him back to her. Willing herself to remain still, she watched him go, tears finally falling to her cheeks. She bit her bottom lip, holding back a shudder, terrified that she would never see him again. Suddenly there were so many things that she wanted to tell him, so many thoughts left unsaid. But she stayed still, watching him move along the dock and step into a boat. He waved to her, then to his people.
The fleet set sail. She watched it fade away, allowing herself a brief moment to lament his departure. Then, thinking of her countrymen, she steeled herself and turned around, ready to organize those who remained. Her first order of business was to ensure that Nuon was in a large boat surrounded by able fighters. The two women exchanged farewells. Then Ajadevi hurried from vessel to vessel, anointing leaders and telling them what she expected.
She wanted to be off this bloody and vulnerable stretch of land as soon as possible, wanted to be on the water, where at least she could touch its wetness and wonder whether Jayavar touched the same thing.
It didn’t take long to board the women, children, and remaining warriors onto the boats. For a reason unknown to Asal, the Khmer queen asked that he, Voisanne, and Chaya travel with her. Their boat was crammed with crying children, worried mothers, and some fighters well past their prime. Despite the many distractions, the queen organized everyone, and soon they set sail. Though his hands were still bound, Asal volunteered to help row and, sitting on a bench, he dipped a long oar into the water and pulled with the Khmers.
They drew away from shore. Other boats followed their lead, and soon their force was safely in deep water, far enough from land that no arrow could reach them. The queen ordered that the sail be dropped, the oars left still, and the anchor lowered. Their craft swayed idly. Mothers fed children. Warriors scanned the horizon. The queen conferred with a wrinkled man who held a spear.
Asal glanced at Voisanne, who was talking with Chaya. Voisanne saw his gaze and smiled at him. She looked at ease on the rocking boat, and he felt a surge of pride. Now that she was reunited with her people, she seemed more confident and mature. Her beauty had blossomed as well. She stood with her back straighter, her head held high. He had fallen in love with her when she was beaten down, and now that she had risen, his attraction to her was even stronger.
Though Asal wanted to leave his post and go to her side, he resisted the urge. Instead he studied the shoreline, certain that Indravarman would lead his army to the lake. It would take some time to organize thousands of warriors and march them here, but before long they would come. Scouts should have arrived already, and seeing none, Asal asked himself about their absence. Aside from birds that circled and pecked at the dead, the shoreline was bereft of movement.
Sweat rolled down Asal’s back. The sun beat upon him. He glanced at the queen and saw that she was still speaking with the old spearman. Did they also wonder about the silence? Why no one had appeared?
Asal imagined what Indravarman would do upon hearing that his base had been attacked. The king, who commanded so many more men than the Khmers did, would surely seize the opportunity to crush his foe. As with any looming engagement, scouts would be sent ahead.
Thinking that perhaps the scouts would come by water, Asal scanned the horizon. Yet he saw no one. The Khmer fleet had recently disappeared into a distant haze. The Great Lake was an endless shimmering mirror.
Uneasiness began to seep into Asal. Something was wrong. He knew Indravarman too well to believe that the king would ignore an invading army. Indravarman’s plan was unfolding, but what it was, Asal could not guess.
Cursing softly in his native tongue, Asal continued to scan the shoreline and the lake. Though he had felt fear many times in his life, this helplessness was worse. The woman he loved was standing nearby. He could hear her voice and see her face. Yet he felt incapable of protecting her because whatever was happening, he was blind to its intricacies, naked to its dangers.
Indravarman was out there somewhere, and whatever trap he was planning was about to be sprung.
* * *
Due south, in the deep waters of the Great Lake, Indravarman waited. He had found the approaching Cham force, and after having alerted its officers to the Khmer plan, there was nothing he could do but sit idle. His boat was at the rear of his fleet, opposite where the Khmers would appear. He wanted to remain unseen until his trap was set in motion and the enemy was completely surrounded.
Restless, Indravarman shifted on his dais. He had told his officers to have their men appear at ease. Music and singing emanated from several boats, and the scent of roasting fish hung heavily in the air. Men rowed, but with no sense of purpose. A few warriors, all fit and young, swam alongside their boats, racing one another. Bets were cast and men shouted encouragement.
Indravarman had spread the word that at most seven thousand Khmers and Siamese would oppose them, and his men were confident of victory. He shared their outlook and was increasingly impatient for the killing to begin. Gazing at his army, he tried to count all the boats but lost track, bored by the tedious exercise. On the flat waters of the Great Lake, his men seemed infinite in number. These were hardened fighters, and with two of his men for every Khmer and Siamese, his force would give him a resounding triumph.
The dream that Indravarman had conjured up so long ago was finally about to come true. He would shatter one empire while expanding his own. After the Khmers had fallen, he would consolidate his forces, demand reinforcements, and then march on the Siamese. Their land was rich in resources, harbors, and history; and he longed to beat down the men who had joined forces with the Khmers to oppose him.
To the north, the lake seemed to shimmer under a thin haze. Indravarman wished that a breeze would arrive, but the Gods ignored his request. Spurning them as they had him, he thought about Asal, believing that he would appear, hoping he would. Asal was now an enemy, and one to be reckoned with. The only death that Indravarman coveted more than Asal’s was Jayavar’s. Both men posed threats. Both were strong, in part because of their women. Indravarman had heard of Ajadevi’s exploits and wanted to take her alive, though he doubted he could do so. She was too wise to let him capture her. Yet Voisanne was another story. She was still young, and even if Asal died, she would want to live. She would attempt to flee and would be tracked down.
Indravarman tried to picture her, thinking that though she wasn’t as striking as Thida, her face had held his gaze. He’d given her as a reward to Asal, and she had corrupted him. So she must be much more resilient than he had suspected. She must be a prize.
An oar stroke splashed him, and Indravarman glared at the crewman. He wondered how he might keep Asal alive long enough for him to understand that his woman had been captured and was now the property of a king. Or perhaps he should simply entomb them forever, wall them up in a room of thick stone and let them die in each other’s arms.
You should have stayed away from me, he thought, but I know that you didn’t. You hate me, and so you shall come. Yet you come only to the end, Asal, like a moth to a flame. Do you not know that your death is imminent, that you rush toward it with open arms?
I was wrong to think so highly of you, as only a fool would return to me. And if you’ve brought your woman, then you’re twice the fool. Because whatever pain I give you, she shall receive tenfold. She stole you from me; she twisted you, and in doing so, she mocked me.
Perhaps you need time to think, Asal. Perhaps being entombed will suit you. You’ll want to end her life, her misery, but shall be powerless to do so. Yet you shall see her tears, hear her suffering. Countless deaths she shall die before you watch the light finally fade from her eyes.
Still far away and approaching from the north, Jayavar’s fleet moved steadily toward its foe. Wanting his men to see that he did not place himself above them, he held an oar and moved it to the cadence of the captain’s voice. Sweat glistened on his face, back, and chest. Though he was pleased with how his plan was unfolding so far, he felt ill at ease. The fight on the shoreline had gone well, but a Cham spear had almost impaled him. It would have but for a man to his left who had lifted his shield at the last moment and saved his king’s life.
Jayavar had fought in many battles and had always believed in his blade. But on the shoreline his foes had seemed to be younger, stronger, and quicker than he remembered. His own weapon was slow, barely parrying thrusts, downing only two of his enemies. For the first time in his life, his age had begun to betray him. He had never seen the spear flying toward him, or recognized a warning shout. Equally distressing, while his men, almost all of whom were half his age, charged forward and fought with fury, the surge of bloodlust that always accompanied battle had carried him only so far. In the end, he’d had to rely on his wisdom and experience rather than on the strength of his sword arm. And he knew too well what happened to warriors in hand-to-hand combat when their arms tired and their reflexes slowed.
Battle was a place for the young. Yet he had to lead his men, had to be in the heart of the fight. Somehow he would have to find the vigor to bring down quicker and stronger warriors. Recalling how he’d once seen an old tiger fight off a much younger adversary, Jayavar reminded himself that the old could dominate the young—at least for a moment. His challenge would be how to string together a succession of such moments.
If Ajadevi had sensed his apprehension, which was likely, she had chosen not to speak of it. Nor had he mentioned his shortcomings to her. Their mutual fear held the subject at bay, it seemed, as if by speaking of weaknesses they would become real.
Jayavar eased back on his oar, rowing with less vigor. Sweat continued to roll down his skin, and men on nearby boats applauded his efforts. No one appeared to notice that he was conserving what remained of his strength. He knew that only two great battles remained. If he could survive those, if he could lead his people to victory, he would never need to lift a sword again. He’d rule with peace in mind, and if someday another war became inescapable, he would command from the rear ranks.
For the first time in many years, Jayavar felt completely alone. The weight of an empire pressed down on his shoulders. Based on his actions, his people would rejoice or lament the day’s conclusion. In so many ways, he should have felt empowered and encouraged.
Yet, drawing closer to his enemy, he continued to worry, wondering if he had the strength to do what must be done.
As the mothers around her managed their children and the handful of warriors assigned to her boat scanned the horizon, Ajadevi stood at the stern and resisted the urge to pace the deck. With every passing heartbeat she felt Jayavar pulling farther away from her, and the separation left her increasingly troubled.
Though she tried to pray and to look for signs, her thoughts moved with too much speed to allow such focus. She closed her eyes, opened them, wiped her brow, and stared to the south, toward where she had last seen Jayavar. He’d waved and then disappeared, taking the best parts of her along with him.
Ajadevi had usually been content to be a woman, but she wished that today she could transform into a man, grab a sword, and fight beside her king. She would take the battle to the Chams, driving them backward, turning the water red with their blood. She would risk the standing of her karma to liberate her people. Yet she was not empowered to join the fight and could do little but worry, wishing the time would flash by, that Jayavar would return before an approaching cloud hid the sun.
A few of the nearby women spoke about the discomfort of being on the boat, and Ajadevi glared at them, wondering how they could be so oblivious to what was transpiring. Their men would live or die, their culture would thrive or perish, depending on what happened to the south. Every eye, she felt, should be straining in that direction, peering through the haze. And every mind should be praying for victory.
Ajadevi studied the faces around her. She saw foolishness and ignorance, but also wisdom and strength. Her gaze settled on the Cham officer who held the end of an oar despite his bound hands. He was shaking his head and staring to the north, toward Angkor. To her surprise, he muttered something to himself, then shifted on the bench. He seemed restless and ill at ease, the one person in the boat, she thought, whose anxiety seemed to mirror her own.
Without a second thought, Ajadevi moved toward him, unaware of the women who shifted to let her pass. When she made a move to sit on the bench directly in front of the Cham, a Khmer warrior stood up, allowing her access to the space.
“Will you talk with me?” she asked the Cham, then noticed that the young woman who accompanied him was walking toward them.
He squinted against the glare of the sun that beat upon her back. “Yes, lady.”
“Why do you worry? Do you dread the death of your king?”
“Hardly. He’s undeserving of the title he carries.”
Ajadevi started to speak, pausing a moment as the woman sat beside him. “But clearly you’re concerned. Why? We’re safe here. Arrows cannot reach us. And we’ve taken your king’s boats. We have nothing to fear.”
“Do you see the shore, lady?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Indravarman’s scouts should be there by now. Surely some of his men escaped your attack and have reported back to him. Why don’t we see his scouts? Why hasn’t his army arrived? It should have. If I were he, I’d have sent every man to destroy you at the water’s edge.”
Ajadevi felt her heart flutter. She glanced at the distant and empty shoreline. “But…but why? Why is there no one?”
“No one can be sent if they’ve been positioned elsewhere.” The Cham leaned toward her, his brow furrowing, his words coming fast now. “I think, lady, that your husband is sailing into a trap. I think that Indravarman awaits him out there. Otherwise, why wouldn’t Indravarman have arrived at the shoreline by now? Hearing of the defeat of his men, he would have marched forth with great speed, bent on revenge—unless he knew of your attack and let his men be sacrificed so that he could trap your entire force on the lake. Nothing else makes sense, lady. If Indravarman is out there with his army, he will surround your husband. He will slay every Khmer and never have to—”
“Stop!” Ajadevi held up her hand, suddenly knowing that what the Cham said was true. The signs had told her as much, though only now did she recognize why the wind came and went, why a haze existed to the south. The world seemed to spin around her, but she steadied herself. “We must go to him,” she said, raising her voice. “Release the anchor! We must go! And cut away this man’s bonds. Right now. Cut them away.”
The warrior next to Ajadevi frowned. “But, my queen, he—”
“Cut them!”
The Khmer quickly freed the prisoner.
Panicking, Ajadevi glanced around and saw that there were twenty oars, ten on each side of the boat. But only seven were manned. She ordered her people to start rowing. As the captain unfurled the sail, she grabbed the oar next to her and lifted it over the water, then dipped it below the surface and pulled with all of her might.
Women began to fill the empty benches, the oars awkward in their hands at first, but then moving in unison with the others. The boat seemed to surge forward, casting the water aside, a breeze suddenly buffeting them.
Ajadevi was now positioned so that she faced the Cham’s broad back. She saw the muscles around his shoulder blades tighten as he pulled hard on his oar. The young woman whom he seemed to love sat in front of him, rowing as well, her back to him.
“Will we catch him in time?” Ajadevi asked the Cham.
He strained against his oar. “Maybe, lady. But the Gods will need to smile upon us.”
The Cham looked to his left. “We must lighten this vessel,
lady. All but the most crucial of provisions should be thrown overboard.”
Ajadevi commanded that the supplies be cast away. People did as she asked, even children helping to toss a large sack of rice over the gunwale. Heaving against her oar, Ajadevi bit her bottom lip, trying to hold back her tears. She felt foolish for not anticipating the trap, and berated herself for the oversight.
Time and time again, she imagined Jayavar rowing as she was, heading directly into the hands of the waiting Chams. She envisioned the look of horror on his face, and then one of resignation. He would try to protect her and his kingdom; he would fight to the last man. But he would be overwhelmed.
By now familiar with her oar, she thrust it forward and backward, grunting with effort. The oar became her enemy. She heaved upon it as if it were a giant snake that had wrapped itself around her loved ones. The skin of her fingers blistered and split, yet she pulled still harder, the pain making her think of what Jayavar would soon endure.
“Faster!” she shouted. “We must go faster!”
The shoreline receded into nothingness. In the open water, the size of the waves increased, slapping the bow of their surging boat, casting spray into the air. Suddenly the Cham’s oar split in half, and he fell backward toward her, smashing into her knees. She helped him up, and he moved to where his lover sat, taking her oar from her. The woman knelt beside him, and he leaned over to kiss the top of her head. Then he was rowing once again. To Ajadevi’s amazement, she felt the strength of his strokes propel their boat forward.
Thinking of how he had kissed his loved one, Ajadevi began to cry. She wanted to do the same to Jayavar. Perhaps he was already surrounded by the enemy, fighting for his life.
Her hands bleeding on the smooth wood, Ajadevi gritted her teeth against the pain, pulling harder. Everywhere she looked, she saw signs of death—the upturned belly of a bloated fish, the broken oar handle at her feet, the way the sun hid behind a cloud. She saw so much death, but could not see what she yearned for most—Jayavar.
