Temple of a Thousand Faces (57 page)

A
wind had risen, marring the surface of the lake so that it looked like scuffed leather. Ripples turned into small waves, the crests of which occasionally tumbled in rolling bursts of white spray. As the wind strengthened, so did the waves, swells lifting the boats from bow to stern. Masts pitched forward and backward while warriors clung at gunwales, their weapons sheathed, their stomachs uneasy.

Standing in front of his dais with his feet spread far apart, Indravarman stared to the north, searching for his foe. He didn’t mind the sudden change in the weather, taking it as a sign that the Gods were interested in the outcome of the looming battle. Their attention had brought the wind and the waves. Their eyes were on him, and he was eager to impress them.

Raising his voice, he shared his thoughts with his men, encouraging them to honor the Gods with a resounding victory, to make them remember their own epic battles against the demons
that sought and failed to destroy them. The men cheered at his words, and he asked them to row, to pretend that they were eager to reach the distant shoreline.

“Welcome the Khmers as your brothers!” he shouted, thrusting his fist into the air. “Lure them into our trap, let them believe that they’ve deceived you, and then fall on them like hounds on a hare! Redden this water with their blood, and let the Gods celebrate your deeds!”

Again the men cheered him, and, fearing that their voices would carry with the wind, he gestured for silence. Gazing from side to side, he studied his surroundings, pleased that the sky was still fairly clear. Though the wind and waves continued to strengthen, a storm wasn’t imminent. They would fight in the sunlight, and those who fell on Khmer blades would be reborn into that same light, which surely would be preferable to death beneath a cold, dark sky.

Increasingly impatient, Indravarman ordered his men to row harder. As they put their backs into the task, he felt the vessel heave ahead, bringing him closer to his enemy and his fate. His enemy was about to be vanquished. His fate was to carve his name into the pillars of history, to rule near and distant lands, and to shape the world into a realm of his own making. Once the Khmers fell, the Siamese would follow.

It required only the death of Jayavar to begin this march to ultimate triumph.

“Slay the false king,” Indravarman said to the warriors around him. “Slay him and whatever you want shall be yours.”

J
ayavar thrust his oar into the water and pulled back, still working at less than his full strength. He studied the waves as he rowed, watching them roll forward, aware that they would make
it harder for Khmer and Cham boats to come together, for warriors to board one craft from another.

“After we draw the Chams close, we shall use the fire arrows,” he said to the men he commanded, raising his voice so that those on nearby boats could also hear. “But at some point the fight will be hand-to-hand. And when that happens, when our boats strike those of the enemy, wait to leap aboard their vessels until a wave lifts us higher than our foes. Jump down on them with your shields and weapons pointing low. Land on a Cham and he shall be easy to kill. Let him land on you and you shall die. Now raise your voices and spread the word to the boats near you. The waves are a gift from the Gods. We must use them to soar above our foe.”

A wave slapped against the side of his boat, sending spray into his face. He licked his lips. He took a deep breath, and then another, steadying himself. Soon the Cham fleet would appear. One way or the other, soon it would be over.

H
er hands bleeding and afire with pain, Ajadevi rowed onward. She grunted with each stroke, willing herself to push through her misery, to lessen the space between her and her loved one.

Distance is only a state of mind, she told herself. Be with him now. Let him feel you.

Waves battered against the bow. Ajadevi turned to see the Cham officer sweeping his oar forward, the Khmer woman kneeling beside him, her hands on his knee. Their love was as tangible as the wind, and Ajadevi prayed that it would endure the coming fight.

Too much water was crashing over the sides, and aware that it was sloshing around her feet, she asked a nearby boy to start bailing.
He bowed to her and hurried away, presumably to look for a container.

Their sail flapped in the wind, a tear emerging in it near where it was secured to the mast. Ajadevi recognized the tear for exactly what it was—a greater power overcoming a lesser one. And yet the fabric stopped separating. For the moment it held fast. She saw the sail as symbolizing the union between her and Jayavar, one more sign among many that this union was about to be torn in two.

“Mend the sail!” she shouted to some idle women, hoping that one might have handy a needle and thread. “Stitch another piece of fabric over the tear! Take the pressure off it!”

The women searched for the necessary instruments, then bent low in apology after realizing that they couldn’t fix the rip.

A gust of wind pummeled them, shredding the sail.

“Jayavar!” Ajadevi screamed, knowing he was falling into the trap at that very moment, that despite her bloody hands she had not been fast enough.

o Rame located them first, which pleased him greatly.

“There,” he said, pointing to the north.

Warriors asked what he saw, but he paid them no heed. Standing at the stern of Indravarman’s boat, he held a trident and an oversize shield that bore a golden image of a seven-headed snake. When Indravarman demanded to know what he had pointed at, Po Rame lifted his long, three-pronged weapon and aimed it toward a speck on the horizon. “The rats draw near,” he said.

“I see nothing.”

“Yet they come, King of Kings. Soon you’ll have your battle.”

As Indravarman gave instructions to his men, Po Rame imagined how the fight would unfold, determining where to stand to avoid a possible rush of Khmers, and how best to wait for the right moment. He cared only about wounding Jayavar or Asal. The war against the Khmers did not matter to him. The struggles of men were trivial and fleeting, beneath him in every regard. But
to bring Jayavar or Asal to his king might allow Po Rame to end their lives, to become the keeper of their souls. And what better souls could be kept?

The Khmers drew closer, prompting the men around Po Rame to ready themselves for battle though they still pulled on their oars and pretended to be unaware of danger. Soon Po Rame could discern the outline of the enemy fleet, its size paling in comparison to that of the Cham force. The Khmers neared, doubtless expecting victory.

Encouraged by Indravarman, Chams began to cheer on the approaching force, as if they were delighted to have found their countrymen. The fleets neared each other. Po Rame saw Khmer figures, and then faces. He smiled.

Indravarman has won, Po Rame thought. The dung eaters are doing exactly what he wants, and before the sun falls they’ll all be dead. Even better, I’ll have wetted my steel in the back of a king or a traitor—perhaps both. And if I’m not a God at this moment, I will be one by the end of this day.

In the distance a Khmer waved. His hand tightening on the shaft of his trident, Po Rame bowed, his heart rate finally increasing, his eyes searching among the nearing faces for Jayavar or Asal.

J
ayavar stood at the bow, holding a Cham shield and sword, squinting as he peered to the south. The enemy fleet had just sailed into view, and though most of his men still rowed, the five archers aboard were gathered in the stern and laying arrows at their feet as well as testing the tautness of their bowstrings. Pitch had been applied to the tip of each arrow and a small fire burned in an iron cauldron. When the time was right the archers would dip their arrows into the fire, light the pitch, and aim for their enemies’ mainsails. Jayavar had told the archers to conceal themselves
until the last moment, and so the men were crouched low, mostly hidden behind the gunwale.

To Jayavar’s delight, he realized that several Chams were waving. He ordered his men to return the greeting. The enemy boats were under full sail, heading his way. Though they were packed tightly together, he counted sixty-nine of them, which represented a slightly larger number than he had expected, but not big enough to cause him excessive concern. Armed with the element of surprise and the fire arrows, he should be able to overwhelm the Chams.

Waves slapped against the bow of his vessel, the spray cooling Jayavar’s skin. Sunlight glistened off enemy shields and weapons. Some of the Chams were singing, for the wind carried their voices to him. He told his archers to be ready and asked his captain to steer toward the largest of the enemy boats.

The distance between the two fleets shrank. Jayavar prayed for victory, envisioned Ajadevi’s smiling face, and tightened his grip on his shield and sword. He was about to ask for an increase in speed when the Cham boats started to separate. The boats fanned out to the east and west, revealing a multitude of smaller vessels that had been hidden behind them. These were crammed with warriors and headed straight at the Khmer fleet.

Jayavar felt as if he had been thrown from the top of one of Angkor Wat’s great towers. He recognized the trap before any of the men around him did and ordered them to pull back on their oars, to reverse their forward momentum. Their boat slowed, but the enemy came at them with too much speed, spreading out around his much smaller fleet. Fast Cham vessels began to encircle his force. He considered asking his men to turn their boats around, but such a maneuver would take too much time. His warriors would exhaust themselves in a fruitless effort and be weakened before the battle even began.

Twisting around, Jayavar looked desperately for a means of escape, a break in the Cham line ahead of him through which he could save his army. But the Cham boats were two or three deep. To smash into one link of the chain of enemy ships would only bring the others crashing down on him from all sides. A few of his lead ships would likely escape, but the rest would be left behind and overwhelmed.

“Ready your arrows!” he shouted, deciding that their best chance at victory lay in attack. He pointed toward one of the smaller Cham boats that was overcrowded with warriors. “She’s your first target! Strike her, then whatever other vessels hold the most men!”

The Cham fleet drew closer. The enemy warriors started to shout, thrusting their weapons into the air. Filled with a sudden rage, Jayavar spun toward his men. “Here come those who stole our land and slaughtered our loved ones! They shout to put fear into our hearts, but do we fear them?”

“No!” came a chorus of replies.

“So silence them forever! Draw your arrows and ready your spears!”

The five archers lit their arrows, notched them on taut bowstrings, and sent the flaming bolts toward the enemy ship. Several arrows struck the sail, and Chams shouted as the fabric caught fire. Aboard other Khmer boats, officers followed Jayavar’s lead, and scores of flaming bolts arched over the water, slamming into sails, hulls, and men. The wind fueled the flames, causing them to race across sails, to spread upon sun-bleached beams. Cham archers shot back in return, but their arrows carried no fire and did little damage. Meanwhile, enemy warriors beat at the flames with their shields. Some were successful at putting out the fires, but others were scorched and leapt into the lake.

Jayavar saw that the flames were causing havoc among his foes,
but most of the enemy vessels were untouched and came straight at his fleet, propelled by Chams bent on revenge. Spinning around, he searched for Indravarman’s boat, believing that it would be the biggest. But smoke and sails obscured much of his view.

A Cham vessel, the bow covered in flames, came straight at him. “Stand firm!” he shouted, holding his sword aloft, preparing for a jolt as the two boats met.

The burning craft struck his own. He staggered from the impact. “For Angkor!” he cried, stepping forward, aware of arrows whistling past his head, of friend and foe already dying around him.

“
B
ring me to them!” Indravarman roared at his oarsmen, who had stopped making any effort to row once the fire arrows had begun to rain from the sky. “Bring me to them or by the Gods I’ll have all your heads!”