Temple of a Thousand Faces (9 page)

Baksei Chamkrong meant “the bird who shelters under its
wings” and referred to the legend of a Khmer king who was forced to flee a siege. As he made his way from the battle, an immense bird landed next to him and spread its wings, protecting him. He was then able to stay and fight his foes. Indeed, the temple seemed to have been created to celebrate such protection, because inside the tower a golden statue of the Hindu God Shiva, and his consort, Devi, stood on a raised platform.

The golden statue appeared to sway in the candlelight, and Indravarman studied it carefully. Though he had already plundered Angkor of some of its riches, he wasn’t certain what to do with this statue. He admired it greatly and, now that he was the ruler of Angkor, he was in no rush to destroy its beauty.

Standing next to Indravarman was his chief assassin, Po Rame, who was tall, lean, and well muscled. Though Po Rame carried a spear, his weapons of choice were poison, knives, and a braided cord that he used to strangle his enemies from behind. Hanging from Po Rame’s neck was a tiger’s claw that came from a beast he had stalked and killed. The man’s regal face reminded Indravarman of those of the countless stone statues around Angkor—with mouths fixed permanently in half smiles and eyes that seemed to see all. The assassin’s skin was lighter in color than most of his countrymen’s, which pleased him.

Indravarman looked down into the courtyard that surrounded the temple. Several colossal ficus trees sheltered his men from a steady rain. Standing next to one of the trees was Thida, who had been captured after the invasion and was the most beautiful woman Indravarman had ever seen. Even Angkor Wat, he thought, replete in all its splendor, could not duplicate her exquisiteness. It was as if the sun had never touched her skin, which appeared as smooth as Siamese silk. Her body was sculpted and perfect. Her eyes were wider than those of most Khmers, and her voluptuous lips seemed to celebrate the virtues of her femininity.
Her name meant “full moon” and Indravarman thought her parents had been wise to select it for her.

During the past several weeks, the Cham king had reveled in the company of many Khmer women. But earlier that day, once he’d seen Thida, the other women had been sent away. He hadn’t spoken to her yet, however, and now, as he watched her stand in the rain, he wanted to touch those lips.

Suddenly impatient, Indravarman turned to Po Rame. “Jayavar remains a threat,” he whispered. “He may be far from here, but a storm may also be far from a sailor. And as a sailor must watch the sky, I must watch the jungle.”

“We—”

“As long as a claim to the throne exists, I’m in danger, which places you in danger.”

Po Rame nodded, listening to the wind. “My spies, King of Kings, are in the jungle. They search as we speak.” Though Po Rame was vicious, his voice was soft, almost feminine. “Jayavar—”

“Men are not enough. You should send women and children also. He’ll be more suspicious of a man than of a child. And a woman will have more guile than a man would.”

“Yes, Lord King.”

“His chief wife is with him. From what the prisoners say, we should fear her as much as him.” Indravarman paused to rub the lucky piece of iron that lay beneath the skin of his belly. “I want them both dead, gutted like fish. Mount their heads on spears and plant those spears at Angkor Wat for all to see.”

“It will take time, Lord King. Those rats have burrowed deep.”

Indravarman glanced again at Thida, who was now leaning against a tree. She appeared to sway with the wind, as if she might topple. “Take ten Khmer prisoners, the best of their warriors, to the river. Have your men torture one, and let the others escape. They’ll need to kill our fighters for the ruse to work.”

“But we’ll never see them again.”

“You’re no fool, Po Rame, so don’t speak like one,” Indravarman replied. He stepped forward to touch the golden statue of Shiva, wondering if he should have it brought to his sleeping chambers. “Before going to the river, interrogate one of the Khmers, one with a family who lives. Let him know that his family will be burned alive unless he helps us, unless he discovers the whereabouts of Jayavar. When he tells us these whereabouts, he and his family shall go free. Tell him that I’m a man of my word. If he helps us, his loved ones shall live. And they shall leave Angkor carrying gold.”

Po Rame pursed his full lips. “Better to have two such men, Lord King. In case illness or circumstance strikes one down.”

“So be it. And plan it so that all our men die. Otherwise the Khmers will expect treachery. They must believe that we blundered. Convinced of our folly, the group shall find Jayavar for us. And then we shall go to him, with swords in our hands and malice in our hearts.”

Po Rame began to speak again, but Indravarman dismissed him. Lightning flashed, illuminating a massive Khmer war elephant that stood outside the gathering of Chams. Indravarman shouted at one of his men to bring Thida forward. She moved grudgingly, climbing the slick sandstone steps that led to the temple’s covered summit. Glistening from the rain, she appeared more desirable than ever. Once she entered the tower, Indravarman touched her chin and smiled when she leaned away.

“You would do well to return my gaze,” he said in Khmer.

“Please…forgive me.”

“Please forgive me, Lord King. That is what you should say. That is what you shall say if you wish to avoid an unfortunate fate.”

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the golden statue.
When Thida made no reply, Indravarman moved closer to her, his calloused fingers tracing the contours of her neck, her shoulder, her arm. “Do you think me cruel?” he asked, still touching her.

“Yes…Lord King.”

He saw wetness beneath her eyes and wondered if it was rain or tears. “I’m only cruel so that I can obtain what I desire. Ambition begets cruelty.”

She looked away, trembling now.

“I desire you,” he said. “Must I be cruel to fulfill my desire?”

“No.”

“A pity so many of your countrymen didn’t share your wisdom. Their fates could have been much more pleasant.”

Thida glanced up at these words, and Indravarman rejoiced at the fullness of her eyes. Even in the darkness he saw that they were red and inflamed. Grunting, he stepped outside, curious if she would stay or follow. After only a heartbeat’s hesitation she stepped into the rain, trailing his footsteps.

So quick to break, he thought. Too bad all Khmer women aren’t like you. If all Khmer women were like you, my enemies would be naught.

F
ar to the west, back at Jayavar’s camp, a shadow seemed to float through the night. The shadow avoided the prince’s sentries, circumventing anything that might betray its presence, whether a restless elephant or a fallen twig. Every few feet, the shadow paused, studying the darkness. The rain had finally stopped, and the wet ground made for silent steps. The voices of insects had replaced the splatter of water, their chirps and cries punctuating the air. Most of the cooking fires had gone out, though embers glowed near sleeping warriors, women, and children.

The shadow crept closer to where the prince and princess resided.
A simple shelter of bamboo and deerskin had been erected, and the couple must be sleeping under this roof, since they weren’t near what remained of their fire. Pausing once again, the shadow surveyed the immediate surroundings. The moon and stars were hidden by clouds and it was exceedingly dark.

A muffled cough emerged from the shelter, and the shadow crept forward, holding a spear with small yet hardened hands. Though the spear had once been of simple design, its shaft was now carved with temples and Gods. The weapon was unique, while its iron blade remained sharp and deadly.

More tentative steps were taken. The cough came again and the shadow’s heartbeat quickened, seeming to race forward like that of a runaway horse. The shadow moved past the dying fire, heat emanating into the darkness. Two figures could be seen faintly within the shelter. The prince lay next to the princess, her head on his chest.

Whispers infiltrated the night. Three figures moved through the trees, all carrying weapons. Instinctively, the shadow lowered itself to the ground. As the guards neared, the shadow took a final look at Jayavar, then receded into the blackness, backtracking, moving swiftly yet silently.

The shadow circumvented warriors and elephants, hurrying to the opposite side of the camp, setting the spear down, then lying in an empty space and watching with patience as the clouds slowly parted to reveal a sea of stars.

he horses were restless. Even Ajadevi, who had never ridden before, sensed their disquiet. Back in Angkor, she’d either walked or been carried on a jeweled palanquin. Now, as she sat behind Jayavar on a silk pad tied to the animal, she rested her hand on their mount’s broad back. She closed her eyes, felt heat emanating from the firm flesh, and was reminded of a distant time and place. The catalyst of the memory, one from a former life, was the heat. Something had burned and blackened. Wood? Straw? She shook her head, patterns emerging, fabric smoldering beneath a flame.

Their horse neighed and the vision was gone. Ajadevi opened her eyes. The jungle through which they traveled was thick with towering ficus and teak trees. Many of these behemoths were limbless for the first two hundred feet and then topped with rich canopies. Smaller trees, shrubs, ferns, and flowers competed for the early-morning light that managed to penetrate the leafy ceiling. Black squirrels, gray monkeys, and colorful birds traveled in the dangerous heights, causing leaves and twigs to fall. The dry
season was about to start, but for now dampness hung in the air. Scents of decay and new growth lingered from bend to bend, from hill to valley.

Ten horses and an equal number of warriors accompanied Jayavar and Ajadevi. They rode in the middle of the group, which stretched in single file as far as one might throw a rock. The warriors were the strongest of the remaining Khmers. Each would gladly give his life for the prince or princess, and each was bent on revenge against the Chams.

“I saw a moment,” Ajadevi said softly.

Jayavar turned, his gaze meeting hers. “What moment?”

“Burning silk.”

He nodded, accustomed to her visions. “And why did the fire start?”

“Passion, I think.”

“Passion?”

“The flames…rose from passion.”

“Did you see anything else? Anything that might aid us?”

Ajadevi thought about the Chams, about how the heat of a former life might provide insight into what they faced. “The Chams…covet our beauty, but may destroy it.”

“I know this.”

“They destroy our future.”

“Our children? My children?”

Sunlight filtered down from a gap in the tree canopy, warming Ajadevi’s shoulders. “The Chams are like shadows, but a few…a few are like light. A few can be trusted.”

“The only Cham I trust is a dead Cham.”

“Don’t talk like that, Jayavar. The world isn’t a place of black and white, but of color. Some Chams deserve your blade and some do not.”

“If my children live, I shall be merciful.”

She reached around his waist, her hand finding his. “I love your children too. I’ve always loved them as if they were born from me.”

“I know.”

“And I’ve had my own children,” she said, aware of warmth within her belly. “Long before I came upon this body, I was a mother.”

“So you understand how I feel. The ache. The emptiness.”

“I do.”

Jayavar nodded. “A part of me wishes to rush to Angkor, to see if they live. The other part of me wants to proceed slowly, for I fear what we shall discover and I cling to hope.”

“Hope clings to you.”

“How?”

“The hope of your people. Of your unborn sons and daughters. Of me.”

He studied the men in front of him, thinking that most of them also had children, that their burdens were as great as his. “I fear…that I’m not strong enough,” he whispered. “Men will die for me, but I’m the same flesh and blood as they.”

“Men will die for a belief. Not for you, but for the belief that you stand for something noble. Angkor Wat was built on such beliefs. The Hindus created the temple to house their Gods, their faith. Though Buddhism leads me on a different path, I still like to look at the Hindus’ statues, to see the faces of their Gods.”