Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  They hauled their catch to shore and marveled at its size. At five feet long and as thick as a pig, the gray, spotted catfish could have fed fifty people. Soriya wondered aloud how many hungry Khmers were hiding in the jungle, and Boran decided to cut the meat into thin strips so that it could be smoked and preserved. As Boran and Soriya started to make a drying rack, their boys went to work with knives. Soon they were covered in blood and entrails.

  The jungle was full of tigers and other predators, so Boran built a fire at the base of an acacia tree. He also cut a groove in the tree’s trunk and set a burning branch inside the groove. Soon tar would seep from the wound, which he’d use to patch a crack in his boat.

  “We could stay in these waters forever,” he said. “Just the four of us.”

  Vibol stopped working and looked up. “But—”

  “But we cannot do what I’d like to do,” Boran added.

  After Soriya positioned their drying rack near the fire, she stepped toward her husband. She had created a necklace of jasmine flowers for herself, and the petals trembled as she moved. “What would you have us do?” she asked.

  Boran eyed his sons. “The Chams traveled to Angkor using their boats. They’re a kingdom of seafarers. More boats will surely sail from their homeland, bringing men and supplies. The most sensible route would take them across the Great Lake. So it would seem that they must have a base there, near Angkor.”

  Prak set down his knife. “You think we should spy on them?”

  “What do you think?”

  “We could track them from afar,” Prak suggested. “And report their doings to our Khmer brothers.”

  “Yes,” Vibol added, standing up. “And if we happen to meet a few Chams, we can—”

  “There will be no killing,” Boran interjected. “Killing puts us at risk of discovery. Better to watch and report. That task is much more valuable than the blood of a few Chams.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Vibol. “Agreed?”

  Prak and then Vibol nodded.

  “So we’ll spy on them,” Boran concluded. “We know how to find and study fish. It can’t be so different to study men. Only we’ll let others catch them.”

  The brothers reconfirmed their agreement, then went back to work. They hauled the catfish’s carcass into the water, leery of crocodiles and snapping turtles. As the current swept away the carcass, the siblings washed themselves.

  Soriya beckoned Boran to her side. “The spying worries me,” she whispered. “I can lose anything but my loved ones. Please, please, don’t take us to a place where I might lose one of you.”

  Boran nodded. “I’m worried too, but if we go nowhere, if we do nothing, Vibol will leave us. And we can’t guide him if we’re not near him.”

  A monkey or squirrel must have passed overhead because leaves started to fall. Soriya bit her lower lip. “If they were younger, I’d want to run.”

  “I know.”

  “I’d do the opposite of what we’re doing.”

  “And leave your homeland to die?”

  “Better to lose my homeland than my loved ones.” She pointed at him. “Please, Boran, please move with care. One wrong step and everything we’ve built will crumble. And what we’ve built is as precious as any temple.”

  “We won’t crumble.”

  “My heart tells me to run. To run and not look back. So please swear to me, Boran, that if the danger becomes too great we’ll turn around. We’ll flee rather than fight.”

  More leaves fell from the canopy above them. Boran nodded again, then rubbed his aching neck, which often troubled him from dawn to dusk. He thought about his children, wishing that they were younger and that Vibol didn’t yet understand the concept of revenge.

  Boran continued to massage his neck, feeling increasingly torn between the desire to support his sons and the need to protect them. “If the danger seems too much,” he finally replied, “we’ll run like deer and won’t look back. Vibol will just have to become a man another day.”

  The battle had been brief, but ferocious.

  Po Rame had discovered the presence of a sizable force of Khmer warriors to the west of Angkor. The Khmers had been camped at the far end of the West Baray—an enormous, rectangular reservoir that was four miles long, a mile wide, and reached a depth of twenty feet. Years earlier, Khmers had built the reservoir to trap rainwater. In the dry season, water could be released from it into the surrounding fields, allowing farmers to grow rice and other crops throughout the year. The West Baray was the largest of the Khmer reservoirs and ensured that the kingdom could feed its multitudes of people.

  Through his network of spies, Po Rame had learned that nearly three thousand Khmer warriors had taken refuge on the far side of the reservoir. Convinced that they’d discovered the whereabouts of Jayavar, Indravarman had led a force of five thousand Chams around the vast body of water. He’d come at the Khmers from behind, trapping them against the shoreline. Though his surprise hadn’t been complete, the Khmers had been forced to fight. A few had escaped, others had been captured, and many had fought, killed, and died.

  After the battle, Indravarman had interrogated the prisoners, learning much to his dismay that no one knew the whereabouts of Jayavar. An old general had led the Khmers, and once his corpse had been thrown into the water, Indravarman had called for Asal. Now, as Indravarman sat on his war elephant and watched his young officer approach on a similar beast, he recalled how Asal had charged into a thicket of Khmer warriors at the shoreline, using a long spear to impale them like fish. Asal’s elephant had trampled several Khmers, and would have done more harm, but the mahout—the small man who sat on its neck and controlled the beast—had been slain, and Asal had been forced to leap down from his elevated platform so that the creature could be managed. Several Khmers had attacked him at once, pulling him into the shallow water. Somehow Asal had landed on his feet, lashing out at his attackers, killing two before other Chams came to his aid.

  Indravarman had also engaged the enemy while on his elephant and had been slightly wounded by an arrow that had grazed his shoulder. The wound pleased him, for blood trickled down his arm for everyone to see. Many had witnessed how he’d fought in single combat against a Khmer atop a massive war elephant. The two warriors had exchanged blows until Indravarman slipped his spear under the Khmer’s shield.

  The immense war elephant was now his. Indravarman told his mahout to let it bathe in the shallows. The slight man pushed a knee into the base of its right ear, clucking with his tongue. The beast lurched forward, stepping farther into the water, continuing ahead until the bottoms of its tusks were wet.

  Asal’s new mahout moved their elephant alongside Indravarman’s. The king dismissed both mahouts, who bowed to him, jumped into the water, and waded back to shore. As usual, Asal made no effort to break the silence, and Indravarman studied him, noting that blood oozed from his knuckles.

  “You had to hit them?” Indravarman asked.

  Asal nodded.

  “Unforgivable to lose your weapon in battle.” The king swiped at a fly that had found his wound. “When you lose your blade, you give a man hope.”

  “He’s dead, Lord King. Whatever hope I gave him, I reclaimed it swiftly.”

  Indravarman laughed. “A lion among cubs, that’s what you were.”

  “As were you, Lord King.”

  “Because Jayavar wasn’t here. Without Jayavar, the Khmers will always be cubs.”

  A snake swam across the murky water, not twenty paces in front of Asal’s elephant. He felt the giant beast tense, and he leaned forward, running his hand upon its back through the hard and thick hairs that marked its age.

  “Po Rame’s information was sound,” Indravarman said. “Once again, I find myself indebted to him.”

  Asal remembered how the assassin had once murdered a senior Cham officer and his family. The officer had been an adversary of Indravarman’s but a friend of Asal’s. Poison was Po Rame’s weapon of choice, and Asal had come upon the children
writhing in pain, their bellies swollen and hot. He’d tried to save them but was forced to watch them suffer and die, reminded of the distant cries of his own siblings. Days later, Asal had learned who had killed his friends and he’d been filled with rage. He’d sought out Po Rame and called him a coward, but, leery of Indravarman, had not lifted his sword. Neither had Po Rame retaliated, likely out of the same concern.

  “What should I do with the prisoners?” Indravarman asked, pointing with his thumb toward a group of Khmers who stood in water up to their necks.

  Asal knew that his king would kill the Khmers, but he didn’t want to give Indravarman motives to try and become less predictable. “Put them to work, Lord King,” he replied. “As farmers and blacksmiths. We have thousands of men to feed and arm. They’ll fight better with full bellies and sharp swords.”

  Indravarman frowned. “True enough. But these Khmers won’t break so easily. They’ll rise up again. And I tell you, it’s better to have an empty belly as you fight one man than a full belly as you fight two.”

  “If you believe so, Lord King.”

  “You’re too forgiving, Asal. That’s your great weakness. On a field of battle, you’re nearly unrivaled. But off that field, you’re as dangerous as a child.”

  “I—”

  “Enemies are everywhere. They don’t always hold swords, but often parchment, hoes, or silks. Every Khmer is my enemy and I’ll treat them as such. I take no joy in it, but that’s how you break an enemy, how you rule a defeated kingdom. You steal their pride, their comfort, their ambitions. You show them that death can come at any time, and in this way they’ll be grateful for life.” Indravarman wiped away blood that continued to trickle from the wound on his shoulder. “I see the doubt in your face, Asal. It’s true that the Khmers are fellow Hindus. I admire their temples. I believe that there’s much that binds us to them. But our people live on the seas. We trade. We pirate. We endure, but don’t flourish. To our north, the Vietnamese grow stronger by the day. Here in the south, the Khmers build cities that surpass anything we create. And the Siamese encroach on our territory from the west. We’re squeezed from all directions. If we don’t strike out, as we do now, our people will cease to exist.”

  Asal nodded, though he believed that Indravarman took joy in his military campaigns, that his philosophical musings were attempts to justify, even ennoble, choices he’d already made. “Then why not strike the Vietnamese, Lord King?” Asal asked. “They seem weaker than the Khmers.”

  “Because the Khmers have gold and silver. Because they’ve grown soft in their pursuit of pleasing the Gods. It took fifty thousand Khmers and thousands of their elephants to build Angkor Wat. Imagine that. They could have scattered us with such a force, and instead they built a temple. Po Rame was right—the time to conquer them is now. Better to strike an enemy, to crush an enemy, before the chance has come and gone.”

  “And what of the prisoners, Lord King?”

  The muscles of Indravarman’s jaw tightened. “Prisoners or enemies? They were gathering an army to attack us. And so I’ll bury them up to their chins in the dirt, in their precious dirt. Let their people see what happens when I’m opposed.”

  Asal glanced at the men who remained in the water. Some must have just died of their wounds, for there seemed to be fewer of them. Asal saw defiance in the faces of those who still lived. They would do better, he thought, to hide their hatred.

  “Tell me of your woman,” Indravarman said, removing his inverted lotus-flower headdress, which he always wore for battle, as did the men beneath him. Though most of the shoulder-length headdresses were highlighted by colorful silk and painted beads, the king’s also contained a single row of small, gold spheres.

  “What of her, Lord King?”

  “Does my gift please you?”

  “She does.”

  “An unlucky Khmer, that woman. We attacked as she was about to be wed. Her man was killed.”

  Asal shook his head. “I didn’t know.”

  “Does our timing make you her husband?” Indravarman asked, laughing.

  “She—”

  “Did you ever think that you’d have a Khmer wife? And such a pretty one at that?” Indravarman slapped his thigh, continuing to chuckle. He called to his mahout, telling the man to lead his elephant ashore. “That’s why power is good, Asal,” Indravarman said. “We saw something beautiful, and we took it. A kingdom and a woman.”

  “Yes, Lord King.”

  “Keep me happy as she keeps you happy. Do that and you shall have a blessed life.”

  Asal watched as Indravarman returned to shore and began shouting orders. As the prisoners were dragged from the water, Asal thought about Voisanne. He remembered her tears, how she had feared him even when he meant her no harm. Suddenly he needed to tell her that he was sorry, that he had also suffered and understood her pain. Surely she hated him, but he did not want to be hated, especially by her.

  Feeling dirty, as if the taint of injustice had soiled his skin, Asal slid off his elephant and into the cool water. He removed his headdress, tossed it to shore, and then swam away from the beast. After loosening his topknot, he ran his hands through his hair, wishing to rid himself of the foulness that covered him.

  Back at Jayavar’s base camp deep in the jungle, a small hand held an ornately carved spear. Night had fallen, and free to roam in the darkness, the shadow explored large areas within and around the Khmer perimeter. The terrain was flat, dominated by rivers, lakes, trees, and wild animals. Back in Angkor, humanity had seemed all powerful. But here the jungle was so thick that even during the day it was impossible to see twenty paces ahead. Animals were the lords of this domain, and gibbons, langurs, tigers, leopards, deer, boars, elephants, crocodiles, cobras, hornbills, and kingfishers dwelled in the dense foliage, their calls permeating the night.

  The shadow wished that Jayavar and Ajadevi hadn’t left. They had departed without warning, vanishing with a select group of warriors. No one seemed to know when the prince would return, though people said that it would take many days to journey to Angkor and back. If rumors could be believed, Jayavar would reappear in the same manner he’d departed, though with a much larger force.

  Voices drifted through the darkness, and the shadow stepped into a bamboo thicket, disappearing from sight. The voices strengthened, and soon two Khmer warriors became visible as they patrolled. The sentries were stout and muscled, but far too loud. They didn’t know how to become a part of the jungle, which the shadow had been born into and then taken from; only recently had he returned. Though many of Angkor’s slaves could buy back their freedom, the shadow had been captured in the eastern highlands and been cursed with a cruel master. Freedom had seemed to be an impossibility—at least until the Chams had attacked.

  The Khmers passed, talking as if they were back in Angkor watching a cockfight. They walked within five paces of the shadow without realizing it. How could these fools be free? the shadow wondered. How am I a slave when I could be so much more?

  As the moon set and the jungle grew darker, the shadow remained in the thicket, wondering when Jayavar would return. The prince may have left with ten warriors beside him, but he might as well have been alone. Ten men, if they were like the sentries, would be more a curse than a blessing.

  The prince was alone, thought the shadow, and if he wasn’t careful the jungle would swallow him up.

  Seeds of Discontent

  he highest vantage point at Angkor Wat could be reached only by four steep sets of sandstone stairs. Located on the east, west, south, and north faces of the pyramidlike tower, the stairs were narrow and treacherous. A slip could send someone falling to his death.

  Voisanne had climbed to the terrace several times before, but she’d never been as preoccupied with the danger as she was now. When she reached the midway point, she thought about just leaning backward and falling, letting her head strike the stone and welcoming whatever fate came her way. But when she paused, Asal stopped as well, looking
down at her. His eyes found hers and with the slightest of movements, he nodded. Only then did Voisanne realize that he was encouraging her, but doing so secretly, as if fearful of the Cham king who led them, followed by Thida, toward the summit. For a reason Voisanne didn’t understand, this realization prompted her to nod in return, and she continued on.

  At the top of the stairs was an elaborate entrance that led to a corridor. At the sides of the entrance several three-feet-high apsaras were carved into wide pillars. Hindus believed that apsaras were female spirits of the clouds and water. Voisanne had always been fascinated by apsaras and remembered when her father had told her how they danced in the palaces of the Gods, entertaining them as well as fallen heroes. Her father had also said that Angkor Wat contained almost two thousand apsaras, each of which was different, though all tended to look happy, to be dressed ornately, and to be dancing. The apsaras at the top of the steps resembled women found in the Royal Palace who had entertained the Khmer kings and now, she suspected, amused the Cham king.

  Though Voisanne had sometimes felt powerless as a woman, she had long been comforted by the knowledge that the creators of Angkor Wat had placed such an emphasis on women. In addition to the numerous apsaras, there were carvings of devatas throughout the complex. As female guardians, devatas tended to face the viewer and appear as if they were standing still. They seemed reflective, sometimes leaning forward or with a falcon perched atop a shoulder. At the summit of Angkor Wat, as in many other places throughout the temple, women seemed to be celebrated.