by John Shors
The food had been placed on a rattan mat, and Asal motioned for Voisanne to sit. She stood for a few heartbeats, then moved as far from him as possible, kneeling at the opposite end of the mat. He asked if she was hungry. He encouraged her to eat. But she didn’t move, not even after he whispered an apology, explaining that he’d been afraid of what Indravarman might do to her when she so openly disagreed with him.
She ignored his words, and he began to eat, using his right hand. Several times he washed his fingers in a golden water bowl. He had always been a slow eater, but in her presence, he moved like smoke, fluid and graceful. Placing the bamboo tube to his mouth, he sipped from the flask of rice wine.
“You’re a kingdom of murderers,” she said, her brow furrowed, her knuckles white in her clenched fists. “None of you can do anything other than kill! You sit here in our palace, using our bowls and plates and silks. You pray in our temples. You use our women! You’re nothing more than a pack of wild dogs!”
Asal washed his hand. “Not all of us are—”
“Yes, you are! All of you! You killed my family, and you took everything in the world from me. And it matters not that you sit here and eat like a prince. You’re nothing like a prince. And your king is no more a king than a fly on a pile of dung!”
“Keep your voice low.”
“You don’t rule me!”
“No, but I shall muzzle you if necessary.”
Voisanne glared at him, a drop of perspiration running from her brow to her nose. “I’m not afraid of you. I don’t tremble before you like you do before your king.”
“Because I’m not wicked,” Asal replied softly.
“Yet you kill. Ten priests, each as innocent as the day he was born, will be executed.”
“Better ten priests than ten families. I was trying to protect—”
“Better no one!”
Asal took another sip of his wine, grateful for its calming effect. “You assail me, and yet you don’t know me.”
“I know that you’re a coward! That you understand right from wrong and do nothing to prevent the latter.”
“Listen,” Asal whispered, leaning toward her. “Listen to me.”
“Why should I listen to a coward?”
“Please.”
“Tell me why!”
“Because I tried today, tried to do something good.” When she made no reply, Asal set down his flask. “I went to your temple. I found an old priest and we prayed together. I told him about the ten lives I needed, about how those ten lives would quench Indravarman’s rage.”
“So?”
“So I asked him to help me, to select ten priests who are sick, who are close to passing from one body to the next. He agreed. Later, he volunteered to be among the ten.”
Voisanne nodded. “A lesser evil…is still an evil.”
“True enough. So I asked the priest to spread the word, to let the ten lives be the end of it. If Chams aren’t attacked within Angkor, if we aren’t killed, then there shall be no further reprisals against Khmers. I asked Indravarman to promise as much. And he did.”
“A promise means nothing to a king. Especially to that demon who wears your crown.”
“Please…lower your voice.”
“A thousand promises were broken when you Chams arrived. Promises made between wives and husbands, mothers and daughters.”
“Yes. And I am sorry for those failings. But there is always tomorrow. Promises may be fulfilled tomorrow.”
She started to speak, but stopped. “Then what do you promise? What do you promise to me?”
“I would rather wait to make such an oath.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know you. How can I promise you something of importance when I don’t know what matters most to you?”
Voisanne shifted on the mat. Asal studied her face, her beauty reminding him of the female guardians carved into Angkor Wat. But most of the guardians smiled. He had never seen her smile.
“Did you kill my family?” she asked.
“What?”
“I have to know if you killed my family.”
“I’m a warrior, not a murderer. The day Angkor fell, I was outside these walls, fighting your king’s men.”
She nodded, and he was surprised at the swiftness with which her eyes filled with tears. “They…shouldn’t have died,” she whispered. “Your words mean nothing to me because they shouldn’t have died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“May I go? Please, let me go.”
Asal glanced at the door, then at her face. Tears descended her cheeks, dropping to her breasts. She seemed so young and vulnerable, as if she were a child rather than a woman. He stilled a desire to reach for her, to comfort her. Though he longed to let her know that she was not alone, he knew she didn’t want his touch and so he made no effort to offer it.
“You may leave,” he said quietly.
She hurried from him. In her absence his room was too still, too empty. He reached for his sword, then stepped through his door into a wide corridor. Though the ceiling towered above him, even the grandness of the Royal Palace seemed stifling. He needed to get outside.
His countrymen bowed to him, but he paid them no heed. Instead he followed a well-traveled road that led from the Royal Palace to Angkor Wat. He thought about Voisanne, about how tears seemed to connect them. His many sufferings, which he had buried so deep, seemed to rise to the surface whenever she spoke about her family. Her pain rekindled his.
Later, after his emotions had settled, Asal stepped into Angkor Wat. He wanted to find the old priest, to ask why the Gods allowed such pain and to wish him well on his journey.
At the far north end of Angkor, night fell quickly as massive ficus, banyan, and teak trees blocked out the fading light. The imposing square wall that surrounded the city was about fifteen feet high and four feet wide on the north side. Cham guards were stationed every fifty paces atop the wall. The warriors held spears, but no lanterns, as it was easier to peer across the moat within a cloak of darkness. The distant shore was illuminated by sporadic fires that marked concentrations of Cham warriors. Though there seemed to be only a scant chance that the Khmers would try so soon to reclaim the city, Indravarman wasn’t one to take risks.
Dressed as a guard, Po Rame studied his surroundings from his position atop the wall. The body of a Cham warrior was hidden below in a clump of bushes. Even under the light of a full moon, the corpse was barely visible. Po Rame had climbed the wall, slit the man’s throat from behind, and carefully lowered the body into the bushes. He’d been waiting ever since, watching a nearby building that held twenty Khmer prisoners. Earlier in the day, Po Rame had interrogated four prisoners separately, promising that their families would be burned to death if the Khmers didn’t escape, discover Jayavar’s whereabouts, and return with the information. Po Rame showed each man five golden coins, saying that they came from Indravarman and that the Khmers would be given the coins and their families would be freed once Jayavar was dead. Two of the men had agreed to the plan. Two others were defiant, and Po Rame had killed them slowly.
Now, as Po Rame waited on the wall and cleaned his teeth with a silver pick, he wondered when the Khmers would make their escape. The two Khmers had been told to convince their fellow prisoners to break out in the dead of night. Po Rame had ensured that only six Chams guarded the Khmers. And twenty men, though they were fools, ought to be able to overpower six unsuspecting guards.
The building where the prisoners were being held was set apart from the rest of Angkor’s structures and surrounded by trees. Yet it was possible that another Cham might see an escape. To mitigate such a risk, Po Rame had given the two Khmers detailed instructions on how to flee and which route to follow. He was confident of his plan, which he hadn’t shared with Indravarman. It was better that the king remain unaware of his methods of deception.
Most men wouldn’t have noticed the melee when it finally came, but Po Rame heard the faint splinte
ring of wood, a strangled cry, and several grunts. He saw shadows struggling against one another. Some fell and stood up. Some did not move again.
Voices drifted to him. Khmer voices. Po Rame raised his spear and stepped to his right, away from the Khmers. He walked along the wall, pretending to investigate, creating a bigger gap in the city’s defenses. His back was to the Khmers, and he felt a moment of acute vulnerability. But he didn’t turn. The Khmers would be climbing the wall by now, and he had to give them more time to escape.
Po Rame counted to fifty, then turned around, gazing into the darkness. Amid the croaks of countless frogs he heard faint splashes. But he didn’t look toward the moat. Instead he gazed at the prison building, pretended to notice something, and climbed down the wall.
As silent as an animal that spends its life being hunted, Po Rame made his way to the building. The bodies of six Chams mingled with those of several Khmers. Po Rame listened for approaching footsteps, heard none, and inspected the dead. No witnesses could be left alive, as an injured man could still raise an alarm. Beneath the prison’s entrance, Po Rame rolled a Cham over and was surprised to see the man’s eyes flutter.
“Call…call for help,” the guard said, his voice barely audible.
Po Rame inspected his wound, which was a jagged thing, a cut above his collarbone. “You were to guard them,” Po Rame replied. “You failed in your duty.”
“There is…still time.”
“Tell the Gods I wish them well.”
“The Gods?”
A blade appeared almost magically in Po Rame’s hand. He slit the man’s throat in one motion, then watched as the guard tried to breathe. The man clutched at Po Rame’s arms, and he enjoyed feeling the other’s desperate strength, which flowed like a swollen river at first but quickly began to weaken, soon becoming a mere trickle of life. Po Rame grabbed the man’s head and lifted it upward, forcing their eyes to meet. As cicadas called out in the canopy above, Po Rame studied how death overcame the other. Terror never seemed to consume the guard, as it did so many. He was simply there one moment and gone the next.
Po Rame regretted killing him so swiftly, but he’d had no choice. He set the man’s head on the ground, checked the other dead, and then moved away from the building, blending into the night. By the time the escape was discovered, the Khmers would be far from Angkor, on their way to discovering Jayavar’s whereabouts. If Po Rame could uncover the prince’s location, he was certain that Indravarman would continue to reward him. Not that Po Rame coveted wealth or women or power in a traditional sense. What he coveted was the opportunity to do what he had just done, to steal a life, and to sense that life as it passed through him, leaving a part of its essence within him, giving him power and knowledge.
Po Rame had been weak until he killed his first man. As a young slave, he had feared the strong, feared the Gods. But when he found the courage to fight back against those who assailed him, to kill his master in the dead of night, strength seemed to flow into him, strength stolen, he believed, from his former tormentor. Ever since that day Po Rame had been addicted to killing. Taking life made him feel invincible, made him a man to be feared and respected. And that was why, more than anything else, Po Rame wanted to kill Jayavar. To kill the Khmer prince, whom some might now consider a king, would be better than the conquest of a civilization.
Indravarman wanted to rule far and wide. But Po Rame had no such ambitions. He longed only to feel Jayavar’s blood on his hands, a man he’d never met, but who might have led a kingdom. To kill Jayavar would be to fill himself with a power and a peace that he had never known.
Po Rame had always believed in the Hindu Gods, in their battles and their deeds. They had fought, struggled, and now were worshipped. He hoped that one day he’d be seen in such a light—because as much as they were loved, the Gods were also feared. If enough people feared Po Rame, if they knew of his reputation and cowered as he passed by, then he would live forever.
Incursions
hmers were accustomed to the swiftness with which the weather changed from wet to dry. After months of daily rains and overcast skies, winds seemed to blow out the moisture, to reveal the land so that the sun could once again beat down. The sandstone temples warmed in the light. Mud turned to dust. Rivers shrank. Mosquitoes dwindled in number.
Though in some ways the heat was a welcome relief, the only means Khmers had to stay cool was to bathe often. Slaves and servants, high priests and warriors took dips in the moat or in one of the many bathing pools within the city. On particularly hot days, Khmers sought out the waters every few hours, lounging in the shallows, swimming where possible. The shorelines were filled with Chinese traders who took fewer baths and were much more modest about nudity. While Khmers swam naked and sometimes found pleasure in one another’s bodies within the waters, the Chinese sat in the shade and stared. The foreigners, who were present in large numbers, wore silk tunics and maintained many of their own customs. They cremated their dead, used lavatory paper, and slept in beds. Because Chinese goods were in high demand, the foreigners were generally well respected. Many of the most successful traders took up residence with Khmer women, who advised them on local customs.
Voisanne was used to the Chinese staring at her naked body when she bathed and she thought nothing of it as she made her way down the steps leading into the moat. Thida was beside her. The two women had spent more time together in recent days. They had continued to live in the Royal Palace alongside five thousand other concubines who were on constant call for Indravarman’s demands. Though most of the other women never saw the Cham king, he often sought out Thida’s company, which put him in close proximity to Voisanne.
The moat was filled with many of the royal concubines, and Voisanne nodded to several as she waded into deeper water. She didn’t like to be near their Cham guard. He pretended not to speak Khmer, but Voisanne suspected differently. She had watched his face while she and Thida chatted, and once her suspicions were aroused, she told Thida within his earshot that she thought he was handsome. He had been kinder to her from that moment forward, and later, in secret, she’d advised Thida to watch her tongue.
Voisanne waded to a clump of floating lotus flowers. The sacred flowers with pink petals and yellow stamens sprouted upward from wide green leaves that rested on the water’s surface. Voisanne remembered her father telling her how the spreading leaves of lotus flowers symbolized the expansion of the soul. He’d also explained how the lotus flower is untouched by water, as a pure being is untouched by sin.
“I was his lotus,” she said softly, continuing to study the flowers.
Thida moved beside her, only her shoulders and head above water. “Whose?”
“My father’s. He said that I was his little lotus. That I always bloomed.”
“You do.”
Voisanne reached for Thida’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Maybe when I was a girl. But as a woman…I don’t feel as if I’m in bloom. Not now at least.”
Cries erupted from the distant shore. A group of Khmers had gathered close together, cheering as they watched a cockfight. Bets would have been wagered and boasts exchanged. Though Voisanne had never liked such spectacles, she was glad that her countrymen were enjoying themselves, even if just for a moment.
“Do you fear your Cham?” Thida asked.
Voisanne thought about Asal. He had never made any move to harm her, nor did she think that he ever would. “He’s cruel,” she lied, unsure whether she could trust Thida.
“How?”
“He takes…what he wants.”
“And you don’t fight him?”
“I tried once. But it made things worse.”
On the opposite side of the moat, two Cham warriors atop a large war elephant maneuvered their beast toward the group of Khmers, breaking them up. The roosters continued to fight until their owners scooped them up and stuffed them into bamboo baskets. The Chams yelled something at the Khmers, then turned the elephant so that it began to lumber a
cross the immense causeway that spanned the moat toward Angkor Wat. Khmer priests and pilgrims scurried away.
“Is nothing sacred to them?” Voisanne asked. “They kill. They enslave. They pollute our very existence.”
Thida made no reply. She bit her bottom lip as if trying not to cry.
Voisanne turned to focus on her new friend. “Is Indravarman hurting you?”
“He…uses me, but no, he’s never hit me.”
“And yet?”
“And yet he frightens me. His temper is so great.”
“How do you know that? What has he done?”
Thida shook her head, then splashed some water on her face. “When people fail him, they suffer terribly. If I failed him, I’d share their fate.”
Voisanne wondered how she would endure if she belonged to Indravarman. “Can you avoid him? There are so many concubines. Why not try to hide among them?”
“His men find me.”
“Try harder.”
“But then I risk failing him. And that would mean a beating.”
“I’d rather have a beating…than a certain encounter with him. And maybe if he beats you he’ll find you undesirable.”
A tear dropped from Thida’s right eye. “No. I have to please him. I’m afraid of not pleasing him.”
Voisanne tried to put herself into Thida’s position, to imagine her terror. “The Buddhists believe that suffering is a part of life,” she said. “I don’t agree with them, because I don’t want to suffer. But maybe…if you accept your suffering, accept it for now, you’ll be able to escape it.”
“What do you mean?”
“If that snake trusts you, he’ll let down his guard. And when that happens, you can escape.”