Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  “What of the Cham officer?” Po Rame asked.

  “He has a woman, master. A Khmer woman.”

  “I know as much.”

  “She went alone, unbidden, to his quarters today. He wasn’t there, but she stayed some time.”

  Po Rame nodded, wondering how Voisanne could be exploited. “Learn why she lingered,” he replied, handing her another coin.

  “Thank you, master.”

  “Keep your forked tongue quiet on these matters. Keep it quiet or you’ll lose it. I’ll return in two nights.” His eyes swept over her, and she straightened.

  “Would you care, master, to enjoy me? You did once before. You can again.”

  Po Rame’s shame was instant and overwhelming. “You promised never to speak of it.”

  “I—”

  “Be silent,” he said, his voice still quiet and unhurried.

  Though the woman was valuable to him, she was just one of many informants. As he saw it, in a moment of great weakness he had polluted himself by sleeping with her. He’d gone from being feared, from following in the footsteps of the Gods, to tainting himself with the stains of her existence. He had acted like an ordinary man when he had no wish to be one.

  In one fluid motion, Po Rame pulled his leather garrote from where it was wrapped around his waist. Her lips had barely parted when he whipped it around her neck and wrenched her toward him. Though he could have leaned back and broken her neck with little effort, he let her die slowly, savoring her struggles, prolonging the moment of her passing with skill and cunning. He allowed her to beg, reveling in her terror, in his power over her. Strength rushed into him and he felt himself rising up, as if he were one of the Gods vanquishing a demon.

  He left the room. Her body would be found by those nearby, and people would know what he had done to her. Fear of him would spread, moving from Khmer to Cham to Khmer, entrenching his position as someone to be answered, not questioned.

  Breathing easier now that she was dead, now that her face was gone from his world, Po Rame washed his hands in a bathing pool before making his way toward the Royal Palace, his thoughts returning to Asal’s woman. If she had gone unbidden to his room, then she might care for him. And if she cared for him, she could be used as a weapon.

  As adept as he was with blades, Po Rame preferred weapons of flesh to those of steel. They were more satisfying to wield, and could inflict as much pain, as much horror, as any piece of iron.

  The Forging of Alliances

  he cool water of the moat was refreshing in the early-morning heat. Rain had not fallen in Angkor for many days, and dust rose from a distant road as throngs of warriors, traders, commoners, priests, horses, and elephants traveled in either well-maintained columns or small packs. Voisanne watched the mass of her countrymen and the occupiers, though her mind dwelled on her younger sister and how they might soon be reunited. Her impatience had driven her to seek out Asal earlier in the day. His room had been empty but she was surprised and pleased to discover his note. She replaced his letter with another of her own, thanking him and asking when they might meet.

  Thida scrubbed herself to Voisanne’s right. Though Voisanne was tempted to confide in her, Thida had been unusually interested in Voisanne’s lighter mood, and at times her questions had seemed too pointed. Voisanne had so far resisted divulging information about her sister, tempted though she was to place trust in her new friend.

  Wading away from the embrace of a Khmer man and woman, Voisanne moved deeper into the moat. Children swam in these waters, and pink lotus flowers bobbed in miniature waves. The sight of the flowers prompted Voisanne to think about her parents and the certainty that they would want her to rescue her sister as soon as possible. Anything could happen to a slave.

  I must go to Asal again, she thought. I must convince him to free her.

  A fish broke the surface between Voisanne and Thida, consuming a moth that had fallen to the water. Voisanne glanced at Angkor Wat, thinking that she needed to pray, to beseech her Gods for Chaya’s safe return.

  “Voisanne?”

  Turning, Voisanne looked at Thida. “Yes?”

  “I…I want to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  Thida lowered herself deeper into the moat. She grimaced, then rubbed her temples. An elephant trumpeted. Dragonflies skipped along the water’s surface. “I haven’t revealed anything to him,” she finally replied, her words barely audible. “I swear I haven’t.”

  “Who are you talking about, Thida?”

  “You can’t say anything. If you do, he’ll kill me. He’ll hurt me, then kill me.”

  Voisanne put her hand on Thida’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You can trust me. We share the same house, the same past, and the same fate. We’re sisters in everything but blood.”

  “Indravarman…came to me a few nights ago. He asked about you.”

  “About me?”

  “He ordered me to become your friend, to spy on you. And I started…to do what he wanted. But then I stopped.”

  Voisanne’s skin tingled and goose bumps appeared on her arms. “But I’m nothing to him. I’m a face amid a thousand faces. Why would he care about me?”

  “Asal. He worries about Asal and wants to learn more about him.”

  “He gave me to Asal. He threw us together.”

  Thida shrugged. She started to speak, then stopped. “Please…please forgive me. I should have told you right away, but he frightens me. He frightens me so much.”

  “You mustn’t—”

  “He has spies, and he uses women as spies too, whether we want to help him or not. He keeps track of everyone—his friends and his foes. His strength is obvious for all to see, yet he grows more paranoid by the day. He wants Jayavar’s head but can’t find him.”

  Voisanne thought about Asal, fearful for him. “But Asal has done nothing wrong. How can his loyalty be questioned?”

  “I don’t know why Indravarman distrusts him. But he does. He watches him as he does everyone else.”

  “And he told you to get close to me, so that you could report to him?”

  Tears gathered in Thida’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to tell you. But I’ve been so frightened. No one dares to displease him because if they do…they disappear. It doesn’t matter if they’re Khmers or Chams or women or priests. They just vanish, and people are afraid to even talk about them. And I know he’ll hurt me and kill me and I’m so afraid of him.”

  Voisanne embraced her friend, holding her tight. As Thida wept, Voisanne thought about how best to proceed. It seemed that Thida should tell Indravarman something; otherwise he’d begin to suspect her loyalty. She remembered Asal saying that someone was following them in the jungle, and that he would no longer pretend to beat her.

  “You needn’t be afraid of him,” Voisanne finally said, stroking the back of Thida’s head. “He’s a prideful man—a prideful snake, I should say. And you’re so beautiful. You’re like a treasure for him to display day after day.”

  “I don’t want to be a treasure.”

  “Just keep him happy, Thida. Tell him that…that I speak about Asal often, that I care for him. I don’t think there’s any harm in such knowledge, and his spies must have told him as much already.”

  Thida looked up. “Is it true?”

  “Yes. He’s brought me back to life. And he…” Voisanne paused, deciding not to reveal the discovery of her sister.

  “What?”

  “He’s no threat to Indravarman. He only wants to serve his king, to fulfill his duty.”

  “But why…why were you handed to him and me to Indravarman? It isn’t fair. I’ve done nothing wrong. Why am I being punished?”

  Voisanne used her forefinger to wipe away one of Thida’s tears. “After the Chams came,” she said quietly, “I wanted to die. Death seemed…like a noble end. But now, now I’m glad that I still live. I have hope.”

  “Indravarman…he steals hope.”

  “Then we’ll have
to steal you, Thida. We’ll steal you from him.”

  “What?”

  Voisanne glanced toward the north. “Don’t you hear the whispers about Khmers hiding in the jungle? We only need to escape.”

  “No. He’ll kill us.”

  “He’ll kill us if he catches us. But snakes aren’t as smart as they look. A child can thrash one with a long hoe.”

  Thida shook her head, and Voisanne put her hands on either side of her friend’s chin, holding her motionless.

  “You must stay strong,” Voisanne said. “On the outside, when you’re with him, pretend to be beaten, pretend to betray me. But inside, stay strong. And believe in yourself; believe in a future free of him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. Yes, you will. You’ve already endured so much. What will a few more weeks matter?”

  “I…I just—”

  “Listen to me—he grows lax with you. We have no guard as we bathe. We have new freedoms. It seems to me that his vanity, his belief in your fear of him, gives us opportunities. So let me plan. You endure him and I’ll plan. And one day this will all seem so very distant.”

  Thida nodded, then leaned her head on Voisanne’s shoulder. Voisanne held her tight, the sudden responsibility for her well-being reminding Voisanne of how her father and mother must have felt. Voisanne had been thrust into the role of a protector because Thida wasn’t strong enough to make it on her own; nor would Chaya ever escape her Cham masters without help.

  Voisanne would have to lead them. She was untested in so many ways. She was young and unwise. Even during her engagement she had still felt like a girl.

  But she was now a woman. And she would have to start acting like one.

  Prak sat beside Vibol eating some fresh perch that their mother had cooked over the fire and seasoned with lemongrass that she’d found at the water’s edge. The perch was succulent and nourishing. Prak felt as if he were growing stronger with each bite. Though the dish was one of Vibol’s favorites, he barely ate. His eyes and face were still swollen from his beating, and his jaw hurt when he moved it.

  Rarely had Prak seen Vibol so quiet. He tried to engage his brother through humor, memories, and even talk of revenge. But Vibol remained silent, staring into the dying flames of the fire, twisting a stick over and over.

  The flames reminded Vibol of his suffering, of how he had begged for mercy as the Chams tied him to the pole and then pounded it into the lake’s bottom. His pleas, uttered between his sobs and the sound of their fists striking him, were mocked. Once he was bound, one of the Chams had urinated on his head, prompting the warriors to howl with laughter.

  Though Vibol wanted to banter with Prak as he always had, he felt so small and helpless. He had called his father a coward, but he was the coward. He was the one who had cried in front of their enemies, who had begged to them like a child.

  Prak continued to speak to him, but Vibol wasn’t listening. He glanced at his parents, who stood at the shoreline and appeared to argue. Only now did he understand why his father had been so reluctant to engage the Chams. His father had been wrong not to defend his homeland, but right in believing that the power of the Chams was unrivaled.

  Vibol still wanted to drive them from Angkor but he felt that doing so was impossible. While in their camp he had seen thousands of warriors, infinite supplies, and a never-ending stream of boats arriving and departing from the bay. The Chams were in Angkor to stay. To fight them was to die.

  Sitting on a log, Vibol shifted his weight, pain racing through him from the movement. He grimaced, holding back a moan. When Prak asked how he was, he shook his head. “The Chams…will never leave.”

  Prak set down his fish. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because…of what their boats hold.” Vibol stilled his trembling hand, repressing a memory of the dark boats, of his screams. “Women and children are arriving,” he said softly. “And they wouldn’t bring their families unless they planned to stay.”

  A breeze gathered strength and tugged at the bushes around them. Smoke drifted into Prak’s face and he moved to his left, toward a bouquet of flowers that their mother had arranged in a clay jar. “What did they do to you, Vibol? Tell me what they did.”

  Vibol turned away, ignoring the smoke that blew over him. “We’ll never defeat them.”

  “But we thought they’d never defeat us. Why can’t fate be flipped? Why can’t—”

  “Because they’re strong and we’re weak!”

  Prak began to scoop handfuls of sand onto the dying fire, causing the smoke to billow outward and then disappear. “Maybe they are strong,” he finally replied. “But I think they’re fools. And a strong fool is less worrisome than a brilliant weakling.”

  “So, we’re brilliant? Some poor fishermen? They pissed on my head and you can’t see. I’m sure they must be terrified of us.”

  “Seeing didn’t get you far, did it? Maybe, Vibol, if you couldn’t see, like me, everything would be clear. Maybe you—”

  “So it’s all clear to you? You know what must be done?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know nothing!”

  Prak saw that his parents were moving in their direction but he motioned them away. “I know that the Chams hurt my brother. I know that a mind can be as strong as a sword. And I know how to defeat them at the lake.”

  Vibol halted his reply. His brother’s last words both alarmed and incited him. A part of him cowered at the thought of again facing the Chams, but he was also still consumed with the prospect of driving them from their land. “How?” he finally asked, continuing to twist the stick, a motion that disguised the trembling of his hands. “How do we defeat them?”

  “Are you sure you want to hear from me, the boy who can’t see?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m a weakling, remember?”

  “Stop it. Tell me how we can win.”

  “We earn their trust by selling them fish each day. But one day, the fish we sell will be poisoned. And the next day, we attack.”

  “How…how do we poison the fish?”

  “Mother knows ways. A hundred things in the jungle can sicken you. Or we just sell fish that has lain in the sun for a day. The Chams will become too sick to fight. At least some of them will be. Maybe enough to even out our numbers.”

  “But—”

  “And just now, as I was watching the fire, I wondered what would happen if we started a fire opposite the Chams’ position. The wind often comes from the north, blowing toward the Great Lake. If a breeze blew flames toward the Chams’ camp, they’d be forced into the water. We could attack them from boats, and their elephants and horses would be terrified. The Chams would be trapped between the flames and our army.”

  Vibol sat straighter, still twisting the stick. “What army?”

  “We’d have to travel, Vibol. To go into the jungle and find our Khmer brothers and sisters. We’d join their ranks, then tell them our plans. Of course, I’m sure that most of the Chams are in Angkor, so this would be the smaller battle. I have no idea how to retake the city.”

  An unseen monkey screeched. Vibol flinched at the noise, then glanced behind him. “What will Father say?”

  “He’ll agree.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve already told him. Because when they hurt you, they hurt him. And he wants us all to live as we did before, without the threat of such pain. That’s what he said to me last night, when Mother was with you. He wants life to return to what it was before, and he thinks we have to drive the Chams from our land to make that happen.”

  Vibol pointed toward his brother. “And you? What do you think?”

  “I want the old Vibol back—the blundering, babbling fool who longed to bathe with pretty girls, who was more concerned about having clean teeth than picking up a sword. And the only way I’ll get him back is to drive the Chams from our land. So I’ll help Father and I’ll help you.”

  “And Mother?”
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  “As long as none of us gets hurt, Mother will be fine. Because when she thought you were dead, she seemed to die too. So don’t walk down that road again. Just stay safe and by my side. Together we can do things that neither of us can do alone. Together we can make the Chams regret ever coming to Angkor.”

  The road into Angkor was crowded. Massive teak and ficus trees provided shade for groups of travelers—warriors, commoners, priests, and pilgrims. The dusty road was littered with horse and elephant dung. Slaves carried ornate palanquins upon which sat high-ranking Cham officials. Clusters of monkeys begged for food near roadside stalls, often dodging rocks thrown by annoyed vendors. A listless breeze came and went, doing little to carry away the scents of animals, sweat, urine, and spices.

  Sitting beneath the shade of an old banyan tree, Jayavar and Ajadevi watched the endless procession of travelers. Both were posing as beggars covered in filth, with matted hair and empty bowls. They mumbled to themselves as if mad, uncaring of the flies that landed on them, of the taunts from passing strangers. Every so often someone would drop a coin into one of their bowls, and they would bow deeply.

  On several occasions Jayavar was tempted to tell one of his countrymen who he was and what needed to be done, but he decided to wait until the right sort of person came by. It would be easy for someone to betray him, and so he called upon his reserves of patience and continued to beg, pleading for kindness and mercy.

  The sun was growing hot, and he often looked across the road toward the moat. Already thousands of Khmers were bathing in its waters. He longed to join them but worried what would happen when his disguise washed away.