Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  The carvings were so intricate, it was said that only women could have made them. And, in fact, many of the carvings were of female dancers and guardians. Smiling feminine faces were everywhere, adding serenity and beauty to walls, columns, and towers. The Citadel of Women, as it was known by many, could not have been a more apt name. Whoever had designed the temple surely meant to celebrate women as well as the Gods.

  Standing on the platform between two of the towers, Ajadevi stared to the south. Though the temple grounds boasted open courtyards and lotus-filled ponds, towering fruit-bearing trees rose from just within the surrounding wall. The bare-trunked trees were more than two hundred feet tall and featured leafy canopies. Khmer warriors had secured ladders to the trunks and nailed wooden platforms near the trees’ summits. The views must have been unparalleled, and Ajadevi wondered whether the sentries could see all the way to Angkor.

  “You were wise to inspect our position here,” she said, turning to Jayavar.

  “This place,” he replied, “is the eye of the needle. It is the key to our future.”

  “If the Chams come, our troops will be well positioned to see them.”

  He nodded, his face glistening. “Yes, and our men on the ground will have time to flee. But our men in the trees will likely be sacrificed.”

  Ajadevi looked up, suddenly aware of how long it would take to climb down from such a vast height. Not long after the warnings had been given, the sentries would be surrounded by Chams and killed. “But how can we help them?” she asked.

  “Nothing can be done. They might have enough time to climb down; then again, they might not. But they are volunteers. Most were wounded in the attack on Angkor. Some have arrows and will fight. When the time comes, the others will leap from the trees.”

  Though accustomed to the casualties of war, Ajadevi shuddered at the thought of men jumping willingly to their deaths. “Then we must attack the Chams before they discover us here.”

  “And we shall. But we need more time.”

  “Tell me why.”

  Jayavar wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Because many of the Siamese mercenaries haven’t yet arrived. Nor have most of our spies returned from Angkor. I’m somewhat blind to the Chams’ numbers, to their defenses, and still lack a complete battle plan.”

  “How long will you need?”

  “At least half a moon. We shall celebrate the Festival of Floats and then attack.”

  Ajadevi sighed, then turned around slowly, studying the thousands of carvings that graced walls and towers. She felt empowered within the Citadel of Women, as if the strength of each female face had somehow infused her with wisdom. The faces were telling her something, she was certain. But what they were saying she could not surmise.

  “What?” Jayavar asked, turning so that he could better see her.

  She walked over to a tower and touched one of the dancing women. “Banteay Srei doesn’t soar, but of all the temples, it may be my favorite.” Her fingertips traced the contours of the carving’s face, lingering on its eyes. “And yet this temple was not built by a king, but by a commoner.”

  “What of this commoner?”

  “Perhaps you place too much emphasis on your own designs for battle. Perhaps there’s someone among us, a commoner, who has seen the Cham defenses and can give you the ideas you seek.”

  “But I’ve made inquiries. No one has come forward.”

  “Ask again,” she replied, then studied the small groups of Khmer warriors clustered around the temple. The men seemed grim, she thought, aware that the usual banter among warriors was lacking.

  “You must inspire them,” she said. “You must inspire your people.”

  “I have ideas on how to do so, but might you have another?”

  “You should make a float for the festival. And when we celebrate, you should set your float among the others. Speak to our people then, as you would to me. Not as their king, but as someone who cares for them, who loves them. Let them know that we shall win this battle and that it’s one worth fighting for; that after we’ve won, our empire will be greater, and more noble, than it’s ever been.”

  A dog barked, its cries echoing off the nearby walls.

  “Look around you, Jayavar,” she continued. “See how the temple inspires? How the dreams of its makers can still be felt on this day? You must inspire our people just as our temples do, by convincing them that they’re part of something far more beautiful and glorious than themselves. That’s what Khmers have always believed and what we must continue to believe.”

  His hand went from the hilt of his sheathed sword to the stone face that she had just touched. “Your father told me once, when I was courting you, that his pride in you was unequalled.”

  “He did?”

  “He said that I’d come to cherish you above all else, and he was right. While there was a time when I coveted power and possessions, those desires have faded with the passing years. Now I simply long for this war to end so that we may spend the rest of our days together in peace, as I believe we were meant to.”

  “But we shall not spend them idly, my love, for we’ll have so much to do.”

  “I agree. And those accomplishments will mark the summit of our lives.”

  She smiled, envisioning such a future when she need not worry about death and despair but simply how to share their blessings with those less fortunate. “When this war is over,” she said, “we shall build hospitals and roads and courtyards. But we shall also build a temple to honor you, a temple with your face on it.”

  He shook his head while scratching a smudge of green lichen from the carving. “You make me into more than I am.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And when this war is through, what shall I do to honor you?”

  “Live, Jayavar. That is how you will honor me. Because the enemy will come for you and I so very much need you to live.”

  He had opened his mouth to speak when the sound of a horn pierced the air. The horn blew twice, indicating that a group of supporters, likely Khmers, was approaching. Four blows would have indicated the presence of Cham warriors. Jayavar’s hand once again went to his sword hilt. “Come, my queen,” he said. “Let’s see who has arrived.”

  She watched him walk away, so familiar with the cadence of his movements. After a few paces, he turned around, seemingly surprised that she wasn’t beside him. And so she went, as she always had and always would. She took his outstretched hand and squeezed it, and something within her trembled at the permanent yet untested nature of their connection.

  Within one of the courtyards of Angkor Wat, Thida watched Indravarman practice his warfare. He wielded a bamboo pole, as did his two opponents. Though smaller men, they were skilled with their weapons and took turns assaulting him. Thida had seen Indravarman fight on several occasions but couldn’t remember witnessing the fury that seemed to explode now with each of his attacks. A blurred shape, his pole swept and darted, humming as it sliced through the air. Each of his adversaries had been struck, and large bruises had already formed on their battered flesh. Yet Indravarman showed them no mercy, attacking as they retreated, using his pole, his fists, and even his knees. Drops of sweat and blood darkened the gray sandstone beneath their bare feet.

  When Indravarman had his back to her, Thida glanced up at the magnificent towers of Angkor Wat, hoping that the majestic sight would overwhelm her memories of the previous day. She had stood beside the king as four hundred Khmer men had been rounded up, speared, and left in a pile for everyone to see. Wives and children had clung together, shrieking, and the cries still reverberated in Thida’s mind. She had never seen such horror, and the very thought of it made her legs tremble. At one point she had started to ask Indravarman to stop the killings, but the intensity of his gaze had silenced her.

  The fight continued, and when someone grunted, Thida turned back to the melee in time to see a man roll away from the king, clutching his side. Indravarman kicked him, then spun to face the ot
her Cham. Thida wished that the smaller man’s weapon would strike home. She feared Indravarman to a degree that she would not have believed possible. He’d brought so much suffering to her people. With each passing day she saw, heard, and felt their anguish.

  The king shattered the second warrior’s pole, then reversed his strike, bringing his weapon up and into the man’s chin. Flesh split and blood flew. The Cham crumpled, and as he lay writhing, Thida couldn’t help but pity him. Not one of the many observers came to his aid until Indravarman dropped his pole and walked away. He strode toward Thida, his body glistening with sweat. Despite spending so many nights with him, she was still surprised by his size. He was an immense man who moved with the speed and dexterity of someone much smaller.

  “Walk with me,” he said.

  “Yes, Lord King.”

  He led her away from the courtyard and into a hallway. A golden bas-relief graced the near wall, and Thida studied the carvings of various Gods and demons. Cicadas buzzed. The scent of burning wood lingered. Indravarman turned to his right, proceeded up a long flight of stone stairs, and came to the second level of Angkor Wat. He then entered another courtyard and climbed a long, steep stairway that led to the top of the temple. For a moment Thida wondered what would happen if she pulled him backward. The fall would be terrible, perhaps even fatal. With one tug on his shoulder she could send him toppling and take control of her own fate. Yet she did nothing, merely following in his footsteps, soon panting with effort.

  They reached the summit of Angkor Wat, stepped through massive, elaborately painted doors, and walked to an opening in the western wall that provided an unparalleled view of Angkor. Thida leaned against the parapet, her fists clenching at the sight of her country. Gardens, canals, and rolling green hills attracted her gaze, drawing her in and not letting her go. The bronze and gold towers of several temples sparkled in the midmorning light. Birds wheeled beneath her, riding thermal breezes.

  “A beautiful land,” Indravarman commented absently.

  “Yes, Lord King.”

  “Do you understand why we came here?”

  She glanced up at his broad face, wondering how she should answer. “Isn’t your land as beautiful?” she asked.

  “Perhaps. But when you can have two sapphires why would you make do with one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He grunted, then wiped sweat from his eyes. “Do you think me harsh? For how those men were killed?”

  “What…what did they do, Lord King?”

  “They did nothing. But their allies hid, plotted, and attacked. If such crimes went unpunished we would live in a lawless land. And I need law. I need order. Without them we’d be no better than the savages who live in the mountains, who make good slaves but are useful for nothing else.”

  “Yes, Lord King.”

  “I don’t savor cruelty. Truly I don’t. But it’s a weapon and I will use it as needed.”

  “I hope that…you’re not attacked again. Then, Lord King, there will be no reason for more cruelty.”

  Indravarman laughed. “How my timid Thida speaks up. You must be quivering inside.”

  She nodded, leaning slightly away from him. “I only want peace.”

  “Then tell me, are you willing to help achieve it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What has your friend Voisanne told you of my man Asal? I know him to be strong and able—the best of my officers. He is a crutch that I have leaned on from time to time. But his absence troubles me. Why have they still not returned?”

  She shrank away from the fierceness of his stare. “I told you, Lord King. She ran away, and a Siamese warrior hurried after her. I heard her scream. Then Asal grabbed me…and he ran after them. I called for them but…but neither answered.”

  “Do you think they died?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If they died, why were their bodies not found?”

  “Lord King, I know only what I’ve told you,” Thida replied, understanding that Voisanne needed her protection and trying to honor that need. “She doesn’t care for him. Nor he for her. She pretends to, but that’s all.”

  “Perhaps they deceive you.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Indravarman peered toward a distant temple. “Do you know why I worry over their fate?”

  “No.”

  “I worry because I value him. I need a few good men and he’s such a man. But every man has a weakness. Some covet gold. Others seek fame and glory. Maybe Asal has found salvation in that woman. If he has, that makes him harder for me to control. And a king needs to control his subjects.”

  Thida nodded, wondering what he wanted from her. “I don’t know him, Lord King.”

  “But you know her. And you shall tell me what she says of him.”

  “But, Lord King, he isn’t here. Nor is she.”

  Indravarman clenched his jaw, his facial muscles tightening. “I am both an easy and a hard man, Thida. Give me what I want, and I shall be easy. Deny me those wants, and I shall be hard. So when they return, as I believe they will, ask her about him. Women are cunning creatures, and I expect to learn much about those two from you.”

  She glanced up at him and then lowered her eyes. “I will try, Lord King.”

  “The dead have tried, Thida. They tried and died. The living…they have done more than try. That is how they live. Do you understand me?”

  “I—”

  “If you want to live, if you wish to avoid an unnecessary and unpleasant fate, you shall do as I say.”

  “Yes…I will.”

  “Good. Then come to me tonight, when the moon has risen. I shall reward your loyalty.”

  “Thank you, Lord King.”

  He turned away so suddenly that she was startled. Striding down the hallway, he ran his fingers along the carvings of dancing women, then turned a corner and was gone.

  Thida tried to steady herself, to slow her breath. She thought about Voisanne and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She trembled. Though she would never seek to betray her friend, Thida was terrified that Indravarman might see into her as easily as he did into others. She’d witnessed how his paranoia had led to the execution of both his friends and his foes. If he was worried about Asal, then he would look to her for answers. But what answers could she give? How could she possibly protect herself and Voisanne? To do both required skills that she did not possess. Until that very moment, deceit had never been a part of her life. She had always been taught the virtues of honesty, of truth.

  To protect her friend, she would have to lie—an art for which she had no skill.

  Thinking about the unfairness of life, of how others laughed and smiled while she suffered, Thida closed her eyes, prompting a tear to fall. She shuddered, filled with a sense that the world was too cruel for her. She had not been raised for such a world. Her mother had been too kind.

  Boran waited patiently on his knees with his head bowed low. He had never been in the presence of a king, and despite the sweat that rolled down his back, his mouth felt dry. After glancing to his right to ensure that Prak was also prostrate, Boran rehearsed what he would say if questioned. The Khmer warriors who had accompanied Boran’s family were in the midst of explaining to Jayavar and several of his officers what they knew about the Cham positions. When they finished, it might be Boran’s turn.

  Jayavar stood in front of a lotus-filled pond and the Citadel of Women. He was a broader man than Boran had expected, thick with aged muscles. His face was pleasant, however, and his voice and mannerisms encouraged conversation. Unlike the kings of stories and legend, Jayavar wore no jewels. He was dressed as a common warrior, carrying a round shield with a sheathed sword at his side.

  Somewhere unseen near the temple were Soriya and Vibol, awaiting the conclusion of this meeting. Boran wished that they were with him. They would have enjoyed listening to the king.

  The warriors finished their report, answered a few more questions from Jayavar, and left the c
ourtyard. One of the king’s men called Boran and Prak forward, and the fisherman’s heart surged at the request. He rose to his feet, walked toward Jayavar, and again got down on his knees, lowering his head.

  “Please stand,” Jayavar said softly, motioning upward with his hands. “There is no need for formality here.”

  Boran nodded, though he kept his gaze downcast as he stood up. “Thank you, Lord King.”

  “‘My lord’ will suffice.”

  “Yes…my lord.”

  “I am told that you’ve seen the Cham encampment at the Great Lake and that you possess an idea of how to defeat them there.”

  Boran started to speak and then stopped, his carefully rehearsed speech failing him. He was the son of a boat maker, a man who had no right to stand before a king. “My lord, we are…simple fishermen.”

  “Yet without fish we all would surely starve.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Kindly tell me what you saw at the Great Lake. Tell me everything.”

  Boran glanced at Jayavar’s face, then lowered his gaze. “They have many men there, my lord. At first it was…maybe two thousand. Then some went away—maybe half.”

  “And the number of war elephants and horses?”

  “I counted forty elephants, my lord, but could hear more. The horses…maybe two hundred.”

  “And the boats. Please tell me about the boats.”

  Boran smiled for the first time since meeting the king. He understood boats. His confidence growing, he looked up. “I believe, my lord, that the boats are important to them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re large, well manned, and come and go at all hours of the day. The Chams use them to bring supplies from their homeland. They’re always carefully guarded, my lord. Smaller vessels, full of warriors, protect the bigger ones. And sometimes…sometimes, my lord, I think the Chams pile our treasure into these boats. I see the glitter of gold, and then the boats wallow deeper in the water.”