by John Burgess
‘Of course I’ve heard the name!’
‘Well, you might spread the word here that I am in his service and if anyone from Prince Teng’s household brings trouble to me, he’ll have to answer to Prince Indra.’
‘Oh, no need to worry about that! Teng’s people are all swearing allegiance to Prince Indra or running for their lives.’
‘I don’t understand...’ That just slipped out, I’m sure. My husband tried always to hide that he might be ignorant of something.
‘You don’t know? Prince Teng is dead, thank goodness! Prince Indra killed him and is master of the estate.’
Can you appreciate what those few words meant to Nol? Not a hint of the happenings at Chaiyapoom had reached him. Yet he could now imagine a life of serving his prince in the very audience hall where his father served his. The children and I would live in the house in which he was raised. Sovan would be parasol master of Chaiyapoom, the bloodline would be restored!
‘From what we hear,’ the woman was saying, ‘the new prince is quite deserving and blessed by the gods. And very fine looking too! The old one? Selfish. And fat.’ She put hands out before her belly. ‘He never even paid his bills in the market here! And he was getting way too friendly with the Siamese.’
‘The Siamese?’ There was no end to surprises that day.
‘Yes, them. They sent a high-ranking man to the estate to talk last month. He came at night and left at night. But before he did, his servants came here to buy food and to drink with the girls.’
‘You’re sure they were Siamese?’
‘Oh, yes. One of them spoke our language, a bit. He had a drink or two – in that stall right over there – and made a point of saying how big the city back in their territory was and how important his master was in the Siamese chieftain’s army. Everyone in the market heard it. You can ask.’
When my husband had gotten all he could from this woman, he strode about the market, questioning other people. Then he returned to the bearers and told them to put aside their food – it was time to go. They set off down the road, Nol striding so quickly that Veng and the others had trouble keeping up.
The party followed the road up a hill, past an outcrop of rocks, and – there it was, across an expanse of open land below. The Chaiyapoom Estate. Nol stopped and turned away from the others, I imagine because tears had stolen shamefully into his eyes. Perhaps he had expected the palace would be changed, but it was not. The dark polished teak of its walls reflected the sun like a sheet of water. Large windows gulped in the breeze. On the eaves of its soaring red-tiled roof a hundred minor deities stood guard as before, repaying the favour of depiction by protecting against fire and enemies. Red standards that fluttered from bamboo poles signalled that the lord of the estate was in residence. That would be the new lord. His lord.
The palace stood in the embrace of a loop that the district’s primary river traced out here – there was water on all sides except the one that faced the arriving travellers. To the left, the old stone temple, built near a small waterfall, showed itself above the trees, its pyramid spire reaching a respectable height for a country place of worship. To the right were the blacksmith shed, the rice stores, pens for pigs and poultry, houses of senior retainers. His house among them – he could see its roof and its private jetty on the river, even from here.
Sovan looked too. I think perhaps now he was sharing some of his father’s excitement. Veng and the other bearers eyed the sight with less complicated emotions. This was simply the first country palace – perhaps the first palace of any kind – that they had ever seen. They began whispering, until Veng signalled for quiet, concerned that their talk would disturb the master. Perhaps it was at this point that Veng first realized he had become the team foreman.
Nol snapped out of his reverie. ‘Form up!’ he ordered. ‘Two-by-two. Sovan, I will lead, and you will fall in behind me. We will proceed to the palace. We will bathe in the river to wash off the dust of the journey and then we will begin our service to our prince.’
The waterfall’s gentle call reached the men as they passed through the front gate. Ahead they saw the Brahmin Subhadra and Commander Rit. A welcoming party, no doubt. But then my husband’s triumph ended abruptly. The two men turned their backs on him. They were in the grip of a very emotional argument.
12: Nol’s entreaty
‘The order is clear, commander,’ the priest was saying. ‘It’s from the prince himself, and it won’t be reversed. You and your men have one hour to prepare.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ the soldier responded. ‘Our prince would never order us home this way, heads down, no weapons. The order’s from you! Only a Brahmin would tell military men to disarm. Leave it to Heaven, never mind that people will come cut our throats!’ He turned to an aide. ‘Tell the men to stay where they are.’
‘You will do no such thing,’ Subhadra countered. ‘I forbid it.’
The commander’s hand was on his knife. Subhadra steeled himself: ‘Commander, I will not be intimidated. But if you don’t accept my word, hear it from the prince himself. Come see us right here in half an hour.’
The man spat on the ground.
Subhadra watched him leave, then turned to my husband. ‘So you’ve arrived, Nol One-Ear,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m afraid it turns out there’s no need for you. We’re cutting back the prince’s household staff by half. That includes you and your men. Drink some water, collect some rice from the kitchen, then head back to the Capital.’
‘But we, we can’t!’ Poor Nol would have been practically stammering. ‘We’ve come so far – and we have four parasols.’
‘Princes of the Third Rank get two.’
‘I know, sir. But now he is Lord of Chaiyapoom, and that makes him...’
‘He is still a Prince of the Third Rank, and he is not Lord of Chaiyapoom. Now, leave without delay. Send your men back to their village and go wait in your house to hear from us. And pray that it’s us you hear from and not the King’s guard.’ Then he called to a passing servant. ‘Take the red standards down. The lord of the estate is not in residence. He is in Heaven, taken there by the fumes of his funeral pyre.’
So you see what had happened. The priest was taking very seriously the prince’s plea for direction that first night at the estate. The direction he was receiving was to disperse his men and make gestures of atonement to the Capital in hope of somehow winning forgiveness.
The Brahmin went off to tend to some other matter. Nol gestured that the bearers and Sovan follow him to the river. There he told them to bathe. He joined them in the water, hurrying them along. Then when they stood on the bank, drying themselves, unsure what to do, Nol gave another order.
He pointed to Veng and another bearer. ‘You two – put on your ceremonial garments. Take two parasols and come with me.’
This did not sound like what the Brahmin had ordered, of course, but no one challenged it. Nol led the way to the hut where the estate’s parasols were stored. There he found two young bearers lounging about, the ones who’d been engaged in the Capital for this journey. With a few sharp words, he dismissed them.
He turned to his own two men. ‘Our prince will not be served by market hirelings, but by people who serve by loyalty to the bloodline.’ He looked them hard in the eye – you will not fail me, he was saying. ‘Now bring your parasols. Prepare for your first duty!’
He led them to the palace door, and positioned one on either side. Then he paced up and down, waiting.
Then there he was, striding out the door – Prince Indra. And again, what a prince he was! Nol, Veng, the other boy, none could keep his eyes down as protocol required. They saw arms that were thick and able to swing the heaviest sword, jewels in the neckpiece catching the light. But the face? The face did not fit. It bore a doleful look.
Nol recovered himself and signalled to the two bearers. They did not disappoint – they snapped open their parasols smartly, then fell in on either side, as they had learned on the road. T
hey moved with the prince toward the centre of the courtyard, followed by the Brahmin, who seemed not to notice that they were not the hired bearers. Ahead was Commander Rit, hand to his heart in a salute, dropping to his knees.
The prince spoke, but hardly in a booming voice. ‘Commander, I have decided to return our forces to the Capital. It is a...temporary redeployment. We have seen with our own eyes our men’s bravery and skill with weapons. That will always be remembered. But by Heaven’s will there are times when...when the proper use of martial power is to choose not to use it. This we learn from the verses of the Mahabharata, may its texts be blessed.’
The Brahmin gave an approving nod. Nol grasped the obvious, that the priest had composed words that the prince was now reciting. What argument had the Brahmin made to him privately? An elaborate spiritual one, no doubt, with citations from scripture. Rank is a prize awarded by Heaven. It reflects virtue and it cannot be seized. But likely the priest added some real-world facts as well: The palace will not tolerate this, the other princes will not tolerate this. The people in the market will not support you. You are unknown to them. It is only a matter of time before an army marches on this estate to take you back to the Capital in a bamboo cage for a long and painful execution. Your only hope is to do no more wrong and plead for mercy.
‘Highness,’ said the commander, still on his knees. ‘I ask you to reconsider. For my men it would be as if they’d been defeated, going home without their weapons, in small groups. Surely military men should remain together as a single force. There are a hundred different campaigns that show that.’
The prince seemed at a loss to answer; Subhadra took over. ‘As the prince has shown us, there is no need to worry. Heaven smiles on a gesture of conciliation. And it provides one in return. Our King is a learned, pious man, imbued with holy virtues. He is forgiving and merciful. After our men arrive in the Capital, after he has received a letter of verse that His Highness Prince Indra will compose explaining what happened here, he will look on our prince and his soldiers with a similar conciliatory frame of mind.’
Tears were glistening in the commander’s eyes, but he did not argue further. It was the soldier’s way. He too had made a pact that the prince would be obeyed no matter how hard the order.
It might have all ended right there – the prince’s career, my family’s elevation, even the future course of the Empire. But then my husband spoke up.
How could he, why did he? It’s true that in his lectures to his young charges, Nol had stressed a need to be servile, even deaf and blind in the presence of royalty. What he really meant is that that is the rule for the craft’s foot soldiers, the men who clutch the staffs of the parasols and worry only that the shade will fall in the right direction. A parasol master is something more. He has sufficient rank in a court that physical proximity can breed familiarity and trust. Indeed, I am told that in our race’s history not a few parasol masters have acquired power that rivalled that of the royalty they served. Normally, of course, that power is built up over the course of many years of service. A parasol master cannot be seen to be grabbing for it. But, as I said, the entire new life was at this moment hanging in the balance. Nol realized that he had what the prince’s commander lacked, the wherewithal to undo the priest’s order. He sensed too that whatever the prince might be saying, he was also yearning for a reversal.
‘Highness.’
My husband’s word was barely audible. The Brahmin glowered. He only now noticed Nol’s presence. The prince frowned too at the intrusion. But Nol kept going.
‘Highness. I beg permission to speak.’
The prince was squinting his way. The disfigurement was being examined, in the way that many men had done over the years and which in Nol only created determination.
‘You are the new parasol master.’
‘I am, Highness.’
The prince signalled he should proceed. It was because Nol had provided a distraction, I think, from a very painful encounter.
‘I believe, Highness, that perhaps there is no need for your soldiers to turn in their weapons.’
‘Be quiet, parasol master!’ It was the Brahmin, indignant. ‘You have no place to say such a thing. Highness, the audience is over and we…’
But just those few words from my husband had deprived the priest of control of the audience. Nol had restored a glimmer of hope in the prince. ‘No, go on, parasol master. Why is there perhaps no need?’
‘Because when news of what happened here reaches the Capital, the people will celebrate. The people hate the Siamese. And Siamese treachery has been defeated at this place.’
The prince turned to face Nol head-on. ‘How is that?’
‘The late Prince Teng was conspiring with the Siamese, Highness. He was about to become their vassal. His death has saved an entire province from being carved away and given to the Siamese enemy. He was conspiring with them to declare independence from the Empire.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, Highness. A senior Siamese man visited this place one month ago. The late Prince Teng received him in his audience hall. They carried out their plotting there.’
Subhadra tried again, stepping between the prince and my husband. ‘I don’t believe that such a person came here, Highness. And if he did, he was no doubt coming to negotiate terms of tribute that his Siamese master would pay to the Empire.’
But my husband had one more fact in him. ‘It was a military man, Highness. A high-ranking one. Visit the market down the road and you will be told by everyone that this man’s subordinates were not afraid to walk up and down there, fully armed, and to say who they and their master were. They seemed to feel this territory was theirs already. Now Prince Teng is dead. He was guilty of treason. All over the Empire people will learn about it and they will know that Your Highness has saved the Khmer race from catastrophe.’
Prince Indra pondered this for just a moment. Then he spoke. The loud, booming voice of a prince had returned. ‘Commander, recall the soldiers!’
‘Highness, you must not!’ The blood had left Subhadra’s face.
‘The orders are cancelled, commander. Give the men back their weapons and then meet me in the armaments pavilion.’
‘Yes, Highness!’
The prince gave a nod in Nol’s direction, then strode back into the palace. Subhadra went hurrying after him, but it was clear to everyone, even to this young man Veng, that there would be no reversal of this decision.
And Nol? He was on his knees, eyes closed, whispering thanks. At times like this, he did see Heaven’s hand in earthly events. Then he rose and went off to find his other bearers. Prince Indra is Lord of Chaiyapoom, he told his team. ‘From this point on, our prince will have four parasols over him.’
13: The precocious young retainer
Perhaps you wonder how my husband came to have such determination. I will tell you now. Nol withheld the story from me for many years, and when he finally revealed it, it caused me both pity and deep disquiet. What kind of life did Nol live in the past to earn the one in which I knew him? It is not for me to know.
He was born at the Chaiyapoom Estate, as I have told you. But his birth is not where the story begins. We need to look back quite a few years earlier than that.
In those old days, everyone at the estate knew the woes of Nol’s father Heng – how he had waited patiently for the birth of a boy, waited as baby girl after baby girl, eight in all, were presented to him by the estate’s midwife. How his father took two minor wives, only to obtain more daughters. And how Nol finally appeared one morning sixteen years into the effort, after fully half of his family’s wealth had been paid in silver to a jungle-dwelling shaman – this same Vibol – who specialized in commissions to steer the future. His father picked up the new-born and through tears of ebullience made an announcement to the people who had wandered over to see if this time the man’s fortunes had changed.
‘From the day this boy takes his first step,’ he declared, ‘he will begin
his training.’
There was a practical reason for starting so quickly. Nol’s father had married late, and now there loomed the danger that he would die before he could convey the skills of his craft. His master, Prince Vira, had begun to hint that as much as he disliked the idea, the post of parasol master in this provincial court might have to pass out of Heng’s family, where it had resided for six generations. There was a logical replacement, everyone knew, the newly married second son of the master on the estate whose land began two hours’ travel up the river.
So training did begin the day that Nol’s first step occurred. His father was summoned home and, taking the tiny boy’s hands in his, he walked him over to the parasol pavilion. That place became his nursery, and the men and women there his adoptive family. Surely he would have been a different man had he had more time in his mother’s lap. But those sweet times were not to be for him. He had to absorb the craft. In the pavilion, whatever the work at hand, there was always this boy in the midst, looking on, and, as he grew older, applying his own hands to the tasks. Quite a precocious boy, I’m sure. He was never allowed to wander out of sight, never even to join the children who gathered in the late afternoon for play at that waterfall near the palace. They would be a distraction from his training, and who could say but that on one of these occasions that second son up the river might pay a visit with a knife and a plan for securing his own future.
Over time, some of the estate’s children came to treat the boy as already an adult and steered clear of him. Others made fun of him. Some did it right to his face – children can be cruel in that way. There was one little girl who, though she was much younger than he, delighted in trying to unsettle him by making demon faces in his direction when he stood in procession.
‘Don’t be so proud, Nol,’ she whispered to him one morning as he waited with a parasol team for the lord Prince Vira to appear. ‘You’re only a boy.’