A Woman of Angkor

by John Burgess

  Most every person who lived in Angkor in those days belonged to one of two camps, those who felt deep affection for Aroon, Most Excellent August Royal Prince, and those who wished the title had been settled on Darit, born of the concubine Rom. As the two sons of the King grew up – Darit had reached his sixteenth year before I departed for China, while his half-brother was a year younger – their every move and expression was noted and analysed and discussed, whether in palace annexes, homes or marketplace noodle stalls. Disagreements on this subject sometimes ended even in brawls and the break-ups of long friendships.

  Aroon’s proponents were in the majority and, of course, had convention and blood line on their side. The prince had been born to the first and only official wife of His Majesty. He had inherited a fine sense of duty and decorum, and was known for selflessly shouldering the many obligations that his birth entailed. He took part in lengthy temple rites, he walked in procession, he attended court, never arriving late or seeming impatient once he was there. It was true that he had rather a plain face and he did not seem over-blessed with innate abilities, either of body or mind, but he worked diligently to develop those he did have. He became a competent archer, for instance, by drawing his bow against a straw target each morning without fail, rain or shine. He had worked, with signs of success, to overcome a fear of horses. He was generous, endowing hospitals and hermitages. But what was most remarked on, at least by females in the city, was the devotion that he displayed toward his mother, Her Serene Majesty Queen Benjana. He called on her often at the teak house outside the Capital where she passed most of her time. Some days he took her out for air in her palanquin, walking to the side with the humility and attentiveness of a servant.

  All of this added up, and each year the palace Brahmins accorded Aroon a new rank that confirmed, again, that he was progressing down the path of succession as Heaven’s choice. The latest such marker was his betrothal to a princess from a large estate south of the Freshwater Sea.

  Darit was an entirely different sort, to the point that people wondered how it was possible the two had the same father. He had been born, it was said, with a leer on his face. He passed through life protected by the magic amulet around his neck. Patience and approbation were foreign concepts to him; he was known to slap courtiers, servants, girlfriends, anyone he believed failed him, and in at least one case, a priest. But he was quite pleasing to look at, sharing his father’s solid chest and square jaw, and there were already two young women in the extended palace household, one a wash maid, the other the daughter of a carpenter, who made proud and credible claims that their infants were his.

  As a boy, he had learned in a single day to shoot arrows to within a finger’s width of a bull’s-eye. And horses – Darit had an affinity with the animals that people said could only be divinely accorded. A horse with Darit on its back became an inspired animal, racing faster and farther than its grooms thought possible, sensing its rider’s commands before he gave them. Darit was possibly the best horseman in the Empire. And wouldn’t that be a fine skill in time of war? This was the kind of point his proponents kept coming back to in those sometimes violent arguments. Whether he’s worthy of love or it, it’s as simple as that, they said – Darit has the bearing and bullheadedness of a King. He would secure the Empire’s borders or expand them, as his father had. Men would follow him into battle; with Aroon they would feel the need to close around him and protect.

  From the day of that parade a decade earlier, in which a small boy atop a large war horse had made such an impression, His Majesty’s favour had gone in the direction everyone expected. At least once a week, the King ordered that the Darit be brought to him. With his mother watching from a discreet distance, they played at various battle games with swords, clubs, bows and of course horses. Whatever bad the budding young man did, His Majesty was of a mind to forgive – this business of slapping servants and seeding the palace with superfluous children could only remind him of his own youth.

  Over the years, the King wondered aloud many times whether some formal honour ought to be bestowed on Darit. A title, something not terribly high-ranking to start – Sacred Celestial Crystal, perhaps? The Brahmin Subhadra, alert to anything that in future years might cloud the rightful path of succession, invariably responded with a long, concerned face. He dared not mention that these suggestions usually followed the King’s nights on the mat with the concubine Rom. Instead, he offered long and complex theological arguments, backed by scriptural passages read aloud by a scribe called to the room for the purpose. The Brahmin’s teaching was that the continued turning of the cosmic engine – for King, for Empire, for the universe in its unfathomable vastness – required an heir recognized clearly and indisputably from the very start.

  As the two boys approached full manhood, putting aside toy weapons for real ones, the Brahmin began adding another line of reasoning. It must be acknowledged, he pointed out, that the Empire has a history of violent succession, each case tragic and despised by Heaven, save His Majesty’s own. (For wasn’t it true that in those days the Chams and Siamese were practically at the gates of Angkor?) But it mustn’t be forgotten that Prince Aroon has shown the sense of proportion necessary to wait out the great number of years that by Heaven’s design must pass before the sun sets on the current reign. It was pointed out that though the prince was in the presence of His Majesty often, sometimes even with a sharp knife in his waist, he had done nothing to try to hurry that unwanted time’s arrival. His Majesty can turn his back – can he not? – and even lie down in his presence and sleep, without the slightest concern. The prince’s devotion is absolute.

  At first, the Brahmin’s arguments exasperated the King. But as the years passed, he began to reconsider. The charm of Darit’s impetuous ways was somehow diminishing. The King became aware that so much of the boy’s rebelliousness was directed at things that a King, by virtue of being King, had to value. Why is it, His Majesty began to ask the priest, that the boy cannot summon at least a trace of interest in the audiences and the ritual that occupy so much of a monarch’s day? At these times, the Brahmin did his best to suggest, without ever saying it openly, that contempt for these things might disguise contempt for the person of the King himself.

  One morning, an argument broke out between Darit’s two girlfriends in the palace household, resulting an hour later in one of them, infant in arms, daring to throw herself at the feet of His Majesty himself as he walked to his palanquin. Bodyguards dragged her off, slapping her across the face, the baby screaming. The King looked back on her, appalled. People said later that he seemed to be feeling disgust that his son should be party to creating such a scene.

  Rom, of course, could sense that Darit was losing his father’s support, and so she did everything she could to bring them together in favourable circumstances. One day, when she learned that the King and Prince Aroon were to go to a boar-hunting ground, she insisted that she and Darit go too. The contrast between the two sons would be on full display. With impressions of the young man atop a horse fresh in the royal memory, she would renew her private petitions for a title.

  The hunting ground was not so much a ground as an arena. A pavilion built for royal spectators of a previous reign gave on to a broad grassy field. Everything was enclosed by bamboo fencing capable of resisting the charge of the fiercest, longest-tusked boars, brought here so that royal hunters would be saved the bother of tracking them for hours or days through forest. Palace huntsmen and their teams of slaves got that dangerous assignment, following droppings and trails and tree rubs to find and capture the beasts alive. They bound their legs with rope, then released them one by one inside the fenced grounds to be chased and killed. Plans called for the hunting party to gather at the palace gate the morning of the hunt, then proceed to the grounds together. Prince Aroon arrived early. By departure time, Darit had not appeared. His Majesty frowned; Rom did what she could to delay, but soon the procession began, with a pair of servants left behind with urgent in
structions to find Darit and get him to the grounds on his own. Prince Aroon rode alongside his father; my husband walked behind, happy that things were already developing favourably for Aroon.

  The hunting pavilion had been polished and swept by servants who went out in advance. Inside, a dais awaited, with sweets and water laid out. His Majesty took his place. There was still no sign of Darit. Rom paced, growing more perturbed. There was still some time – priests had yet to chant the elaborate pre-hunt prayers that would assure Heaven that the animals to be killed were in no way associated with the third incarnation of Vishnu, the giant boar Varaha, which rescued the Earth Goddess from the floor of the primaeval sea. The priests began. Then – the sound of hooves. The gates to the grounds were thrown open, and Darit came through, atop a powerful galloping horse.

  He faltered slightly in getting off his mount. People felt that a hint of wine breath crossed the air. Rom frowned.

  When the prayers were done, he rose, barely acknowledged the King, and remounted his horse. A groom handed him an iron-tipped lance. At the far side of the field, a small door in the fence opened, and a snorting boar was forced through by quick-handed slaves. The animal took an instant getting its orientation, then raced to the right, seeming to think that escape lay in that direction. Darit urged his horse forward, its hooves raising dust. Soon it was clear to everyone that they had in fact smelled wine. The boar ran right past its stalker! Left and right, back and forth, all around the field it raced, Darit struggling to follow. The animal was in charge; the scene became almost comic – the famous amulet was doing Darit no good at all. He flailed with the lance, each thrust missing by a wide margin. Then he lost his grip on the weapon and had to dismount to pick it up. The boar stopped a few paces away, grunting, as if unwilling to charge an adversary so pitiful.

  The King closed his eyes, a hand to his forehead; Rom left the pavilion. My husband, of course, was enjoying himself.

  The chase continued until the boar was worn down by exhaustion. Finally Darit impaled it, but in its neck, not in a clean way. It flailed, it thrashed. Now truly angry, it charged Darit’s horse, drawing some blood from the mount’s legs. Then it contemptuously turned away, bleeding. Darit came near; it charged once more, leading him to spring back. Then it lay down and its spirit departed.

  Cheers normally followed a kill, but everyone in the pavilion, including the King, responded to this one with shocked silence. Darit turned his horse back toward the royal party, showing no shame. He got down and came inside the pavilion, sweating. He gulped from a bowl, then splashed some of its water onto his face. People winced at this show of bad manners. His mother seized his arm and led him away from the pavilion for a talking to.

  Now Aroon rose, pretending he’d noticed nothing amiss. What breeding the prince displayed! He bowed to the King, crossed his arms in salute, then mounted his horse. This time there was no hesitation. Aroon sped straight for a newly released boar, keeping his horse deftly on track, anticipating the zigs and zags of the prey’s attempts at evasion. One thrust of the lance – that was all it took. The point entered the racing boar’s torso just above the right front leg and pierced the heart. The animal went into a dust-raising somersault, the kind that hunters love, then fell heavy and still.

  The cheers that erupted were too loud for such close quarters to the King. But no one had ever seen Prince Aroon ride this way. Fearless, entirely in control, practically like a god atop a magic mount. As he returned toward the pavilion, His Majesty rose. He stepped outside and he embraced this son wholeheartedly – it was said this was the very first time for such a display. Tears flowed from the young prince’s eyes.

  The party began the trip back to the city, Nol on foot. Before long, Rom came up to his side.

  ‘I know it’s you who put her up to it,’ she hissed. ‘My son told me about the girl at the drinking stall!’

  ‘I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.’

  That was true so far as the details went. But Nol knew the basics. A startling young beauty from a village, newly installed at the drinking place that Darit visited most every night. Secret payment to her to entertain Darit the night before, but to delay the wine, to assure that it started only after midnight and kept up straight through to sunrise.

  ‘Don’t lie, parasol master!’

  ‘I wasn’t there, so how can I lie? But if there was such a girl, I imagine she didn’t have much trouble getting him to drink till dawn. He’s got some experience at that, I hear.’

  ‘Don’t taunt me! I’m going to His Majesty about this. We’ll do the hunt over again!’

  Nol smiled. He had been waiting for this opening. ‘I wouldn’t advise that,’ he said, ‘because I might have something to tell His Majesty too.’

  She shot him a withering look; it only increased his satisfaction.

  ‘The prince’s riding instructor – his former instructor, I should say. A certain Mr Ton. I believe you got a message a while ago saying he was making a visit back at his village...’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, Ton didn’t go back there. That message was a fake. He’s in custody, in a cage at one of the palace guard barracks. Because one of the hands in the royal horse stable came to me and recounted that he’d overheard a conversation between the instructor and a certain senior concubine. The talk about money and riding accidents disturbed him deeply and he felt it was his duty to convey it to me.

  ‘I’ve got your attention now, do I? Well, let me continue. The timing of all this was quite interesting – this came to light just the day after you persuaded His Majesty to take your boy on the hunt. Well, do you know what this Mr Ton has told us, after a guardsman threw a rope over a rafter and hung him by his right arm for an hour? That in all the years he’s been with Prince Aroon, his goal has been to make him afraid of horses. Imagine that! He has put thorns under the saddle cloth to cause the prince to be thrown. He has matched him with horses too powerful, some of them not trained at all. Once when the prince was in a stable stall, he spooked the horse to make him kick the prince. The prince was laid up for almost a week by that – it was lucky there were no broken bones. Do you know that this man even confessed to having put drugs in the water of the horses that the prince rode in public, to rile them up?

  ‘Now, why would this man Ton do such things? Why, it turns out that someone was paying him! Someone was sending him a bag of silver at the end of each month. He’s confessed that his village is the village where a certain senior concubine grew up, that his family owes a great deal of money to the family of that concubine, that it was that concubine who brought him to the Capital years ago.

  ‘Well, as I said, this Ton is no longer the prince’s instructor. The prince has a new one. Wasn’t it remarkable how his riding has improved? All it took was a couple of weeks with the new man. Think what it’ll be like in a year!’

  Nol turned to look to her, but she was gone. She had fallen back in the procession, joining her maid, and was silent the rest of the trip back to the Capital.

  She lay with the King that night, as scheduled. I am sure there was no mention of any provincial beauty at a drinking stall. Instead she would have stuck with her entreaties for a formal rank for Darit, but to no avail. Her son, meanwhile, returned to the stall and found that the beauty was no longer there. He slapped the proprietor around to try to learn where she’d gone, but then three burly men with clubs came in and he had to withdraw.

  Two weeks later, the palace priests settled another title on Prince Aroon. He became Aroon, Great Secondary King. He was now officially the heir. Crowds turned out to kneel at streetside as he made his way from the temple where the rank was conferred; he took collective breath away with the quiet dignity he showed in walking by the palanquin of Her Serene Majesty, Queen Benjana.

  Everyone believed that the Empire’s future was now secure. When the time finally came for His Majesty to depart this life, he would be followed by this gracious prince, favoured of Heaven. Why do hu
mans persist in thinking they can see the future? Darit’s disgrace in fact would bring on turmoil of breadth and intensity the Empire had not known in decades.

  48: The Great Dual Vector River

  We are taught that all rivers in the Empire are holy but the Great Dual Vector River is the most holy of all. This was the channel we sailed on our departure for China. I have told you of the venomous words with which I helped turn aside the Cham boarding party that day and how they were perhaps placed on my tongue by a spirit. Would it be vain to wonder if that spirit was the river’s spirit? For a brief period, I became precisely the person I am not, at least the person I strive not to be. It was a realignment of left to right, top to bottom. This spirit, as you know, alters its character in an equally dramatic way, first nurturing us, the Khmer people, giving us the water of life, but then taking it back, to teach us a lesson, a sometimes painful one, that if the world is to know bounty, it must also know privation.

  How perfectly the spirit carries out this plan. For half the year, it directs the river to flow to the northwest, feeding the Freshwater Sea. Have you been at the sea in that season? In later years, I always tried to time my travels to place me there at this time. The sea bursts its banks and sends waters out to dry paddy land, garden ponds and canals. The sight is unforgettable. With the flow comes silt in which rice seedlings thrive. So do catfish, in numbers beyond counting, seeming determined to swim into the bamboo traps that villagers lay for them. Soon the waters begin arriving from the Heavens as well. Late-day rains turn soil from hard and crumbly to soft and fertile, quick to catch in the toes of people who walk through it. Streams run fast and clear, feeding the sea even more. Wildflowers bloom bright in jungle clearings, fruit grows large and heavy on the bough. In air that becomes refreshing, even cool, people – most people, at least – work hard and sleep well.