The King’s Last Song

They are in the hands of ex-Khmers Rouges.

Luc hears the chortling of an engine. Fish Face seems to be going. So what’s he done with the Book?

That damned Book. I should have left it with the Army and walked away. Even if it was stolen, melted down and lost forever, I should have made sure that it was the Army who carried the Kraing Meas.

Instead, you made sure that you did. From now on, Luc, the Book is number two. You have to be number one.

I wish I had a God that I could pray to. I wish I believed in miracles, or had enough faith to find comfort in eternity. Hell. I want my mother.

My trousers are full of shit, I need a drink of water and my mouth is taped shut. I need to wash, I need a friend nearby, I need more courage than I have.

The only thing you can do, Luc, is regard this as an opportunity.

Luc decides to listen to the birds. They flute and warble as dawn approaches.

Birds and lapping water, so many things, are beyond the reach of guns.

April 1147 (#ulink_d78c516f-0a2c-5d28-a267-95111932ed47)

Jayarajadevi read books.

This might be harmless. The girl would sit cross-legged on cushions, as perfectly poised as a long-necked samsoan marsh bird.

There was nothing idle about her reading. She clicked the palm leaves over as regularly as an artisan weaving cloth. Indeed, some people said: she reads like a man. She thinks if she reads she will grow a beard and become a Brahmin.

Jayarajadevi was beautiful and of royal stock and would beyond doubt marry a prince. She was a Rajanga, a person of the highest degree, and the name Jayarajadevi was also a noble title. For everyday use she had a Khmer name, Kansri, which meant Beautiful or Happy.

Jayarajadevi Kansri was an especial devotee of the Buddha. Her mind could flick through the arguments for Buddhism as purposively as her fingers flicked through the leaves of her book. She had the art of presenting these arguments to her teachers while showing no disrespect.

Kansri had caught the attention of the great Divakarapandita, Consecrator of Kings. His title Dhuli Jeng, Dust of the Feet, meant he was the King’s deputy, at least in religious matters.

Divakarapandita enjoyed her interrogations. She was not at all frightened of him and he enjoyed the way she listened and responded.

Jayarajadevi would sit with him beside the four pools, high in the upper storey of the Vishnuloka. In the shaded gallery, they would debate. Sometimes her even more formidable older sister would join them.

Today, thank heaven, it was just her. The two sisters together were too much even for a Consecrator of Kings.

‘It is of course permitted to be a devotee of Gautama,’ Divakarapandita granted her. ‘No doubt he passed onto us the greatest possible insight into how to escape the toils of this world. But he is not a god, and devotions to him must be balanced, no not balanced, outweighed, by actions of devotion to the Gods.’

Jayarajadevi considered this and she was like water dripping from a rock garden, steady and in relaxing rhythms. From all about them came the whisper of brooms sweeping.

‘But, Teacher, Gautama was so wise that he taught the Gods themselves how to attain Nibbana. If gods so privilege his teaching, then surely so must we? Especially if he speaks the language of a human and shows us the limits of what humans can achieve.’

Kansri made Divakarapandita smile. She is so tenacious! Kansri will always, always argue that the Great Soul is the only true Way. Divakarapandita answered, ‘His words are notable. Powerful expression is like the wind, it wears down mountains of resistance. In the end. But the Gods do not talk the language of words. They make facts. Due observance of their powers is necessary.’

‘Oh indeed.’ Jayarajadevi sat up even straighter, slightly outraged perhaps at the implication that she was saying the overlords, Siva, Vishnu and Brahma, should be neglected. ‘Though these powers seem so alien and strange that some of our devotions to them come from terror not from love.’

Divakarapandita considered, and smiled. ‘The Gods are not responsible for the quality of emotion we bring to them. If people approach the Gods with terror in their hearts, then terror will be returned to them. Gods make facts, men only speak words, even the Buddha.’

Kansri’s answer was ready. ‘But we need words to explain what is righteous. Without words, we just burn.’

Divakarapandita said, ‘Do not misinterpret this, but I think that is a certain kind of wisdom. It is the wisdom of the feminine principle. To listen and express, to take the hard fact and surround it lovingly. The male principle is the making of facts. In human beings male and female are divided. Only in the Gods are male and female conjoined.’

Jayarajadevi scowled. ‘Then why do we split the power of Siva up again, into the yoni and the lingam?’

It was such a pleasure, such a privilege, to see a fine young mind blossom like the lotus. It was a noble thing to find you could discuss the holy significance of the male and female parts with a young woman whose mind was so clear that there was no embarrassment.

‘They are split in our realm precisely because we are split, and the hard fact of godly power must take different forms when working on us. A woman seeking pregnancy will drink from the lingam. A man seeking a still heart and a calm mind will drink from the yoni.’

Jayarajadevi nodded and smiled. Something in that idea pleased her, or solved something for her.

‘What we need,’ she said, ‘is men who are also partly women.’

Divakarapandita smiled to himself. Oh no, he thought looking at her determined face. That is what you need. He thought of how very lucky or very unlucky her husband would be.

‘Two great winds blow through our souls,’ she said. ‘The winds of war, and the winds of peace. We do not conjoin them.’

Mulling it over later, Divakarapandita realized that this girl had said that what they needed was a different kind of king. And he, Kingmaker, Consecrator, at least in part agreed with her. Had not he and the Sun King long ago made Vishnu a new focus of worship for just that reason?

The princesses would gather to watch the training.

It was a piddling annoyance to the old sergeant, but there was very little kamlaa people such as himself could do about it.

If the King’s female cousin eight times removed wanted to make a fool of herself, giggling and prodding other girls and looking at handsome young princes wearing only battle dress, who was a category person to tell them no?

It was saddening to see the Lady Jayarajadevi caught up in the craze. It did not matter that she strode across the training ground with the mature elegance of a married woman. It did not matter that she was accompanied by her older sister the Lady Indradevi who was just as beautiful and accomplished as she was. They were still reviewing potential husbands, like the King looking at his elephants.

There were crazes for particular princes. The favourite now was Yashovarman, the son of the King’s nephew. He’d already been selected to succeed old Suryavarman who had no children of his own. The boy then married one of the King’s nieces and promptly got himself a son, also lined up for inheritance.

So he wasn’t as dull in the court as he was on the battlefield.

Yashovarman had the physical qualities of a bull; he was somewhat short with strength bunched up around his shoulders and springing out of his calves. He had a warlike heart but was impatient and easily distracted. The women liked him though. Many of the princesses threw flowers at him even knowing that he was married.

Other princes found favour, too, all handsome and skilled with sword and shield and bow.

Like the quiet one, the curious favourite on whom the King had also bestowed his love. Some of the girls liked him a lot, too.

He had a woman’s beautiful face.

He had a moustache.

This was the damnable thing, a hard fact that made even his enemies acknowledge he had the blessing of the Gods. All the great teachers of Kalinga had beards or moustaches. Gods like Yama had moustaches. This prince was only sixteen years old, but he already sported a thick, unmistakable and unpainted line of facial hair on his upper lip.

He was not perhaps a man’s man and certainly was not destined for kingship. He was small, slight in the shoulders, and perhaps also slightly plump.

So he was not strong, but he never made a false move. He would nip up the side of an elephant unassisted, barefoot. He strung and sprung the crossbows, not by brute force, but by knowing how to stroke things into place. He made the weapons work by loving them.

Yes, he was a good soldier.