Читать книгу The King’s Last Song - Geoff Ryman, Geoff Ryman - Страница 16

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.

The old sergeant saw him scamper up a balding beast, finding footholds in the creases of her skin. The old sergeant approved of this lack of wasted motion, for he had served under generals who moved by sheer force. Without this neatness, they sometimes lacked strategy. They would march you into a swamp of blood. You survived, but your comrades had been opened up to the sun, transformed into abandoned corpses that only the floods or scavengers would remove.

The old sergeant saw the Prince tuck himself into the howdah. Again, he did it almost invisibly. If you blinked you would miss him doing it. The old sergeant saw him look up, and under his black lip, his white teeth suddenly glowed. Life warmed the old sergeant’s heart, he who had seen so much death. The old sergeant followed his gaze.

Oh, ho ho, it was the Lady Jayarajadevi who had caught his eye. It was a young man’s fiery heart seeking what it needed. Oh yes, there was competition among these young hawks, these young elephants.

Still smiling at beauty, the Slave Prince turned, dipped at the knees and pulled his young training partner up into the howdah.

Responsible. That was another thing a commander needed to be. He needed to know where his men were and who they were, who needed help, who needed to be chastised and beaten. His young partner was willing but unsteady. The Slave Prince did not mock him or complain that his partner was dragging him down. His job was to make the most of his young partner, and he did. He pulled his apprentice up onto the platform and steadied him on it.

And then he glanced again at Jayarajadevi. Oh, he aimed at the stars that one.

‘’Sru, who is the short fat one?’ asked Jayarajadevi.

‘Oh, you know him,’ said Indradevi, her sister. Her Khmer name was Kansru, which meant Well-Shaped. The sisters nicknamed each other ‘Sri and ‘Sru.

‘No I don’t.’

‘You do, ‘Sri! He is a great favourite of the King. He is the one they call Slave.’

‘Oh yes. So that is him.’ Kansri did not quite like the knowing look in her elegant sister’s eyes. ‘’Sru! Careful.’

‘His father was a Buddhist,’ said Indradevi. ‘His father and his brother are now dead, so he is in name a little king. Only, he doesn’t seem to be bothered about being consecrated or taking a title.’

‘Perhaps he is showing indifference to the world.’ Jayarajadevi Kansri meant to be mildly sarcastic. Indradevi was always looking out for her.

Indradevi pretended to take her seriously. ‘I was wondering the same thing.’

The sisters held each other’s gaze and suddenly both started to laugh. ‘We all must look to our futures,’ said Indradevi Kansru with a gentle, teasing smile.

‘Look after your own! I only asked who he was. I did not recognize him because of the moustache.’

‘You only like him because of the moustache.’

Jayarajadevi saw how it looked to her sister. ‘It does give him the air of a holy man, and it is foolish of me to think that. But then I am young and foolish.’

‘At least he looks like a man who does NOT regard women as if they were elephants.’

‘Fortunately some great princes are beyond our ken.’

‘For … tune … ate … leeee,’ said Indradevi Kansru and rattled the tips of her fingers on her sister’s arm. Between themselves they called some of the highest princes in the land the Oxen. Among them, Yashovarman.

But oh, even the Oxen were beautiful young men. They wore their princely quilted jackets, all gold embroidered flowers, and were finely built and swift of movement. That gave low pleasure but also higher pleasure. If lotus flowers were a symbol of divinity for their colour, their form and their life, then surely the same could be said for beautiful young men?

Though the lotus had the advantage of not trying to be beautiful, or being arrogant about it.

Kansri had indeed heard of the Prince who called himself Nia. She wondered why this favourite of the Universal King would do himself such an injury as to be named after the lowest category of slave. He could be consecrated as a little king and take a noble title, but he still called himself Hereditary Slave.

Jayarajadevi Kansri knew why she would give herself such a name. She would do it to show that the titles of this world were meaningless, that compassion was owed to the lowly.

Was it possible that in this palace of warmongers there was a man who would give himself that name from the same motives? Possible that he would regard slaves as being worthy of attention, simply other souls trapped in samsara? How wonderful it would be to find a man with whom you could talk about such things, who would take such thoughts and man-like turn them into solid facts.

Such a possibility. A dream, like the cloud-flowers that everyone hoped to see and never did.

So this happy prince – and he does smile beautifully – helped his younger comrade up. He was neat and quick; and he explained so patiently to the little boy about the double crossbow on the beast’s back.

He pointed out the weapon’s thick arms and showed how to pull them back. He made it look easy. He guided his charge’s hands and together they pulled back the nearest bow. Then he nipped out of the howdah down into the bamboo cage that clung to the side of the beast.

Jayarajadevi Kansri heard the sergeant cluck his tongue. The old female elephant trotted forward, creased and whiskery like a granny.

The little one in the howdah was having difficulty. He wavered as he pulled back on the bow; he wobbled as he knelt on the platform; he squinted into the sun. The Slave Prince half stood, balancing on the bamboo struts of the cage and encouraging the boy.

The little boy looked cross. The elephant’s motion jostled him. The crossbow veered dangerously.

Without warning the bolt sprang forward, as long and heavy as a spear. It plunged deep into the elephant, just where the rounded dome of its head met the hunch of its neck.

The old female screamed, and broke into a charge. The Slave Prince pulled himself back into the howdah.

Some of the Oxen roared with laughter. Jayarajadevi Kansri sent tiny blades out with her eyes: oh it is so funny to see a beast in agony. Oh it is so robust to laugh when someone might be killed!

Bellowing, the old female stumbled into the high fluttering banners, scattering category people. She dropped down onto her knees and shook her head as if saying no, no, no. The sergeants ran to secure her again. The howdah jerked from side to side. The Prince grabbed the boy’s hand and turned to jump free. Just as he launched himself, the elephant shrugged and he lost hold of the boy.

The Prince was dumped heavily onto the scrub earth. His knees gave way, but he caught himself with his hands and he scuttled forwards out of the way. He jerked himself to his feet and twisted around, to see the elephant lower herself onto her side. The side basket crackled as her weight crushed it.

The boy clung to the low sides of the howdah. ‘Jump!’ the Prince called up to the boy and held out his arms to catch him. His charge hung back, weeping. The Oxen laughed.

The elephant began to roll onto her back. The little boy screamed and flung himself free, hurtling down onto the Prince, who fumbled him, held him, and staggered backwards, pulling the boy out of harm’s way.

The elephant, nearly on her back, kicked her legs and shook her head, trying to scrape the bolt out of her neck. She drove it deeper in. The balustrades of the howdah collapsed under her with a sudden thump.

The keepers edged forward with spears. Ducking and fearful, they tried to grab the harness around her body and shoulders. The bell around her neck clanked and clattered.

There was a gasp from the onlookers. The foolish Prince had run up her ribcage. He looked as though he was climbing rocks in the river, only these rocks shifted underfoot. The Prince grabbed the thick shaft of the spear in the elephant’s head. The old beast cawed like a giant crow and kicked and the Prince was swung out over the ground, still holding on. Then the shaft swung back. He found his footing, and hauled out the weapon. He jumped free from the beast and flung it away all in one motion.

The elephant kicked once more and then went still.

The keepers advanced on her with lances.

‘No, no, no!’ the Prince cried aloud, holding out his hands.

The dazed old elephant lifted up her head. She snorted out breath as if in relief. Very suddenly she kicked herself back onto her feet. She stood still and blinked at her keepers who warily approached.

‘The bolt just went into the flesh of her neck,’ the Prince said. As if treading across thorns, he slowly crept towards her. The old animal lowered her head and shuffled backwards. She associated him with pain. He backed off as well and instead turned to his young charge.

The little boy was standing at stiff attention. His face was dusty and tracked with tears, but he was not crying now. Poor thing, he thinks he will be punished, perhaps even sent back to his mother, who knows?

Jayarajadevi Kansri leaned forward, turning her head sideways to hear, aware that her sister Indradevi was looking at her and not at the Prince.

‘You were not strong enough to use the bow,’ said Prince Nia. ‘You will get stronger if you work. Will you work?’

‘Yes!’ said the little boy, nodding hard.

‘I will help you get strong,’ said the Prince and touched the boy’s arm. Then he saw the keepers approach again with spears.

‘No, no, no!’ he commanded them. ‘She will live. No! She can carry things!’

‘Well,’ said Jayarajadevi settling back. ‘He is certainly not one of the Oxen.’

As soon as people got wind of the potential attachment, they took sides.

Indradevi Kansru wound her way through the palace routines until she could sidle up to the Slave Prince. ‘You are a popular man, Prince.’

‘Am I?’ He had a nice open smile.

‘Oh indeed. You have found favour in the eyes of a certain lady. You are a lucky man to secure such favour. This is a high-born lady of the greatest beauty and accomplishment.’

He beamed in measured pleasure. ‘That is very pleasant to hear.’

‘May I tell the lady that?’

‘I cannot think which lady it may be, but if she is as you describe then only a fool would not be grateful.’

‘Hmmm. And I think you are not a fool. I will tell you, ah? Oh, this lady is special; she outshines all others. She is a friend of mine. No one knows her as well as I do, and she has such a good heart, such a fine mind. Oh! If only I were so adorned.’

‘What is her name?’

Indradevi finally whispered it in his ear, carefully gauging the warmth and tenderness of his smile. She was not unpleased.

But another girl came and said, ‘Oh Prince, everyone speaks well of you, everyone says you have a good heart. I have come to warn you. Oh! There is a certain person who gives herself airs and graces. She knows you have the attention of the King, and seeks to climb your virtues like a monkey climbs a vine. She has a bad reputation that one, for a cool head and a cold heart.’ Then, in a whisper, ‘Some say it is the King’s bed not yours she seeks.’

Nia’s loyal friends, who like him were good on the field and well behaved in the royal house, clustered around him. ‘Oh! Lucky man, the Lady Jayarajadevi is so beautiful. When are you going to have the courage to present yourself? Oh, you must be quick, such a prize as that will not go unclaimed for long.’

The Oxen caught him off guard as he washed. He was nearly naked and defenceless. Yashovarman looked scornfully down at his less bullish body. ‘You are a small slip of a thing to think that you can claim the attention of high ladies. You should know, before you get into trouble. The Lady Jayarajadevi is spoken for. She is a king’s wife, not for semi-peasant like you.’

‘Prince Nia!’ one of the Oxen laughed. ‘What title will he take, do you think. Niavarman, Slave Shield?’

They all laughed. Prince Nia stayed calm. ‘Until she marries, no one is spoken for. And I think she speaks for herself.’

‘You cannot speak for her, that is certain.’

‘Neither can you. You should know, before you get me angry, that she calls you an Ox. You are unsubtle and don’t know that women do not measure a man’s worth by the thickness of his thighs.’

‘No, but the world gives to the man who takes, and to take one must be strong.’

‘And smart. And fearless. And not easily led. Oxen are strong and bear the world’s burdens, not its prizes. Unless you want a fight now, Ox, I will finish washing myself. You should try washing some time.’

Nia had just enough love of war. The strong ox Yashovarman hesitated, and in hesitation made his ground unsteady. ‘I have warned you!’ he said, but retreated.

To his friends, the Prince sighed in disgust as they played checkers. ‘Oh! I wish everyone would cease this matchmaking. You would think the marriage had been announced.’

The friends chuckled. ‘We will not let you escape. The Lady Jayarajadevi is perfect for you. Not just her beauty. It is a matter of her character.’ And they laughed at themselves, for they were imitating old village women.

‘Uh!’ groaned the young prince. ‘Just leave it, please!’

One night the Prince woke up in his hammock, to see Divakarapandita leaning over him.

‘Teacher!’ he exclaimed in fear and alarm.

‘I was seeing how you sleep,’ said the great religious leader. ‘I wanted to see the quality of your dreams.’

The Prince scrambled to make himself decent.

‘No, no, you do not insult me sleeping innocent in your bed. You appear whole and complete with no blemish. Does your penis work, does it produce seed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. I hear that you have a copious heart and mind.’

‘I can’t judge that.’

‘I can. That is why I am here. Now that you are awake, please cover yourself, and we will walk out into the night so that we can talk.’ The other soldiers in the room lay frozen with that particular listening stillness of people who pretend to be asleep.

The Prince swung out of the hammock, twisted a garment around his middle, and joined the great Consecrator of Kings.

‘What is your view of the Gods?’ the Consecrator asked.

‘Toh! It is hardly for the likes of me to have a view on the Gods.’

‘Of the relation of the King to the Gods?’

‘Even less so.’

‘Come, come, courage, you are a favourite of the King. Let us pretend for the moment that no harm can come to you for any view you express. This interview will go better for you if you do.’

Insects buzzed about them. You couldn’t see the moon, but the high silk-cottons were silver and the light along the leaves joined up as if there were tiny creeks flowing from leaf to leaf.

Nia could not think of much to say. ‘I suppose I think that the King should pay observance to the Gods. Certainly not anger them.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps invent fewer of them. It seems unlikely to me that one’s great aunt can suddenly become one with a god under a new name.’

‘That is about the Gods and the great aunt, not the King.’

‘I sometimes wonder if it is enough to make observances.’

‘Ah! Elaborate, young prince.’

The Slave Prince looked at the old man’s ordinary face. Despite his beautiful shawl, purple and sewn with gold thread, despite his fine white beard, despite the gold parasol with its ivory handle which he used now like a walking stick, despite all of that there was nothing special about him.

His face had gone waxy like a candle, and was spotted with age. His teeth were brown and crumbled, his back bowed, his arms stiff and shrivelled, bone-thin but with hanging withered pouches of skin along the lower edge. This was an old man, whose every glance stared ahead at his own death.

The young prince felt sorrow for him, sorrow for all things that pass.

The Prince said, ‘I know it takes a lifetime to learn how to make observance. I think it is hard work to parade on an elephant and look like something that talks to gods. Harder still to look like you will become a god when you die. Hard work, but that is not enough.’

The old man blinked. ‘It isn’t?’

‘I once had a friend. She was a slave, a gift to this house. I saw that her world was as big as our own. I saw that whatever was holy in us was also holy in her. I think we try to climb towards the Gods. We get higher and higher up to the King, and then over the King, to the Gods, and when we look at the Gods, we find … what? A cycle? Back down to the flies and the fishes. There is no top. Everything is holy.’

The old man disapproved. ‘A radical notion. What do you know of the Buddha?’

‘Almost nothing.’

‘Oh, tush!’

‘He was a teacher great enough to be treated almost like a god.’

‘And what did he teach?’

‘Virtue. I am to be a soldier, and I will be a good soldier. I will serve with honour, and courage and efficacy.’ The Slave Prince clenched his fist. ‘I have no doubt of that. But what I want, if anyone should ask, would be to be a Brahmin.’

Divakarapandita chuckled and waved a hand.

‘A Brahmin who rides an elephant and fights for his King when the time comes …’

‘Oh ho-ho!’

‘And who is not ignorant.’ The words were hot, they made his eyes sting.

Divakarapandita’s mouth hung open. ‘Ignorant?’

‘I know nothing!’ Then less heated. ‘Nobody has bothered to teach me.’

‘Do you think anybody has bothered to teach the Lady Jayarajadevi!’ The Consecrator looked appalled. ‘You have to teach yourself!’

Nia hung his head. ‘I speak heatedly from shame.’ He began to see what the interview might be about. Another round of matchmaking. Who was this Lady to have the Consecrator concern himself with her marriage?

‘So you should be ashamed.’ But the old man seemed to say it from sorrow. He touched the Prince’s arm. ‘You have no ambition to be King?’

‘Toh. All these little princes, all dreaming of being King, all making tiger faces at themselves. I want to be a holy warrior.’

The old man stopped, shuffled round to face him, took hold of both the Prince’s arms, and stared into his eyes. ‘War is never holy,’ he said. ‘War makes kings, and kings perform holy functions. But the two are separate.’

Nia felt shame again. He hung his head. ‘I feel things. But I don’t know things.’

‘Maybe there is someone who will take the time to teach you,’ said the holy man. ‘And then you might become what you want to be, a wise man.’ He drew himself up. ‘What will you do when the King dies?’

Nia felt alarm, for himself, for his whole life. ‘The King is ill?’

‘Ssh, ssh, no, but he is a man. What will you do when he dies?’

Nia thought. With his protector gone, with the Oxen fighting over kingship, there would be years of violence. He imagined Yashovarman, and found he felt disgust and alienation and fear. ‘It depends how he dies.’

‘How do you mean?’ The holy man’s eyes were narrowed.

‘If someone murders the King, then I will seek justice. If he dies in his bed, that’s different.’

The old man looked up and then back. ‘There is a war coming,’ he said. ‘In Champa and in the lands beyond. You will be sent away and may not come back. You are sixteen and it would be good if you were married. You see, Prince, you are as dear to Suryavarman as the Lady Jayarajadevi is to me. We have discussed a marriage between you and the Lady, the King and I. I have assessed you and find you as the King described.’

The Dust of the Feet drew up his robes. ‘The marriage will proceed,’ he said.

It was only the marriage of a high lady to a prince whose lack of family was made up for by his own subtleties of person.

But not only the Dhuli Jeng, but the King himself were to attend. It was to be held in a pavilion in the royal enclosure. The greatest soldier, Rajaindravarman, General of the Army of the Centre, was to be the young prince’s sponsor, as his father was dead.

And since this prince was already in line for a small throne, the Dhuli Jeng was to recognize him at the same time as a little king. He was to take his title.

The princes and the princesses all washed exuberantly around the cisterns. There were to be musicians and dancers. This was a chance for the King to express his love. A general sense of satisfaction emanated from him and was communicated to his loyal court. They were to be joyous before a time of war.

The Slave Prince was married wearing his quilted flowered coat, and carrying his shield. A crown of bronze had been wound into his hair. As always, he did without his torque, which gave immunity from harm.

Nia marched with a column of his comrades in arms. His friends looked pleased. They passed through the well-wishers and then climbed the steps to the pavilion.

Torches fluttered in the wind. Pressed around were wives of the King, high courtiers, and a few members of Jayarajadevi’s family.

The nephew-in-law of the childless King was there. Prince Nia saw in the eyes of Yashovarman something measured and measuring. He is not an Ox, that one, thought Nia. He may have been one once, but now he simply uses them. How wise he was, to marry the King’s niece. The certitude came. He will indeed be Universal King. As he advanced, Nia sompiahed particularly to him. Yashovarman blinked in surprise, and indicated a return of respect.

So that Jayarajadevi could in fact be married to a little king, the title-giving came first. Consecration was too high and holy a word for it. The Universal King would recognize the new title and the Little King be given a chance to swear loyalty.

So the Dhuli Jeng was to give out one more regal honorific. Which was to be?

The Prince smiled. He had thought long and hard about this. Once he took his title, then his bride might have to give up or amend her own if their titles clashed inauspiciously or gave obeisance to different principles. Why should she change her great name? His smile widened as he said, ‘My name is Jayavarman.’

He had taken a name to match his wife’s and not the other way around. The onlookers murmured among themselves.

It was a better title than Nia, but Jayavarman was also the honorific of many Great Kings. Did it show ambition? Suryavarman’s countenance did not flicker.

Divakarapandita’s smile widened a little further. The overturning prince had overturned again. ‘You are now Jayavarman of the City of the Eastern Buddha.’

Little King Jayavarman beamed as he swore loyalty to the Universal King.

Then he was married.

Indradevi Kansru held up an embroidered cloth so that the Little King could not see the beauty of his bride too soon and then be dazzled speechless or struck blind. Indradevi was so pleased for her sister that a whole night sky seemed to beam out of her eyes.

Divakarapandita himself scattered flowers, and poured water on the stone lingam and yoni. The embroidered cloth still stood between them.

My wife, thought Jayavarman. Behind that cloth is my wife. I shall be a husband, we will be together, we shall make love, we shall be each other’s support, and we will have children, brilliant babes.

Divakarapandita beckoned him forward and the Prince knelt and drank water, sign of everything, source of everything, as poured from the yoni. Unusually, making some obscure point, the Dust of the Feet asked him to drink from the lingam as well.

Then the cloth was lowered.

And Nia was dazzled and he was struck dumb, for there was Jayarajadevi, his wife, and her smile stretched all the way to the moon.

Her smile was pulled wide by a joy she could not express, and her eyes shone. She was sheathed in gold, jewels and signs of office, surrounded by fans and fly whisks and parasols, all borne by her friends. The paraphernalia bobbed around her beautiful face like flowers.

Jayavarman stared and could not speak. People chuckled. His mouth hung open. He had a declaration to make and could not make it.

‘Lord,’ reminded Divakarapandita.

Jayavarman restored himself and stumbled rough-voiced and awkward through the words that declared and promised and established and called upon others to witness. His wife’s eyes were on him all the time.

There was feasting and dancing. The Little King’s friends hugged him, shook him, teased him and declared that they would marry too, it would give them heart for battle, they had not known until now that wives completed warriors.

The bride’s female friends warned him, shaking fingers, that he must treat their friend well or the women would take revenge. It was both a joke and serious.

Indradevi Kansru wove her way towards them, her whole body writhing with happiness. Her eyes shone almost too brightly, and she took her sister’s hand, called the Little King ‘Brother’, and said repeatedly how happy she was. It was a good marriage, and they should both count on her always as a friend. She pulled away suddenly and Jayarajadevi started after her. And stopped.

For Yashovarman was upon them. Their other friends drew back. ‘Little King,’ he said, ‘the Universal King does you a great honour.’

‘He does, oh, he does indeed!’ said Jayavarman, still buoyed up with joy like a bobbing raft.

‘I wish you well in your marriage, and wish you good heart in the coming war.’

‘Oh! The same to you, Prince!’ Jayavarman was not exactly himself, the words were not appropriate for once, but the force behind them was good hearted.

‘We will fight many wars together,’ said Yashovarman. ‘I hope I can rely on you?’

What a dangerous question. The waters of joy receded. Swiftly Jayavarman mounted the bank, the bank of politics, princes, rivalries and himself.

Jayavarman said, ‘I try to be friends with all men and certainly loyal to all my comrades in arms.’

Yashovarman whispered, ‘What if I am more than that?’

Jayavarman did not have the heart to be anything other than direct. ‘I think you will be Universal King, Yashovarman, and I intend to serve the King. For me to be loyal to the next King, my Lord Suryavarman, who is beloved by me, must die in his bed, honoured, and his ashes kept in his temple with great remembrance. Let us have a pact, Yashovarman, to preserve our Lord so that all can see he died a natural death.’

Yashovarman went very still and silent. ‘Of course,’ he said without further ceremony or display of feeling. He very suddenly smiled, and flipped the tip of the Little King’s nose. ‘What a little puppy you are.’ It could almost pass for affection. Yashovarman strode away.

Did Suryavarman see the exchange? It seemed to Jayavarman that the King went out of his way to hold him up to the household. ‘I give you my trusted right hand, my support in old age, my young and supple Shield of Victory!’ the King cried.

There were groans and protests: no you are not old.

‘I give you my cloud-flower of virtue and respect whose name will join the web of stars overhead!’

He hugged Jayavarman’s shoulders, and leaned on him. The King’s breath smelt of wooden teeth and palm wine. The Little King smiled and thought, this could be dangerous. The King whispered to him, ‘My harrow after death.’

Finally, finally he and his wife were left alone. They walked hand in hand to the household reservoir. It creaked with frogs and crickets. So, the Prince thought, I have a wife as beautiful as the moon, as tuneful as the birds. But I don’t really know her. All our friends surround us.

And from somewhere came grief and he found he was crying.

‘Husband,’ said his new wife. ‘You weep?’

She tried to pull him around. It was not manly to weep. He tried to stop. But suddenly he found he could not stop, and that his legs were giving way under him. He slumped down to the ground. Gracefully, Jayarajadevi lowered herself next to him. ‘My Lord, be happy?’ she chuckled, her voice also unsteady.

‘I don’t know why I do this.’

He looked up at the leaves, stars, moon, and the temple, black and red and gilded, dancing with torchlight.

‘I wish my mother was here,’ he said, locating the grief. ‘I wish my father was alive. I wish I’d been with him when he died.’

‘Ah,’ she said, like wind in the trees. She sat in her gold-embroidered gown on the dry ground. She took him in her arms. ‘It is our fate to lose our families.’

‘I will not see her or my father again. My brothers are taken by the wars. My mother said she did not choose this, that she would always think of me.’

‘She was a very wise and loving mother to say that.’

‘I don’t know why I do this!’ He was so frightened of looking unmanly for his bride.

‘You are weeping because you have come home after such a long time.’ Her own words rocked as if over a bumpy road. She cradled him closer and kissed his forehead. She kissed his closed eyes, for all of their dead. ‘Your father. My father. Your mother.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘What is your name? I don’t know your real name.’

Jayavarman smiled embarrassed and shrugged. He closed his eyes and said his real name. ‘Kráy.’

Jayarajadevi’s face froze.

He said, ‘Kansri, don’t tell anyone, please. It is not a name I can live up to!’ The name in Old Khmer meant Huge, Powerful, Exceeding – Too Much.

Jayarajadevi asked, ‘Your father gave you that name?’

‘No, my mother.’ Jayavarman grinned. ‘She had a vision of me. Mothers do.’

Jayarajadevi Kansri sighed. ‘I won’t ever know your parents.’

‘That’s OK, neither do I.’ He looked smiling, accepting. ‘They were the reverse of what you expect a man and a woman to be. My mother was brave, strong and calculating, but also wilder. She saw things. My father, Dharan Indravarman, was sweet and gentle, always saying look, look at the butterflies. Look at the flowers. Maybe the flowers take wing as butterflies. He cried when animals died.’

His wife took his hand. ‘They sound like exceptional people.’ The tears came again. ‘They were. And I hardly knew them.’

She made him look at her. ‘We will make a new family,’ she promised. ‘We will people that family with children who will honour and respect you. We will build a house of our own, a great house where all our families can come home.’

‘And I will learn about the Buddha. My family were Buddhists. Did you know that?’

She smiled. ‘Everyone knows that, Nia.’ She shook her head. ‘That is why we were matched.’

The Prince bounced up and down. ‘Well. We will build a Buddhist capital! We will make a city of compassion.’ Jayavarman, Victory Shield, clenched his fist. ‘We will make a precious jewel of a kingdom and keep it safe from thieves and hold it up as a shining star to light the rest of the world!’

His wife, his queen, draped herself across him. ‘Yes, my Lord, yes,’ she said. There was a sensation as if they had mounted on the back of a swan. Their world was winging.

Then, Jayavarman went away to war.