Ocean of Milk E-Book

Jan Erhard

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Angkor
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 529

Beschreibung

Arun lost his whole world, and the vain thirst for revenge engulfed him in deep despair. But now the Khmer's talking tool learns to appreciate the value of knowledge and friendship, finds love, and fights his cruel masters to start a new life. In the irrepressible desire for freedom, he breaks every rule and even challenges the gods. The second historical adventure novel about the legendary miracle and the continuation of an immortal story.

Leseprobe

Ocean of Milk

OCEAN OF MILK – ANCHALYThe Angkor seriesDedicationThanksGalleryCross-StoneThe Tower of the StarsThe City of the slavesThe Breaking of the holy RulesAnchalyCross-StoneCorner-StoneEpilogueAppendix I - CharactersAppendix II - Angkor’s RulersAppendix III - Time tableAppendix IV - GlossaryAppendix V - MapsCopyright

OCEAN OF MILK – ANCHALY

Jan Erhard

OCEAN OF MILK – ANCHALY

Historical Adventure Novel

Part Two

The Book

Arun lost his whole world, and the vain thirst for revenge engulfed him in deep despair. But now the Khmer’s talking tool learns to appreciate the value of knowledge and friendship, finds love, and fights his cruel masters to start a new life. In the irrepressible desire for freedom, he breaks every rule and even challenges the gods.

The second historical adventure novel about the legendary miracle and the continuation of an immortal story.

The Author

Jan Erhard was born in 1969 in Bochum, Germany, grew up in Rüsselsheim and studied Philosophy and History in Berlin. Since 2003 he has been working on novels about the rise and fall of Angkor, the miracle in Cambodia. His Books are now published in a new edition – and for the first time in English.

Jan Erhard lives with his Family in Teltow, Brandenburg.

[email protected]

The Angkor series

... to be continued

Dedication

to my wife

Thanks

I thank all the people who encouraged me.

I thank family and friends who checked and criticized different versions of this novel.

I thank the staff of the S Bahn in Berlin.

(I could work for many hours in the trains.)

I thank my wife and our daughters

for their patience.

Gallery

Ongcor 1860

Esteemed Mr. Stevens, dear Samuel,Finally I have occasion again to let you have some hasty lines.

First, I want to reassure you and all our common friends that I am still alive. Please accept my apologies that you so rarely hear from me but the circumstances do not permit too often that I give way to my inclinations. Even now I’m sitting on the ground and write on the single support, which is available to me, my knees. So do not be surprised about the blots and holes in the paper! Take those tracks rather as evidence of the enormous distance that separates us.

Yes, the jungle is a unique ordeal, but neither do I suffer of fever nor surrender to the fatalism of the savages. I just try to maintain a minimum level of civilized life.

And this also includes that I write the man to whom my eternal thanks go.

Alone on account of your generous recommendation to the honourable Royal Geographical Society may I follow my destiny at this enchanted place.

Every day I draw more sketches with my modest talents in order to report to the Occident of this miracle. My fellows from the Ancient Studies Department may not like it, but the magical temple city and Ongcor Thom’s great heads outshine the Colosseum or the Acropolis. Perhaps only the Great Pyramid of Cheops stands not behind these magnificent towers, but I venture to doubt.

Who just built these wonderful witnesses of a vanished past and then forgot them in the jungle?

I debated this question with Abbé Silvestre.

Did I already tell you about him? He is a priest from France, who has ended up in this region many years ago, and his profound knowledge represents an invaluable aid. Unfortunately, he also does not knows the answer, and just like me ridicules Pay Mak’s assurances. This emaciated and amazing young man is the abbot of the monastery that nowadays resides in the temple town. And although the holy place today is almost deserted and left to decay, its overseer should actually know its history. But the legend of the slave, whose son wanted to overcome time, simply sounds ridiculous.

It cannot be that the ancestors of the natives were capable to such immortal achievements. These people now live in squalid houses on stilts and stay in a state of barbarism. Why would they do that, if they could build palaces?

No, the poor savages here have never seen the light of reason. Hardly a conversation is possible, without the absurd myths and fairy tales being told. Just an example that you get an idea, what I am subjected to: in the area a tribe of headhunters is making trouble and this even seems to be the truth – just imagine!

Please don’t tell my wife!

Anyway it is said that those bloodthirsty Khond are prowling around the temple at night literally guarding it. And they do, because this legendary slave who begat a king, is said to have been one of them. You understand what I mean? I do research and ask, but all I get to hear is nonsense. As if a Hun ever had been able to build the Sphinx or the Hanging Gardens!

After all, Silvestre told me about the small book of a Chinese envoy who visited Ongcor centuries ago, when the heirs of the builders probably still lived here. This Chou Ta-Kuan was in the service of the Mongol emperor and his translated memoirs have supposedly even been published in Paris in the year of the revolution. A further mystery, because I know nothing about it. Or do you know this ominous scripture? How can it be, that this work was printed and caused no greater sensation? Nevertheless, it seems to me that the abbot is a thoroughly honest man who is not given to fantasy. Be that as it may – he promised me to make his church find the little book for me and perhaps my skepticism turns out to be without reason. Why should first-class historical sources, that are available in print, be read? And why can’t headhunters erect wonders of the world?

Forgive my sarcasm, dear friend, but ratio and logic do not count much here in these realms and yet they remain my only weapons.

For four days I have been walking the ruins, admiring the wonderful reliefs and the giant heads. I’m looking for answers and always only come across new questions. Who was the man whose name I discovered in the old records of the monastery? I am convinced by now that this Albuquerque was the first white man to visit the temple city. But – the abbot Pay Mak does not want to talk about him. Did he really desecrate the temple, as another legend tells, and did the rulers leave their city because of this wickedness? Who was that Portuguese? I once again thoroughly studied the book of Brás de Albuquerque on Afonso the Great, but he mentioned no other descendants of his father. And yet I do not want to believe in coincidence. Perhaps you can find more enlightening works in the archives? But no, please do not bother, dear Samuel. You have already done me the greatest favour.In deepest gratitude

Henri Mouhot

― ― ―

Cross-Stone

It is the year of the Lord 1071. I am a Saxon. My ancestors attacked this city then the Normans came and established themselves. Five summers ago, they also savaged my island, the damned armoured horsemen rode down Harold’s archers and William, the bastard, triumphed. Now the conquerors are building castles in my home and enslave the country.

I did not care about that, until in the spring a magnificent entourage requested admittance into our convent. Bishop Odo, one of the victors and one of these Christians who prefer to go into battle, wanted to give the new king a unique gift.And at this point I came into the play. I’m not particularly devout, sing worse than a raven and my Latin deserves not its name, but I have quite skillful fingers. Some say they are blessed and maybe this is true. Anyway, I always see the ready picture before me when I take the needle at hand.

Probably only because of my talent this so-called bishop has backed my soul from the prior and brought me here. He also helped himself to the monastery’s treasure, we must not forget this. After all our gold guarantees that Odo’s showy church, the construction of which languished since a lifetime, is now growing at a breathtaking speed.

And me? Already at the crossing the belligerent Norman told me to capture the humiliation of my people for eternity. A mission that I cannot carry out. It’s not the fabric. Cloth is plenty, helpers abound and the progress is quite impressive. The encounter of Harold Godwinson with the unfortunate Edward is long completed and yesterday I finished the work on the slaughter in Hastings. The ships of the conquerors satisfy my eyes, the king’s hunt is authentic and for the armour of the warriors I was praised by my damn bread-giver. Unfortunately, Odo would like devote my work to the bastard’s wife, the ugly Mathilda, but I could get over even this.

No, God simply does not want it. In my belly, a hard ball is growing, similar to this comet, which could be seen in the sky during the conquest. The bishop insisted that eternalise it. Which shameful comparison with the Holy Night! Lord, forgive me, you should choose your highest servants more wisely. Before I die, I’ll still embroider this flaming sacrilege and its light may bring the Normans their well-deserved demise.

The Bayeux Tapestry actually remained unfinished, but time marches on, and two years later Arun stepped into Chanlina’s life – and on her foot.

― ― ―

The Tower of the Stars

 “For the ordinary correspondence as for official documents deerskin or similar parchment is taken and stained black. [...] A kind of powder, resembling Chinese chalk, is formed into narrow pens [...] that are used to inscribe the parchment with long-lasting characters. [...] All documents are read from left to right, not top down.” Chou Ta-Kuan

Sri Nandamarveda had moved with his court to Sambor Prei Kuk. There, in the old royal residence, the prince ruled Cambuja on behalf of his brother and behaved as if he were the real king. Five years had passed and the country began to forget its true king who had remained in Yasodharapura. Some whispered that Harshavarman had sunk into madness or was indulging in incredible luxury, but the majority simply did not mention him anymore, because that could mean death.

Also the Chinese slave, who belonged to the court of the appointed cousin of the Kamrateng and worked in the scripture department, only knew one ruler. But fortunately Nandamarveda seemed to know nothing about her which is why she could lead a remarkably self-determined life.

Her daily routine was always the same. When the sun was at its highest, the young woman came down from the library during her break. Fleeing the heat she was limping along in the shade of the columns that lined the courtyard of the palace. There, Chanlina sat on the cool stones and ignored the confused looks, which as always were directed at her face.

For a while she sat idly on the edge of the square, watching the bustle around her: palace guards were practicing with swords and bows, free children were playing and bathers relaxing in the large basins in the centre of the court. She sighed. Of course, she would also have liked to go into the water. However, she had had to learn that even close-cropped hair and a shortened leg did not protect a naked servant against stalking. Thus she went to bathe at night, when the yard was empty. Although she sometimes had to let a lord have his way over her even in the darkness, this was bearable and could not be prevented anyway.

Lazily she looked up in the sky and checked the position of the sun. Should I go up again? Not that anyone cares.

Chanlina was the slave of a bigwig from Champa, who was staying in Sambor Prei Kuk as a guest of Prince Sri Nandamarveda. It was quite common that high visitors were given their own servants, but until now she had never been called to him. In fact, she did not even know her lord. Perhaps he’s very frugal or he does not know about me. The young woman smiled, because her life was freer than she had ever wished for even in her dreams.

Two years ago her bigwig had come to the new court and she had changed from the kitchen into his service. Since then there had been nothing to do for Chanlina and so she read and learned everything she could lay hands on. She even studied the forbidden writings of the Brahmins, when she was left alone in the scripture room. The priests had initially wondered why she was showing such a great interest in the scrolls. But as she had always referred to a secret research project of her lord, she had no longer been bothered for many moons. Why she really satisfied her thirst for knowledge, she knew on the other hand exactly. It simply was in her nature and so she followed the Dao, because this had to be the happiness that the rest of mankind was looking for.

Certainly the other slaves were asking with envy, in which way the girl actually was making herself useful in the long hours she spent each day in the scripture room. But she did not care. Sure, sometime her unknown lord would return to Champa, and she would receive new tasks. But until the time had come, she could read what and as much as she wanted.

However, the library heated up quickly in the morning and by noon resembled an oven, so Chanlina enjoyed the break in the cool inner courtyard. Without a special goal she let her gaze wander and finally watched the military drill of the Holy Guard. Since the palace guards were daily rubbing their bronze skin with oil in order to look more impressive, their backs glistened in the sun. In an always the same mating ritual the soldiers were putting on airs like peacocks spreading their tails – about these birds the young woman had read in the travel report of a Chinese. Every day she wrinkled her nose at this obvious vanity, although it was not as if she was not interested in men. But not in muscle-bound roosters, who even brag with their lack of education.

She yawned. I should really go upstairs again now. This morning she had in one of the dusty shelves behind extensive, incredibly boring delivery lists of Cambuja’s temples come across a fascinating little book. It was a copy in the language of the people and contained the amazing idea of an unnamed ruler. ‘Meditations.’ Although he called himself emperor, he could not be a Son of Heaven. Never a ruler of the dragon throne would write down such considerations. Perhaps it was one of the monarchs of Annam who, in their boundless hubris, had given themselves this title since a number of generations? But she doubted it, because the sentences gave evidence of great serenity and wisdom, almost seemed Taoist: The unknown author hoped for the end of all wars, called for the respect for others and signified education as the highest asset. Where does this empire lie? Lost in thought, she shook her head and wanted to read on. The usual time she otherwise allowed herself on the cool stones, was long over anyway.

The Chinese woman climbed the steps to the stairwell, when she noticed a young man, staring at the soldiers in the square. The slave was of medium height, slim and powerful, but his skin was a little too dark to suit her.

How old might he be? Maybe he has seen two or three years less than I.

As if he had heard her thoughts, he turned his head and looked at her.

Chanlina gasped.

But it was not the eye patch in the otherwise handsome face that unsettled her. Blinding was considered a usual punishment and there were a lot of one-eyed people. No, the remaining eye made her shiver. It flashed in a poisonous green and exuded an unyielding hardness.

His gaze slid over her short hair and his mouth twitched. One breath later, he was watching again the shooters who spanned their magnificent bows and aimed at a straw doll.

Her disfigured head put off most men, which it was supposed to do but this time she was offended by the little interest he showed in her. But then something happened that made her forget her anger.

One of the warriors in the square was waving to him, and the slave hustled down the steps with a happy smile.

Apparently the guards knew him, as they greeted him with loud shouts or at least nodded to him friendly. What do the guards have to do with a servant? Chanlina could not believe her eyes when one of the guards handed him a bow. This carries the capital punishment!No slave is allowed to have a weapon on him, everyone knows that.But the palace guards seemed to think nothing of it. In the contrary, as already the first arrow of the young man pierced the brow of the doll, they clapped enthusiastically. Then two of them dragged the studded target over the square, doubled the distance and the slave hit his target again. The soldiers laughed and clapped him on his shoulder.

Actually, he’s not old enough to have fought in a war. But where else do you learn to shoot so well – with only one eye? Chanlina was not surprised that she had never seen him before. She lived mainly in the library and on other days she would already have been back with her books now. At night, when she bathed, most of the palace inhabitants were already asleep and her own camp she had suitably pitched in the ruined tower above the scripture room.

Is he a slave at all?

His loin cloth seemed to prove his status, but he did not bow and scrape towards the soldiers, kept his back straight and moved determinedly.

The targets changed, the palace guards flashed their wallet and threw some coins on the pavement before searching the sky. On their mark the young man drew his bow and shot. Though Chanlina could not follow the flight, but she saw the arrow return without a bird. He missed the target. Then a dead heron fell on the stones and the warriors shook their heads in admiration. The slave, who perhaps was none at all, now was asked to hit a painted wooden board with a knife. The three soldiers, who competed against him were smiling good-naturedly and evidently anticipated their defeat in advance.

“A Arun, you freak,” a voice was shouting in Chanlina’s back, “what are you doing there?!”

When the marksman looked up, the young Chinese had certainty. So he’s not free after all. But why is he allowed to use weapons then? Far too late, she turned around and shrank back.

Viseth Nandamarveda, heir and catamite of the ruler of Sambor Prei Kuk, was climbing down the stairs towards her, and as always his toadies followed him.

The son of the bastard! Just in time, she bent her knees, put her forehead on the stones and held her breath. She knew the rumors about the prince well enough to fear his unpredictable cruelty, which inattentive servants often experienced firsthand.

The young prince walked past her without taking notice of her.

Chanlina exhaled and smiled, but she stood up too early.

The fattest and most stupid flatterer from Nandamarveda’s entourage stepped behind her and cupped her buttocks. He was just a tea, but as a lackey of his lord, he enjoyed certain privileges.

The Chinese girl suppressed her anger and did not move, as greedy hands were gliding over her breasts. What helps against this imbecile? Then she remembered that the Yuvaraja was known to detest bodily defects just like his father did. “Come on, my strong man,” she purred into the fat man’s ear, “let’s go into the shadows.” She did not wait for an answer, freed herself from his plump arms and limped up the steps with some exaggeration. An enticing offer, or not?

“Hey!” The young Nandamarveda called over his shoulder. “What do you want with the cripple?!”

The dumb tea grunted disappointed and hurried after his master, with whom he did not want to fall out.

I should thank the Dao for my short leg. Suitably downcast she looked after the entourage, and then turned back to the group in the centre of the court. Her eyes were searching the young man with the strange name, but only found him when Viseth appeared between the soldiers. She panted in surprise. The two looked strikingly similar!

At this moment, the prince’s son slapped the one-eyed slave on the cheek and thus finally proved his rank.

The Dao can be hard. He seems to belong to Nandamarveda. All residents of the palace knew of the odious preference of the prince. Cambuja’s real ruler surrounded himself not in vain with the bigwigs from Champa among which Chanlina’s lord counted.

However, the victim did not humble himself like the countless others, but only bowed his head.

Like a cat ready to jump.

She could not believe that the Nandamarvedas also abused this slave. Perhaps the eye patch puts them off or it is his pride that they cannot break.

“You sluggard were actually supposed to clean my rooms, what are you doing here?” Viseth lifted his chin and twisted his mouth into a thin smile.

He enjoys his appearance.

“You’re practicing with weapons? Another reason to have you killed at last!”

The young man with the strange name did not respond. Only his sparkling eye rested on the prince.

In his place I’d be more cautious.

But Viseth bared his teeth and tore a scourge from his belt. “Will you obey now?!”

At this point one of the palace guards got in his way. “Lord, it was not his fault,” the muscle-bound giant said insistently. “We persuaded him to practice with us.”

The son of the prince winced and pushed the man away. “You dare to lay hands on the Yuvaraja?”

The warrior bowed in reasonable humility, but the servants of the young Nandamarveda appeared behind their master crossing their arms over their chest.

Viseth grinned and raised his multi-tailed whip. “I don’t care whom I chasten first.”

A knife clattered on the stones at his feet.

“Who ...” he paled glanced around confused and looked in repellent faces.

More than twenty armed elite fighters of the Holy Guard were standing in front of the young marksman protectively.

Nandamarveda’s servants only could lose a struggle against these soldiers. The men got nervous, backed off and their lord lost face.

“Coward!” a voice murmured.

“Who said that?!” The prince whirled around, yet only met blank looks.

“Daddy’s toy!”

The bystanders laughed.

“Whore of the bastard!”

Viseth’s hands were trembling.

At that moment Chanlina saw the slave pick up a knife unnoticed by the others. In his face she read murderous hatred. Without thinking she jumped forward, reached him with a few leaps and knocked the surprised man over. She landed so hard on him that it took her breath away. As she felt the blade on her neck, she looked anxiously in his eye hazed with rage.

Slowly his vision cleared. “You’re a woman!” he mumbled, confused.

“Well spotted,” she whispered. “I couldn’t have expressed this better, however, faster and more clearly.” She made sure that the prince did not see them behind the guards. “Listen! You’ll go with me cleaning the chambers!” Resolutely Chanlina grabbed the slave’s hand and pulled him away from the men.

Almost they reached the steps to the stairway, as Viseth discovered them and saw the opportunity to blot out his reproach. “The Khond brood lets himself be saved by women, it seems to me.”

While his servants were laughing deliberately, the soldiers turned to them and loosened their ring.

The Yuvaraja straightened his back, pushed past the palace guards and strolled to the pool in the centre of the square. There he coolly took off his sarong and stepped into the water.

Finally Chanlina pushed the young man behind a pillar and looked back.

Nobody paid attention to them anymore. Disgusted, the men turned away, as Viseth beckoned to a heavily made up catamite demonstrating them his power.

“Well, that was close for everyone involved,” she said softly.

Strong hands clasped her arms and turned her round.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?”

Chanlina was looking at him for a while. He was only a few inches taller than her had seen eighteen summers at the most, though he looked older. And he spoke vaguely and slowly. “I’m a slave like you and I belong to one of the bigwigs.”

He bowed his head and looked at her figure.

“Prejudices!” She rolled her eyes. “Before you think I’m dirty, let me tell you that I so far have never met my lord. Can you say the same from your buttocks?”

His fingers dug into her shoulders, making her gasp. “You cheap ... “

“Instead of insulting me, you should thank me. But make no mistake: I expect something in return!”

He opened his eye wide with bewilderment and flinched. “What? How dare you?”

“It would be a nice gesture if you took your paws off me.”

However, when he released her and stepped back, she regretted her wish, because after the first pain she had enjoyed his fingers on her skin.

“Where are you from, anyway? Definitely from the South as dark as you are. But the son of the bastard called you Khond brood, why?”

He just shook his head, apparently overwhelmed by her mental leaps.

“No? Well, in any event, you belong to one of the subjugated peoples.” Chanlina glanced at the floor. “So you haven’t lost much. My mother was born in the Middle Kingdom and abducted by mountain bandits. Then came the Khmer, these uncultured morons, and enslaved us.” Her narrow eyes flashed and she spread her arms as if she wanted to embrace the whole palace courtyard.” I can read, write and speak four languages, you understand? But I’m forced to live among gall-guzzling barbarians! But who wants to quarrel with his dao?”

Instead of answering, he looked at her firm breasts.

Chanlina’s giveaway body responded. “Great!” Embarrassed, she threw back her head and pushed him away. “Why am I so stupid and save a further dimwit, who wears his brain between his legs?”

“Although I know nothing about your Dao, he must be lucky, if you don’t want to argue with him.”

The young woman was silent, puzzled. So stupid, he cannot be. But then ...

He raised his eyes and smiled so whimsically that her breath caught.

What a surprise!He made a joke, this one-eyed slave who had not washed his loincloth, at least not in this moon.

“By the way, if you care to know,” he continued with a frozen air, “you have no idea what I’ve lost. And one more thing: I only speak two languages and the dialect of my people you won’t accept as a language, but I can also read, write and count.”

Her mouth fell open. “Please,” she whispered after a while, “I want to see your hand!”

Involuntarily he stepped back.

“Come on, don’t be a coward! I just want to have a look.”

“That’s what our eldest woman used to say.” His gaze was empty. “And what’s more Thom’s predictions turned out to be true ...”

Chanlina felt pity, a very rare feeling in their world. He seems to have gone through terrible experiences. “Did she read your palm?”

He took a deep breath. “There was no need for this. From the day I was born I’ve been under a curse.”

Gently, almost tenderly she touched his arm. “Just let me have a look. Maybe I can take the curse from you.”

Full of doubts, he stared at her, but then held out his open palms. “Don’t say a word! I’ve heard enough for the rest of my life. And after that, I owe you nothing.”

Chanlina nodded absently and bent over his hands. Slowly she traced the lines with her fingers and hardly could believe what she was seeing. He doesn’t want to know, and that’s good, because otherwise I’d have to lie. Never before had she seen such a fate. What plans did the Dao only have for him? Perhaps only my breasts are thinking and not my head. I should check it out. Hastily, she rummaged in her hip pouch and threw the yarrow on the stones.

“What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously.

She ignored him and just stared at the three long and six short rods, which permitted no doubt. From her mother she had learned the reading of the oracle, and already as a little girl she had had to recite the sacred words of the I Ching. But even though she had thrown the sheaves countless times, she saw this sign for the first time.

Her silence unsettled him. “All right. Then tell me. What terrible fate awaits me?”

Chanlina stretched out her left foot. “Step on it and we’ll make a pact.”

He hesitated.

“A savage that can read hopefully knows what a pact is, right?” she asked in a haughty tone.

“You’re speaking in riddles. You’ve read my palm and now we’re done with each other. What’d you want then?”

“Nandamarveda’s wayward offspring torments you and I can save you, it’s as simple as that. I’ll take on your duties without him even noticing. But you will go into the old tower over the library every day. There you’ll wait for the scrolls, which I’m going to bring you, and you’ll read them aloud until you speak like a civilized human being ...”

“Forget it!” he hissed angrily, “my tongue is barely larger than a stub!”

“So what? If you bathe in self-pity, you won’t stink less,” Chanlina said, wrinkling her nose.

His eyes narrowed to slits.

“Yes, yes, don’t act up, boy ...”

“It’s been a long time since I was a boy! Look for yourself only burnt remnants!” He opened his mouth.

“Don’t you dare!” She hid her face in her palms. “Your teeth definitely look even worse than your sarong!”

He took a deep breath.

“Every evening I’ll come to see you,” she continued unimpressed, “I’ll check your progress and teach you the language of the people. It surpasses the understanding of a savage, but I’ll do my best. So – make a decision: Do you want to learn or do Nandamarveda’s laundering? And step on my foot at last!”

The young man was glowering at her.

“What do you ask for it? Nobody does something for nothing.”

He doesn’t want to know what I saw in his hand. Does he suspect his future? But how can he endure this life then? Confused, she pushed the questions aside. “I’m asking nothing, because I’ll get it anyway.”

“Hm. Always only riddles. And how will you make sure that I will use my days on this tower for your purposes?”

“I’m going to encourage you ...” She clasped his fingers and laid them on her bosom.

When he after a moment began to caress her small breasts, she suppressed a moan of pleasure and again his smile took her breath away. He put an arm around her waist trying to pull her close to him. But Chanlina broke free taking a step backward, even if this demanded the last remnant of her self-control.

“First you’ll have to learn, boy, and my foot is also still waiting ...”

Arun did not understand and shook his head, but then he stepped on it, and this significantly stronger than it would have been necessary.

- - -

In the Jungle before Angkor Thom, Summer 1557

Which endless long times had these inconceivable stone idols already been smiling into the world? Only the eternal jungle, which dominated everything, overcame every obstacle, even time, knew. The palaces were gone and the idols might merely look like hills in the endless bush someday, symbols of the immutable fate of human endeavour. What efforts these miracles had cost he did not waste much thought on. Pedro only was interested in the wealth that the heads were promising, because the abandoned city must be near. He would shower his Constanza with gold and fill Silva’s greedy throat. Even Alberto, his mendacious father, this bastard of mixed blood who had rejected him and disinherited him would not be able to prevent this.

Yes, he had set out for adventure, but not because he had believed the Dominican. The legend of the son of a slave who aspired for immortality and whose people was said to guard the temple city to this day, had just sounded too ridiculous.

Then in the oppressive humidity of the jungle the real reason for which he had dared all stepped next to him. The diminutive braid-less Chinese whose name he had learned only recently saw the monumental idols and only wrinkled his short nose.

D’Albuquerque hated his arrogance, the constant conceit of superiority of the much older man, who had remained strange to him until today. From a few mocking remarks – the yellow-faced rarely spoke voluntarily – he had imagined the origin of the dwarf. At least he seemed not to be a convert, as the Portuguese had first suspected, no, religion did not interest him at all. Maybe he was the son of a high mandarin, who had fallen out of favour with the emperor and had been burned alive. Pedro was tickled by envisioning this dramatic fate. And why should a Chinese man cut his hair off? The deep resentment, which together with the omnipresent arrogance was unbearable, had to have a reason, so why not this one?

After the terrible weeks full of privation that lay behind them, he could not have cared less about the motives of his equally unpleasant as valuable travel companion. And yet it had been precisely this homeless dwarf who prompted him to dare this journey.

- - -

Viseth grinned like a demon and drew the bow. “Run, you freak, run like you’ve never run before!”

And he ran. He ran across the palace courtyard, heard the bowstring buzz, sidestepped, but death was coming closer and closer.

Bathed in sweat Arun jumped awake, but the hiss of an arrow still chased him. Next to him Narith was sleeping peacefully on the mat, whistling through his nose. The seventeen year old breathed a sigh of relief. Now I already dread snoring! He felt exhausted and glanced out of the window. After many sleepless nights he could evaluate the depth of blackness and the sun might only go up in hours. How long is it that I’ve slept all through the night?

Since Sangrama’s murder he knew only fear and pain. Perhaps it was Nandamarveda’s hope that Arun would eventually reveal the last words of his foster father someday which was keeping them alive. He had no idea, but the half-brother of the ruler needed his lingam more than ever before. Five years ago the traitor had moved with his entire household to Sambor Prei Kuk leaving behind Harshavarman in Yasodharapura as a puppet king. The Holy Guard watched over Udayaditvarman’s successor and they were paid from the chests of the prince. Nandamarveda, however, reigned in the old residence of the legendary days like a Kamrateng. He received foreign guests, took the salute and sat once a week on a golden divan dispensing justice.

But that’s still not enough for the bastard, no, he wants to start a dynasty. For which other reason would Viseth bear the title of heir to the throne? And why else had gangs of slaves for years been building a new palace in Sambor Prei Kuk, which already now exceeded everything that Cambuja had ever seen? The knocking and hammering went with the path of the sun and would soon begin anew. Yes, the kev pictured his son already on the throne. But why then had Harshavarman not yet succumbed to a mysterious illness? Didn’t his proclaimed cousin have a tendency to apply poison? Arun could only explain himself Nandamarveda’s hesitation with the prince wanting to avoid any risk.

And it meant a gamble if the Kamrateng died under mysterious circumstances. Above all, the priestly caste was considered unreliable after Jayendrapandita, their Vrah Guru had been poisoned together with Sangrama. As far as the Kui was informed the Brahmins did not know the truth. But as long as Diavakara, former aide and alleged murderer of the Purohita, remained untraceable, the crime could not be avenged. The dhamastras, the eternal rules had been violated and thus the rule was facing serious danger. Arun often thought of the holy man who had to serve as a scapegoat. Where did he hide from Nandamarveda’s henchmen? Where would he hide himself?

But not only the Brahmins, but the sanjaks also were dissatisfied. Nandamarveda was deemed as devious, corrupt, ruthless and power-hungry among the commanders, and for this they despised him. Yet – even the officers did not know the true murderer of her legendary general.

There were only rumours, but nobody knew the truth, no one except for Arun and Narith. And the two friends kept silent for five summers, because the prince showed them once in every moon, what fate his servants were facing. Only for purposes of clarity, as he put it, he had some unfortunate slaves be thrown into the moat right before their eyes. And while the crocodiles devoured the delicacies, the two companions vowed to one another time and again, that they would keep the secret about Sangrama’s death forever.

But although the troops did not know what Nandamarveda had done, he remained unpopular in the barracks simply because of his cruelty. Also his lack of military experience and certain preferences did not make things better. Even the highly paid palace guards and the most loyal armour-bearers sneered at the dis-gusting habits of their lord at every opportunity. And Arun enjoyed their dirty jokes, which is why he used to practice with the men, as often as he managed to slip out of the apartments of the kev without being seen.

The most recent jokes were about the suite on the top floor of the new palace. A giant pulley was said to lead from the slave quarters in a hidden manhole directly into the bedroom of the future king. And the guardsmen of course left no doubt what poor creatures might in future nights be lifted from there into heavenly heights.

But even the crudest jokes made by the men could only briefly distract him from his miserable fate. The friends led the existence of beaten dogs because Viseth humiliated them almost every day.

Arun stood up from his bed, went over to the narrow window and stared into the darkness. Suddenly he saw the eldest woman of his village in front of him. Thom beckoned him with her claw to come closer, until he felt her white eyes resting on him. ‘A slave will ascend to the highest and beget a king ... Some tool of the lords, you understand, eh? Not you, eh?’ He groaned. She was right and Jayendrapandita definitely shared this view. No, this karma is not mine. In my last life I must have burdened myself with a mountain of guilt. And now no one cares about me.

In fact, Viseth seemed to be the only one who was still interested in the Cham and him, even if all he wanted was to torment the two friends. His father had obviously forgotten them. Though Sri Nandamarveda showed them regularly how much he enjoyed feeding the crocodiles in the moat, but actually they were indifferent to him, as long as they kept their mouth shut. This had not always been the case. During the first years he had them tortured with thumb forceps, branding iron and of course the whip in order to prise Sangrama’s last words from them. But Narith knew nothing anyway and Arun mustered up all hatred to paralyse his short tongue. And at some point the kev had lost interest and simply no longer bothered about them.

Viseth, on the other hand, did not give up, tortured them as often as he could, and the two friends got to know their lord’s son as a split personality. The prince worshiped his father like a god and longed for his love. And yet he had to settle for insipid attention which the capricious prince rarely showed him. But this was only one side of him because the Yuvaraja also hated Sri Nandamarveda. At first Arun and Narith thought, this was due to the disgusting desires of his father, which he was a victim of. But the real cause lay in the shadow of his dead mother that did not let go of him.

The vain princess had looked down on her husband, who had always remained Suryavarman’s bastard to her in spite of his title. And soon after the forced wedding the very young wife had died in childbirth, at least this was the official story. In the palace no one mentioned her name anymore, no one except for the prince, whom his son reminded forever of the humiliation. But Nandamarveda revenged himself. From Viseth’s earliest childhood the widower had dragged his former wife through the mud and at the same time always affected the adolescent boy. And finally, he had not left it with words and for the first time had abused the boy.

So the dead mother lived on and her tortured child prayed to her every day, at least, Narith said so. If I didn’t detest the curse of my days, I might even feel sorry for Viseth. Arun laughed bitterly. What a thought! Dejected, he looked into the pitch-black darkness and knew he might find no more sleep before dawn.

For Narith it’s not so bad. The years his friend had already suffered under Nandamarveda’s feet, now made life easier for him. He merely had to submit himself to Viseth again and resign to his fate. I also find it increasingly easier – and for this I hate myself! More and more often he found himself dozing away the days, forgetting his revenge, the faces of his family. Even Nuon’s voice he heard only rarely. Sangrama, Vireak, his parents, all the dead receded into the background and the same old daily routine shaped him into a slave. Sometimes he did not even remember that he had once possessed two eyes.

I’m not only meant to be a tool, I’ve become one.

Suddenly a short-haired Chinese woman forced into his consciousness and he shook his head, but she remained there, looking at him with amusement. Chanlina. She wants to clean for me! What she had read in his hand, he took little care of. He thought only of her firm breasts under his fingers and that was more than he could still hope for in this life.

- - -

In the morning they entered the quarters of their lords through the slave’s door. Since the prince was already gone and his son slept until noon, they first ate their paltry breakfast. They chewed in silence, as they now did so often, and Arun also did not tell his friend about the Chinese.

I’ll just wait. Perhaps she won’t even come.

Time passed until Narith finally grabbed the broom. “My third leg wants to walk,” he joked wearily.

The Kui already asked himself whether he had only dreamed the moments in the shade of the column, when he eventually saw Chanlina.

With great naturalness the young woman limped past the soldiers, who kept watch at the open door to Viseth’s chambers. The ribald jokes that were directed at her short hair, she answered with a smile.

Arun was just about to step up to her, but she did not look at him and asked Narith about her tasks.

The Cham did not even raise his eyes – too often new slaves arrived – just instructed her and then went into the next room dragging his feet.

They were alone.

“Stop gawking like an idiot!” she whispered. “Did you think I wouldn’t keep my promise? Now it’s your turn!” She described him the way to the old tower over the library.

“Can I have a kiss?”

She just rolled her eyes and turned her head away.

So he set off to learn.

It was much easier than he had feared. No one stopped him as he went down the main stairs, crossed the courtyard and finally reached the wing of the building, in which the collection of signatures was housed. He was just one of countless slaves and one of several, whom an eye had been taken. So no official, priest or overseer asked him about his destination until he slid unchecked past the soldiers, who safeguarded the entrance to the library.

The morning sun flooded the hall. He followed Chanlina’s instructions put on a bored expression and ran quickly along the high overloaded shelves. The sheer volume of scrolls which were distributed in the room in jumbled array amazed him and he found his way only with considerable effort. Finally he discovered the custodian, an aged Brahmin covered with dirt who was sleeping on a frayed carpet. Arun had to get past him, because the small tower staircase, a dark entry gate in the unrendered wall, was located behind the snoring old man. Chanlina had advised him, to wake up the old man in any case. But he did not see why.

He crept over the well-trodden silk to the portal, when a loud meowing petrified him.

A tame cat was at him with big shining eyes. It was black and ugly, maybe only slightly younger, but significantly cleaner than the Brahmin.

He cursed his stupidity and held out his open hand. Shiva, help!

But the animal ignored him, walked to the librarian and pushed in a majestic gesture its bushy tail in his face.

The old man woke up with a damp sneezing and gasped for air in surprise when he noticed Arun. “Did I sleep that long?” Then he checked the altitude of the sun and wrinkled his forehead. “What are you looking for, slave, at such an early hour?”

“I ...” Just in time, the Kui recalled Chanlina’s words. “I have the order to replaster the old tower,” he muttered hastily, “ ‘ve been sent by the prince.”

“What an idea! No one has been up there for years.” The Brahmin spat an impressive chunk of mucus on the silk. “Sri Nandamarveda sent you? Well, I won’t stand in the way.” Lazily he looked him up and down before raising his head suspiciously. “And where are your tools, slave?”

These he had forgotten. What an idiot I am! I should jump to the crocodiles. “Well, I ... first I need to get a picture of everything. I’ve no idea what it looks like up there, so ...”

“All right,” the old man yawned and combed his beard with his hands, “get you gone!”

Arun ran to the narrow stairs and did not look around again. Thanks, ye gods! Tomorrow I’ll bring a few brushes.

On the steep and long staircase, he fought his way past thick cobwebs and pieces of refuse upwards. There was no need to spare a thought about plastering the walls, since already the dirt on the steps offered him an excuse to come back for weeks. Many turns led higher and higher until he finally stepped through a narrow passage out into the sunshine.

Unearthly silence. Pale clouds seemed to be floating directly above his head and in the distance two egrets let themselves be carried along by the wind. He ran to the weathered balustrade, looked down at the courtyard of Sambor Prei Kuk and was in awe. The people were as small as ants and even the huge construction site of Nandamarveda’s new palace looked no bigger than a swimming pool. From Chanlina he knew that the tower had been built for one of Jayendrapandita’s predecessors. This former Vrah Guru was said to have been an avid stargazer. You definitely can’t get closer to the sky. Since no one could hear him up here, he expressed his delight by shouting and caroling. Suddenly he felt free and was overcome with a deep calm.

Under a stone that had broken from the balustrade lay some scrolls, which the Chinese girl had left for him. There is something to do! He had no idea why the young woman wanted to help him, but she cleaned for him and he was indebted to her. So he sat in the sun, thinking about her slender figure and drew a document from the stack. It was not normal parchment, but a black-coloured deerskin, which was lettered in white chalk.

Arun had read his last character years ago and first had difficulties, but reading became easier with each line. However he understood only little until after a few pages a name appeared that he knew: Xa. That was the birth name of the man, who had founded the current dynasty, promoted the simple spearman Sangrama and had finally appointed him to Cambuja’s first strategist. Suryavarman, father of the bastard.

It seemed to be a report about his reign, but not one of the usual chronicles, which glorified the Kamrateng. With awakened interest Arun scrolled the document back to its beginning. Then he saw Chanlina’s reproachful expression in his mind’s eye and remembered his promise. Come on, you stepped on her foot! He cursed and then pronounced the words with his shortened tongue: “The usurper Xa from Shambhupura grasped the crown and had everyone call him Suryavarman. Shamelessly he justified his crime by smashing the old lingam to pieces and introducing a sliver of the iron into his flesh. Because of this cheap trick of a juggler the soldiers believed their lord to be invulnerable and thus declared him king against any custom in Yasodharapura. He immediately offended the gods and sought to limit the power of the Brahmin families. Thus he took from the House of Shivakaivalya its eternal prerogative of the blood and chose another guard of the devaraja, Shiva’s holy cult. From now on, the Kamrateng should appoint the Vrah Guru and he designated a descendant of Jayavarman. This he gave one of his four daughters in marriage and thus made him betray his caste. This man, whose name was Yogishvarapandita therefore deceived the other Brahmins and invented many lies to hide the humiliating descent of Xa. For this the usurper of the throne had him built a high tower because the wicked loved to watch the phenomena in the night sky. However, the false king had the building erected not in the capital, but in Sambor Prei Kuk. So he sent the shameless Yogishvarapandita to the former residence and forgot him there.”

Arun lowered the scroll and looked around. He was here, that’s why she has laid out the scroll for me! On these stones the old man looked up to the stars! Then the astrologer must have been the direct predecessor of the poisoned Vrah Guru and this lampoon came from Jayendrapandita himself. The young man nodded grimly. It was no wonder that his foster father only had felt disgust for the Brahmins. In this document, the old Purohita disparaged the sovereign, whom the general had deeply revered. He read briefly a few sentences about religious matters before he actually discovered the name that meant everything to him.

“Sangrama, his godless tool, insatiable in greed and bloodlust, inflicted war on Cambuja. On the Thai he imposed tribute he conquered the realm of the Lavo and the south of the region, which we call Laos. By these vain triumphs the usurper mocked the true gods and worshiped brazenly the supposedly enlightened. As his dead name he even chose Nirwanapada, but we know that his painful existence will be trapped forever in the samsara.”

Arun shook his head and smiled. Old spitfire! Since he was bored by Jayendrapandita’s fanatical baiting, he pulled another scroll from the stack. The military report described in refreshing matter-of-fact tone strength and arming of the Mon, a wild people, who was said to settle in the kingdom of Haripunjaya near Lamphun. Where is that? And why should I read this? From this hill tribe he only knew that they had looted some villages in the west during Kamvau’s rebellion. He glanced through the rows until he read that already for generations the Mon had afflicted Cambuja and once even had advanced as far as Yasodharapura. His eyes widened. The Khmer are therefore not invincible after all. He looked up and thought of the young woman. What had she read in his hand? But then he shook his head. Who cares about my pointless dreams? Mother is dead and I won’t be a new Aravindhahrada!

Chanlina had also brought him some rolled-up palm leaves in the tower and one of them dealt with the construction of the baray in the west of the capital. From Sangrama he knew of what vital importance the water storages were for harvesting. He read about the necessary tools, servants and planned construction stages, but could hardly imagine the enormous figures. Another scripture was about the rice distribution and again the amounts listed overwhelmed him. Yet, he understood the meaning of the endless long list in which a diligent writer had recorded the facilities to be supplied. He said out loud the name of countless temples and palaces, thinking of their inhabitants.

All these we have to feed, they all live by the labour of the slaves, by us! Enraged, he threw away the roll of the listed injustices.

Suddenly a shadow was cast on him making him jump to his feet, startled.

Chanlina looked at him with a small smile.

Confused Arun checked the position of the sun and found only one bright spot on the horizon. With all the reading the day had passed.

“In case you wonder: Yes, the son of the bastard has been looking for you, and then forgotten you. Viseth is a really paltry fellow.”

His gaze wandered over her figure. In the warm light of the dusk the thin sarong revealed its last secrets and he stared dreamily on the spot where her long legs met.

“Oh, it’s hopeless!” she hissed. “Why, did I only think ...” She shook her head. “I scrub, clean and sacrifice my day so that you can read your way through the gathered knowledge of an inferior people. And what is the barbarian doing?” Her black eyes narrowed. “He looks at my lap and just wonders when he can mount me!”

Arun felt caught out. The young woman was bossy and arrogant, had short hair and a too wide mouth, and yet Chanlina somehow attracted him. “No, you’ve got me wrong.” He tried for a grin which seemed to be successful, because her features relaxed a little. “It’s only that ... I just asked myself, why you’re limping.” He assumed a look of curiosity. “Your legs are almost of the same length after all.”

She rolled her eyes. “You hypocrite, you still have to learn lying.” Then she creased her face into a grim smile that Arun actually considered beautiful. “But after all, you speak much faster than this morning. Perhaps you haven’t wasted the whole day with wet thoughts.”

“No, and I thank you. It was great!” When he told of his reading, she corrected every pronunciation error and asked further questions when he left out details like certain quantities of rice.

Eventually, it was already late in the evening, she interrupted him. “Well, I’m quite impressed, but now the actual work begins. You’re going to learn to speak like a man.”

Arun was tired, but she did not care about his lame protests and began cheerfully with the instruction.

Mandarin turned out to be a formidable challenge which seemed all the more big as Chanlina not only taught him the language but at the same time the characters. So he learned in the upcoming night only with great effort the first words until he finally yawned loudly.

She rolled her eyes as she always did when she lacked patience nevertheless she produced a packet from behind her back.

With ravenous appetite Arun dug into the rice and devoured the contents of several bowls.

Meanwhile the young woman limped to the stairs and got from the abandoned library reading material for the next day.

When he was fairly sated, the lessons went on until he barely was able to concentrate any longer and she eventually got also tired. They agreed that he should sleep in the same tower for the sake of simplicity, before she left with no more than a promising kiss.

So days and weeks passed in which Chanlina took over his duties in Nandamarveda’s chambers. When she let Narith in on their secret, the Cham understood little, but was pleased with the more energetic support. Viseth she told some made-up excuses, and he let himself be fooled, especially since the prince often wished that Viseth joined him the Yuvaraja did not find the time to search for the Kui. As long as the slave apparently carried out his work, actually no one cared where he spent his time.

And soon the son of the bastard seemed to have forgotten him.

Meanwhile, Arun, when his head threatened to burst, quite often wished that he never would climbed the stairs of the tower. He studied writings about the management of the Khmer empire, about military matters, reports on foreign peoples, mathematical, philosophical and medical, even religious scriptures. Every day he read aloud and after a moon it seemed to him as if he had never done anything else. When his mouth was dry and he could only crook, he drank from the water hose, which Chanlina had brought with the meal the night before. Of course the cold rice tasted a bit stale, but he was used to it, and at least there was enough. More important was that he remained undisturbed. The old librarian never came up the dirty stairs from the scripture room and had obviously forgotten about him. This was at least what the Chinese girl assumed who had to slip past the old man at the end of each day had at dusk.

One time the dirty Brahmin spoke to her and wondered why his most faithful visitor now always came to the library only when it was already late. She then told him that the Lord of Champa had recently entrusted her with new tasks and she therefore had time to read only at night. But at least on the Tower of the Stars she had her peace from the molestations by her lord.

The priest stroked his cat staring at Chanlina’s breasts. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“But, of course, I am, holy man. Only I don’t suppose that you’re able to climb more than three steps.”

“Cheeky girl, yet unfortunately, you’re right.” The old man laughed and then looked puzzled. “Wait! Some time ago Nandamarveda sent a servant up there to clean the tower. This has come to nothing, hads it?”

“I think he has secured the platform. What he’s doing now, I don’t know.”

“Hmm, anyway. I wish you a few enlightening hours.”

“Thank you, Milord.”

Then she rushed up the tower.

Every night Chanlina checked his progress and complimented Arun on his rapidly growing knowledge. The language and the writing of the Chinese scholars, however, were significantly harder for him and so he still had to content himself with a sisterly kiss when she left.

Once, several weeks had passed, in which she had visited him regularly even in his dreams, he endured the loneliness no longer. When she again wanted to press her mouth on his forehead, he held the young woman firmly and pulled her close like in a fever. He pressed his head in her lap and let his lips glide over the thin cloth that veiled her legs.

Chanlina trembled and gasped, but did not encourage him.

Confused, he looked up and stared at the enigmatic black of her narrow eyes.

A tear ran down her gently rounded cheek. “If you ... take me now,” she whispered breathlessly, “I’ll never come back again.”

But in his blind greed, her words did not reach him. He grabbed her, kissed her small breasts and pushed his hard member between her thighs. Only the fact that she did not resist, made him hesitate. ‘You’ve promised!’ said his sister and Nuon’s voice finally brought him to his senses. He uttered a silent curse, turned away, and hid his face in his hands struggling with embarrassment.

Chanlina stood up and limped to the tower stairs.

After that night, he never again besieged her, but also turned his head away when she wanted to kiss him.

- - -

Malacca, autumn 1556

“You don’t believe me,” the Dominican stated in a sorrowful tone. “I see it in your face.”

“How could he?” the host cried from the background. “I’ve never heard of such nonsense!”

Pedro threw a warning glance over his shoulder and waited until Rodriguez had retreated behind his desk. Then he turned to the cloaked monk again: “Forgive me, da Cruz. But a slave who was father of a king, and headhunters, guarding the palace of his son ...”

“Well, though your suspicions insult me and the Holy Mother Church, I understand that my words alone may not be enough. Let us meet tomorrow morning at the harbour! There my Chinese guide’s still waiting for his outstanding pay. Perhaps this ill-tempered man will finally convince you of the authenticity of our experiences.”

“I promise nothing.”

Suddenly Pedro was tired of the unsuccessful missionary and the rundown tavern. He stood up, and without saying a word stepped out into the night taking a deep breath.

He was disinherited, his purse empty, yet he had to win Constanza. Although his buddies could help him out, more than another booze-up would not be won. With growing desperation he strode through the darkness and soon found himself again in the quarter at the southern gate. Before he turned into the alley that led to Silva’s house, however his pride held him back. He should be damned if he begged! He needed gold!

So he turned back and ran aimlessly into the graying morning. On other days the city just awoke at this hour, but today there was a strange agitation in the streets and a number of silent Peranakan hurried past him. These native Chinese born in Malacca, this he knew from his wet nurse, revered since time immemorial a certain Zheng He. However nobody knew who this might have been and Pedro did not care anyway. Less out of curiosity, but because he could think of no better aim he followed the men in the direction of the rising sun.

Soon they reached the square in front of the oldest temple of the colony. The Portuguese saw the numerous faithful and finally realized what was happening here. Already the day before the preparations had begun when he on his way to Constanza had avoided the crowd without guessing its cause: the Datuk Chachar, the most important of all pagan festivals.

From the sanctuary clouds of incense were rising and deafening drumming indicated the beginning of the ceremony. The natives thanked the gods for the answer to their prayers, and paid no attention to the white man in their midst.

For the moment, Pedro forgot his uncertain future, looked around fascinated and witnessed the legendary ritual which the church strictly forbade to attend. All the more he was now spellbound by the strange customs.

A man, who wore a plumed turban, received a lotus garland, which he put around his neck. With unseeing eyes he crouched down on the ground, staring into the distance. Soon an elder sat in front of him and pushed a long needle into his cheek until the tip came out on the other side. Many underwent this ordeal, and although some winced with pain they endured the torture in an astonishing equanimity. Without resistance they allowed finger-thick rods being stabbed into their chest and back and did not even gasp for breath.

Pedro could hardly believe his eyes, and even though there was no blood flowing, he groaned.

Finally, the procession started, which should lead to a second temple. Countless believers were parading the streets with pierced cheeks, tongues and lips. Some had been pierced along the spine with hooks, at which strings were attached. Like moribund oxen they pulled holy carts with god depictions and their skin strained under the cruel pressure. In order to extend the torture even more, some of them were crawling with iron thorns in the forehead along the road. A fanatic was even wearing a complete cage, two flower-decked wooden half-shells, which were fixed on the man’s chest and back with a large number of needles.