Long Vo-Phuoc | Evening in Vijaya

In the late afternoon Duchess ऱ्ओश्नि of Champa recorded the day’s events of the capital. Nothing had been very important, nothing had been eventful. Moments of reflection early in the day for the Lord King’s expedition. Levies raised from the port as reported by Lord Chamberlain in the State Chamber; stipends and reimbursements had been paid. A visit to the Queen.

There had been no despatch from the front for three days. One would soon arrive. The previous ones were short, all spoke of continuing success. Casualties had been low. A new Viet general was strong but was defeated at Thanh Hoa again, running away into Viet interior North. By now the King’s Fleet would soon arrive at Thang Long, the fifth in twenty years. Victory this time would be final, and the Viets would have to sign a peace treaty, and there would be no more war.

All, as according to the plan of the Lord King and his commanders. The Duchess had acknowledged its efficiency, appreciated its logistics and noted the superior strength and spirit of the home side. She counseled the King that a Peace must be fair, must be respectful, or it would simply be an empty prelude to the next war. She had tried to be positive. (And he then asked: what peace would be unfair yet not a prelude to war. And she, very reluctantly, pointed out to him a possibility.)

Privately to the King, however, the Duchess objected the expedition, and her strong reaction surprised him – stronger than all previous occasions. When pressed, she could not offer a clear reason for her feeling, and she herself was confused. So she could only stress that he had to be more careful with personal safety, be vigilant of all personnel, and not to be complacent after nearly thirty years of victories. Change the flag ship often, my Lord, change your armour often, command in disguise, watch around you, watch around you, Bunga. She almost cried, yet forced herself to be stern. She wanted him to note again that the higher ground he reached the more care he needed to take – because such was life.

He had become silent, that afternoon before he sailed away – in the State Chamber, quiet and spacious with only the two of them remaining. Afternoon, because she had wished him to retire early to the Queen. He wasn’t overtly concerned with her emphasis on his safety in battles. He seemed intent only at looking at her, and she knew he would soon be wanting to hold her in his arms, would crush her against him. And she didn’t attempt to move away, this time. She stood still, silent, waiting for him – longing for that rare that simple but hard gesture of affection. The years had built up, thirty years, and the feelings had never faded away.

The sun was now a bright red blob just above the tree line on the western edge of the city. Yellow light shined on the wall opposite her, on the scripts that she copied from manuscripts in the capital’s temple, almost thirty years ago. Scripts that she hung on the wall to remind herself that life was transient. That love and greed and fear and possessions were transient. That the next life would be transient too, albeit perhaps longer than this one.

Sunlight had faded her strong black scripts. But the writing was still clear. She once mentioned it to him, and he said he would love to see it. She said that he saw the original long before, with her, and he nodded but said he liked to see her own copy, her own script. She offered to bring the delicate paper pasted on wooden frame to show him. He replied that it would be wonderful to see in her home, in her private quarter, where it was hung. And they had looked at each other, seeing the futility of his request, seeing the hopelessness of her own search for a positive reply. She could have told him that had they been betrothed to each other, united in the body material with each other, many years ago when they were eighteen, twenty, he would have seen it in her quarter, their quarter, every day, every night ...

But she never voiced such thoughts. She forced herself to look away from him. She told herself that all love and possessions of this life were transient, and this life was shorter than the next.

She paused, looked at the bamboo tip. Blackened with ink and well worn out. She had written much the last few months. Records of the court. Notes on Lord Chamberlain’s transactions for her approval. Formal records for the King when he’s back. And private notes, private notes.

Lord Chamberlain understood, naturally. Everyone understood. But Lord Chamberlain, older than most, understood more than most. The poor man never dared volunteer a word of compassion, a word outside matters of court. But whenever the King was away to war he slowed down a little, just a little, trying to share a feeling when taking leave after court matters, from the state chamber on each of the long days when the capital was quiet, when palace guards were anxious for news from the front, the merchants too, and the ladies assisting the houses and the palace, and the officials, and above all, the Queen. Everyone.

She still looked at the bamboo tip. She had sharpened it herself, a habit since she was small, since able to handle a knife. Each reed will last fifty sheets before it split. She always had two or three spare ones. The tip made a red dent on the inner side of her left hand’s third finger. There was always callus there.

Habit of a transcriber, a writer. Rueful smile.

Missing Bunga. Missing words, thoughts, sounds. Most of all, sounds, images. A touch on the forehead. An occasional sudden grip of the hands. A rare impetuous embrace. The limit of interaction. Thirty years.

I have gone gray, he had said with eyes smiling, whilst your hair is as velvet as ever. She had replied, thank you for your exaggerated compliment my Lord, but it’s what‘s in the mind that counts. Ah, the King returned, hard to imagine that my mind is any brighter than yours or your namesake.

The Duchess looked over the window to the low stoned wall over the cliff. A valley of green further away. Rocks at the bottom of the steep edge. The trees were turning to a golden shade, as always, at sunset. Home, Vijaya, at its beautiful best.

Leaned her head on the right hand. Looked at the bamboo writing tip. At the black ink. Left palm resting on paper. And, never happened prior at this time of the day, when the sun set, she fell asleep.

The plan was that Lord North and Lord South would march with the army at a steady pace to the Far North Fort, south of Dai Viet’s Thanh Hoa, two months ahead of the Fleet. They would replenish supplies as they go, buy from merchants and farmers along the way food stuffs and matériel. At the Fort they would regroup and wait for for the King to disembark in two or three days, and lead them into battle.

Thirty thousand men and one hundred elephants.

Spy reports to the enemies were limited because the Viet fleet had been inoperative south of Thanh Hoa from prior losses at sea. For what remained of it, one-third huddled at Thanh Hoa to mark their first naval defence, two-thirds on Hong River, at the last stand of the port Hai Trieu slightly east of Thang Long. Altogether there might be a little more than a hundred Viet ships, many obsolete, many inadequately manned – in skills and spirit if not in number.

The destruction of the Viet ships in Thanh Hoa was the King’s first aim. He assembled the best eighty ships in Vijaya, sailed North just less than two months after the army departed. Arriving at the destination in five days, with good rest for sailors on the way, picking up another twenty ships, he destroyed the small Viet fleet in one morning – the battle had started at dawn. The King didn’t take it as a pleasure seeing sailors from the opposite die and drown during battle, but such was life. Most of the captured Viet vessels were later scuttled once empty of prisoners.

He disembarked, exactly on schedule. By then a battle-hardened Cham cavalry contingent led by the two Lords had cleared whatever Viet forces remaining in the surrounds and greeted the King at the port. The first total victory of this campaign.

The King then instructed the Lord Admiral Assisting to keep the Fleet in order, survey and destroy any approaching naval vessel, impound any merchant one, from the Northern water.

That done, he led the land contingent fifty li’s southward, where the main body of troops was waiting. He arrived in late afternoon into the tremendous cheers from the soldiers, soldiers that were disciplined but eager for battle.

After two days they marched North, quicker this time but not hurried in any way. They knew the large Viet army would be waiting for them, three hundred li’s away. They had well surveyed possible battlegrounds, and perhaps knew as much as the enemies about the terrain. They were the professionals. The enemies, larger with some fifty thousand men, were half recently recruited. Their general was a strong man, named Le Qui Ly, whose eyes sadly focused more on the Viet throne than the Cham kingdom. He had followed a former Viet king twenty years ago to Vijaya, saw his King die in battle from afar, and promptly ran back North. Somehow he wasn’t demoted by the Viet high-king, in fact was given more accolades during the intervening years. He now thought that even if he lost here (quite likely, but making sure that he stayed well back from the battlefield) he would return to Thang Long in quick time. And the Chams, victorious here and probably in Thang Long half a month later, would raid the capital but would withdraw, leaving the Tran dynasty a wreck, a corpse that walked but not otherwise functioned, a corpse that would await him to send it into the next life.

He was mostly correct on the first part. When the two armies finally met at the front, twenty days after the naval battle, the Viets at first thought the Chams were deadly efficient yet somehow understrengthed. Strange, as well, thought Le Quy Li, that they did not have so many elephants as feared, there being only some fifty of the beasts, half at the front but half ineffectively further back. Do they have less beasts this time, or was it too hard to bring them all the way up this way. Perhaps both reasons were true?

Thus pleasantly surprised, and despite weariness of Cham celebrated archers on ground and especially on elephants, Le Qui Ly commanded (by messengers from well behind the front, that was) his army to push through. The Chams, men and beasts in perfect order, yielded ground, their lives well protected by archers and beasts, the elephants at the back now usefully became the front line, delaying the push from the Viets. Thus the Viet main body moved closely forward but dared not overwhelm the Chams.

After two hours in that tandem fashion, fresh Cham forces suddenly materialised from forest just behind the hill, left and right flanks, and more elephants. Again the deadly archers inflicted the first damage, then Cham soldiers moved in, there being no question of understrength now. The battle was swiftly over; this second, much more significant, Cham victory. But not before Le Qui Ly and coterie easily escaped to the North.

The Cham King was naturally in the midst of the slaughtering ground, on horse from the right wing. He was elated until he thought of his Sādhvī, and the helmet the amour grew heavy on his body, his sword very tainted in the afternoon sun.

She woke up to soft knocks on the open door. Momentarily disoriented. Twilight. Faint cinnamon burning. Flickers of light from lanterns in the garden through the windows. Lanterns too in the corridor.

She composed herself, closed her eyes for a moment then looked at her lady-in-waiting at the door.

My Lady, the young woman said, I didn’t wish to disturb you earlier, I have burnt cinnamon to keep mosquitos away, would you like me to serve your meal.

The young woman was late twenties, with the Duchess for more than ten years now, the predecessor having started a family. There were only the two of them in the residence. There was a lieutenant guarding outside the garden, who lived in the capital and would go home when night came. The King often suggested a guard overnight, but the Duchess always said no.

The lady-in-waiting always imagined herself to be a very young sister of the Duchess, someone to look up to, more than that, someone to mentally worship. A young sister, not a daughter, because her idol was never married. In fact, the Duchess didn’t have a sibling, her parents passed away before the young woman came. Thus the latter imagined she were her idol’s young, youngest, sister. She could read and write from being personally tutored by the Duchess, and considered herself as fortunate as anyone in the realm.

The Duchess said, no, I won’t have meal tonight, could you prepare water for bathe, burn sandalwood there, and do the same here whilst I bathe.

Her private bathing quarter was next to her chamber. There was a clean well in the garden.

I have filled up the water my Lady, replied the young woman. She lighted lanterns and candles in the chamber, then, taking courage, asked, my Lady, you are very pale, are you not well my Lady?

Her Lady smiled, I am fine, thank you; continued, while I bathe can you also bring fresh tea, don’t pour just yet to keep it warm, then you can retire, don’t wait; but come here first.

She stood up, gently hugged her young charge, a rare gesture. The young woman was much surprised, shaken slightly with gratitude, inhaled flagrance from her Sādhvī’s chest and neck, held her Sādhvī tightly, and thought, my Lady is still tired from the late afternoon’s sleep, so unlike her, poor her, she has been so busy with work.

The young woman left. The Duchess walked over to the simple chest that held her clothes, selected a long strip of thin white cotton, a thin brown sari, a formal sari with embroidered blue and orange. The white cotton strip, always stored in sandalwood shavings, was something she wrapped on her body, under clothes, on important personal anniversary days – New Year; Bunga’s inauguration; the day she gave mind and material life to the transcendence, perhaps not all mind as it had turned out, because how much could she have understood love; the day he came back from the first naval expedition to Thang Long; a day or two that was still alive under the weight of memories. The thin brown sari she wore when going to temple. The formal one was for State occasions. A little faded, this one, but she quite liked it – and amused that there was still vanity in the mind.

She had never worn together the three items of clothing.

A smile. One perhaps not rueful, she hoped.

In that illuminating instant, the King started to understand the possibility. A peace that was unfair but not a prelude to war.

It’s the old adage of divide to rule my Lord, she had said, reluctantly.

And this time with both the army and the Fleet, he added, I can arrange for a complete change of order at the North.

Yes my Lord, while the Southern neighbours are fortunately weak and friendly.

But what exactly in your mind, he asked, for that order Sādhvī.

He held her hand, and she left hers in his until he regretfully released - lest she be disturbed. Suddenly he was afraid for her. She was High Sādhvī, finest thinker in the realm but above all a person of peace. It’s not her place in the scheme of the transcendental universe to use her intellect for a plot, no matter how grand, to benefit him, to benefit a particular kingdom.

He was afraid for her. He knew she loved him, and he was ashamed to have exploited that love, that pure, generous, overwhelming love.

She took time to reply.

The Viets are weak and divided in their court my Lord; with complete victory on ground and water you may want to divide them into three or four small kingdoms, giving each to a royal lord, their high-king too if need be, their strongman Ho Qui Ly too if you cannot capture and eliminate him; always making sure you include the disenfranchised royal fractions.

So they will fight each other?

Perhaps, but only with our permission Bunga, or more likely they have an uneasy peace among each other and thus no design on us for a long time.

But if we leave them be they may eventually unite.

No my Lord, we won’t leave them be. We will have to force nature to our will. We will station a strong contingent of our men in each part, the cost paid for by the Viets. We have to ensure our personnel are of high integrity through the ranks, not succumbed to corruption and cruelty, so as to earn respect from the Viets. We will frequently rotate each contingent with fresh soldiers from Champa in order to avoid intrigues and complacency.

Who will have Thang Long?

No one exclusively my Lord, it would be a free place for commerce under our watchful eye. A place for trades and ideas. All Viets, Chams and Chinese will be welcome as long as proper levies are paid. We will maintain order and the lines of commerce on the Hong River will always be open. We could call it the Free Metropolis of Thang Long.

Won’t China have design on each of these new Viet nations, or Thang Long itself?

They may, and probably will. But only if we are weak and of no use to them. If we prove ourselves useful in commerce and in maintaining stability among the Viets, if we show there are benefits to them, and if we are strong, they will be reluctant to launch an invasion against our interest. That’s a lot of ifs my Lord, so you always have to be strong and just, and so will have the future kings of Champa.

But the Chinese might still insist?

Then we would negotiate with them. If necessary we offer Viet interests to them in return for stable relation. We might ultimately have to make Thanh Hoa a land-in-between, far enough from China for them to lose interest southward. All this would be uncertain but many years from now. I would hope for a hundred years Bunga, may be more. And there is always our Fleet my Lord.

Yes. Our Fleet reigns supreme in these waters, in war and commerce. The Chinese master only on land, a huge elephant as they are. I just wish we have more sailors, more Chams.

With a long and stable peace we will have more Chams Bunga.

That is their, the King’s and hers, ultimate goal for the kingdom. Many times she had noted to him that had Champa enjoyed a population of a half, even a third, of the Viets, then there would perhaps have been no more Tran dynasty the last ten years or so. Yet for every six or eight Viets there was only one Cham.

He looked at her, shaken deep inside with love and gratitude. A very selfish love, that was, but he had always loved her. He was not as fine a humanity specimen as she, but he had loved her since they were young, were children.

That is a heavenly brilliant design Light my Love, one that no one could ever half equal.

The Duchess reddened at the word he used, her eyes alternated between pleasure from his childlike happiness and her infinite sadness.

She said, Bunga, that is a cold-hearted scheme but it preserves the culture of the two peoples; and I’m not worthy as a Sadhvi to have voiced it to you, to be so embroiled in the affairs of men.

A silent moment, then unexpectedly gripped the King's upper arm with delicate fingers, looked into his eyes, continued, to carry it out you must be kind and fair to all creatures; and above all you must survive Bunga, you must survive to put this war aim in proper motion.

Her young lady had placed orchids and frangipanis on water in the wooden tub. The teak ladle with long slender lacquered handle on the circular frame. The stone floor dry, immaculate. Thick cotton towels on the chair. The quarter was austere, but fragrant.

She bathed longer than usual, mind thinking. Cool water cascaded down hair, face, neck, flower petals momentarily rested on breasts before falling. Sorrow slowly washed away. She needed to be strong tonight, to be positive.

Put the ladle down. Dried, thoroughly, taking time. Carefully wrapped the white strip on slender lower body, then upper, the cotton soft from the years, gently caressing. The thin brown sari next, followed by the court sari. Court shoes. Formal. Perhaps a queen-to-be would dress this way on her wedding day – albeit with more colourful new clothes and with help.

But she wouldn’t know. Smiled to herself.

Gentle rustle from dry clothes, cool from the bathe. Walked back to her chamber. Her young lady had brought tea, orchids and frangipanis again on the tray. Delicate china cup, empty.

She poured. The scent of jasmine. The fragrance of sandalwood mixed with earlier cinnamon in the chamber. Sipped the tea. Touched the orchid stem.

Walked over to the clothes chest, tidied the contents, closed the lid. Over to the document chests, sectioned the materials. Selected a thick sheaf of private notes private letters. Brought over to the writing table. Refilled the cup.

Read, one by one - memories, memories. From time to time smiled, closed eyes in order to see things, shook head, stopped midway, looked up, looked onto the empty space, sipped tea.

Finished each, burnt, dropped thin black ash into the small stone basket nearby. Sheet by sheet. Mental child, mental children, all.

It took time but that too was done. Now writing. Labels, really. Sipped tea again - no longer warm but surely not a concern for tonight.

Paused, looked at the bamboo tip. A habit Bunga said he loved very much. I loved looking at you always, he said, but most of all when you looked down at an angle.

Intricate imagination for a man of war. Romantic, to put it mildly.

Looked again outside over the low stone wall. Darkness was deep but for the few pools of light from garden lanterns.

What did Bunga said that afternoon in the state chamber, when he held her in his arms, when he realised she would stay still for longer than a moment?

He said, were I an arrogant king I would insist on being with you tonight, but I am forever afraid of you.

She didn’t say anything, still in his arms.

He continued, yet that is my exact sentiment even knowing that you are a very strict High Sadhvi.

He shook head. And she still stayed still. He crushed her with a little more force. He breathed in her face, her neck.

Then she said, Chams believed in the next life my Lord, I too, even if not so wholly.

He smiled, face touching hers, said, forgive me but I am too busy with this life to think about the next.

That is true my Lord, she said in altered voice, but whatever chance of existence in the next life, I want to see you there without guilt, without remorse, without obligation, and I want to see you there as Bunga thirty years ago, as I was then, too.

He held her harder. She felt him stir. She stayed still a moment longer, then gently pushed his chest away, gently, regretfully.

He slowly stepped back, looked at her, and she said, careful on this expedition Bunga, careful, careful.

She touched his face, warm, a fleeting moment, smiled, bent her head, and moved toward the large door. He started to move with her but she, still smiling, slightly shook her head.

Looked at the labels she just wrote. Names of household personnel: her young lady, her Lieutenant guard. Lord Chamberlain. The military Lords. The Queen. The Sadhvi at the temple.

Placed labels on respective chests, respective items.

Back at the table. Sipped cold tea. Wrote a short note. Simple scripts – nothing as cursive as in the now burnt private notes.

Put the old reed aside, picked a new one. Dipped the tip in ink.

Opened her right palm, looked at the line folds on skin surface. She wrote on the palm, slowly but freely, with flourish. As much flourish as over the years. Small delicate surface, but there weren’t many words to write.

She waited for her palm to dry. Stretched the fingers. Bunched them slightly, and reopened. Bunga entangled in Light.

The Viets really had no plan. The populace were down-trodden – minor uprisings occurred throughout the land. Commerce was neglected because of war and disrepair of merchant routes to China, which itself until recently was deep in a semi-civil war between Mongol rulers and indigenous Hans. The Tran court of Dai Viet was weak and soaked in intrigue. The dynasty no longer enjoyed the prestige a hundred years ago from victories over the invading Mongols. The high-king, the true ruler who was brother, uncle and father respectively of a quick succession of kings, favoured the strongman of the realm the last twenty years, Le Qui Ly, creating disfranchise among his kin and blood. The high-king was weak, ineffectual in government and in war. His integrity fell to a new low when he forced his nephew-king to commit suicide at the urging of Le Qui Ly. The strongman, on the other hand, was clever, ambitious, manipulative and forever a devious plotter. He had installed female relatives to Tran princes. He himself was married to the high-king’s widowed sister. Well-thinking Tran princes and dukes believed they were mistreated by their high-king, some became Buddhist priests, some died in battles, and one or two, more clever than most, ingratiated to and aligned their own family with Le Qui Ly.

Thus the Viets had no plan. They had feared they would lose their best and largest army north of Thanh Hoa, led by Le Qui Ly, and they did. They knew the Cham Fleet was unrivalled from here to Ayuthhia – even the Ming Chinese would struggle against it at sea. They believed the Chams would soon destroy the Viet fleet twenty li’s east of Thang Long, at the port of Hai Trieu. With the Cham army moving up from Thanh Hoa, the Cham Fleet moving in the River from the sea, all would soon be lost, and the occupation might be long this time. They despaired at the thought of the Cham King, who was smart, brave, resourceful, of boundless energy, and who, as Viet spies reported, had the finest mind in the realm assist him in matters of state and war – a beautiful woman, unbelievably.

Two months prior, as Qui Ly prepared to lead the army to Thanh Hoa the high-king decreed that his own nephew was to lead the Viet final resistance at Hai Trieu against the mighty Cham Fleet. After Thanh Hoa was lost, Le Qui Ly, now back in Thang Long but losing face, still believed that the Chams would soon withdraw even if they prevailed on the Hong, and that his bountiful benefactor the high-king would survive in good health, admittedly having to again run away from the capital. The high-king was pleased to hear that logical sentiment and thus, concerned that Quy Ly was still exhausted from the loss at Thanh Hoa, advised his nephew to continue with his naval defense.

This man, Tran Khat Chan, believed he would soon die. He was not a coward and in fact was a man of some ability, but he well understood the true strength of Cham naval force and of his own side. He had cried to the high-king when bidding farewell. But he would accept fate when fate came – fate would rule. His uncle held him in royal arms, whilst secretly pleased that his favourite Ho Qui Ly did not have to face the truculent Che Bunga on water.

But fate and fortune smiled on the Viets again, this crucial junction in time. It came in the person of a Cham soldier serving on his King’s flagship.

The soldier, a sergeant, was a rotten specimen of soldiering, a rare thing in Cham Fleet. Somehow he slipped through the watchful eyes of sergeants, lieutenants, captains, admirals. But one day half-way from Vijaya the Lord King noted a deficiency in equipment storage of the ship. He was surprised, querying his sub-admiral on the ship. This poor man was surprised too, quite stressed because engagement with the enemies was expected any day now. He told his lieutenants to investigate, quickly. And they found out the culprit. They remedied the matter, scolded him, cut his food ration for two days, warning of demotion. Normally that would be enough.

But, as said, the man was a rotten species, thus bitterly complained to other soldiers to whom he was closed. These soldiers were upset not only because he had dragged down their standard, but also he now dared to insult the King as well. They immediately reported the matter to their superiors. Thus the day before confronting the enemies the sub-admiral gave order for twenty lashes to the soldier on the deck. The king was busy in his quarter on battle plan but knew of the punishment.

The punishment carried out, the soldier harboured a deep hatred against his King.

He disembarked the ship with other sailors the day after victory. Instead of joining his mates to find places of excellent Viet foods, famed rice liquors and whatnots in Thanh Hoa, he gathered light weapons, disguised and walked up North some twenty li’s along the highway, keeping a ready story and an eye out for patrolling Cham troops. He encountered no difficulty, and soon reached a Viet village. There he found the village elder very much in fear of him and the upheaval days ahead. The traitor patiently explained to the old man and finally convinced the latter of his intention. He was given an old horse, a letter of introduction in Chinese scripts, and moved North again, faster this time. An hour later he reached a larger village, a fishing one. More earnest persuasion followed, and later that night a good boat carried him further North to another settlement with Viet military presence. A change of boat, and in that fashion a day later under Viet escorts he arrived at Hai Trieu on the Hong river. There he was repeatedly questioned by senior Viet soldiers and finally brought to the admiral. He was told to carefully repeat all particular details of his King’s ship and his King’s armour.

Then Tran Khat Chan asked, did your King ever changed his ship in battles.

My Lord, the traitor earnestly replied, I had been on his ship for five years and he had never changed his flag ship.

The Viet admiral was deep in thoughts for quite some time, then solemnly told the traitor, you would be torn by four horses if we find out that Lord Che Bunga is not on that ship; but if you have spoken truth, and if we can make much damage to the Chams from your information, I will ask His Majesty to confer awards to you, so that you could live on our land, learn our customs and trades, be a useful merchant here till the day you die; you will be with us in battle to identify your King's ship, but until then you will be held in custody.

He then conferred with his admirals and generals. At midnight this was what they all agreed to:

first, they would leave the naval defense as was, because however they changed it the clever enemies would adapt to it too, making the change pointless;

next, they were to take a great gamble by bringing in all infantry troops, what remained after Le Qui Ly’s army, to both river banks: this was a great risk, because they might all be exposed to Cham archers on ships and be annihilated, and Thang Long would lay nakedly open to the enemies once they break through the Viet fleet; but infantry was needed because enemy force was simply too great;

next, they would place all firesticks, twenty of them, on six small boats both banks, mid-way through the layout of their ships; the Cham flagship would be near the front line, and would smash through the Viet defense with force: Cham archers with fire arrows, ramming hulls and crack soldiers would be ready to crash on and capture Viet ships; the Viets would be powerless against such skills and force, and half of their ships of the line would probably be quickly broken through;

next, a thin layer of Viet ships would protect, but not crowd out, these firestick boats which were not to engage the enemies except the Cham flagship;

next, at first fire from any of these boats on the Cham flagship, all fire would be made onto it at once, and continued to fire until powder exhausted or until firestick personnel all dead, or until all enemies on the Cham flagship have been killed;

at the same time, all archers would concentrate on the Cham flag ship and ignore others;

next, close-by infantry would board whatever Viet ships nearby in order to board the Cham flagship when the firing stopped;

and, once all that done, it was hoped that the Cham Lord King would be killed in battle, his head would be taken and hoisted high for all to see, and Cham spirit and ranks would immediately be broken.

Pity they could muster only twenty functional firesticks - but they still had many archers. They had hoped for a hundred sticks but managed only thirty, and ten did not work. The gun powder was limited in amount, in land battles the sticks would be useless against fast and accurate Cham archers. Thus Khat Chan had asked the high-king to give all those sticks to his naval force. His request were approved at once, rather dismissively so as the high-king had now lost interest in the novelty. Secretly Khat Chan could not understand the fuss with the sticks. But it was His Majesty’s costly personal project, and Khat Chan could only hope the old man’s sole passion, apart from friendship with Qui Ly, would turn out to be useful.

The whole plan was a gamble. If it failed all would be lost and he had to kill himself lest Qui Ly take his head. But Khat Chan was resigned to die for the Tran dynasty, and so was his deputy. With the traitor on the side Khat Chan would give the first volley of fire, the signal. Then all hell would fall on the ship, on the Cham King who was the overwhelming personality in this thirty years’ war.

And, as such, the Viets would wait for fate to take over.

7 Midnight

She had done all she meant to do. She had been positive, this evening in Vijaya.

Everything was in its rightful place. There was never a task with anyone that she would delay unnecessarily. So now, no one nothing could claim a right to hold on to her. She was free.

And finally, bent and leaned her face sideway on the table, felt the cool bare timber on her cheek her ear, finally she broke down. She looked at the tears on the table surface, seeping to the reed, the ink, her hand, her hair.

Why didn’t he listen to her. Why didn’t he follow her wish, as strenuously conveyed as could possibly be. Why didn’t he change ship. Why was he so stubborn. Why didn’t he listen. Why didn’t he. What kind of a death wish was that.

Why war was always cruel. Why fate was cruel to him. She accepted that the Viets thought of him as their worst nightmare. But the Viets didn’t know him. She knew him. She knew him as much as one sentient another. She knew him.

She shuddered at the image of him slain in her dream, breaking her heart. That gift of hers. She, who was gifted, had this evening received its last reward.

She sat up, pushing hair from her face with the hand holding the reed. She would look a mess. A strange light-hearted thought stirred in the mind. Would she look a sensual mess to him in her court sari, hair tangled, face smudged, writing reed in hand? She felt light-headed too from the emotional outburst, from quite a cry since so many years.

She rose, a little unsteady – there was only tea this evening. Then she felt fine. Walked to the bathing quarter, refreshed.

Back. Picked up her staff, her Sādhvī staff passed down from hundred of years, grasped its handle. If she could have a simple wish this moment in time, may this remnant of an ancient Bodhi bring them a humble peace in transcendental space.

Checked her shoes. Blew out the candles. Left the oil lantern on.

Bamboo writing reed and old Bodhi staff. She was ready.

No heavenly creature could, ever could, accuse her, accuse him, to scheme for this outcome. The two of them had done all they could for this kingdom, for the Chams. This was not their design for the end. No heavenly creature could ... She was suddenly overcome with grief, almost broke down again but forced herself to recompose.

She walked to the side door, opened it, stepped outside, closed it, moved into the garden, thumping the staff gently to keep any night creature away. Ghostly trees in diffused light from the garden lantern, seen through moist eyes - these trees, these plants, her earthy children all. The oldest, tallest tree, one day she leaned against it, and looking at her he said he would love dearly to be able to draw that image of her, his true occupation in life. She returned with, what about becoming King in the months to come. He became King, exhilarated, did what a king must do, set up a war machine in motion, set up a royal family. She despaired. But she forgave him, because, what could she say, she loved him, and because she believed in generosity, believed in work that helped alleviate sufferings that were so much worse than hers; and, more than anything else, in aiding him any way she could. And now he had paid the ultimate price.

Walked to the low stone wall, slow, steady. A step up. Tapped the surrounds with the staff, on the narrow ledge just below, on the other side.

A moment of stillness, stood straight on the wall. Bunga had stood with her here, years past, stood with her and watched out for her.

Rested the staff on the inside wall, but kept the reed. Turned slowly, facing the darkness, the cool damp air. The night was lovely. Looked at her palm.

She smiled, imagined that she still looked the same to him – an unusual sight tonight perhaps, ink smudges and all, but bright and pretty as she was, a touch of vanity returning at last after thirty years. And was it him a way further on, smiling too, quite presentable after the last battle? This time she would insist, without leeway, that before coming to her he was to disembark his warship, drop the sword into water, drop the armour, the helmet too.

She braced herself, bent the knees a little, flew away.

Long Vo-Phuoc, January & February 2020

9 Note from the Archivist

1 The mutation of entropy

2 The lady’s smile from the recess of memory

3 Documents ... seminar proceedings ... The Chinese Ming dynasty’s records

1 The mutation of entropy

Reading Champa history in primary and early high school (in later years the history syllabus became more “high-browed” – the Viet Nam old civil war between the two “Shoguns” Trinh and Nguyen, the wars against China from time to time, the early attempts and eventual success of unification, the French invasion and occupation, the two World Wars), thus, pardon the slight digression, I often pondered about the Chams, how they existed in the first place, what culture, what commerce, what power and what influence they had on the Viets in the aftermath. Perhaps I pondered well more than what was taught in classroom for us little kids, because the very brief history of Champa we learnt was one seen only from the Viets’ eyes, in Viet-centric records down the ages. The few passages were all there was to teach High School pupils about an on-again–off-again war that spanned 500 years to near the end of the 15th century, followed with the division and oppression of the Chams by the victors over the next four hundred, until the present time when what’s left of that people is hardly seen, heard or spoken about.

In childhood I saw scarcely a trace of the Chams in every day’s life. There were a few old, beautiful imposing large structures in the vicinity of a few towns in South Vietnam. One in Nha Trang was converted into a place for worship the Viets’ way, hardly related to the Chams. Others were left standing forlorn, damaged by war over the centuries, ruined to the core, near Da Nang, Qui Nhon, Phan Rang. The old capital, the majestic Vijaya, was falling apart under the weight of time in the Binh Dinh jungle. There was an even earlier capital, Indrapura, some three hundred kilometres further north. These eventually were “discovered” and studied by French colonialists, notably the architect Henri Parmentier at the beginning of the 20th century; this, after centuries of neglect by the Viet kingdom. The French left in 1954, and old Champa was neglected again. Then a nasty war came, this time between the North on the one hand and the South and the US on the other, both sides morally and materially supported by busybodies round the world.

In the 1960s I was very young. I wasn’t aware of any boy interested in the subject, history in general but Champa in particular, all too busy studying English and maths no doubt. Or any grown-up for that matter. I didn’t know any Cham. Whatever remained of Cham population had long been pushed by the Viets into the jungle starting from the 16th century, bit by bit and then in earnest in the early 19th century. The descendants of an inventive and cultured people who long ago built tremendously complex and beautiful buildings (not dissimilar to Angkor Wat), and sea-faring ships for extensive commerce that went to Java, China and Japan, now lived in thatch huts with raised floors to avoid floods and unwanted animals such as snakes and so on, in semi-cultivated land - in the jungle, in all frankness. Cham language and customs were forbidden to continue in any overt way by degrees from Viet kings and enthusiastically enforced by official lackeys. And after 1954 there was no enthusiasm by Viet governments South or North to resurrect, to commemorate, even to refer to in passing, the existence and achievements of this once many-splendoured culture.

In Viet modern media (modern, that is, between 1954 and 1975 in this context) any time anyone (a Viet perhaps with Cham heritage) wrote a piece of music lamenting the loss of the Chams, an article commenting on the massacre of the Chams immediately after their final defeat in 1471 and the terrible oppressive policy afterwards, anything at all on Cham culture and its early achievements; any time that happened there were a hundred noisy nationalistic, patriotic, responses from Viet newspapers attacking that brave soul. This happened throughout the 1960s and early 70s in South Viet Nam. In fact, today on digital creatures such as Youtube there are still vitriolic comments to clips of the few pre-1975 Viet songs that are sentimental about the Chams. Unlike the Germans to the Jews after the Second War, but much like the Japanese to the Chinese, the French to the Viets, the US to Viet civilians who suffered from Agent Orange and napalm, the Viets find it hard to say sorry in these matters – old history notwithstanding. (After 1975 when Viet Nam having been forcefully reunited by the communists, there have slowly been a few more balanced researches on Champa by Viet historians, see one below in 3.)

The French were wanton in their cruel invasion and exploitation of Viet Nam? Well, what I can say about my forbears’ conduct to the Chams since that notorious 1471 victory (eighty years after the death of king Che Bunga)?

It is never a good idea to hold on to emotion when reading and writing, even thinking, history, because one would not otherwise properly understand things in a balanced and comprehensive context. As an example, I found it quite repetitive reading Geoffrey Wawro’s A Mad Catastrophe (Hachette UK, 2014), his recent book on Austria-Hungary walking into the First World War, because of his severe dislike of the Hungarians and their contribution to the downfall of that empire in 1918. I wish he concentrated a little less on the (clear) negatives of the Magyars, and much more on the inadequacy of the Empire itself, the German Austrians themselves. But Wawro was right, and his book was excellent, in highlighting the Magyars’ faults, because those faults accelerated the downfall. He was rather emotional (his family originally came from the empire), sure, but can it be helped? If he wasn’t digging far enough we would not have learnt of those details (but are more, many more, details always a useful thing?).

So, is that a good idea: no emotion at all?

In the 1960s presumably I had no emotion on Champa matters: I was a ten years old Viet kid, a twelve years old. What emotion could I have had, those years? Did I feel low reading the mean uncalled-for patriotic tone on Viet history textbook pages, whilst in the same breath saw nothing remained of the Chams in the city, Nha-Trang, a busy Cham commercial centre all the way to the 19th century even after losing sovereignty? I saw, read, nothing of her, except being aware of an old exquisite building and, as said, those pages (drawn from formal books by established authors, eg. Tran Trong Kim and Pham Van Son). The absence of a recent existence, a recent history, was absolute. I felt hollow (though not as angry as when reading of the French invasion and exploitation of Viet Nam). A hollowness in the mind, emanated from that ultra-patriotic tone in the classroom. And it tasted poorly. Was it necessary for the victors to continue to trample on the fallen souls of the defeated after all those years?

(As hollow as later on one learnt of the atrocities and genocides, past and all the way to the present around the globe, by the strong onto the weak, the armed onto the unarmed, in the names of civilisation (sic), god, race and the back pocket. The list goes on, between between different peoples, between kindred peoples, among the same people! History rhymes in earnest.)

Should one therefore accept things and move on? Put the blindfold on, accept things and move on, enjoy the comfort, if possible, of life: the practical way to live? Ah, but had it been so there would have been no learning, no liberalism, no industrial revolution, no intellectual progress, no open commerce, no money (and no further conquests and atrocities!). There would be no French revolution, no 1848 uprisings, no US civil war. No liberal democracy. No decent stream of thoughts in today’s life (and no modern material comfort either, it has to be added). One thing always leads to another, in history, bad and good. One thing always reflects on another.

History and economics are not a simple sort of entropy. They don’t just move on, gloss over the past, let sleeping dogs lie. They twist and turn, both sides of morality, mutate. Sometimes they come back, biting, nagging. Do unto other. Do unto oneself. One needs always, always, feel and learn from what has happened, bad or good. In the hope that a future adverse outcome may be deflected (admittedly this is a selfish act, because can one simply learn for the sake of so doing?). The mutation of entropy. A variety of the Buddha’s reincarnation circle or is it simply a tortuous möbius loop?

2 The lady’s smile from the recess of memory

The lady was Duchess ऱ्ओश्नि of Champa. I won’t go over how I was able to acquire the remains of her archive, her lovely hand-written notes in the ancient script. Since long ago I’ve had a habit of seeking out manuscripts any time I go places. Two hundred years old, four five hundred, whatever that stirs my interest and if my little pocket can afford it. A marshal of the French army in Helvetia wrote to a vicomte in Paris, a passionate Prussian highborn to his love a young married woman, an English diplomat in Berlin to a gossipy mate ...

(That habit might not appeal to everyone. Sometimes one person turns to so severely dislike another (is love occasionally hate spelt differently?) that the envelope doesn’t even get to be opened. But I’m sure the Duchess never refused her friend Bunga the simplest pleasure of writing to her.)

At any rate I treasure her notes. From time to time I rearrange them, write out what I think she meant in today’s words. Anytime I feel discouraged I see her smile from the recess of the mind, so I get back onto the job - a very noble job, because it carries no pay.

Whilst doing the job I often try to find today’s modern threads that relate to her kingdom - historical literature and all. Quite a while ago I came across an interesting record of a seminar in Copenhagen, 1987 - yes, on Champa, no less. There are also others. The fire-sticks, or hand-canons, were a notable subject for a Chinese research published in Singapore. To recall, it was said in Viet royal records that the weapons were used in the last battle against King Bunga. He was well on his way winning the war, winning the last major battle again right at the doorstep of Viet capital Thang Long. Then suddenly came the betrayal, and the guns. The betrayal was the lynchpin for his ill fate, the “guns” simply the instrument and a strange note in the history of the world.

This struggle between the Chams and Viets, with speedy war boats and, at the end, hand-canons, was at a time when in Europe the Teutonic Knights scarcely existed, no one ever called herself a Prussian – Brandenburg was an impoverish clump of villages like most of its kind in the Holy-German lands, hardly registering an iota of interest in the mind of the "emperor", and hardly anyone cared about the backward English. The emperor himself was only the head of a mishmash of lands scattering from Switzerland to Bohemia, from present Germany to the Balkans. No one was important in Europe, the deep dark age had just finished its deadly reign not so long ago. The Popes were morally corrupt for the most parts. The cleric class, in the name of god (a god that was severely banished by the mighty Romans for hundred of years not so long before), together with petty royals reigned supreme on the land, exploiting peasants who were void of hope (unlike Far-East culture, in Europe for thousands of years you would never peacefully advance in life if you’re not a royal or a priest, there being no academic career exam organised by a king/emperor for his subjects). The supposedly religious war against Islamic powers in the Near East was still on and off, hundreds of years now. The peak of Islam power had passed, but Europe was nowhere near the glory days of the Romans. There were a few sparks of human endeavour here and there in the simple universities (Bologna Oxford Cambridge Sorbonne and the brand-new Heidelberg), teaching only humanity subjects (Latin, theology, anyone?), never mind science because no European then knew how to spell the word. For the elegant highborn, chicken had a habit of scattering around the front doors of kings’ places of abode. Simple boats were built in the Mediterranean, used mainly to transport troops from Italy to Greece and Palestine for war. Marco Polo (or a similar persona) was shocked at the grandeur of Mongolian China – Paris Venice Vienna being “mere villages” in comparison to the Far-Eastern metropolises.

All in all, in the big scheme of things in the late 14th century Europe was nobody.

That makes the terrible outcome of the Viet-Cham struggle sad. Here was the upstart, Dai Viet, culturally and politically Chinese in appearance, having only escaped from Chinese claws three hundred odd years before. The advantage she had, apart from whatever sophistication learnt from the Chinese, was her rapidly increasing population.

And here was Champa, with a sovereign history (set out in her own written records, now mostly lost, and in the Chinese ones) stretching out for at least a thousand years earlier, a long-existed writing script having the same origin as the Sanskrit, an immensely sophisticated sense of architecture and a wonderfully structured fleet of boats/ships for commerce and war. Politically she resembled the old Greece many mountains away and long ago. The main weakness she had, fatal as it turned out, was the small size of population and a low birth rate. A real agrarian society she was not, mountains and coastlines enclosing her, but a busy and inventive people she definitively was.

3 Documents ... seminar proceedings ... the Chinese Ming dynasty’s records

Enclosed for downloading are some interesting public documents: (i) proceedings of a seminar on Champa in Copenhagen in 1987, the writing ranges from brief and simple to more detailed and at times revelatory; (ii) a translation of the Chinese’s Ming dynasty records of Champa history; brief, naturally, but certainly objective enough; (iii) a group of research papers and notes on Champa by a Cham and a French historian; (iv) a recent research on Champa by a Viet historian, published in Singapore; and (v) a paper by a Chinese historian on Viet military technology at the time, centred on hand-canons and whether this was independently invented by the Viets or acquired from the Chinese; the discussion stemmed from a curious passage in the Ming’s records. See also Chapter 8 Fire-Stick, Evening in Vijaya, below.

The above group is only a representative. There are other very good papers and books, earlier and more recently published.

Long Vo-Phuoc, the Archivist, March 2019

8. Fire-Stick

8 Fire-Stick

The Duchess was visibly disturbed: “A stick that spits fire? What kind of fire? How much fire? How is it possible? How many?”

Her eyes, large, glared at the messenger. A deep frown on the normally serene face. One hand inside the other, pressed against face, puzzled, perhaps feared, asked again: ”How can a stick spit fire?”.

The soldier-spy cowed under the intense sparkle from her eyes. Helplessly, rather discourteously, looked at the King, as if to profess his lowly function in the large scheme of things, he could report but did not have the intellect, the knowledge, to help with the Duchess’ interrogation.

The King too was puzzled, turned to her, appealed: “But it’s only a stick Sādhvī, may be a few of them, fire or no fire they won’t be so great a threat surely?” He wished to placate her, urgently, this moment still early in the day. For years he hadn’t seen her upset this way, twenty, twenty-five years. He was concerned for her, was this something related to her Dreams, her seeing things beyond the common vision?

When light first broke over the dark of the night, the soldier, a Cham lieutenant whose duties were to operate stealthily in the enemy’s land, and the commander from the North Fort of Vijaya rode to the royal palace, announced themselves to the royal guards. The Captain of the guards were summoned, discussed with the visitors, advised the commander to return to the Fort, took the spy to the anteroom, told him to wait. The Captain then approached the royal private chamber, conferred with the lady in waiting. The King received him. The King then sent the lady, the Captain and carriage to the Duchess’s residence, asking the lady in attendance there to ask the Duchess to come to the King’s palace.

All in all, it was not more than two stretches of the hand on the sun’s path from the horizon since the spy left the Fort that he was able to relate what he saw in Thang Long to Duchess ऱ्ओश्नि and King Bunga. He was instructed to sit on a chair at the same table with the King and the Duchess, an exceptional honour.

The King kindly gestured the spy to have his tea, the poor man still hadn’t dared touch the cup since it was laid on the table by the lady of the State Chamber. Come to that, only the King had sipped a little tea. The Duchess was distressed throughout, covered the cup now and then with her slender hands. Her wrists showed a little from the blue tunic sleeve – and the spy checked himself, looked down at his cup.

The Duchess noted his sudden movement, forced a half-smile, spoke to him, “look at me Lieutenant, and tell me again what you meant by the fire sticks that you saw. Did you ask other Viets about how they could have had such fire? Have no concern, I know the King is very grateful for your endeavour.” The King, too, smiled encouragingly.

The lieutenant: “My Lord, Duchess, I saw the soldiers practise them from afar, as I recounted earlier, half a dozen men or more. The three sticks were long and large, two three strides long, black at the top end, must be iron because it caught fire only in a flash like lightning. The slim end was wood. They first poured something through the top, the large mouth of the sticks, some black powder perhaps, then the second set of soldiers set the sticks onto the shoulder of the first set who held the sticks with both hands. The second set too held the sticks with one hand and lighted at the middle with the other hand. And the sticks spit fire. There were loud noises. One of the soldiers slipped and fell on the ground.”

The King frowned, sipping tea. The Duchess held her forehead with one hand. The King said, “go on”.

The lieutenant: “My Lord, Duchess. My acquaintance, a Viet officer, is a customer of my pretend cinnamon trade. He enjoys very good discount from me, he usually commends me for my Viet tongue, suprised that a mountain ethnic from Thanh Hoa, so as I had him deceived, could converse well with him and have a reliable suppy of the best cinnamon and sandalwood, so desired by Viet nobles but so hard to find. My last consignment was a very good trade for him, and he was quite grateful and expansive. Thus he asked me if I wanted to see something strange, magic even. He said he knew some special soldiers of the Viet king, a secret unit, who had been training on fire sticks for some time. Apparently the Viet king-father has been interested in something belonging to the Mongols so long before ...”

The King: “The Mongols too invaded our land a hundred years ago with their fleet, but were repelled after only a few years.”
The lieutenant: “Yes sir, my Lord. My Viet acquaintance said the Mongols at the time brought over some powder with them to Dai Viet, powder that burns with a flame.”
The Duchess: “Powder that burns?”
“Yes High Sādhvī Duchess.”
“Not from China in recent times?”

“My Lady he didn’t mention that. He said it was still a secret among the Viets, and he was only a regular infantry captain, didn’t know much about it. He had his uniform on and led me to near the area of these soldiers’ practice, then afterwards took me quickly away from the scene. He told me not to tell anyone. I told him I wouldn’t, that he was my only good customer, and that I wasn’t interested at all in things military, that I was only a simple mountain man, interested only in small profits for my uphill family. And we left it at that. I dared not ask any Viet about it. I was afraid he might have become suspicious. But he hadn’t, so two days later I quietly slipped out of Thang Long, filtered through the roads and jungles in my usual way until I reached our fort south of the border. It took me half a moon my Lord, Duchess. Then the commander there helped me with escort to come in haste by transport of the Fleet to report to the Lord. I was able to reach the North Fort last night.”

He bent his head throughout this.

“Did you tell our commander at the fort in the far north about this or any other Cham?”
“No my Lord. The commander understood that it was important that the Lord must know of it first.”
“Did you tell anyone in Dai Viet about this?”
“No my Lord.”
“How far did the fire go out of the sticks”, the Duchess asked, “What did they point the sticks to?”
“High Sādhvī, there was a clump of bananas in front of those soldiers ...”
“How far?”
“Duchess I believe it’s about twenty strides ... perhaps a little more ...”
“And there were loud noises as you said?”
“Yes High Sādhvī Duchess. Maybe two or three big bangs, one for each stick ...”
“Was there any mark on the banana trees after the bangs?”
“My Lady I thought I saw some black marks after the bangs but I didn’t see clearly Duchess ...”
“Did the soldiers come over and look at the trees?”
“My Lady, they might have but the Viet captain my customer started to pull me away, and I dared not linger or look back ...”, the spy was distressed, and the Duchess, distressed too in a different way, stared at him with his head down. She was lost in thoughts.

Silence. The King looked at them, one then the other, and again, finally turned to the Duchess, “surely Sādhvī they were only a few sticks.” He stopped, a little confused in his effort, in his immense longing to comfort her.

He tried again, “our archers are skillful, and they shall despatch those soldiers, sticks or no, without difficulty surely ...”

The Duchess composed herself, looked at the King, replied, “yes my Lord”, holding his eyes for a long moment, then turned and smiled gently at the spy who looked up briefly and who immediately reddened, said, “you have done well Lieutenant, you have put yourself at risk for long periods in the enemy’s land, have been very resourceful in noting this, this practice of those Viet soldiers. We are grateful that you have come so soon to report.”

The Duchess’ eyes were beautiful, compassionate, but sombre. Her smile was beautiful, but rueful. The spy, shaken and tongue-tied, again bent his head.

She continued, “was there any further in connection with the incident?”
“No my Lady.”

The King commanded, “you have done very well Lieutenant, as the Duchess said. That is also my sentiment. You will be assisted further in carrying out your duties. Do not mention the news to anyone, the Duchess and I shall discuss it with the Lords in due course. The Captain Adjutant”, the Lord nodded to the Captain who had stood erect throughout at a corner of the Chamber, “will direct you to his quarter so that you will write a report on this, draw an image of the sticks and how they fired as best as you can remember. Give the report to the Captain so he can submit it to us. He will have a meal with you before taking you back to the Fort. Before continuing with your duties have a few days with your family here and the Captain will have some gifts for you to take back to them. Then report to Lord North at Vuyar when you resume duties, before going back to Dai Viet for your next trip. Be even more careful when you are there.”

The spy, surprised beyond belief, awkwardly moved out of the chair and knelt on the floor, mumbling grateful thanks.

The Duchess forced a small smile again, but her beautiful face, the spy now dared not look, was a vision of infinite sadness.

Long Vo-Phuoc, November 2018
© All rights reserved.
#FireStick #14thCentury #Champa #Vijaya #Duchessऱ्ओश्नि #KingBunga

7. Disagreement

7 Disagreement

(Personal notes from the remains of Duchess ऱ्ओश्नि ’s private archive.)

The Eighteenth Year of my King’s Reign

The twenty-sixth day

We disagreed. We argued our separate case. There was truth in each. We saw through each other’s mind. We did not see things eye to eye.

My King – my dear friend – was seeking a fine reward for his men. Fruits of labour, past sacrifice. He was embarrassed, poor man, justifying it to me.

Fruits? I saw no nicety in the euphemism. Do we equate a gift from nature to the greed of man?

For such fruits, I saw a path paved with bloodshed. I said we needed to push for peace because we were the victor. He said the soldiers, the sailors, would see that as an embarrassment (an insult?) to Cham spirit, thousands of years rich. Not to mention forgoing the spoils of war.

The spoils of war, indeed.
I smiled, “I believe I understand well the spirit of this land, my Lord”.
He held my hands, said, “I know, Sādhvī. But no one in the world sues for peace from the position we’re now in. I beg for your understanding. The land begs for your generosity.”

My heart beat fast, fast. We were close, side by side.

I gently withdrew my hands, recovered, said: “The land does not beg me. The land commands me to ask you to seek peace. Because this is the best chance to ensure survival.”

I did not add, “It’s also the last chance before hatred eventually consumes us all.”

The Viet king was cremated quickly but formally a few days ago. My Lord and his generals and admirals were there. More than half of the large Viet army were destroyed a quarter moon past, north of Vijaya. The rest were taken prisoners or fled back to their homeland - Lord North was ordered to personally lead a battalion chasing them away. There is no challenge to my Lord’s greatness from here to Thang Long. The Cham army can now walk into Viet southern almost without resistance. The Cham fleet has no rival from Viet shore. All this euphoria, perhaps for a few years. Then the game of numbers will resurface. And the dance of death continues.

For nearly twenty years my Lord had transformed the fleet and the army from a mixture of part-time fishermen and farmhands, apprentice tradesmen, greedy cynical captains, into potent fighting forces. His sailors learnt the skills of the ship’s ways, his archers trained every day, his soldiers listened to now learned superiors about tactics of battles. Many were beginning to read. War equipment became better-made, hardened war elephants better-controlled with minimal casualties, the ships stronger and faster. The fleet secured lines of commerce that were widespread and abundant with export. Lord Bunga (with my humble encouragement) paid the men well, most of whom did not need to return to the farm and the trades in between battles – which were many. There was more income to households of the land, albeit with the need for more children than ever.

My Lord, my dear friend, taught his men to be self-sufficient in all things, not simply with the weapons of death. Thus they learnt, at all levels, how to cook for themselves, how to transport their personal belongings, how to pack for short and long campaigns and to properly evacuate thereafter; all had to share labour in battlefield preparation. Unique among the kingdoms at war, no Cham officer however high the rank was allowed to take servant or family to battles. The King’s cook was also a skilled sailor at sea and a skilled soldier on land, the King’s adjutant an experienced captain. The fleet and the army soon became fleet-footed, intelligent, efficient, professional. Every man was a thinking integral part, moving with each other in tight drilled units, not scattered in the heat of the fight like most enemies.

The good work goes on to this day, my Lord accepts no complacency. And the men all love their King – even as he is perhaps a little hash with troop discipline, a perfectionist.

Thus my Lord’s thirty thousand were able to comprehensively defeat the Viet army more than three times the size in the great battle just past.

I looked at Bunga, repeated, “Peace is easiest to achieve when one is strongest, even if the other side does not so incline. You know that well. Have you forgotten what we said to each other many times, cousin?”

We thought of king Simhavarman the Fourth, seventy years ago. A marriage with a Viet princess was sought, the proposal accepted by the Viets only with the exchange of two Cham northern provinces. The king soon died, a year later. The Viets didn’t like the much-rumoured old Cham tradition of cremating a king’s queen with his own body, in effect forcing her to commit suicide prior. The Cham royal household on that occasion might not have carried out the not often enforced process. Nevertheless the Viet king arranged for his sister the princess to escape her possible fate. That was done, but the provinces stayed under Viet rule. Until fifteen years ago, when my Lord with the one hand swiftly re-took the land and with the other abolished the murderous royal practice.

How things had changed. Four hundred years of losses and humiliation reversed within twenty. A thousand years of royal truculence and lamentable maritime practice transformed to the core in less than a generation. My Bunga.

But the elated now of Champa, how long can we hold on to no matter how arduous? Is fate always part of life?

He held my eyes, gazing, replied, “I never forget a moment with you”.
I closed my eyes. My mind was becoming blurred ...The habit of saying different matters, meaning different matters, in the same breath. A nuisance of a habit, troublesome but infinitely affectionate.

He continued, “But I am not as enlightened as you are. For every other Cham, much less. I need to find a little time to indulge the boys. I know you believe time will never be on our side. As such I shall have to use my own fate to buy that insolent time whilst dread what you’ll see in dreams. This point forward.”

I was still trying, “I contributed to the war effort because of you, because I had hoped for peace. Not for material gains to Champa. We need peace to build on things, good things, before we become old.”

He bent his head, “I am forever grateful to you, Light. Without you Champa wouldn’t be where she is today. I’ve never sought anything personal for myself as you know. But these years of war have changed me. Please forgive me, my love.”

I wished he hadn’t used the word. It was difficult enough to stay calm being near him, as it was, those moments.

Bunga did not, dared not, reach for my hands again. I dared not look at him.
We spent a little more time close to each other, still, silent. Words were no longer needed.

I rose, touched his forehead, and quietly left the garden in late sunlight.

The next day

How I wish we had, instead, quarrelled about love. So that every word would have a tender double meaning. So that our souls would not be tainted with gore and iron. So that our eyes would rest on each other as sunlight on ocean water on a still day even if the words were dressed up as pretend-belligerent. How I wish we had quarrelled only about love, as single-minded as two parrots, as we once did eighteen years ago. Explanation. Justification. Circumstances. Loss. Forgiveness.

I miss saying the word since a time that has almost slipped from memory. When we were young.

The thirty-fifth day

Last night I dreamt of an alien landscape in our forest. I saw the bright sun at day and the bright stars at dark. I saw cinnamons reaching the sky. I saw saffrons tortuously twisted. I saw the rich black soil ground full of decomposing leaves. Then I saw the ground become viscous, viscous. The ground mutated to a sea of snakes.

I was shaking. I told myself to close eyes for an instant, this was only a landscape in dream.

I re-opened my eyes, no longer saw the forest. No tree, no snake, only grey earth. Ash-coloured, ash-coloured. Barren ground. Under an indifferent sun.

I woke up. The night was still, the air cool. I felt my shoulders under thin cotton. Outside the narrow window was full moon, blue, cold, lonely.

6. War Council

6 War Council

(Transcript by the Duchess ऱ्ओश्नि of Champa on the discussion at the War Council. The two hundred and twelfth day in the seventeenth year of the Lord King Bunga’s Reign.)

The Lord King, the Supreme Commander of the Armies and Supreme Admiral of the Fleet, sat at the head of the old intricately carved teak table. On his left sat the Lord Admiral Assisting the King for the Fleet, the Lord of the Northern Army, the Lord of the Southern Army. I sat on the King’s right, then the Lord Chamberlain, the Lord King’s Captain Adjutant assisting the Council in all manners necessary. Lord North arrived two days earlier. Lord South arrived late last night.

It was morning in the State Chamber. There was sunlight slanting in from the eastern windows. There was light also from large candles on the wall. The morning was cool, the chamber spacious. The four heavy doors were closed. The Lieutenant Personal Guards to the King stood outside at the doors east and west, one each. Palace guards and attendants further away, silent. There was faint parrot screeching. There was Chinese tea, served by the Captain Adjutant.

The Lord King:
Lord North, please summarise what we have learnt to date.

Lord North:
My Lord, our spies in Thang Long travelled by boat, one to my fort at Ri six days ago, one went further to see the Lord King. The spies reported that the Viets had assembled a large army, the largest in the spies’ memory, a hundred thousand men, perhaps more. The army, led by their King, no less, is now marching to our land. Second, our border commander came and reported to me four days ago that his own spy witnessed the Viet localities north of the frontier busily making arrangements to welcome the royal expeditionary force. There seems to be no doubt that the Viets will cross into our land any day the next moon, perhaps the half-moon. I had left defence instructions before leaving on fast boat to see the Lord.

The King, looking at everyone:
Their new king had been conscripting and training soldiers, building ships. He had been keen. And now he personally goes on an expedition against Champa, against me?

The King, his eyes closed:
What made him do a thing like that, doesn’t he know there will be a lot of risk, he who never had experience in these things.

Lord South, hesitantly:
May I venture a humble thought my Lord, what does it matter if the Viet king or his ineffectual brother the high king leads the expedition; or if it was his most senior general?

The King, a sad gentle smile:
There is a reason for my concern, but we will leave it till later. For now I wish to hear your thoughts on how we are to defend against this Viet invasion, the first since I came to the throne sixteen years ago. We have planned for years against this, although this is a different scale altogether. Now, what do we do?

A moment’s silence.

Lord North:
My Lord this great expedition is obviously in retaliation to our triumph at Thang Long six years ago, to all our other victories. We can move the whole North Amy to engage them within two moons, on foot and horses, elephants at the rear. Mobilisation could be quicker if we make use of the transport ships as Lord Admiral Assisting may concur. We have always been ready. We should fight them right at the border, or at worst in Vuyar and Ulik. We can hold their line in the first moon or so, then we will have the South Army arriving, and the Fleet will destroy any ship they deploy and wreck havoc their coastal supply line.

Lord South, a slight nod to Lord North:
My Lord, it’s true what Lord North just noted. From the South we will be there in one to two moons at most behind the Northern, with elephants. I would concur with his plan. Led by you, we have always won.

Lord Admiral Assisting:
My Lord, I too have no doubt of the efficiency of the Armies and the Fleet. The Fleet will do everything to help with transport and supply. The Fleet will disrupt or even destroy their supply line inside enemy land if it is close to the coast. Nevertheless, from a sailor’s position the number of a hundred thousand Viets is indeed so large, and they will have new strong battle ships also.

Lord King:
Lord Chamberlain, the situation of the Treasury?

Lord Chamberlain:
My Lord, the Duchess would concur with me that the Treasury is able to supply necessary resources for the Armies and the Fleet, transport cost, supplies, compensation for Cham brave deaths, all this because the Lord and the Duchess have been frugal and careful for nearly twenty years, and we have been doing well in commerce. However if the battle goes longer than one year, and if all personnel are committed, then we might start suffering arrears.

Silence.

Lord King:
Duchess?

I, the transcriber:
My Lord, I believe that this is a momentous and symbolic event for the Viets. Their royal expedition is twice, thrice, the strength that we Chams encountered in past twenty years, in many years further back from what I have learnt, whether against them or against Angkor. They will want to destroy us, not just to revenge for recent defeats. They will use the land route as the main thrust to take away the advantages of our Fleet’s supremacy. Their strategists will be mindful even if their king is inexperienced. Their supply line will be firmly protected and well away from the coast. I believe they are carrying large amount of supplies already. They will likely not spend time to ransack villages on the way as in the past, but will move in haste to Vijaya. I believe, as a result, that to confront them near the border and to successfully push them back, at great cost, is not the best option that we should take.

Long sober moments.

The King:
The easy scenario would therefore be this: we move almost our entire defence to meet the Viets up North. Many battles will be engaged. A half year or a year will have past. Attrition will ensue, as will the cost to both kingdoms. The two sides will have ready reinforcement and supplies. A threat to us might emerge from the South, at present friendly but the temptation is always there when we are fully tied up elsewhere. To sum, with this obvious option the effort is tremendous and the outcome uncertain no matter how self-flattering we are.

Anxious looks among the military lords.

The King, continuing:
You might think I could lead our people to any victory, for that sentiment I thank you. But even if that were the case we would have squandered our resources and our strength, that is, the decisive mobility of our experienced Fleet and Armies. We would go to the battle at the enemy’s calling. We might win but the reward is small, no matter how hard to achieve. We might defeat them, but we would be exhausted.

The Army Lords, shocked, spoke almost at the same time:
If that’s not so we’ll let them come here undeterred?

Lord Chamberlain looked distressed, the Lord Admiral Assisting forlorn.

The King, smiled, again sadly:
I have thought about this for quite some time. Despite all our military victories to date the Viets' strength is still preserved because we had not delivered them a fatal blow. Yet we can never make a lasting incursion deep into their land because we would be bogged down, losing all our advantages. Thus I have been waiting for an opportunity that leads to a decisive outcome. The Duchess may want to share her view.

I:
My Lord, the Viets invaded our land many times the last four hundred years. They destroyed our old Indrapura four hundred years ago; occupied and ransacked this capital, then new, only a hundred years after. Every time they moved into our sovereignty with a large army they defeated us at the end. It’s not so much the size and effectiveness of their army that they won, but history told me that the Chams were already weak in each of those occasions. This time, this time is the opposite.

The military men, surprised, pondered the information and its implication. Lord Bunga looked at me, eyes smiling even if lips morosely set.

Lord North:
Would it be a risk to our men’s confidence if we retreat?

Lord South:
I must admit that I would feel helpless.

Lord Admiral Assisting concurred, perplexed. Lord Chamberlain looked puzzled. Even the Captain Adjutant risked a moment of discourtesy by looking up at the Lord King and the Duchess.

Lord King:
My dear friends, you will not feel helpless and despondent. You will all help me prepare the battleground just north of Vijaya. We will move back our troops, and don’t forget all of the elephants. The Fleet will be ready to harass the Viets if they slack off their pace. That is, we want them to proceed, single-mindedly, to meet us here. The Lord Chamberlain will be prepared to compensate, not only our soldiers and sailors, but also the Cham simple folks who suffer at the Viets’ hands, the unjust deaths, the wanton destruction of their persons, their property. Our heart will be with those who were maimed, assaulted, those who lost their lives. We can only hope that this army, led by a King, is well supplied and disciplined.

Lord Admiral Assisting:
My Lord, Duchess, might they not only want to reoccupy the land we lost to them prior, and stop at Vuyar and Ulik.

I:
I believe, Lord Admiral, this expedition is so large and costly in scope that the Viets won’t simply be satisfied with that. History shows a large force always wants to arrive at the capital. I believe the Viet king thinks that he has a personal score to settle with the Lord King. He would want to destroy us after sixteen years of perceived humiliation. He is new to the throne, he is eager, he wants history to brightly record his name.

Lord Chamberlain:
My Lord, Duchess, even a humble man of the court like me would find the Viet king’s sentiment misplaced.

Lord King:
Thank you Lord Chamberlain. So, my friends, we will have much work to do, many despatches to send, many preparations to make, many calculations of troops and revenues to consider. We all here will have many days to counsel each other. Lord South will go South to move three quarters of soldiers and elephants up here, and then will stay here. Lord North will discuss with Lord Admiral Assisting and with myself to help move troops back from the North, and will stay in the capital to help prepare the battleground with Lord South and myself. Lord Chamberlain will consult with the Duchess and myself to implement disbursements and material acquisition.

Lord King, continued:
One final matter. The Viet king is inexperienced but tempestuous, thus everything could quickly fall into our plan. Yet because of his temperament he might die on the battlefield. Were that the case the progress of lasting peace that I hope for, that the Duchess our Sādhvī hopes for, would be delayed further. There has been no peace since Thang Long, six long years. We might not have tried hard enough, that is true, and there will be more long years ahead. Fate is in the hand of the Buddha, and the Duchess will bless us with any vision that she might see in her Dreams. In the meantime let us make the most of the light and the darkness each day as it comes.

Sober realisation.
The Lord King adjourned the discussion.

My Lord Bunga,

I submit the transcript herewith for your pleasure, for your sole use. I had said, earlier today from my own part, what was needed to be considered. But there is one more thing. That I wish, with all my soul, that you shall be alive and well after this great battle. Because if you do not survive there shall be nothing for Champa, peace or war.

Your humble cousin and friend,
ऱ्ओश्नि

(Note:

Duchess ऱ्ओश्नि

The above is what little on that historic meeting that I retrieved from the Duchess’ archive, now mostly lost. It is hard, through all this, not to feel for her, torn between what was right for her kingdom for the present and for what might turn out, would turn out, many years further on; torn between peace and war, between hope and cruel destiny. I don’t know her in a familial sense, but I could imagine her sitting here, puzzled a little at my consternation over the inconsistency from scant records of dates and places of events. Yes, I could imagine she is here with me, just walking back from the war council, sipping tea in the late morning’s sunlight of her Vijaya transported here, extraordinarily beautiful and immensely learned in her mid-thirties (a few months younger than king Bunga); telling me where to highlight on the map the land that her lover - her passionate lover, charismatic, romantic, chaste - reconquered for their homeland, the land of the enemies that he incursed into and occupied. I can imagine her speaking of war with distaste, telling me that all wars are transient no matter how many centuries they have traversed. I can imagine all that, and I would ask if I could hold both her hands in mine to comfort her soul a little, because her Bunga is not here to do so. And, in my mind, as perfectly clear as that cloudless October day in her homeland she would smile at me, a sad but somehow sparkling smile, her eyes deep and bewitching, her complexion luminous, my eyes would be blinded by her lovely form, my mind smothered by her lovely soul, her many-splendoured intellect ..... )

Long Vo-Phuoc, March 2017
© All rights reserved.
#Champa #Vijaya #Duchess #KingBunga

Note: Vuyar & Ulik: northern districts of old Champa pre-14th century, "Ô & Rí" in Viet toungue, now Quang Tri and Thua Thien provinces of Viet Nam.

5. Reflections

5 Reflections

(Personal letter from the Lord King Che Bunga of Champa to Duchess ऱ्ओश्नि, written on His return from military expedition to Thăng Long in the eleventh year of His Reign)

My dear Light,

I am writing to you from the upper deck of my quarter. The adjutant has just taken away my last armour change, smelly and tainted with soot and unpleasant things. It is noon, with a little wind. We are quite some way off the coast of Đại Việt. We departed before first light, the sun slanted by our left when we left the river’s estuary.

You would have known by now from our previous despatch: we had total victory. There is not much more to add to it, except that we have now withdrawn. The Viets’ large army is badly depleted yet survives, we destroyed only the substantial Thăng Long contingent. Their king fled from the capital, and somehow they were reluctant to mount a major counterattack during our occupation. They will have to live with their absolute shock, dismay, and thereby reinforce their hatred of us. But the Việts will rebuild their capital, their fleet and their pride.

The Chams, well, the Chams will have to start preparing for further major battles ahead against a weakened enemy, at the same time plan for peace as per the wishes of their King and, especially, of their spiritual leader and finest thinker for generations - yourself, my beloved Light.

Is revenge so sweet, or is it overrated like most things in life? Are victories and material gains enough to make up for the remorse aftermath that is always the price exacted from the victor, this victor at any rate? Or are they as ephemeral as mayflies? The questions you always ask on my behalf, and an answer we both could not find.

But this is a love letter, not a royal command, not an official correspondence, and certainly not an end-chapter note in a king’s self-serving war memoir. I always write such a one (the love letter, not a book addendum) to you following a long campaign. You always are embarrassed after reading it even though, as you say on every occasion, you were looking forward to receiving it - because you miss me when I am away (and I you)? You would say, “your letter is difficult for me and unfair to the Queen, but thank you”. I would say, how is it unfair if I have been so writing to you since childhood. You: but there is now your family to focus your affection. I: I love my family but I still love you. You: that is disloyal to your lady. I: but you and I are as chaste and distant in the matter of the flesh as the sun and the moon, how is it disloyalty?

(My simple argument never registers any conviction with you. Well, I am a sailor and you the philosopher.)

Somehow you would give me a half-smile, and say: nevertheless ... your letter is still long, passionate, and quite funny, as always. I: I’m glad it pleases you, and would not mind if you recite a passage back to me – I simply couldn’t remember. And this is when you would bid me goodbye if we have no further matter to discuss, a half-smile again, touch my forehead, my face, with your lovely hands, in broad daylight or in full lanterns’ glare for everyone to see, and leave me. You are radiant yet exceptionally lonely in those instances, it cuts me, and I immediately miss you when the first sound of your steps echoes away. At such times I feel helpless. I am the King of this strong and united kingdom, the Cham Red King to the Việts, an absolute terror from the South to them for at least five hundred years, yet I have no power over our fate. Was the pursuit of a kingdom and of revenge on its behalf worth my while not being with you? Was it worth your while simply to watch over my soul and the kingdom?

The sun has dipped in the West – it now carries a bright orange hue. The wind still gentle, the sea calm, the sailors are keeping good speed, everyone eager to see home again. In the Northern land it is becoming late spring. Very soon we shall celebrate our New Year, a few months after the Việts and the Chinese theirs. The Northerners have a clear change in the air to celebrate spring, we do not. True, the next few months the buds on our trees will be more abundant, the colour of foliage will be paler than its usual deep green. Yet I somehow feel we could celebrate spring at any time of the year in our land.

Is that a curse or a gift from the heavens? Why is that that we Chams, and the Javanese, are better at sailing, at building ships, rather than to sit against walls, watch the seasons change and write poetry? Is it so hot in the South?

But immediately I find a contradiction to that theory: Cham scripts exist for more than a thousand years, you are a most accomplished reader and writer (and a beautiful loving friend and cousin, I can’t resist adding, rather irrelevantly as you would bemusedly say). And you would be a great ruler too if I have my way. You have insisted everyone in the palace, at court, from young attendants to brute generals, to learn how to read and write. The captains of the Fleet and the Army, the junior officers, even the plain sailors and the foot soldiers, the apprentice merchants, the simple farmers, the women and men of the land, the growing children; all have been encouraged – not so much for reading the sayings of past sadhus, but how to add up, how to understand meanings and instructions from each other in writing. We are not half way as yet for the Fleet, but if not for you ...

If my dear Light is not the furthest-thinking ruler of the land, I don’t know who is. When, if, peace comes I would gladly abdicate the throne in your favour (quite unprecedentedly, even as you are Champa’s high sādhvī) – strenuous objection from yourself and the paramount prejudices in this corner of the world notwithstanding.

Thus my deepest gratitude. A future historian would do well noting your outsize contributions. I could not have achieved all to date by myself, simple warrior-king that I am, no matter how brave how clever.

Isn’t it amusing that I have been writing to you for twenty-five years (who's counting here?) since we were wide-eyed tiny children. My sole scholarly occupation. One or two crooked words of a child, at first. Then lines. Then flowery lines with silly ship drawings. Then long letters. Longer letters – passionate, you would say. And so on ...

What have you done with them, may I ask?

On my part I put yours, all, in the loveliest sandalwood boxes in the land. Boxes that are made only for a king (you refused to accept any from me)! For each campaign I select a letter, bring it with me, re-read it the night after victory. Using it to calm myself from battlefield elation, to tell myself that blood and gore and winning and revenge are not the end of life and are transient in all their ugliness; while your letters are transcendental, are part of the heavenly sky at night and the sun-drenched blue at day, your words, your hand writings, your thoughts.

The Chinese invented paper, credit to them, the Chams put it to good use, the two of us in particular.

This letter, in my hand, right now, was written when you, when we, were nineteen. Teaching me how to make a simple meal if those prepared by soldiers were all too plain! Alas, I read your instructions a thousand times but never put them in practice. At the time I was soon to become King – political alliances the beast of burden for royalties (but my lady has been a loving queen, a loving mother). You was soon to become Sādhvī and Seer of the Land. Our lives would irretrievably change, and we escaped sober reality by writing to each other, living with each other in paper and ink when we could find a little time.

Things have since moved on. My chef has become a little more skillful. But your writing remains. I closed my eyes for an instant that first night when I stood in the Việts’ royal state chamber – generals and captains respectfully kept their distance afar. They too treasured the moment that never happened prior in history. Intricate carvings on rare timber on the architraves, the columns, the walls – dragons abound, Chinese scripts ... And there we were, my Chams who sailed with me three thousand li's from the South, my Chams with their families at home waiting, my lady and child waiting, you waiting ...

I closed my eyes for an instant, that first instant in the supreme centre of Việt sovereignty, and saw the Chams whose lives were lost from wars long past, the disabled's sufferings, the ruined villages and destroyed capitals, the ships that had sunk, the sailors that had drowned, the armies that had fallen. And the lost lives and sufferings, too, of the Viets ...

And I felt your letter deep inside my battle-dirty armour, and saw us eighteen nineteen again, not even twenty, not knowing how the future would come but wishing for peace and happiness, how to make them come and stay, wishing we would still be together ...

I shall pause here, Light. I will need to briefly address the troops on the ship before their meals, get them raise another royal standard for others in the Fleet to see, share with them pleasant thoughts for those who’re still here and sad but fond reminiscence for the braver ones who were cremated in Thăng Long and now well on their way to the next life.

I shall pause, and promise to myself that when I see you in Vijaya at sunrise the day after tomorrow, I shall crush you in my arms in front of everyone, while daylight overflows us all.

I shall crush you in my arms because I almost forget the last time I did that.

Your loving cousin and friend,
Bunga.

4. Manifesto

4 Manifesto

(Letter from The Duchess of Champa to The King)

On this day, the two hundred and fortieth of the eleventh year of the Reign of The Lord King Che Bunga,

My Dear Lord King and Cousin,

At your Command I have compiled this letter to summarise your thoughts over the past year, our discussions thereby, and discussion this morning with the lords and generals.

At your Command this letter shall be submitted to you prior to your departing tonight for the Fleet to sail at dawn.

I shall write first on the purposes of our current war against the Việts. I follow by setting out the intended conduct of our expedition under your Command to Đại Việt’s Thăng Long. I continue with the conduct code for those staying at home. Finally I envisage a future without war for our Kingdom.

Our War Aims

We shall not occupy land belonging to the Việts, or to enslave any Việt. In any event, we do not have enough resources for such activities.

Furthermore, contrary to past practice we shall not appropriate possessions belonging to Việt commoners other than under exceptional circumstances.

We do, however, seek to destroy much of Việt army and fleet to prevent them, as far as practicable, mobilising against us in future.

Once war has been won we shall make peace with Đại Việt under fair terms. We shall request China to recognise a long-lasting peace between the two kingdoms, and shall request same from Java, Ayuthhia and Angkor.

Conduct of Your Lordship’s Expedition

Speed is paramount. We shall make haste sailing to Thăng Long and shall not raid coastal villages along the way.

Respective maps from two informants on Hồng Hà's shores from the ocean to Thăng Long seem to confirm each other's presumed accuracy, but the final discretion on navigation is with your Lordship.

We shall not delay by engaging enemy ships or enemy land troops on the way unless our expedition is jeopardized because of these. Speed, again, is paramount.

In the event of unavoidable engagement, the full Fleet shall be employed in order to destroy enemy ships as quickly as possible, but the King would give otherwise instructions in battles. The King’s ship and the main supply ships for the King’s ship shall be protected as first priority.

If enemy ships, in such battles, are disabled but not fully destroyed, at his discretion the King may proceed to Thăng Long with the full Fleet, and leave the enemies behind.

A night or dawn landing at Thăng Long is more fortuitous than a daylight one, but speed again is the priority.

We shall first burn or sink enemy ships anchoring at ports near and at Thăng Long. We shall then seek to destroy enemy battalions stationed there. Speed and surprise shall be of utmost importance.

We shall concentrate on appropriating Đại Việt’s treasury, and, at the King’s discretion, the mandarins’ and Việt merchants’ personal treasuries, but not other commoners’ houses.

We shall not appropriate from foreign merchants if these can be so identified by their spoken words.

We shall not harm civilians unless these obstruct our expedition.

We shall withdraw prior to Việts troops from far-lying districts fully reinforce and regroup. This may be five days, ten days or twenty days. We do not seek to occupy Thăng Long longer than a brief period. It is possible that we may be more victorious than initially thought, and the King shall make decision as needed.

The Fleet, all eighty ships, should be preserved as near intact as possible at the end of the expedition.

We shall not raid Việt villages on the way back. Speed again is the highest priority.

Contravention to the King’s instructions herein shall be punished by immediate death at sea, all personnel under the King.

Conduct at Home during the Expedition

The Lord Chamberlain shall direct works and security as prior, and shall defer to the Queen’s judgment under extraordinary circumstances.

The Royal Guards shall ultimately answer to the Queen.

The Lord Treasurer shall conduct expenditure and collection, shall provide daily summaries to and shall consult the Duchess for any special consideration. The Duchess shall ensure austerity be strictly observed.

There shall be no construction of a palace or temple. There shall be restraints in private festivities. There shall be no official celebration.

General activities of culture and commerce shall nevertheless carry on as usual.

A Future without War

Under your Reign the war has lasted nearly eleven years. You have won back all lost districts. Đại Việt’s Trần dynasty has considerably declined, partly due to internal instability and partly due to your Lordship’s victories and governance of our Kingdom, which has become happier, richer and stronger.

It is hoped that war will be over within five years if your Lordship succeeds in this expedition and beyond.

As a kingdom, we shall no longer condone Cham habits of unprovoked raiding of coastal towns and villages of surrounding kingdoms, especially Đại Việt but also Angkor. These raids, sometimes partially organised by the Fleet in the past, caused bad neighbourly feelings against us, in particular adversely affecting our traditional friendship with Angkor. These habits must be thoroughly stamped out henceforth.

It is true also that the Việts have been exceptionally unjust, cruel and aggressive to us, from blatant trashing of treaties between kings, to outrageous land grabbing practices, to atrocious conducts in wars and the aftermaths. As early as four hundred years ago the Việts wantonly sacked our old Indrapura, laid to waste the capital and its ancient temples to this day.

Nevertheless once they are defeated, we shall be prepared to absolve those past injustices in order to achieve lasting peace.

We shall sustain our Fleet’s clear edge over the Việts’, and this shall be the main deterrent against future Việt aggression. It is true the pattern of past hostility was that a provocation, a prolonged one, on land by the Việts was met with a raid from the sea by the Chams. We can only hope history does not continue to so precisely rhyme once war is over, and that when conflicts occur diplomacy shall be turned to in the first instance.

Our long-term purposes are thus: to defeat the Việts; to involve neighbor kingdoms, large and small, in the promotion of peace between Chams and Việts; and to change our own previous hostile maritime habits to peaceful endeavours.

The peaceful endeavours I refer to are of a mainly commercial but also cultural nature. We have much to offer in forestry, agriculture, commerce; in maritime transport; in architectural, literary and other cultural skills. The levies we raise from these additional activities shall more than make up for gains from unacceptable raids in the past. Our soldiers and merchants shall be thus compensated to pursue peaceful ways of life.

My dear Bunga, this is the best laid-out plan in our recent history and which you have devised, with only minor contribution from this humble cousin of yours. It shall be heart-breaking if you, if we, lose the war. It shall be equally heart-breaking if we win the war and lose the peace.

It is true that throughout history the best and the worst of plans can equally fail, but we have tried our best. I myself am positive at this junction, I do not as yet dream of a disaster. The Queen, the young Prince, the rest of the Kingdom, myself included, very much look forward to your safe and triumphant return to Vijaya.

My soul is with you, within and beyond the border, this life and the next, as always.

Your humble subject, cousin and friend,

ऱ्ओश्नि

Duchess of Champa.

Long Vo-Phuoc, December 2015
© All rights reserved.

3. Interlude

3 Interlude

“It amuses me always”, the King was saying, “that we insist to see each other in broad daylight. Or among large lanterns in formal chambers. Do we need so much light, even for today, two days before I sail away?”

He said it with a smile. They are sitting on a stone bench in front of a wing of the palace where the sun slants by from the East. The grass was finely cut by soldiers a few days ago. It is early morning, the air cool. End of the year – the season is becoming drier from here northwards, with winds. Time for sailing.

They dress in thin tunic, she in dark blue and he white and orange. No one about, but one can see them from inside the walls of the palace. Attendants a few hundred steps away - all have been told not to disturb. Chinese jasmine tea at hand.

“Since you offer no reply”, Bunga continues, “I take it that the answer is obvious. So let me ask you the next item, a thorny one, would you be with me for an evening meal, just the two of us, after all the state banquets with my Lady and everyone once I come back – presumably triumphantly?”

“Well, my Lord, I am currently preoccupied with the thought if you would come back at all this time, this first time you intend to sail into the enemies' heart.”

“Ah, my dear Light, I had deliberately skipped over that one. No doubt you and I will discuss it with my generals and the lords tomorrow. But for now ...”

“For now it’s only the two of us here, yes.”

“Feasting on each other with the eyes, nothing beyond ...”

“....”

“Nevertheless, let me slightly redress your concern: what would happen to me if I lose the battle, the war, and somehow, unlikely as it may be, survive?”

“....”

“I would wander this land, an outcast. History, written by the victors the Viets, would label me a dumb and savage king who chanced insurmountable odds. Our people would be massacred because of me, the kingdom destroyed beyond recognition.”

“Perhaps the Viets would do all that even if you didn’t confront them in battles. Even if you didn’t become king ...”

“A delicious thought, that, especially as you yourself now conjure it. I wasn’t king, and thus ran away with you ...”

“... So I would wish, my dear Bunga, that you’re never to blame yourself for what shall or shall not happen. The motion of life runs from further back in time, and is perhaps never alterable. Causes and effects lie deeper than the ocean. What happens today is a result of events in the past. We reap what we sow, however heart-breaking what we reap. A hundred years are but a blink of the eye."

“That is too fatalistic, however far into the future you're able to dream of.”

“The philosophy, yes, and my ability is nowhere near what you think. Yet both of us are positive people. We have done the best out of the circumstances. And we must keep on.”

There is nothing this morning that could threaten to blind Bunga more than the Duchess – her form, her face, her words. The early sun shines on her hair, and he is drowning in her eyes.

“But let me be a defeated soldier-king for now. So that I would wander this land with my lost soul. Each day I look forward to seeing you at every corner of our forest, of our wasted Vijaya. And I would dread the moment I touch only emptiness when reaching out for you ...”

“....”

“When we saw each other again, when we were sixteen after my two years at sea, it was blue that you wore that day, like now, wasn’t it? You had grown so fast, almost as tall as I. You smiled at me. You held my hand. Your hair lustrous and fuzzy. Your eyes imprisoned everything that was me. Your voice was gentle, modulated, thoughtful beyond that of anyone I’d known in the land.”

“You embarrass me, Bunga. It’s just as well no one is quite here with us ...”

“It was early evening, your family nearby. Yet I thought all the lights of the house, all the lights of the kingdom, were absorbed in you. If it was day you would outshine the sun. You were your own name, a thousand times over. The kingdom might as well not bother to exist, because you were there.”

“I’m still here.”

The Duchess holds Bunga’s right hand, puts it on her face and neck, covers his hand with both hers. Then they rise, apart, leaving the terrace. Today will be busy. The morning interlude has past.

Long Vo-Phuoc, November 2015
© All rights reserved.

Vijaya, 2012. Image source: GoogleImages)

2. Forest

2 Forest

In the immense landscape of deep green between Vijaya and Ayuthhia there live a tiger and a rhinoceros. The tiger is large and bright. The tiger consumes hogs and deer, grows to be as long as one and a half a man’s stretched arms span, as tall as he; its hide shines with rude health, sleek orange striped by menacing black; face perfectly round and eyes ferocious above mean bristles.

The tiger lives among tens of thousands of its fellows, perhaps a hundred thousand. The Indochinese tiger.

The rhinoceros, too, thrives – hide so thick it has no natural predator. The ill-tempered black-brown lump of flesh roams this way and that, tramples acres of wild grass in between, growls at lesser beasts along the way, even tigers not in any way excluded. Here is a tree for breakfast, one other for lunch, yet another for dinner. It is happy always, the horn perks obstinately ahead, the small piggy ears twitch constantly against flies in sunlight, never mind the short-sighted eyes. Life is rich, sweet and innocent: the world still young enough that there is no risk of contradiction to the phrase.

The rhino, too, lives among tens of thousands of its fellows, perhaps a hundred thousand. The Javan rhino – so labeled by humanity half a world away in the future. A herd or two of such beasts had strayed over a Sunda land bridge in either direction when the world was in its morning.

The Buddha of India said, animals no matter how tiny and insignificant how large and imperious were all first among equals, idealistic and benevolent that he was – there being no second class of existence. A humble worm struggles from the ground to a newly sprout cabbage, a little ant almost crushed under its prize seed. The Buddha dressed up his teachings by conjuring a reincarnation mystique into his words, hoping to strike the fear of mortality and retribution into the heart of men. He said: thou shall not kill a being. He desperately meant: thou shall not kill for greed or vanity.

The fact however remains that large animals flagrantly appeal to the extraordinary self-love possessed by humanity. The tiger’s majestic hide is as lovely as anything nature intended, and a tiger penis is treasured by a man in some realms as worthy of a thousand sorry specimens of his and his fellow chappies.

The rhinoceros fares an even worse fate. Its horn uniquely appeals to the deep filial love of humanity in this part of the world. The powerful and corrupt lord’s 70-year old mummy-dearest will grind it and drink the powder. She will thus live for another 70 years - never mind long-winded teachings to the contrary from dead sadhus or tiresome scientific notions in the far-off future. The mother shall of course pray to the Buddha once she consumes the elixir in front of her beaming son.

One afternoon late summer, standing at the forest edge the duchess of Champa concedes to herself that she will never fathom the extent of her fellow mankind’s deadly narcissism. It is not enough that men, the male species, must be hell-bent on destroying each other for want of power and riches. It is necessary also that in fleeting moments of peace they must resort to wanton killing of wild animals for trophies. This, men declare, is all for the comfort of the soul.

Perhaps women across this vast expanse should strive to rule all under heaven, she muses. Ah, that would be some idea. What was the passage from a book in Chinese scripts she once read? “I possess the three rarest treasures from nature: I am a human, therefore greater than all animals; I am a man, therefore greater than all women; I live to seventy, therefore greater than all men younger”. Pearls of thoughts from a Chinese man revered by both the Viets and their northern bullies!

On the serene face a rueful smile.

Yet despite all her forebodings the duchess would never imagine even in her dreams events many hundred years hence, when peace finally comes to the land, once genocide and culture destruction has completed its course: that the number of tigers and rhinoceros killed by humanity will multiply each year, will multiply each century. The one hundred thousand dwindle. Tigers’ hides accumulate in palaces and rich households, tigers’ bones and penises in rich men’s bloodstreams, rhino horns in rich old men’s and rich old women’s stomach ...

And still one more hundred years will have past and war will again visit this land, war with unimaginable brutality on trees and beasts, fire and man-made poisons from the sky, organised destruction on the scorched earth a million times that of war in her times. Trees shall burn, bodhi, agar, sandal, cinnamon, orchids.... Animals shall die, worms, ants, parrots, beetles ... Forest shall become bare hills.

She simply does not know any of this. In six hundred and fifty years there shall be no Javan rhinoceros between Vijaya and Ayuthhia; the tigers and elephants a lone five or ten perhaps remaining.

The now weak sunlight warming a side of her face, the duchess of Champa glances at her ladies and guards respectfully waiting from a distance. She touches a drop of perspiration on forehead, closes her eyes and sees chaos. Eyes re-open, and colours flood in, blinding. How do I convey these images to Bunga, this moment in time, when parallel yellow sunrays begin to horizontally slice and sparkle through the forest?

Long Vo-Phuoc, August 2015
© All rights reserved.

1. Summer Conversation

1 Summer Conversation

Near the evening the Champa king Che Bunga, “Chế Bồng-Nga” in the Viets' spoken words, returned to Vijaya and watched the sun fall behind the thick forest. It's always quick, he thought, sunset on this land.

The year was 1370, in the preferred calendar of faraway Western lands, at the peak of summer, and he had been on the throne for ten years.

The duchess came over with her young lady-in-attendance after dinner, as arranged. In the vast state chamber illuminated by candles on tables and lanterns on red-brick walls, the king and the duchess conducted the following conversation.

“My warm greetings to you, my King, and warmest regards to your lady the queen and the baby prince.”
“And my even warmer enquiry to your good self, and regards to my aunt and uncle.”
“Congratulations on a satisfactory tour to the South. You must be tired, shall we immediately go to the matters outstanding prior?”

(Bunga holds her eyes without speaking. Two strands of hair stray on the forehead. Two shining pools of black liquid resting on an expanse of soft blue-white silk ....

He smiles and nods, and is in turn rewarded with a half-smile. This is how it turns out nowadays, he muses, after a childhood as thick as thieves between the two of us.)

“Your men of court, do they still want to build a new wing of the palace to commemorate your success pacifying the land and winning back lost districts?”
“That is true, and they more than ever harassed me this last half moon.”
“May I ask, are you still building more ships?”
“Yes, my Duchess.”

(A faint half-smile.)

“And adding five hundred farmhands to the fleet, with full compensation for their families?”
“I am determined to do so, yes, even though I was counselled that the families would have to make do if I don't.”
“That counsel is wrong,” (Bunga smiles) “and can the treasury afford it?”
“You know as well as I that for all that to happen we need to have an advance from the Javanese for future shipments of agar, of ivory, horns ....”
“Ah. Then we simply have to cut the building plan out of the way.”

(There is only one person in the realm who can so interrupt me.)

“You clearly don't approve of what my men wish?”

(The black liquid pools and the silk close. And re-open.)

“May I be lengthy with words, my Lord. You have achieved things that were impossible to believe of ten years ago. You still want to seek vengeance and, with that, you need men and ships and bows. Yet you are just, and thus desire no Cham disadvantaged in the process. You also want commerce to go on as usual in order to, allow me to be frank, make levy to pay for men and ships. All that is fine, because you are King as no other was, but you must continue to personally sacrifice. You must not entertain outward vanity.”

“So no one would see a monument from my reign a hundred years on?”
“That is true.”
“On the other hand you think I may still be better than most, a thousand years back.”
“From what I have learnt, quite so.”
“A very sad fate for me. All work and nothing to show, not even a full smile from you nowadays ...”
“... May I point out, my King?”
“As you wish my Duchess.”

“That, for a King like you at any other time a palace extension or even another Vijaya would not be out of the norm, albeit a waste of resources in the name of royal vanity. But in your case, with the menace from the North, with not only scores still to be settled but also the existence of the kingdom to contemplate, there is no choice.”

“So let it be written as law: no more talk of building from now. Now, can you see the next twenty years in your dream?”
“No.”
“Can you decipher the years from your books?”
“No.”
“Pray tell, why must there continue to be war?”

(Despair.)

“Because the game between the Viets and us is a game of numbers. We are a cultured people. At the time when the Viets were oppressed by their northern bullies’ harsh rule, we were busy transcribing long-past sadhus’ and Buddha's teachings in our own scripts, building immensely intricate temples and palaces, sending ships to trade with the Javanese on the other side of the sea. All that in between, it must be said, the occasions we raided the shores of those less inventive than we were.”

“.....”

“Yet in the end it would still be a game, a law, of numbers. There are four, five Viets to each of us, and they all want land, southbound land, past and present. When they won wars they wanted land, not mere tribute. When we sought peace through marriage they wanted land, not pretty presents. Soon it may be six or seven or ten to one. The game of numbers is now a game of survival.”

“Is war pre-ordained and survival not?”

“I cannot tell, I cannot dream for an answer, my Lord. But war would be easier and survival surer if you sacrifice before any of us does. You must not think of the far-off posterity, because only today and tomorrow matter.”

(She has already sacrificed.)

“I do not want war despite all the outward appearance that history may one day judge me on. I merely attempt to recover what was lost. I set things in motion, and thus am part of it. War will reach this palace’s front steps if I don't bring it to others’, as your history would always teach. And there is no peace in the mind even when I try to reach for it.”

“May I wish that you find peace and solitude in motion. My soul is with you every day, within or beyond the frontier, this life and the next.”

(She is unattainable. Brilliant. Empathetic. Supremely lovely. And totally unattainable.)

“You are wise, as if you were ten years older than I am,”
“......”
“as if I were a little boy seeking protection in your bosom from life’s hardship.”

“... Speaking of the years ... I wish I would still see you here, strong as you are now when twenty more years will have past.”
“Only if you’re still here to counsel me, because I treasure your thoughts.”
“Thank you. I must now bid you goodnight, King and cousin.”
“And best friend.”
“That too, yes.”

She rose, touched Bunga's forehead, five cool slender fingers, and left.

Long Vo-Phuoc, June 2015
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