The Judas Strain - James Rollins [164]
Vigor doubted either one was aware of it.
But since they’d stepped out of the vans here, it was as if some internal polarity had reversed inside them, repelling them far apart. Not only did they keep well away, he noted a heaviness to Gray’s study of Seichan when her back was turned, and Seichan had grown harder again, her eyes tighter, her lips thinner.
Seichan kept closer to Vigor, as if needing some reassurance from him, but was unable to ask for it. Her gaze remained fixed on the ruins. They were close enough that the true breadth of the Bayon was now discernible.
Fifty-four towers clustered on three rising levels.
But the most striking feature was the number of carved faces.
Well over two hundred.
The morning light shifted with the clouds, creating the illusion that the faces were alive, moving, observing those who approached.
“Why so many?” Seichan finally mumbled at his side.
Vigor knew she was asking about the stone visages. “No one knows,” he answered. “Some say they represent vigilance, faces staring out from a secret heart, guarding inner mysteries. It is also said that the Bayon’s foundations were built upon an even earlier structure. Archaeologists have discovered walled-up rooms, where more faces were hidden, forever locked in darkness.”
Vigor waved ahead. “The Bayon was also the last temple ever built in Angkor, marking the end of a period of almost continuous construction that spanned centuries.”
“So why did they stop building?” Gray asked, moving closer.
Vigor glanced to him. “Maybe they uncovered something that discouraged further excavations. When the Khmer engineers built the Bayon, they dug down. Deep. A quarter of the Bayon is buried.”
“Buried?”
Vigor nodded. “Most of the Angkor temples are based on the design of mandalas. A series of stacked rectangles, that represent the physical universe, surround a circular tower in the center. The middle tower represents the magical mountain of Hindu mythology, Mount Meru, where the gods reside. By partially burying the temple, the central tower embodies Mount Meru, demonstrating the penetration of this magical mountain from the earth up to heaven. Stories persist of both treasures and horrors hidden in those lower levels of the Bayon.”
By now they had reached the end of the pathway. It widened into an open stone plaza. The bulk of the temple rose ahead of them. Dozens of faces stared down. Tourists could be seen climbing about the temple’s various levels.
They continued forward, crossing alongside a row of parked tuk-tuks. Ahead, a small line of roadside stands proffered fruits in all their variety: mangoes, jackfruit, tamarind, Chinese dates, even small softball-size watermelons. Thin-limbed children dashed among the stands, reviving a little of the ancient city’s vibrancy with their laughter and calls. Off to another side, a more solemn group of six saffron-robed monks sat on woven mats, heads bowed, praying amid a cloud of incense.
Vigor added his own silent appeal as he passed, praying for strength, wisdom, and protection.
Ahead, their man Kowalski had stopped at one of the stands. A wrinkled old woman with a perfectly round face stood bent over an iron brazier, cooking breakfast on sticks. Chicken and beef roasted alongside turtle and lizard. The man sniffed at an appetizing skewer.
“Is that soft-shell crab?” he asked, leaning closer for a whiff. The skewer speared something meaty with jointed legs, blackened and curled by the fire.
The woman nodded her head vigorously, smiling broadly at his interest. She spoke rapidly in Khmer.
Seichan stepped to Kowalski’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fried tarantula. Very popular for breakfast in Cambodia.”
Kowalski shuddered and backed away. “Thanks. I’ll stick with an Egg McMuffin.”
A less picky thief—a macaque monkey—bounded out of the ruins, grabbed an ear of corn from behind the woman, and dashed straight in front of Kowalski. The large man startled back, bumping into Gray, scrambling out of the way.
Kowalski’s hand jerked back under his jacket.