Rostam and Sohrab (Part 1)

Hear now the tale of Sohrab and Rostam — you have heard other stories, hear this one too. It is a tale brimming with tears; even a tender heart will burn with anger at Rostam when it is told.

If a fierce wind should rise from its treasury and strike down the unripe fruit upon the ground, shall we call it tyranny or justice? Shall we say it is the work of a master or a fool? If death is just, then what is injustice? If death is certain, why do men cry out against it? Your soul knows nothing of this mystery, and through this veil there is no path for you. All have pressed forward to the door of desire, yet that door has never opened for any man.

The poet reflects: Whether your destination be a finer place, or whether you find rest in another dwelling — first you would praise death in your heart, for neither the brave nor the young would have touched the dust. If a fire blazes and then burns, there is nothing strange in the burning. It consumes all when its heat is true, just as a new branch springs from an old root. The breath of death, like a terrible fire, cares nothing for youth or age. Why should a young man rejoice in this world, when old age is not the only cause of death? In this house of departure and delay, when death pulls tight the cinch upon the horse of fate — know that it is justice, not injustice; and where justice has come, there is no place for lamentation.

Now I shall tell the battle of Sohrab in full — of the quarrel that arose between him and his father.

From the words of the storyteller, I weave this ancient tale. The priest recalled it thus: that one morning Rostam rose, and his heart was heavy. He resolved to hunt, and girded himself with a full quiver. He mounted Rakhsh — that elephant-bodied steed — and set his face toward the borderlands of Turan, like a fierce and brooding lion.

When he drew near the city of Samangan, he found the plain teeming with wild asses. His face lit up like a flower, and he laughed and set Rakhsh to the chase. With arrow, mace, and lasso he brought down game upon the plain. Then he gathered brush and thorns and branches and kindled a great fire. The mighty warrior spitted a wild ass on a tree-trunk and roasted it whole — in his grip a bird's wing would have crumbled. He tore it apart and ate, cracked the bones for their marrow, then lay down and slept. Rakhsh grazed upon the meadow.

Seven or eight Turanian horsemen passed through that hunting ground and saw Rakhsh's tracks by the stream. When they found the horse on the plain, they rushed to capture him, throwing ropes from every side. But when Rakhsh saw their lassos he flew into a rage like a savage lion — he trampled two men flat beneath his hooves and tore the head from a third with his teeth. Three men lay dead, yet the warlike horse could not be bound. At last they cast their ropes from all directions and snared him, and led him at a run into the city, each man hoping for a share of the prize.

When Rostam woke from his pleasant sleep and needed his obedient mount, he searched the meadow but saw no sign of the horse. Grief-stricken and bewildered, he hastened toward Samangan on foot. "How shall I cross this desert on foot?" he said. "How shall I face battle without my horse? The Turks will say: his horse was taken while the mighty one slept and perished. Now I must go in wretchedness, my heart surrendered to grief." And so he went, his heart full of pain and anguish.

When Rostam drew near the city of Samangan, word reached the king and the nobles that the crown-bestowing champion had come on foot — that Rakhsh had bolted from the hunting ground. The nobles and the king came out to meet him, all who bore any standing. "It is Rostam," each man said, "and he shines like the dawn sun."

The king came before him on foot. A great host gathered round. "What has happened?" said the king of Samangan. "Who dared to contend with you? In this city we are your well-wishers. We stand at your command. Our lives and our wealth are yours."

Rostam looked at the king's words and saw no ill intent in them. He said: "Rakhsh has strayed from the meadow — without bridle or halter. His tracks lead toward Samangan, along the stream and the reeds. It will be to your credit to search for him. You will find me grateful. But if Rakhsh is not found, many heads will be severed from their necks."

The king said: "No one would dare such a thing against you, O proud warrior. Be our guest tonight and put away your anger. All will turn out as you wish. Let us gladden our hearts with wine and free our minds from care. Harshness serves no purpose — by gentleness one can draw the snake from its hole. A horse as famous as Rakhsh cannot be hidden in this world. We shall search for him and bring him to you."

Rostam was cheered by these words, and his mind was eased. He accepted the king's hospitality. The king gave him the place of honour on his throne and stood before him like a servant. He summoned the lords of the city and the army, and dismissed all who bore ill will. He ordered a feast laid before the warrior, and musicians were brought in with wine and song — bright-eyed beauties of rose complexion. When Rostam grew heavy with drink and sleep pressed upon him, they prepared a chamber worthy of him, perfumed with musk and rosewater.

When a portion of the dark night had passed and the stars had turned upon the wheel of heaven, there came a whispered murmur at the door. The door of the sleeping chamber was softly opened. A slave entered bearing an amber-scented candle, and behind her, veiled behind a curtain, came a moon-faced woman — radiant as the shining sun, fragrant and fair. Her brows were curved like bows, her tresses hung like lasso-cords, her stature tall as a cypress. Her cheeks were the colour of agate, her mouth as small as a lover's heart. Her spirit was pure reason and her body spotless — you would say she had no part in earthly clay.

Rostam the lion-hearted was struck dumb. He called down God's blessings upon her and asked: "What is your name? What do you seek in the dark of night? What is your desire?"

She answered: "I am Tahmineh — you might say that grief has split me in two. I am the daughter of the king of Samangan, of the line of lions and leopards. In all the world no prince is worthy to be my husband, and few under the blue sky are my equal. No man has seen my face unveiled, and no one has heard my voice. But I have heard tales of you from every traveller — how you fear neither demon nor lion nor leopard nor crocodile, how sharp are your talons. You ride alone into Turan by dark of night and roam those borderlands without sleep. You roast a wild ass alone in the wilderness and make the air weep with your sword. The lion's heart bursts and the leopard's hide splits when they see your mace in hand. When the eagle sees your naked blade, she dares not swoop upon her prey. The lion bears the mark of your lasso, and the clouds rain blood for terror of your spear.

"When I heard these stories of you, I bit my lip with longing. I searched for your shoulders, your neck, your chest — and God has brought you to the gates of my city. I am yours now, if you will have me. No bird or fish shall see me but you. First, because I am already lost to you — I have abandoned reason for desire. Second, because God may grant me a son from you — a boy who will be your equal in strength and courage, to whom the heavens will give the portions of Saturn and the Sun. And third, I will restore your horse to you, and lay all Samangan at your feet."

When the moon-faced beauty had spoken her last word, Rostam considered all she had said. He saw before him a woman of fairy-like beauty possessed of every wisdom. And she had given him word of Rakhsh — he saw no outcome but glory in the matter. So he sent for a learned priest to ask for her hand from her father, according to custom.

When the king of Samangan heard this, he was overjoyed and stood tall like a free cypress. He gave his daughter to the champion according to ancient rite and custom, and the marriage covenant was sealed with his consent and blessing. Young and old rejoiced; they called down blessings upon the warrior: "May this new moon bring you fortune, and may the heads of those who wish you ill be severed."

Rostam was with her that long dark night. When the bright sun cast its musky lasso from the heights of heaven, Rostam took from his arm an onyx that was renowned throughout the world. He gave it to Tahmineh and said: "Keep this. If fate grants you a daughter, weave it into her hair as a lucky charm to light her way. But if the stars send you a son, bind it upon his arm as his father wears it. He shall be tall as Sam, son of Nariman, and brave in the manner of noble men. He will bring the soaring eagle down from the clouds, and the fierce sun will not dare to burn him."

He stayed that night beside the moon-faced beauty. When the shining sun rose upon the sky and adorned the face of the earth with love, Rostam took Tahmineh in his arms to say farewell. He kissed her eyes and her forehead many times. The fairy-faced woman turned from him in tears, joined now to grief and sorrow.

The noble king came to Rostam and asked after his rest. Then he brought him news of Rakhsh, and the champion's heart was gladdened. Rostam went to his horse, caressed him, and set the saddle upon his back, giving thanks to God. Then he rode toward Iran like the wind. Of this adventure he thought often on the road, but when he reached Zabulestan he spoke of what he had seen and heard to no one.

When nine months had passed over the king's daughter, a child was born like the shining moon. You would say it was Rostam himself — or Sam the lion, or Nariman reborn. When the babe smiled and his face brightened, Tahmineh named him Sohrab.

At one month he was like a child of a year. His chest was already broad as Rostam's own. At three he took to the training field. At five he had the heart of a warrior among men. At ten there was no one in all that land who dared test his strength in combat.

Sohrab came to his mother and demanded boldly: "Tell me plainly — why am I taller than all my age-mates, with my head above the sky? Whose seed am I? What lineage? What shall I answer when men ask me my father's name? If you hide this from me, I will not leave you alive among the living."

His mother said: "Hear me, and be glad — do not yield to anger. You are the son of Rostam, the elephant-bodied champion. You descend from Dastan and Sam and Nariman. Your head rises above the heavens because your seed is of that renowned lineage. Since God created the world, no horseman like Rostam has appeared. Not even the turning sky dared to touch the head of Sam, son of Nariman."

Then she brought out a letter from Rostam the warrior and showed it to him in secret, along with three bright rubies and three purses of gold that his father had sent when Sohrab was born. But she warned him: "Afrasiab must never learn of this, for he is Rostam's mortal enemy, and all Turan is in mourning because of him. If Afrasiab discovers you, he will seek to destroy the son to avenge himself upon the father. And if your father learns how you have grown, he may summon you to his side, and the sorrow of losing you will shatter your mother's heart."

Sohrab answered: "Nothing can be hidden in this world forever. All the great warriors of old tell tales of Rostam even now. A lineage such as this — what custom is there in hiding it from me? Now I will gather from the Turanian warriors a boundless host. I will topple Kay Kavus from his palace and cut Tus from the root of Iran. I will leave neither Gorgin, nor Gudarz, nor Giv, nor Gostahm, nor Bahram the Hero. I will give Rostam the mace and the horse and the crown, and seat him upon the throne of Kay Kavus. Then from Iran I will march against Turan and face the king in battle. I will seize the throne of Afrasiab and raise my spear-point above the sun. I will make you queen of Iran. When Rostam is father and I am son, no other man in the world shall wear a crown. When the sun and the moon are shining, why should the stars presume to raise their heads?"

Sohrab said to his mother: "Now you will see my prowess. I need a horse — one whose hooves are steel that shatters rock, strong as iron yet swift as a bird in flight, like a fish in the sea and a deer across the plain. A mount that can bear my mace and war-club and the weight of a champion's frame. A warrior cannot go to war on foot."

When Tahmineh heard her son, she raised her head to the shining sun and commanded the herders to bring every horse they had — swift as smoke. All the herds that ranged on mountain and plain were driven into the city. Sohrab the lion took up a rope and strode among them boldly. Every horse he tested by the strength of its neck: he would throw a loop around it, press his hand down upon its back, and its belly would sink to the earth. With his strength he broke many a fine horse, but none was worthy of him. The glory-seeking warrior grew disheartened.

At last a horseman from the crowd came forward and said: "I have a colt of Rakhsh's bloodline — strong as a lion and swift as the wind. A horse that crosses valleys like a swooping hawk and runs the plain like a bird in flight. Mighty and fast as the sun, the likes of him has never been seen. The ox of the earth groans beneath the blow of his hooves. He leaps like lightning and is built like a mountain."

Sohrab was glad. He laughed and his face brightened. They brought the beautiful dark colt before him without delay. He tested it with his own strength, and the steed was powerful and worthy. He caressed it, saddled it, and sprang upon its back — settling into the saddle like a pillar rising, a lance like a column in his grip.

"Now that such a horse has come to my hand," said Sohrab, "I shall ride as a warrior ought, and bring a dark day upon Kay Kavus."

He returned home and made preparations for war against Iran. Warriors gathered to him from every side — men of noble blood and men who could wield a blade. He went before his grandfather and asked for his blessing and aid, saying he wished to ride to the land of Iran and find his glorious father. The king of Samangan saw the boy's resolve and opened his treasuries without stint — crowns and thrones, helms and belts, horses and camels, gold and jewels, coats of mail and weapons of war. All marvelled at this lion-cub still smelling of milk. The king bestowed upon Sohrab all the honours and trappings of a king.

Word reached Afrasiab that Sohrab had launched his ship upon the waters. A host had gathered around the boy, who held his head high as a cypress in the garden. The milk-scent was still on his lips, yet already his mind turned to sword and arrow. He was washing the earth with his blade and seeking war against Kay Kavus. Warriors were flocking to him in great numbers.

When Afrasiab heard this, he was delighted. He laughed and showed his pleasure. From his army he chose brave commanders — men who could wield the heavy mace — and appointed as their generals Hooman and Barman, who never flinched in the battle of lions. He entrusted them with twelve thousand picked warriors and spoke to them in secret:

"Guard this stratagem and shape the course of the world. The son must not learn who his father is — nothing of their bond of blood or the love between them. When the two meet face to face, Rostam will surely be the one to fight. Perhaps that old and valiant champion will be slain at the hands of this young lion. Once Iran is stripped of Rostam, we will close the world around Kay Kavus. Then we will seize Sohrab himself and put an end to him. But if Sohrab falls by his father's hand — then the grief will consume that renowned warrior and destroy him from within."

The two vigilant generals set out toward Sohrab with the king's gifts: ten horses and ten mules laden with treasure, a throne of turquoise and a crown of ruby, an ivory-footed throne with a pearl-topped crown. They bore also a letter filled with flattering words: "If you seize the throne of Iran, the world will be freed from strife. The distance between our lands is nothing — Samangan, Iran, and Turan will be as one. I will send you as many troops as you need. Sit upon the throne and set the crown upon your head."

When Sohrab heard that Afrasiab's envoys had come, he girded himself and went out to meet them with his grandfather, swift as the wind. He saw the great host and his heart leaped with joy. Hooman, when he beheld Sohrab's stature and breadth of shoulder, stood amazed. He delivered the king's letter, the gifts, and the implements of war. The two generals conveyed Afrasiab's message.

The young world-seeker read the letter and at once set his army in motion. The war-drums sounded and he took the road. The world was filled with soldiers and clamour. None could withstand him — whether lion or crocodile stood in his path. He drove his host toward the borders of Iran, burning everything in his wake until nothing remained.

When the daughter of Gazhdaham learned that the commander of the garrison had been lost, she was stricken with grief and let out a cry of anguish, drawing a cold sigh from her heart. She was a woman who rode like a warrior and was ever renowned in battle. Her name was Gordafarid, and no one had seen her equal in combat.

She burned with shame at Hejir's capture — her cheeks flushed dark as pitch upon a tulip. Without a moment's hesitation she put on the armour of a mounted warrior, hid her tresses beneath chain mail, and fastened a Roman helm upon her head. She rode down from the fortress like a lion, her steed beneath her, and burst into the space before the armies like a dust-storm. Her voice rang out like thunder: "Where are the champions and warriors, the battle-tested lords? Let one of them come forth and face me in single combat, like a fearless crocodile!"

Not one of the Turanian champions came forward to meet her. When Sohrab the lion-slayer saw this, he laughed and bit his lip. "Another wild ass has come into the trap of the lord of sword and strength," he said. He donned his armour and helm and charged at Gordafarid. When the lasso-throwing maiden saw him coming, she strung her bow and let fly — not even a bird could have passed through her rain of arrows. She poured a fierce hail upon Sohrab, fighting like a mounted warrior from left and right.

Sohrab was stung with shame. He flew into a rage and charged, shield raised, straight at the warrior maiden. Gordafarid saw her enemy blazing like fire. She slung her bow over her arm, spurred her horse skyward, and aimed her lance at Sohrab. But Sohrab erupted like a leopard — he wheeled his horse and drove forward with his soul-stealing spear. He struck Gordafarid at the belt and tore her mail apart from end to end, lifting her from the saddle like a ball.

But as she twisted on the saddle, Gordafarid drew a sharp sword, cut his lance in two with a single blow, and regained her seat. She knew she could not prevail, and turned her horse at once. Sohrab gave his dragon-steed its head and pursued her in fury. He overtook her and tore the helmet from her head — and her hair spilled free from the broken mail, her face shining like the sun. Sohrab saw that his opponent was a woman, that the hair beneath her helm was made for a crown, not a battle.

Sohrab was astonished. "If the daughters of Iran come thus to the battlefield," he said, "then their mounted warriors must raise dust to the turning sky on the day of battle."

He unfastened his coiling lasso from the saddle-strap and cast it around her waist. "Seek no escape from me," he said. "Why did you come seeking war, O moon-faced one? You have walked into my trap like a wild ass. You will not break free by strength."

Gordafarid turned her face toward him — she saw no other way — and spoke: "O hero, like a lion among the brave, both armies are watching our fight and our fury. Now that my face and hair are bared before them, your soldiers will mock you, saying that in the field of battle he raised dust with a girl. It would be better for us to settle this quietly. Let wisdom guide the greater man. The fortress and its garrison and its treasure are all yours — come and take them as you please."

When she showed her face, Sohrab was undone. Her lips parted like ripe cornelian; she was a garden at the gate of paradise. Her stature was a cypress no gardener had planted, her eyes those of a doe, her brows twin bows — you would say the air itself bloomed between them.

Sohrab said: "Do not go back on this promise. You have seen my strength in battle. Do not set your heart upon those fortress walls, for they are no higher than the wheel of heaven to me — my war-club will bring them down."

He followed her toward the fortress gate. Gazhdaham opened the door, and Gordafarid slipped inside, bruised and battered. The gate slammed shut behind her. They bolted the fortress and were filled with grief.