Ancient Epistle

I begin this book in the name of pure Zurvan, from whom radiant Hormazd shone forth. Lord of Jupiter and aged Saturn, kindler of the Moon, of Venus, and Mercury. From him, may praise rise to the divine beings who are his servants forever. And to the Amesha Spentas, mighty and strong, who have their dwelling upon the mountains. Vohu Manah, the messenger of wisdom and mind, beyond whom no thought can ever pass. And Asha Vahishta, the herald of kings, through whom the world's ruins are made whole again. Spenta Armaiti, the sovereign of life, from whom all souls received their lasting being. Fravashi, the holy spirit of the soul, who in the end hastens back toward the sky. May many a curse, foul and ugly, fall upon the filthy Angra Mainyu. for the demons are his followers, and his soul is empty of light and radiance. Aka Manah, that demon of dark spirit, who with poison drains the strength of bodies. And next that source of malice and spite, through whom the face of the earth was filled with chaos. And Saurva, that evil and ill-doing one, whose nature is greed and deceit. And Andar of impure intent, from whom cruelty and oppression remain in the world.

A flood of greetings to the bright Zarhoosh, from whose name the prophet Zoroaster arose. If you would speak the language of heroes, know Zoroaster as a shining intellect. Both 'shet' and 'shid' carry the meaning of greatness, like the sun, whose light is immense. He is also Hooshang, the clever and resolute, who struck fire out of two stones. He is also Idris of blessed nature, who laid down the rule of wisdom in the world. He not only crossed beyond the heavens, but chose a place forever in paradise. In Arabic, know Zarhoosh as Idris, whom the Greeks called Hermes. He foretold the seal of the prophets, and spoke of Moses, Jesus, and the others too. He said: the great Saoshyant will come and make the watering place of sheep and wolf one and the same. He will lay open the path of the pure God, and sweep the devil from the face of the earth. He will conquer the world with the sword, so that it embraces the good religion. First in nature, last in the reckoning, stands the renowned Astvat-ereta. For the prophet of God is always one; if there is any difference, it is only slight.

A scholar who studies the ancient peoples, who tells the tales of the nations long gone, spoke this way: anyone who searches into this is groping forward in the dark. The lives of the ancients lie in darkness, and for the mind the path here is a narrow thread. In a black night you can look for the moon, but no one dares to take this road. Their history was never written down, and no one knows their roots and origins. Unless a son remembers it from his father and tells you the whole legend, point by point. For whoever is guided toward history draws the history out from the legend. And the footprints, signs, and relics of the past will guide you, more or less, along the way. For whatever now comes to light from the ground becomes a key to the ancient treasures. Just as in this age there have come to light all the bricks and remains of the Chaldeans. And again the roots of words and their names reveal to you the shape of what once happened. Otherwise there is no road into this matter; no one is aware of the hidden secret.

No one has solved this sealed riddle: what the world was like on its first day. No one knows how humankind began, or how people first learned to sow and reap. How did these tribes come together? Did they settle in towns, or in the plains and mountains? Who was the first to set a crown upon his head? No one remembers it from those distant ages. Especially in Iran, where no real history survives, and the old legends have no firm root or foundation. For from the time of the Chaldeans down to the Arabs, learning and culture withered three times over. Once in the time of Zahhak's plunder, which erased the records of the early peoples. Again in the time of Alexander, the glory-seeker, who washed those writings away in the river's water. And third in the time of Islam, when from the Arabs great harm came upon the land of Iran. In each of these three breaks that appeared, nothing of Iran's records was left behind. And even where they stitched together scraps of the old tales, they struck up only a faint echo of ancient times. Neither beginning nor end is clear; every word came down tangled and confused. Anyone who would trace those old stories now must search for their traces in the Shahnameh. For Ferdowsi of Tus, of noble birth, gave fully of his manhood and his learning. He hid not a single tale from us, whether of heroes or of ancient days. Yet what a pity: no clear path is left, nothing but groping through the dark of night. In the very names he recorded, many mistakes and distortions have crept in. And in the eras of earlier kings, he pieced things together with much imprecision. He did not give the names of all the kings, nor did he name them in their proper order.

Sometimes they call the king a champion, sometimes they push one era into another's place. Sometimes they name a whole country as a single king, sometimes one person stands for an entire people. Sometimes a battle's name becomes a hero, sometimes they speak of demons and immortal spirits. They give one man a thousand years on the throne, and crown the father in his own son's seat. What a pity that history, in those days, was like the moon hidden behind a cloud. Few monuments survived, and no one could read the ancient scripts. Of Assyria, Babylon, and Lydia, of Elam, Hattusa, and Media, of Greece, of Egypt, and the Phoenician people, the legend-writer knew nothing at all. And so the unknowing poet sang his lines, measuring one thing against another by guesswork. The ages of the kings are all tangled together; the words of history are utterly vague. When Kay Qobad reigns a hundred years, no one recalls Tus and Arash by name. Faribarz, who was a king of Media, never shone with the glory of God upon him. When Kavus issues his many commands, no one remembers the Achaemenids. When Lohrasp reigns for so long a time, Zarir is sent as envoy to Greece. When Goshtasp is the one and only king, Esfandiar is left without the throne. When Ardeshir reigns for fifteen years, no trace of a second Ardeshir comes through. When Rostam lives for long, long years, in every battle he himself sets the fight. When Garshasp again sits upon the throne, Zal of the golden hair, the Parthian, grows fortunate. When Cyrus is said to recite the Zend and Avesta, the year and month of Zoroaster come out wrong. When Zahhak's reign runs a thousand years, the Chaldeans are not even counted. When Fereydun reigns five hundred years, how can the throne ever reach the settled peoples? When Afrasiyab is the Khaqan of the Turks, and Shideh is his great and eldest son, when Ilagu came from the people of Turan, Rud-Karen was reckoned a champion, when Iraj was the son of Fereydun, Shalmaneser and Tur become muddled and reversed. When Assyria becomes Sarv, the king of Yemen, the city of Nineveh takes the name of a meadow. When Sagsar becomes the name of Mazandaran, the Wolf-Heads too are placed within it. When the realm of Media is the plain of Dagho, they bring a fair daughter from Garsivaz. When Armenia too becomes the frontier of Tur, wild boars raise an uproar in that land. If Iraj is the same as the war of Arash, just as Siyuz is the name of Siyavash, then a certain group's hero was no champion, and Forud was no brave young warrior. Piran-e Vise is not the king's vizier, for he himself was an immortal army. The Alans are nothing but the realm of Elam, which the Shahnameh names a fortress. Pashang is a certain group of Tatars, who once stood for war against the Medes. The black Huns are the Gahargahanis, and Qarakhan was of the army of Turan. Balashan is nothing but the partner people, like Bizhan, who is a legend of the wifeless one. Pashan itself was the war of Nuranias, whose foundation was laid in Palaneh. Of this kind there are many errors, of which no one was ever aware. Until this blessed age at its root, when those ancient secrets came to light. What a shame that today the Iranians do not know the history of their forebears.

The wise and fortunate minister said to me: Unseal this hidden secret, set it free. Now that the chance to speak is yours at last, and you have ties with those who know the past, it is best you draw the sword of your pen, and turn its edge upon ancient history. Shake off the dust of legends from your sleeve, and write a single book that tells the truth. From the history of Greece, Chaldea, and Rome, from ruins and from lands still thriving, bring forth a kingly book that stays behind, left in this world as a keepsake from us. In every task I will lend you my help, and deepen still my friendship toward you. He gave me so much encouragement of this kind that my whole soul was filled with hope. My heart grew warm with all those words he spoke, and my spirit brimmed with reverence and respect. When for a year I labored at this task, this famous treasure finally reached its end. Though verse was not within my reach, for no one has matched the Shahnameh in song, in prose I cast a grand design, one that makes the sound stand clear from the false. By the power of God the victorious, I fashioned a treasure full of jewels. From the Zand, the Avesta, and the Pahlavi texts, I gathered material in a fresh new style. From ancient relics and old scripts, I left out not a single word I found. When this old tale at last came to its close, I named it 'The Book of Antiquity'. When I had adorned its preface well, I stripped it clean of every flattery. Except for Nazem-od-Dowleh, I mentioned no other famous name in it. I thought that the reward for this would be nothing but provisions and praise. There was a man, ugly, sinister, and foul, his face was black, his hair was white. The lowly wretch had an unclean name, malicious, shameless, and reckless. He spoke nothing but ugly words throughout, and for no reason his heart turned against me. His whole aim in all of this was simply to squeeze a few gold coins out of me. He does not know I loathe that very way; a curse on him and on his fortune. The precious minister, a noble free man, his heart for no good cause grew sore at me. By the words of that unclean, sinister man, told to the king of Iran and to bloody Rome, that famous man of high birth spoke ill of me and made foul reports. He called me of bad faith and bad creed; I was a fierce lion, and he called me a ewe. From this speech he gained nothing at all, except that he added to my renown. I spoke no word of evil against him; I kept to the way of wisdom and good sense. In the end he regretted what he had said, and wished that I would come back to him. I did not go to him, nor beg his favor, for pride and grace suit even the poor man well. When he left Rome for the land of Iran, his brother came and took his place. He was wise, sharp, and full of judgment, but he was not the right man for the seat. He could not tell error apart from right, failing to recognize the noble man. At the time when, near and far, he stirred up turmoil against me in Rome, he went before the king and schemed his words, beginning his evil talk against me. I will not say the king grew cold toward me, but at times his speech misled him. They drove me out of the capital; toward Trabzon I carried my belongings. Along with several other well-born men, worldly-wise and free-spirited souls. On this fine shore of chosen, pleasant air, nothing came to me sweeter than this: to set in verse a concise book on the history of Iran in another fashion. In the auspicious name of Abdul Hamid, from whom fine works have come to light, for the king of glory, justice, and fairness, I opened with a lovely preface. Like Ferdowsi, that man without friend or mate, who sang the Shahnameh in memory of Mahmud. But I fear that afterward, out of need, I may have to write satire against him. It is best we leave these words aside, and bring up tales of Jamshid and the kings. Blessed is the one who gladdened hearts, so that his name is remembered with goodness.

Blessed are the Aryans, of noble stock, the people from whom Iran remains as their legacy. The Germans, the Saxons, and the rest, all draw their lineage from that fortunate root. Worshipping the moon and the sun was their custom; their marketplaces stood in Balkh and Khwarazm. Their main work was farming, across the plains of the Oxus, Merv, and Herat.

Blessed are the homes of the builders, the people who made the earth flourish. Japheth was a builder of fortunate nature, and the Chaldean spring kept his memory alive. Even now, of that bright-minded people, I see no one left but the Abkhaz and the Circassians. Perhaps Siamak himself was of that line, the one who always lived among the mountains. In the Indian tongue his name was Shiva, the one who stood upright before the Creator. When he took up the path and custom of devotion, his life rose above the demons.

What a glorious age, the age of the great Ajamians, when Jamshid stood as their mighty leader. Through him the affairs of the world gained their splendor, for he was Yima, the son of Vivanghan. From the Ajam the name 'Ajam' remains as a keepsake; by the customs of Jamshid the age came alive. The Zend and Avesta whisper this: that Ahura Mazda once spoke with Yima. He saved his people from the bitter frost when they lay captive on the Aryan plain. To anyone who knows wisdom it is clear: he is indeed Yima, the son of Vivanghan. Blessed be that famous king's way of life, who dwelt upon the dark mountain heights. The wise call him Kayumars; perhaps they hold him to be eternally alive. From him too came Hur-Fakhshad, for that pure radiant king bore that name. And you, soil of Iran, scented like ambergris, how fortunate you are, for Zoroaster was born in you. That renowned one was Idris and Hermes; in this world, wisdom is the legacy he left. Through him the face of the earth gained its splendor, for he was Hushang, the bringer of justice and faith. From him the rite of the Sadeh feast remains, and from him the fire temple first appeared. The heavenly scripture is his as well, the one the priest recites as Zend and Avesta. He revealed the path of devotion and honored the rightful claims of life. How well King Parviz, the noble one, spoke when he matched wits with the Caesar of Rome. He said: we feel no shame for our ancient faith; in all the world there is none better than the faith of Hushang. It is wholly the way of justice and the rule of love, and the contemplation of the order of the heavens.

Happy was the age of the hero king Fereydun, who wiped the Chaldeans from their own land. He cut off the breed of the snake-shouldered tyrant from that place, and no one ever saw the dragon's grandeur again. He cleansed the earth of its devilish men and overturned the cruel ways of Zahhak, those who fed themselves on the flesh of oxen and grew strong on the brains of brave young men. The wise one was titled Fereydun, but his true name was Kashtara. His lineage came from the great settled people whom the Chaldeans called Abtin. Father of the Arsacids, son of Aspila Kav, against whose strength no one could stand. The champion Kaveh, who was like a raging lion, left behind him the royal banner. Happy was the victorious throne with its crown, and likewise the days of King Manuchehr, who were descended from the daughter of the Assyrian king, so fair she could be mistaken for the cypress of Yemen. That same kingdom of Iraq was their home, and their judgment shone bright like a star. It was the time of Cambyses and Sharak, who granted Arak to the king of Turan. Blessed be the famed Arash, that brave one, who at Amol shot his arrow from the heights. Ask, and perhaps it was the name of that war which the Jew called Aghrirath.

Even though, after those two rulers, Shalmaneser and Ashur out of Nineveh, the men we call today Salm and Tur, drove their cavalry hard against Iran, still the champions of those days, like Garshasp and Nariman, like Sam the horseman, and Qaren, and Akman the elephant-bodied, and Zal too, and Mehrab who broke armies, like Rostam, who became the heart of the legend, whom the ancients gave the title Dastan, Zavareh, Faramarz, and old Keshvad, and Sirank the king, that quick-witted warrior, and Zav, who lifted up Zabolestan high, and made all of Sistan a flowering garden, like Tahmasp, who was the father of Zav, though the Shahnameh calls him Tahamtan, perhaps, of the Kariman line there was none but him, and only Sam, the dread of waters, besides. Sarand the blessed, and Farrokh the Turk, Shamasas and Atrad became a great cause. like Gudarz, who was the lord of Lahore, like Kahram, from whom Jahrom got its name, perhaps, and Khom Baba, whose name was Hum, whose land and homeland lay in Ahvaz. Such champions, full of glory and strength, who sent their clamor up to the turning sky, in the time of collapse they were the brave ones, they were the keepers of Iran through their manhood. At times they fought against the Assyrians, at times they charged beyond the river's far side. Whoever cannot manage the Dari tongue has called that far bank by the name Afrasiab. Like the Oxus, when they wrote it down, they took that river to be the one called Jahn. And Shideh, whose people were of Shita, were a match for the folk beyond the river. That horde kept charging against Iran, and all its people grew worn down by them. In all that turmoil the brave men of Iran, on every side like ravening lions, guarded that royal throne of greatness, which in those grand days stood empty of kings. As Garshasp battled in the land of the Hindus, Semiramis came away from him wounded. He fought with the renowned Ramses, whom they call today Sirus-Seris. Perhaps this battle was at Arachosia, which the free man has called the Hindu Kush. And the famous Hakhamanesh too, who was Cyrus's seventh forefather, rode from Babylon all the way to Nineveh, and ruled over the people of Elam.

Such was the lasting throne of the Kayanian line, the line the wise might call Kayqobad. Arbas, who bore the name of Media, made his calm home in the Alborz mountains. He gathered an army from the Median people and raised dust from the city of Nineveh. Bel-zis, who was the god of Babylon, served as Arbas's guide in this affair. He gave him word that his foe would be defeated, for he was a reader of the stars. When they had finished with the matter of Nineveh, they founded a kingdom out of Media. After King Arbas there were six men, and each one followed the path of the divine. One among them was Nozar by name, another was Gord Fartus, famed and content. The third was the warrior Ashkash, and the fourth was Arvand, breaker of armies. The fifth was Karzam, that lion-catching hero, and the sixth was Manjik, a brave and bold champion. From every corner of Iran they each held a small share of every realm. From Azerbaijan to the land of Kabul, none of them ever made mention of the others.

Once again turmoil and war broke out, in Iran, stirred up at once by the Assyrians. In Assyria there ruled a king, descended from Belus, the god of Babylon. They called him by the name Nebuchadnezzar; he had won everything he desired from the world. They killed Nodar, the king of the Medes, and seized the realm of Dghubaj for themselves. They also killed Teliman Kura, who was honored and beloved in the city of Susa.

Then the Magi gathered in council and set a king upon the throne. The king of the Nozar line, whose name was Tus; the wise Herodotus called him Deioces. He came and took his seat in royal majesty, a king devoted to justice and to learning. He raised the banner of Kaveh, with abacus, with elephants and golden slippers. He had all the towers made crimson and gold, gleaming like gold and silver and lapis blue. For his spirit was bright and watchful, worthy of justice and of wisdom. He brought a fire temple from Balkh and kept the rites of the Sadeh festival. He asked for a daughter from the city of Deioces, once the great work was firmly settled in his hands. From her came noble Fariborz, whom they call Phraortes son of Deioces. In a time of greatness a new king arose; I think it was Siavash who reigned. How sweet was the blessed time of great Tus, when at dawn even the wolf drank from the same water in peace.

Happy is Fariborz, the king of kings, to whom every ruler paid their tribute. All the land of Iran rejoiced in him; every ruin was rebuilt and flourished. From Egypt, Palestine, and Hamavaran costly gifts were sent to him. Kia Ladan, that man of strength and craft, whom Ferdowsi named Pooladvand. In Assyria there was a great lord, a filthy dog, a sorcerer, an old wolf. Fariborz fought against the king of Tur; when fortune turns, even skill becomes a flaw. He was taken captive in that battle, and by treachery his head was cruelly cut off. When that fight took the name of Gerui Zereh, the whole world closed in on him from every side. No horse, no armor, no sword, no weapon: it was all nothing but trickery and mockery. Surely this battle was the work of Garsivaz, though they mistook it for stubborn bravery.

Marav had a son, a man of renown, brave and clever, skilled with the dagger. Perhaps that famous one was Kay Arash himself, who took the crown after Fariborz. The Shahnameh itself says the very same: Fariborz became the heir of Tus. The commander Tus, with the royal Kayanid banner, the war drums, the elephants, the golden footwear. He handed all this over to Fariborz and said: the right man has come, worthy of the role. May your fortune be victorious all year long; may all your days be like Nowruz, the new year. He also recalls the name Arash, for when was this name given to any but kings? Siyaksar, that king of glory and grandeur, who utterly destroyed Nineveh. He bound the war drum upon the male elephant; that king of Tus killed the enemy drum. Along with seven champions, chiefs of the Medes, among whom was Nabu Polasar. In the place whose name was Navand, where those lofty palaces stood. He charged into the battlefield like a maddened elephant and leveled that place flat to the ground. Surely Alkus was the chief drum, the one over whom there was only sighing and regret. Navand is the real Nineveh, and Polasar is the same as Pilsam.

When the king was done with the affair of Nineveh, he led his whole army straight to Lydia. Against Alyattes, that king of Sardis, they took up the path of battle and strife. In the Shahnameh he is called Owlad, known as the warlord of Mazandaran. Sardis has been confused with Sari, likewise the river Iramagh with the Sea of Zereh. Four years passed over this battle, yet not one man gained the upper hand in the fight. In the midst of the clash a martyr was taken; the face of the bright day turned dark. Just as the noble-born Ferdowsi spoke of the demon and of Mazandaran. Night came, and a cloud rose up black; the world grew dark as a black man's face. The world, you would say, was a sea of pitch, all its light hidden away. A tent of pitch-black smoke spread overhead; the world went dark and eyes turned dim. When Kavous lost all hope of the world, his eyes were blinded by the White Demon. The armies on both sides turned their faces away, for they imagined it was the work of sorcery. The two proud kings, with all their power, sought once more the path of peace. Yet from Lydia as far as the Iramagh, the great king added that land to Iran. After that they sealed a firm covenant: that neither of them would be first to bring war. They opened a vein of blood from their arms, and each of the two tasted the other's blood. Two chosen, proud, and blessed sons took the daughters of the two kings in marriage. Garazeh was the brave son of Owlad, whom the brave Hirdad called Cyrus. And the Dragon was the son of Arash, fierce, restless, and rebellious. In the Pahlavi tongue his name was Astyages, who took tribute from Babylon and from Tur. When they pronounced his name in Pahlavi, they also called him Aspadan. But the daughter of Owlad was Arnavaz, whom Herodotus in turn called Ariennis. Happy the days of the renowned king Arash, who was the father of the Dragon. In the time of this just and faithful king, defeat fell upon the Turks of China. Though at first that king was hard-pressed and climbed up onto the heights of the Himalayas. What Ferdowsi sings of in his verse, praising it as Mount Hamavan. When the Turks surrounded him on every side, like a wolf that breaks into the flock. Neither Kamus survived nor the Khan of China, nor his grip, nor the heroes of the land of Turan.

But that ruler, Dragon-Son, was deeply unjust and wicked. In that age there was a prince of the Zakminian line whom they called Kavus the king. He was king over Ahvaz and Pars, and made his home in Parzegrad. The Dragon gave him his own daughter, for he was a conqueror of noble Zakminian stock. That daughter's name was Faramiz, though the common people called her Mandaneh.

From the rich branches of the royal tree, the fortunate king appeared. The Greeks called him Cyrus, a hero born of a line as fierce as a raging lion. At the time when the blessed Cyrus was about to be born from his mother, Astyages had an unsettling dream, one that made the very bones in his body tremble. He told his trusted minister: come, rid the face of the earth of this child. When the faithful one heard these words from him, a fresh thought took root in his mind. He gave that nursing infant to the king's shepherd, a man named Mithradates. Spako, who was the shepherd's wife, raised that child with all her kindness. They named him Khordad the hero; a new moon rose in the house of kingship. When some time had passed in this way, the king of the land of Iran grew troubled. On the pretext of an outing, he climbed into the mountains with several of the chiefs of the people. All the sons of the king's nobles were there with him on that excursion. They turned to playing polo, each one seeking fame on that field. But over those young men of renown, the hero Cyrus rose higher. When he struck the ball with his mallet, it was as if it touched the very moon. The ball vanished from sight beneath his stick; no one in the world had seen such a marvel. On the field there was no man like him; no one had a face so radiant. A young man, the son of Aspatama, whose mother was the king's own daughter, tried to outdo that famous youth, but Cyrus struck him down like a polo ball. He flew into a rage at this and was wounded; he swallowed that blow from sheer pride. He went to his father and twisted the story, beginning to complain about Cyrus and what he had done. Saying: today, in front of so many horsemen, a shepherd's son humiliated me. Bold Aspatama grew furious and repeated these words to the sharp-witted king. The great king summoned the shepherd's son; he saw a hero like a ravening wolf. Everyone was saying he was a demon, or a brazen warrior with a body of iron. The king was astonished at the sight of him, wondering if a mighty elephant must be his match. In that gathering was Kavus the brave, who was the king's son in law and a man of action. Whoever looked at Cyrus said: he resembles no one but King Kavus. The fearsome dragon, the king, began to investigate: never has a sheep given birth to a wolf. Then Mithradates came before the king and recounted the whole story from beginning to end. The king grew lost in thought at this account, and in anger drew a frown across his brow. He ordered the son of the faithful minister, the wise and nimble vizier, to be seized. They killed him and made cruel roasted meat of him, and secretly, cruelly, fed it to his father. The old king grew ashamed before Kavus, and had no choice but to hand Cyrus over to him. Once again Cyrus was set free from the clutches of the malicious, savage dragon. Together they hurried toward Persia, but every loyal man's heart was full of defiance. He gathered an assembly of the army commanders and recounted the evils of Astyages. King Kavus sent a swift messenger from there on the road to Cyrus, saying: marshal your army and prepare for action; the whole age shall bend to your will. The great ones have called you to the throne; they have made ready the crown and the seat of power.

When the letter reached fortunate Cyrus, he led an army toward Ecbatana. In a single charge he captured the dragon, and the Median army had its fill of battle. He settled his grandfather in Persepolis, and kept him happy night and day. Arash, the renowned uncle of the king, in every task sought the king's good fortune. Then he married the daughter of Aspatam, the one they called Aspenoy.

When the king had finished his business with Media, he marched his whole army straight toward Lydia. For the warlike Croesus, with all his forces, had pushed his army across to the border. His troops numbered more than a hundred thousand, yet he could not hold his ground against the king. He was taken alive on the battlefield, and then the king pardoned him. From that day on Croesus was always the king's companion, that chosen, renowned man. From there the king turned toward Sparta, which the storytellers have called Esparta. He seized all of Greece from end to end, entrusted each part to a worthy man, and moved on. There was no one but Piran, son of Viseh, who led the king's own elite army as its vanguard. At Babylon he fought a glorious battle, where every champion showed his mettle. The Jews who were held captive there, since Nebuchadnezzar had taken them prisoner, by the decree of that lofty king were all set free from their chains. He gave them abundant arms and money, and sent them off to Jerusalem. Once more he rebuilt the fortress of Ecbatana, and gladdened the souls of the great with his goodness. In the Torah the angel praises him; there too his name is called blessed Cyrus. The prophet Daniel became his minister, the same man Nebuchadnezzar had once held captive. After the conquest of Babylon, the war-seeking king marched his whole army toward the east. In all of India no great man was left who had not read the proclamation of his sword. From there toward Cathay and Khotan that army-shattering king kept on marching. India and China trembled at his might; the land of Turan shuddered in dread of him. For seven long years it went on, since Cyrus had set out from here toward the east. He never rested from war, battle, and strife, until a year of drought came upon all this. Once again he set his sights on Persia, meaning to march swiftly from there toward Egypt.

In the fire temple of Nowbahar at Balkh, that famous king washed his head and body. Worn down by war and sick of evil, a divine glory shone upon him. The king's rich soul filled with thought because of that divine, far reaching power. He kept saying: every flourishing land, from India to Greece and Rome, I took by the strength of kingship; command and the high throne became mine. Now it is better that I seek the path and go before God, full of honor. Let my soul carry me to the place of the good, for this crown and royal throne pass away. May my soul never harbor selfish pride, nor think evil, nor hold devilish spite. Then he put on fresh white garments and went, praying, his heart full of hope. He left the palace for the place of worship, and lifted his heart from the king's throne. That famous king divided his whole realm, all of it, into two halves. One half he gave to Kavus the king, the other to Barteh, of noble lineage. Barteh had his home in the mountains, and lived as a hermit, morning and night. Kavus was the elder of the two in years, and wanted no equal in the world. In secret he sent men and had him killed, to gather the whole realm into his fist. They called him by the name Smerdis, and the common people thought he was still alive.

And on the other side, Cyrus, in the west, was destroyed at the hands of the Tatar people. A woman they called Tomyris, embittered to vengeance for her son, for her king had been killed on the battlefield, and so her heart was steeped in blood. When she heard the news, this noble queen chose a quiet corner in the early spring. She gathered an army and summoned her warriors, then marched her troops toward the land of Balkh. She cut off the head of that king who worshipped only himself as god, and laid all the west low as dust. She set a basin full of blood before him and plunged his bright head into the blood. The Shahnameh calls him only Damur; this king was no one but Siyavush. Surely this war was the war of Garsivaz, whom they reckoned a stubborn, daring man. Surely this was the battle of Arjasp, who came to Balkh and turned Lohrasp's days dark and bitter. Or perhaps it was the killing of the noble king, who came trembling from the seed of Akmin. Happy was the time of that chosen sovereign who rode from Athens all the way to India and China.

It was in those happy days of King Kavus, when he conquered Sudan, Egypt, and Abyssinia. Sudabeh, the daughter of the ruler, was carried across the sea to the valiant king. Amasis, a Pharaoh of Egyptian blood, called Forohel his master. And there was Zangeh of Shavaran, king of the Zang, who rode with the king to war. By his hand the throne of the Pharaohs was brought low, and all the Egyptians fell under his power. He drew a gleaming dagger and tore open the heart of Apis, the bull they called Bughash and worshipped as their greatest god, standing before it night and day. It is the same old tale that climbed to the sky and aimed its bow and arrow at God himself. If you think carefully on how this began, you will see there was no secret to it but this.

When he came from Egypt to Syria, there was a famous magus named Jamasp. He claimed to be Bardiya and proclaimed: I am the king of royal blood. I am the world's new sovereign, Smerdis the hero, son of Cyrus. Armies gathered around him from every side, for the people were worn down by their king. He had turned his head from the faith of God and never acted with justice or wisdom. Farrokhzad was killed by his wicked vizier, the one called Prexaspes the brave. Gaumata took his place on the royal throne, holding a golden mace in his hand. When the news reached Cambyses the king, his blood boiled in his body like wine. He spurred his horse onward to battle, but suddenly fell from it in disgrace. He always kept a dagger at hand; it pierced his side and wounded him. Among the renowned warriors of the army of Iran, at the moment of death the king said this: I have already killed Bardiya before this, and mixed him with the black earth. Gaumata, the ignorant one of foul nature, his words are lies from beginning to end.