Part 3: Darab and the Washerman

One day he said to the washerman: I keep this hidden from everyone, your love does not stir in me, and your face bears no likeness to mine. It amazes me that you call me your son and sit me down beside you in the shop. The washerman said to him: What talk is this! A pity for all those old, wasted hardships. If your spirit seems higher than mine, then whoever seeks his father must ask his mother about the secret. So it happened that one day the washerman left the house and hurried off toward the river. Darab shut the door tight and came forward with his hand on his sword. He said to the woman: Do not twist or hide the truth; answer straight whatever I ask you. Who am I to you? What is my lineage? Why am I in the washerman's keeping? The washerman's wife, in fear, begged for mercy and called on the all-knowing Lord for help. She said to him: Do not seek my life's blood; I will tell you everything, only ask. She recounted the story point by point, striving not to bend anything crooked. About the chest, and the nursing infant, about the gold coins and the royal jewel, she said: We were only craftspeople, not born of the line of the fortunate and mighty. All that we own is truly yours, from the clothes we wear to the horse we ride. We are your servants, and the command is yours; see what you wish, for body and soul are yours. When Darab heard this he stood dazed, and let his mind sink into thought. He asked her: Is any of that wealth left, or did the washerman scatter it all away? What would be the price of a single mount, in these days of hardship and helplessness? She answered: There is more than that: fruit-bearing trees, an orchard, and land. She gave him all the coins there were, but the precious jewel stayed untouched. With the coins he bought a horse he liked, a cheap saddle, and a lasso as well. There was a march-warden, weighty in judgment, great, admired, and a good guide. Darab strode over to him, his darkened spirit full of brooding thoughts. The march-warden held him in honor, and no harm from the world touched him there. It happened that an army came from Rome to plunder that flourishing borderland. In the battle the march-warden was killed, and his army's chief was thrown into disarray. When word reached Homay that the Romans had set foot in this borderland, there was a man named Reshnavad, a commander, born of a commander's line. She ordered him to march toward Rome and lay the enemy's country waste with the sword. Then Reshnavad gathered his troops, set up a muster ground, and gave out their pay. When Darab heard, he was overjoyed; he went to him and had his name enrolled. As the army swelled from every quarter, troops kept arriving from all sides. Homay came out from the royal palace, she herself and her pure-minded march-wardens, so that the troops might pass before her, and their numbers, names, and rolls be counted. For a while she stayed on that broad plain as the vast army marched past her. When she saw Darab in his splendor and stature, an iron mace raised to his shoulder, you would say the whole plain was his to fill, the earth itself under his striding height. When she saw that noble figure and lovely face, milk welled up in her mother's breast. She asked: Where does this horseman come from, with such build, such height and upright stature? He looks to be a man of renown, a wise and battle-ready rider. He is brave, proud, and a warrior, yet his weapons are not worthy of him. When Darab won her favor, the whole army too found approval in her eyes. She chose from the stars a fitting hour, one suited to the departing commander. When the warriors were of one mind, they led the army out from before Homay. She sent alert scouts ahead so that nothing would stay hidden from her. She knew the good and bad of the army, and had little worry about any harm. The army moved on, halt by halt, the earth full of soldiers, the sky full of moons.