English
Section 7: Khosrow and Pashang
When that dark blue tent of night grew bright, the world turned the color of a yellow ruby.
Pashang mounted his war horse, his head full of battle with the recklessness of youth.
He clad his gleaming chest in mail, and set the royal iron helmet on his head.
His banner in one hand, a fighting Turk beside him, he came forward gracefully like a leopard.
When he drew near the army of Iran, one of the renowned men went to the king.
He said: a horseman has come between the two ranks, proud and seething, a sword in his fist.
The king laughed at this and called for his armor, and raised the great royal standard upright.
He set a golden helmet on his head and gave his banner to Rohham, son of Gudarz.
His whole army grew grieved and wept, as if roasting over a raging fire.
A cry rose up: O king, do not put your body to the trouble of steel.
For all kings, the throne was their seat; you have bound your belt for vengeance instead.
May whoever caused this find no seat but the dark earth, and may no wish or power ever fall to his hand.
The commander, in mail with mace and helmet, sent word again and again to his troops:
Let not a single man stir from this battlefield, not on the left, the right, the center, or the wings.
No one is to look for a fight or an uproar; keep your ears on Rohham, son of Gudarz.
When the sun climbs high in the sky, watch to see upon whom the harm will fall.
Do not let your hearts grow anxious; this is how war begins and how it ends.
Now on the heights, now in the depths; now in triumph, now in terror.
He spurred on his night black steed Behzad, who on the day of racing could overtake the wind.
Girded with lance, helmet, and armor, the dust of his horse rose to the clouds.
Between the two ranks Shideh saw him and drew a cold sigh up from deep within.
He said to him: you are the son of the noble Siyavash, are you not, the wise and worthy one?
Grandson of the ruler of Turan's army, whose helmet brushes against the wheel of the moon?
You are surely the one they take you for, a man who has seen the world and been raised in wisdom.
If you had any sense along with your royal blood, you would not have set your hand to a fight like this.
If you want battle, go out in front of the army and choose a distant field for the fight,
where no one from Iran or Turan will watch us, and we will call for no comrades to come to our aid.
The king answered him thus: O tearing lion of the battlefield,
I am the heartbroken son of that innocent one, Siyavash, who was killed by the king's hand.
I have come to this plain from Iran for vengeance; I did not come for the sake of throne or signet ring.
When you rose up against your own father, you demanded me from among the army for combat.
You asked for me, and it would not have been right for me to send anyone unworthy to face you.
Now choose a battlefield, far from the armies, out of everyone's sight.
They made a pact that from neither side would any vengeful man come to help.
Even those who carried our banners would not turn pale from any treachery.
The two of them went far from their armies, as gladly as a man heading to a feast.
It was a wilderness fit for war, and that place lay on the border of Khwarazm.
They reached a spot so harsh and dry that neither lion nor leopard set a claw there.
No eagle flew above its skies; part of it was barren rock, part shimmering mirage.
They marked out a great arena: two horses and two warriors like a pair of wolves.
The riders were like fierce lions, full of rage on the day of the hunt.
They circled each other with long spears while the sun blazed overhead.
No spearhead remained on their lances; armor and reins were drenched in sweat.
With Roman maces, swords, and arrows they fought each other without letup.
The ground went black with the dust of the riders, yet neither tired of the fight.
When Shideh saw Khosrow's courage and strength, tears ran from his lashes down his cheeks.
He knew this was divine glory, and that he should weep for his own fate.
His horse, too, grew faint from thirst, and the man's own strength began to fail.
In his helplessness he thought to himself: what if I say to the king, mid-battle,
'Come, let us dismount and wrestle on foot, both of us slick with sweat.'
He will not dismount, for he would think it beneath him; his kingly self would find it demeaning.
But if this trick does not free me from him, I am surely lost in the dragon's jaws.
He said to him: O king, with blade and spear anyone can fight and wheel his horse.
It is better to fight on foot, seeking battle, striking with our hands like lions.
At once the world-ruling Khosrow understood the ill-meaning man's intent.
He said to himself: this lion, full of strength and grip, is Fereydun's descendant and Pashang's son.
If he gets his rest and eases himself, he will strike terror into many a lionhearted man.
If I do not dismount to fight, he will make the ground close in on the Iranians.
Rahham said to him: O crowned one, do not disgrace your noble blood with this act.
If Khosrow fights on foot, then what use are all these riders on this plain?
If I must set foot on the ground on foot, I descend from the line of Keshvad.
Let me be the one to go and fight him, not the king, the proud lord of the world.
Then the king said to Roham, 'My dear, my noble horseman warrior,
know that Shideh, brave son of Pashang's line, will not come out to fight you.
You are no match for his combat either; among the Turks there is no commander like him,
a fighting man of Fereydun's blood, and no mother ever bore one so brave.'
'It is no shame for me to go to war; on foot we will wage a leopard's fight.'
From the other side an envoy went to Shideh: 'Keep away from harm, you suspicious one.
You have no choice but to turn back, for you cannot stand against Khosrow in battle.
When the moment comes to flee an enemy, that is better than being killed and stirring up doom.'
Shideh said to that famed envoy, 'A man's true worth in battle cannot be hidden.
Know that from the day I first buckled my belt, I have raised my head toward the sun.
With this strength, this glory, and this fighting hand, I have never seen my equal on the field.
But the grave suits me better than flight, once I have thrown myself into a struggle.
I would climb above the turning of the heavens, or tread upon the very eye of a dragon.
If my life is fated to end here by his hand, neither foe nor friend can hold death back from me.
I do not know where his manly strength comes from; upon this famed man rests a divine glory.
Perhaps on foot I can reach him and in battle send his blood flowing like a stream.'
The king of the world said to Shideh, 'You, famed one, of the line of the great,
surely no man of the royal seed has ever tested combat on foot.
But if this is your desire, I will never turn the rein against your wish.'
The king dismounted from his black horse and lifted the royal crown from his head.
He gave the precious horse to Roham and came forward on foot like blazing fire.
When Pashang saw him on foot from afar, that warlike leopard dismounted too.
On the plain they clashed like elephants, mingling the dust with blood.
When Shideh saw the king's stature and breadth, that divine glory and command,
he looked for a way to escape him, for once the head is lost the body is worthless.
When Khosrow understood his intent, and saw his strength and towering frame,
he seized his neck with the left hand, his back with the right, lifted him up and slammed him hard to the ground.
Every vertebra of his spine shattered like a reed, crumbling with pain as his sinews tore apart.
He drew a sharp blade from his side and tore right through the famous warrior's heart.
He ripped his armor to shreds, and in his grief poured dust upon his own head.
He said to Roham: this scheming enemy, brave and hot-headed, was my uncle.
Now that he is slain, show him kindness; build him a royal tomb.
Wash his body with musk, fragrance, and rosewater, and cleanse his head with pure camphor.
Place a musk-scented collar around his neck, and set a perfumed crown upon his head.
Then his interpreter looked down the road and saw the body of the renowned king.
They lifted it, still bloody, from the sand and carried it toward the king's army.
The messenger came wailing to the king: O renowned and just sovereign,
I was only his weak servant, neither a fighting horseman nor a champion.
Have mercy on me, O king, in your kindness; may the heavens rejoice in your life.
The king said to him: tell your ancestor before that gathering what you saw of me.
He kissed the ground and offered praise, then set out toward the lord of China.
And from that plain vengeful Kay Khosrow turned his face back toward his own army.
A cry rose up from the army of Iran: may the sun and moon show him grace.
At once came Gudarz and Giv, along with Shidush, Rostam, and brave Gorgin.
They all kissed the ground before him and called down many blessings on the king.
On the other side, the Turks kept their eyes on the road, waiting for Shideh to return from the battlefield.
A rider came across that soft sand, bareheaded, his eyes hot and full of blood.
He came before Afrasiab, his heart broken by grief, his eyes brimming with tears.
He brought out the hidden secret from concealment and told it all before the lord of the Turks.
The world's ruler lost all hope in the world and tore out his camphor-white hair.
He scattered flowing sand upon his head: the one who had been his champion was gone from the army.
Everyone who saw the face of the king of the Turks tore his chest, his clothes, and his heart.
Afrasiab spoke with weeping: from now on I will seek neither rest nor sleep.
Help me in this mourning; every one of you, join me in grief.
My sword's edge will never see its sheath again, nor will I ever again be content.
Count as beast or wild animal, not human, any heart that is not pierced with this pain,
and may there be no tears or shame in the eyes that are not filled with hot blood over our sorrow,
for that moon-faced warrior on horseback, that cypress tree by the streamside.
He wept tears of blood from his eyes,
from a pain no doctor could cure.
All the great nobles gave their answer,
speaking out before their king.
They said, 'May this just God make it easy for you,
and fill the heart of your enemy with dread.'
Not one of us will rest even a moment,
night and day, grieving Peshang and thirsting for revenge.
We will set the whole army's heart to roaring,
and scatter heads across the battlefield.
Before this there was no true grudge against Khosrow,
but now this vengeance has piled hatred upon hatred.
The army's heart was broken for the sake of the king,
and the whole battlefield surged and roared with rage.