Tale of Rostam and Shaghad

There was an old man named Azad Sarv, who lived with Ahmad Sahl in Merv. His heart was full of knowledge, his mind full of words, his tongue full of the old stories. He held the book of the kings, and had the body and bearing of a champion. His lineage went back to Sam, son of Nariman, and he kept many of Rostam's battles in memory. Now I will tell what I learned from him, weaving the words one into another. If I still remain in this passing world, with soul and wisdom as my guides, I will complete this ancient book and leave a lasting tale in the world. In the name of the world's ruler, Mahmud the king, Abol Qasem, that glory of crown and throne. Lord of Iran, of the lands of fire, and of India; from his glory the world shone like fine Roman silk. With his giving he scatters treasure abroad, and with his wisdom he fills his treasury with fame. He is great, and when the years have passed, whoever has wisdom will speak of him. Through his war and feasting, his giving and his hunt, and through his justice the world grew like a joyful spring. Happy is the one who sees his crown, his court, and his army. My two ears and two feet have gone lame; poverty has come, and age has taken hold of me. In this way I have wrestled with hostile fortune; I lament my bad luck and these hard years. Night and day I keep singing praise for that just king of the earth. The whole city stands with me in this, except those who are false in faith and evil in nature. For since he sat upon the royal throne, he closed the door on malice and the hand of evil. He humbles the one who grasps for more, however far his greed may reach. He shows mercy to the one who has wisdom and does not step beyond the measure of the day. I will leave a memorial of him in the world that, as long as people exist, will not be forgotten. Within this book stand the kings of old, the great ones and the warrior riders. It is all battle and feasting, counsel and speech, of many an age long gone. It holds knowledge and faith, restraint and judgment, and guidance for the world to come. Whatever pleases him among these things will prove useful to him this very day, for it will be a keepsake from those noble ones, and a companion for his days. I keep hoping through these days that I may receive gold coins from the king. And I hold another hope for the world to come: that forgiveness will reach me from God. So that after my death a sign of me will remain, along with the treasure of the king of proud rulers. Now I return to the words of Sarv, that shining light of Sahl of Mahan in Merv.

So the old seeker of wisdom tells the tale, a skilled and eloquent, splendid man: That in Zal's household there was a servant, a woman who played the lute and sang. One day this slave girl bore a son, a boy who lacked nothing of the moon's beauty. In height and looks he was like Sam the horseman, and the famous house rejoiced in him. The astrologers and the wise, chosen leaders from Kashmir and Kabul, both fire worshippers and those who worship God, came forward with the Roman star charts in hand. They all studied the turning of the heavens to see what fate the small child held. The stargazers saw something strange; they kept glancing from one chart to another. They said to Zal, son of Sam the horseman: 'You who are the keepsake of noble stars, we have searched and questioned the secrets of the sky, and the heavens hold no love for this child. When this fair face grows into manhood, when he reaches the age of courage and strength, he will destroy the line of Sam and Nariman; he will bring ruin upon this dynasty. All of Sistan will cry out because of him, all the land of Iran will boil with turmoil. Through him each day will turn bitter for everyone, and after that little of the world will remain.' Zal, son of Sam, grew grieved at this news and kept invoking the name of the world's Creator. He said to God: 'You who are our guide, you keep the flowing heavens on their course. In every task you are my support and shelter; you are the one who shows me thought and path. You created the sky and the stars alike; let our expectation be only of good.' May nothing but joy, peace, and goodness be his lot. The chieftain named the boy Shaghad. The mother nursed him until he had his fill of milk, gentle, well spoken, and quick to learn. When the child that year lifted his neck and grew, Zal sent him off to the king of Kabul. He grew tall as a lofty cypress, a bold rider skilled with mace and lasso. The lord of Kabul looked upon him and saw one worthy of the crown and throne of kings. He was glad of his presence in the world, and gave him his daughter to continue the line. From his great treasure he sent whatever suited her, along with his renowned daughter. He cherished Shaghad like a fresh apple, so no harm from the stars might touch him. The nobles of Iran and India would tell tales of Rostam far and wide. Now it was custom that each year Rostam demanded from Kabul, as tribute, a cowhide filled with coin. In the mind of the lord of Kabul, the thought was that once Shaghad became his son in law, Rostam of Zabol would no longer even remember such a matter, would not think of a single coin. But when tribute time came, they took it just the same, and all Kabul was thrown into uproar. Shaghad grew bitter at his brother's deed, yet he spoke of it to no one. In secret he said to the king of Kabul: 'I have grown sick of the ways of this world. A brother who has no shame before me, toward whom I have no road of respect, what difference is an older brother from a stranger, a wise man from a madman? Let us scheme and lure him into a trap; by this deed we will make our name in the world.' They spoke, and the two came to agreement; in their scheming they rose above the moon. See what the wise man has said: whoever does evil will bear its punishment. That night, until the sun rose over the mountains, the heads of the two never touched sleep. 'Let us erase his name from the world, let us fill Zal's heart and eyes with tears.' Shaghad said to the king of Kabul: 'If we want to settle this matter, prepare a feast for the nobles at your table; call for wine, music, and minstrels. While the wine is flowing, speak coldly of me; among the great call me a coward. Insulted, I will go off toward Zabolistan, and there I will complain of the lord of Kabul. Before my brother and before my father, I will call you low born and unworthy. His head will boil with rage on my behalf; he will come to this renowned city of mine. The plan will fall right into our hands; our reach will stretch to the wheel of heaven. You keep watch on the road to the hunting ground; dig several pits there in that place. Make them to the measure of Rostam and Rakhsh; plant long blades at the bottom of the pits, spears too, and glittering weapons, points turned upward, shafts set below. If you dig a hundred pits it is better than five, if you want to be freed of this trouble. Set to work a hundred cunning men; dig the pits, but do not scatter the secret to the wind. Then cover the pit mouths firmly, and speak of this to no one at all.' The king went off and cast good sense from his mind; on that fool's word he set out to hold the feast. He summoned all the nobles of Kabul and seated the worthy at his table. When the meal was done, they set the gathering; they called for wine, music, and minstrels. When their heads were filled with royal wine, Shaghad, with feigned ill temper, stirred up trouble. He said to the king of Kabul: 'I hold my head high in every assembly. With a brother like Rostam and a father like Zal, who bears nobler blood than I?' At this the king of Kabul flared up and said: 'Why do you hide such words all this while? You are not of the seed of Sam and Nariman; you are no brother, no kin of Rostam. Zal, son of Sam, has never mentioned you; when would your brother ever speak your name? You count for less than the servants at his gate; your own mother would not call you her son.' At his words Shaghad grew heartsick; he flared in anger and turned toward Zabol. He set off with a few men of Kabul, his heart full of hatred, his lips heaving cold sighs. He came to the court of his noble father, his heart full of scheming, his head full of spite. The moment Zal saw his son's face, that height and stature, that splendor and strong neck, he asked him much and made much of him, and at once sent him on to Rostam, the elephant bodied. The champion rejoiced to see him, finding him wise and bright of spirit. He said: 'From the seed of Sam the lion, none is born but the strong and the brave. How stands your affair with the man of Kabul? What do they say there of Rostam of Zabol?' Shaghad answered Rostam thus: 'Do not even speak of the king of Kabul again. Before this he was good to me; when he saw me he sang my praises. Now he drinks, he picks quarrels, he lifts his head above everyone. He shamed me before the whole assembly and let his vile nature show plainly. He kept saying: How long this tribute and tax? We have no more strength to endure Sistan. From now on we will not say, Where is Rostam? Our manhood and blood are no less than his. He said to me: You are no son of Zal, and even if you were, you would not be worth a thing. My heart filled with pain from those nobles; I rode out of Kabul, my cheeks gone pale.' When Rostam heard this he flared up and said: 'Such talk will never stay hidden long. Do not worry about him or his army; may both his army and his crown be brought low. For these words I will strip him of life, and twist the heart of his whole house with grief. I will seat you upon his throne, and drag the head of his fortune into the dust.' He kept Shaghad in honor for a few days, giving him a lofty place. From his army he chose worthy men, those who had made a name in battle. He ordered them to make ready for the march, to move their camp from Zabol to Kabul. When the army's arrangements were all complete, the champion's heart was set at ease. Shaghad came to the warlike man and said: 'Do not think of war with the king of Kabul. For if I write your name upon the water, no one in Kabul finds rest or sleep. Who would dare come out to fight you? If you so much as stir, who would linger? I believe he now regrets what he did, and since my leaving he seeks a remedy. He will now bring forward, as intercessors, many chosen chiefs from Kabul.' Rostam said: 'This is the way. I need no army at all to enter Kabul. Zavareh is enough, and a hundred renowned riders, and likewise a hundred famous men on foot.'

When that ill-starred man left the city of Kabul, the king hurried toward that hunting ground. He had taken with him well diggers from among his men, whose names had been noted in that gathering. All across the hunting plain, beneath the paths, pits had been dug. They planted the butts of spears deep in the earth, along with javelins and vengeful swords. They covered the mouths of the blind pits with brushwood, so that no man's eye and no beast's eye could see them. When mighty Rustam set out to ride away, Shaghad sent a rider galloping ahead, saying: the elephant bodied hero has come without an army; go before him and beg his pardon. The lord of Kabul came out from the city, his tongue full of words, his heart full of hatred and poison. When his eyes fell upon Rustam's face, the moment he saw him he dismounted from his horse. He took the Indian scarf from his head, bared it, and placed his hands upon it in shame. He pulled the boots off his feet as well, and wept blood from his lashes in his grief. He pressed both cheeks to the dark earth, apologizing for what Shaghad had done, saying: if this servant got drunk and lost his senses, and in that drunkenness showed defiance, it would be right for you to forgive my sin, and renew for me my custom and my way. He walked before him with both feet bare, his head full of malice, his heart full of scheming. Rustam forgave his sin, and even raised his rank higher than before. He ordered him to cover his head and feet; then he mounted his saddle and rode off. Near the city of Kabul there was a place, made lovely by the greenness of its ground. It held springs and trees, and everywhere they gladly set out couches. The king brought much food and joyfully prepared a feasting ground. He brought wine and called the musicians, and seated the nobles upon the seat of honor. After that the king spoke to Rustam like this: since your banner has come to the hunting ground, I know a place upon this plain and mountain where game has gathered in every quarter. The whole plain is full of wild sheep, gazelle, and onager, for anyone who has a swift mount. Onager and gazelle come within his grasp on that plain; one should not pass by that delightful field. Rustam grew eager at his words, at that plain full of water and wild onager. When a person's fated hour comes upon them in some matter, their heart twists and their judgment goes blind. Such is the way of the world, this world; it will not lay its secrets open to us. The crocodile in the sea, the leopard on the plain, and the fierce clawed warrior lion, with the gnat and the elephant, all are alike in death's grip; being here is no shelter. He ordered Rakhsh to be saddled, and the whole plain filled with falcons and hawks. He strung his royal bow and rode out across the plain with Shaghad. Zavareh went along with the elephant bodied hero, together with a few of that renowned company. The party scattered to the hunt, some toward the dug ground, some toward the filled. Zavareh and mighty Rustam were on that road, for the sake of the hour that lay hidden in that pit. Rakhsh caught the scent from that soil and drew his body tight like a ball. He leaped and grew frightened at the smell of the earth, tearing the ground with his hooves. The swift Rakhsh took a step onto the path, and so came between two pits. Rustam's heart filled with anger at Rakhsh; fate had blinded the eyes of his reason. He raised a gentle whip and struck him well, warming Rakhsh's spirit. When the horse was pressed between the two pits, he sought a way out of the clutch of fate. Both his feet sank into one pit; there was no room to struggle or to fight. The bottom of the pit was full of spears and sharp blades; there was no place for courage and no road for escape. The mighty Rakhsh's flank was torn open, and so were the chest and legs of that great champion. With sheer strength he hauled his own body up, and brave as he was, climbed from the bottom of the pit.

When, weary, he opened his eyes, he saw the face of the treacherous Shaghad. He knew this was Shaghad's scheme and doing, the deceiver, the one who wished him harm. He said to him: You wretched, cursed man, your deed has laid a flourishing land in ruins. You will come to regret these words, you will writhe with remorse and never grow old in peace. Go, be loyal and one with Faramarz, wish him well with all your heart and soul. The base Shaghad gave this answer: The turning sky has finally paid you your due. Why did you reach so far to shed men's blood, to plunder and to fight on every side? Now you will demand no more silver from Kabul, and kings will no longer live in fear of you. The hour has come for your time to end, for you to be killed in the demons' trap. Just then the ruler of Kabul came along the road, crossing the plain into the hunting ground. He saw the mighty hero so gravely wounded, his wounds left open and unbound. He said to him: O renowned commander, what has befallen you here in this hunting field? I will hurry and bring some physicians, and weep bloody tears over your pain. Perhaps your wounds may yet be healed, so I need not wash my face in blood. The great hero gave him this reply: O man of evil nature, seeking your tricks, my days for a physician are over; do not shed your bloody tears on me. No one lasts long; every time runs out, no living soul ever passes beyond the sky. I hold no more glory than Jamshid, whom the tyrant Zahhak sawed in two. Nor more than Fereydun and Kay Qobad, the great ones and kings of blessed lineage. Garui of Zereh cut Siyavash's throat with a dagger when his time had come. They were all sovereigns of Iran, fierce lions in the heat of battle. They passed away, and we lingered longer, staying like a raging lion on the road. My son Faramarz, who sees the world clearly, will come and take my revenge from you. Then he said to the vile Shaghad: Now that such an ill has come upon me, take my bow from the quiver, and bring me that faithful companion of mine. String it and set it before me with two arrows, lest that lion, the hunter, come from the plain to hunt while I lie here, my body torn like this. If it sees me it will do me harm; a bow would serve me well then. May no fierce lion tear my body apart; let me a while yet cast my body on the earth. Shaghad came, took the bow, strung it and drew it once. He laughed and set it before the hero, glad at his brother's coming death. With great effort the hero took up the bow, and despite his wounds he fitted an arrow. The brother was terrified of that arrow; he came and made a tree his shield. He saw a plane tree standing near, one that had lived through many years. Its trunk was hollow, but its fruit and leaves remained; behind it the foul-minded man hid. When Rostam saw this, he raised his hand, and wounded as he was, he loosed the arrow. He pinned the tree and his brother together; as life left him, his heart blazed up. Shaghad groaned after his wound, and the hero cut his suffering short. Rostam said: Thanks be to God, for I have known God all my life. Even now, with my soul upon my lips, the day did not turn to night before my vengeance was done. You gave me the strength that, before death, I took my revenge from this faithless one. He said this, and his soul left his body; the whole company wept in grief over him. Zavareh died in another pit; not one rider was left, great or small.

One rider slipped away from among those heroes, sometimes on foot, sometimes back in the saddle. When he reached Zabolestan, he said: The raging elephant now lies wedded to the dust. Zavareh too is gone, and his army with him; not one rider escaped the malice of that traitor. A cry of grief rose up out of Zabolestan, aimed at the enemy and the king of Kabolestan. Zal poured dust upon his own neck and shoulders, tearing his face and his chest in his grief. He wept and said: O mighty champion, I want nothing now to clothe my body but a shroud. That proud champion, that bold dragon of war, and Zavareh, who was famed as a lion, Shaghad, that cursed, ruined-fated wretch, has uprooted this royal tree from its very base. Who could imagine that a vile fox would plot such treachery against the elephant, against this land? Who has ever known days like these, or heard such a thing from any teacher? That I should see a man like Rostam laid in the dust, killed by the cunning words of a fox. Why did I not die piteously before them? Why was I left in the world as a memory? Why should I want life and a throne now? Why should I want sleep and a resting place? Then he began a long lament, mourning over his hero son. O lion-hearted champion, O noble hero, brave, worldly-wise warrior, Where now is your courage, your manly strength? Where is your greatness, your wisdom? Where is your heart, your judgment, your bright soul? Where are your broad chest, your stature, your mighty neck? Where is your great dragon banner? Where are your arrow, your mace, your violet-gleaming sword? You are gone from the world, sunk into the earth; may your enemy's head lie in the pit. Then he sent Faramarz with an army to seek battle against the king. He drew the slain body up from the pit, and brought the world low with weeping. When Faramarz reached Kabol, he found no man of rank left in the city. The whole city had fled, in tears, scorched with grief for the world-conqueror. He came to that hunting field, to the place where they had dug the pit. When the brave son saw his father's face, he let out a roar like a lion. There he lay upon the earth, his body full of blood, flung face-down on the ground. He said: O lofty champion, who brought such harm upon your face? A curse on that reckless man; let dust, not a crown, cover his head. By God and by your soul, O renowned one, by the earth of Nariman and Sam the horseman, I swear my body shall wear nothing but armor, ready for war, its buckles fastened. Until I take revenge for this mighty champion from that faithless assembly. Everyone who joined in this treachery with him, who bound himself to it, whose name we have heard, I will leave not one of them alive, nor anyone who guided them along this road. He gave orders to bring heavy planks, precious boards from every side. They brought many, along with tools and a bier, and laid fine wood upon the bier. He loosened the champion's belted waist and stripped the royal garments from him. First they gently washed the warm blood from his chest, neck, beard, and body. They burned amber and saffron, and stitched shut all his wounds. They poured rosewater over his head and spread pure camphor over his body. They dressed his body in brocade, then called for rose, musk, and wine. The shroud-maker wept blood over him and combed that camphor-whitened beard. Two biers held no room for his body: was his frame a shade-casting tree? They made a fine coffin of teak wood, with golden nails and figures carved in ivory. They sealed all its seams with pitch, and smeared the pitch with musk and perfume. He drew his brother up out of the pit, and stitched him wherever he saw a wound. With musk and camphor above and rosewater below, he laid him thus in his resting place. Then he drew up the body of Rakhsh, washed it and spread garments over it. They washed it and made a shroud of brocade, then searched out an elm tree somewhere. The vigilant, skilled carpenters set to work and cut heavy planks from it. Two days passed in that labor, then they loaded Rakhsh's body onto an elephant. From Kabolestan all the way to Zabolestan, the land became one clamor of grief. Men and women stood on their feet; there was no room left on the ground for a single body. They passed the two coffins along by hand, from the throng they moved as swift as the wind. In ten days and ten nights they reached Zabol; no one saw them set the coffins down on the ground. The age itself cried out at his loss; you would think the plain had come to a boil. No one could even hear another's voice; all the lands did nothing but wail. In a garden they built a tomb, raising its head up to the clouds. They set two golden biers facing each other, and laid the fortunate hero to sleep upon them. Everyone who was among the servants, both the freeborn and the pure-hearted retainers, mingled musk with rose and scattered it at the mighty champion's feet. Each one said: O renowned one, why would you want musk and amber scattered for you? You no longer seek kingship or feasting; you no longer put on the armor of war. You no longer give away treasure and gold coins; it seems all such things became worthless in your eyes. Now be joyful in blessed paradise, for God shaped you from justice and manly virtue. They sealed the tomb and turned back; that renowned, proud-necked lion was gone. What do you keep seeking from this fleeting inn, whose beginning is pain and whose end is pain? You will crumble into dust even if you are made of iron, whether you worship God or serve the devil. As long as you live, lean toward goodness, so that you may find your desire in the other world.

When Faramarz had mourned for Rostam, he led all his army out onto the open plain. He opened the house of the mighty warrior and fitted out his troops from his father's treasury. At dawn the war trumpets roared, along with the drums, the brass horns, and the Indian bells. He marched an army from Zabol toward Kabul so vast that the sun vanished from the world. When the king of Kabul learned of those famous warriors of Zabol, he gathered his scattered army; the earth turned to iron and the sky to deep blue. He came out to meet Faramarz with his host, and the light of sun and moon grew dim. When the two armies stood face to face, the world filled with the clamor of battle. From the crush of the elephants and the army's dust, even the lion in the thicket lost its way. A wind rose and a dark dust with it; the earth could no longer be seen from the sky. Faramarz came before his troops and never once took his eyes off the enemy king. When the drums thundered from both sides, the warriors could no longer hold still. Faramarz, with a small band of men, hurled himself straight into the center of the enemy line. The air went dark with the dust of the horsemen, and the commander of Kabul was taken captive. That great army was scattered, while the brave men of Zabol struck like wolves. From every side they laid ambushes, then charged in among the enemy ranks. They killed so many of the champions of India, and of the proud, famous men of Sind, that the dust of the battlefield turned to mud with blood, and the armies of India and Sind broke apart. They gave up all hope of their land and homes, abandoning their wives and little children. The body of the lord of Kabul, drenched in blood, was thrown into the howdah on an elephant's back. Faramarz led the army to the hunting ground, to the very place where the pit had been dug. They carried off the enemy with his hands bound, and forty of his kin, all idol worshippers, as well. He drew a bowstring across the commander's back so hard that bone and sinew showed through. Then they hung him head down into the pit, his body caked with dust, his mouth full of blood. He set his forty kinsmen to the fire, then went from that place toward Shaghad. He kindled a fire like a mountain and burned Shaghad, the plane tree, and the very ground. When he led the army back toward Zabol, he brought all the earth back to Dastan. When he had ended the days of the cruel man, he set up a lord as king in Kabul. No one of that dynasty was left in Kabul over whom he had not read the decree of the sword. He returned from Kabul full of grief and smoke, and the bright day had turned dark and blue upon him. All Zabol and Bost were crying out; not one had a whole garment left on his body. They came back before Faramarz with torn collars and hearts consumed by sorrow. For a whole year there was mourning in Sistan, and all their clothes were black and dark blue.

One day Rudabeh said to Zal: Mourn now, weep for the loss of mighty Rostam. Surely, as long as the world has shone, no one has known a day darker than this. Zal told her: Foolish woman, starving yourself will not carry this grief away. Rudabeh flared up and swore an oath: My body will never again find sleep or food. Let my soul go join the soul of the great one, so perhaps it may see him again in that gathering. For a whole week she kept her body from eating, for in her heart she held a secret bond with Rostam's spirit. From not eating her eyes grew dim, and her delicate body wasted away to nothing. Wherever she went, several servants went with her, afraid she might come to harm. By the week's end her reason left her, and in her helplessness her mourning turned to raving. At the hour of sleep she came into the garden and saw a dead snake lying in the water. She reached out and seized its writhing head, meaning to make a meal of the snake. A servant snatched the snake from Rudabeh's hand and they caught her, holding her close. They drew her polluted hand away from that place and carried her to the hall, to a seat of rest. They settled her back in her own place, brought out a table and prepared food. She ate everything until she was full, then they laid soft bedding down beneath her. When her senses returned she said to Zal: Your words were joined with wisdom. For anyone who takes no food or sleep, the grief of death and a joyous feast are all the same. He has gone, and we will follow after him; let us bow to the justice of the world's Creator. She gave to the poor whatever she had kept hidden, and kept saying to the Maker of the world: You who are higher than any name or place, cleanse the soul of mighty Rostam of all sin. Give him a place in paradise in that world, and there grant him the harvest of the seed he sowed here.

When the days of the mighty Rostam had ended, I brought forward another tale. When Gushtasp's fortune turned dark, he summoned Jamasp before the throne. He said to him: the fate of Esfandiar has left my heart so scorched and grieving, that no day of my life brought me joy; I have been broken by a vengeful star. After me, Bahman shall now be king, and Pashutan shall be the keeper of his secrets. Do not turn your heads from his command; do not stray from your promise to him. One by one, let him be your guide upon the road, for he is worthy of the throne and crown. Then he gave him the keys to the treasuries and drew a cold sigh up from his heart. He told him: my work is finished now; the water has risen over the crown of my head. I sat as king a hundred and twenty years and never saw anyone in the world my equal. Now you must strive and be just; once you bring justice, be free of sorrow. Keep the wise close to you and glad; make the world dark for those who mean harm. Do everything with honesty, for through honesty the head turns away from crookedness and fault. I hand you the throne, the crown, and the treasure, after enduring so much heat and hardship. He said this, and his days came to an end; the time that had passed never returned. They built him a tomb of black wood and ivory and hung a crown above the seat of rule. This was all his share of struggle and of treasure; after the sweet drink he tasted the poison of death. If this is how it ends, why any gladness? In death the beggar is made equal to the king. Eat what you have sown, do not chase after evil, and lend your ear to a person of wisdom. Our companion has passed on and we remain; we have read much of the deeds now gone. The one who kept walking reached his destination; the one who kept searching found the road. Nothing but goodness will take you by the hand, if you listen to the words of a wise elder. Now let us turn our effort to Bahman's story, and carry wisdom to the learned Pashutan.