The Grief of Kavus

When word reached King Kavus that Siyavash's days had come to a ruinous end, how the chief of that gathering had severed his head from his body as if he were slaughtering a bird, how with a dagger they cruelly cut that royal head from his innocent body, the nightingale wails from the cypress branch, and the partridge cries among the flowers with the pheasant. The whole city of Turan was filled with grief and pain; even the pomegranate leaves in the forest turned yellow. They raised lament on every mountainside, yet there was no rescuer and no one to hear their plea. When King Kavus heard these words, his famous head sank low from the throne. He tore his clothes and his flesh, ripped at his face, and threw himself down from the high throne into the dust. The Iranians came out lamenting, girding themselves in weeping for that mourning. Every eye was full of blood, every cheek gone pale, every tongue full of memories of Siyavash. Tus and Gudarz and the brave Giv, Shapur and Farhad and lion-hearted Rahham, all had put on dark blue and black, all with dust on their heads in place of crowns. Then the news reached Nimruz, to the world-illuminating chief, that a cry had risen from the land of Iran, and the dark earth itself seemed to boil with sorrow. Kavus had poured dust upon his shoulders and torn to shreds all his royal robes. When Rostam heard this, his senses left him, and a cry of grief rose up from Zabol. Zal clawed at his cheeks with his nails and poured dust over his shoulders and neck. For a week he stayed in mourning and gloom; on the eighth day the breath went into the trumpet. A great army gathered around the mighty-bodied one, coming from Kashmir and Kabul. He set his face toward the court of Kavus, both eyes full of tears and his heart seeking vengeance. When he drew near the city of Iran, he tore apart all his hero's garments. He swore an oath by the Creator who upholds all: that my body will never go to battle without armor, that I will not wash the dust from my head, and grief and sorrow will always cover my body, my helmet is my cup and my sword; on my arm coils the noose of my snare. When he came before King Kavus, his head was covered with dust and his feet too. He said to him: your evil nature, O king, you sowed, and now your seed has borne its fruit. Your love for Sudabeh and her wickedness has lifted the royal crown from your head. Now you will plainly see how you are seated upon the waves of the sea. From the counsel of a foolish mind and an overbearing king, a great loss has fallen upon us. For the man who is the leader of the assembly, a shroud is better than to obey a woman's command. Siavash was undone by a woman's words. Blessed is the woman never born of any mother. What a loss: that noble chest, that stature, that height, his stirrup and his kingly saddle-arch. What a loss: that famous horseman, for the world will never see his like again. At the feast he was the very spring; in battle he was the crown of the renowned. I will fight with weeping eyes, and set the whole world burning like my own heart. Kavus looked into his face and saw the bloody tears and all that love in him. Out of shame he gave no answer at all, and warm tears poured down from his eyes. The mighty Rostam rose from beside his throne and turned toward the chamber of Sudabeh. He dragged her out from behind the curtain by her hair and pulled her from her seat of glory into blood. There in the passage he cut her in two with his blade, and King Kavus did not stir from his place. Rostam came to the court in mourning and pain, his heart full of blood, his eyes and face gone pale. The whole city of Iran fell into mourning; full of grief, they gathered around Rostam. For a full week, in sorrow and with weeping eyes, he sat at the court, full of pain and rage. On the eighth day he sounded the brass trumpets and drums, and Gudarz and Tus came to the court. And Farhad and Shiduosh and Gorgin and Giv, and Bahram and Roham and brave Shapur, Fariborz, son of Kavus, a tearing lion, and Goraza, who was a fearless dragon, and Faramarz, Rostam's son, who led the way, guardian of every border and a new commander. Rostam spoke to the warriors: For this vengeance I have given my heart, my soul, and my body. For never again in this world will a single hero gird his belt like the horseman Siavash. Do not think this matter a small thing; a vengeance like this cannot be counted small. Cast all fear out of your hearts, and turn the earth into a river of blood like the Oxus. By God, as long as I am alive in this world, my heart is packed full with vengeance for Siavash. That golden basin into which the ignorant Garui let his blood pour down, I will rub my face and eyes with that blood, in hope the pain and rage in my heart may ease. And if I am left with my hands bound and a noose set around my neck, and they drag me low in the dust like a sheep, both arms twisted in the coils of a lasso, even then, with my mace and my sharp sword, I will raise a day of reckoning across the world. My eyes shall see nothing but the dust of battle; wine and cup and feasting are forbidden to me. Every champion who stood at the court, when he heard Rostam speak in that way, they all raised the war cry together with him; you would think the field itself had come to a boil. A roar rose from the field up to the clouds; you would think the earth had fallen into a lion's jaws. The signal was struck on the backs of the elephants; the warriors drew their swords from their sheaths. The bellow of the ox horns rose up, with the blast of brass trumpets and curved brass pipes. The world filled with hatred for Afrasiab; you would say the water of the sea had come to a boil. There was no room on the ground for anyone to move; the sky itself lay hidden behind a wall of spears. The morning star was the first to enter the battle; earth and time washed their hands in blood. The champions of Iran girded themselves for war, with the royal Kaviani banner leading them on. Then Rustam of Zabul picked out from among the sword-wielding warriors of Kabul. From Iran and from the elm groves, he gathered twelve thousand of his heroes. Faramarz led the army at its head, for he was the son of a champion and a new commander. He marched until he reached the border of Turan, and saw no enemy along the way. In that region was the king of Sepijab, who had an army, treasure, and abundant resources. Varazad was the name of that warlord, brave, a driver of armies, and clear of spirit. He had thirty thousand swordsmen, all eager for war and battle. Varazad rode out from the center of his army and came swiftly toward Faramarz. He asked him, 'Tell me, what sort of man are you? Why have you turned toward this border?' 'It would be fitting if you told me your name and sought your own destiny in this affair.' 'Surely you have come by the king's command, if you come from the commander of an army.' 'What news do you bring of Afrasiab, of his throne, his crown, and his royal seat?' 'It must not be that your soul should leave your dark body at my hand while you remain nameless.' Faramarz said, 'You ill-fated warrior, I am the fruit of that royal tree,' 'whose name makes the lion writhe, and when he grows angry the elephant falls lifeless.' 'Why should I bother to speak my name to you, you demon-born creature of vile stock?' 'The mighty-bodied hero comes behind me with his army; he alone is enough as an avenger in this world.' 'To avenge Siavash he has bound his belt and come like a raging lion.' 'He will raise smoke from this worthless land; even the dust around him the wind will not dare touch.' When Varazad heard his words, he thought little of his fighting. He commanded his army to advance and to string all their bows. The troops formed their ranks on both sides and set iron helmets upon their heads. From every side rose the shouting of the warriors; the ears went deaf from the wailing of the war drums. When the war drums and the trumpets sounded, Faramarz's heart leaped up from its place. In a single charge he cut down a thousand warriors, then turned back from the battle. He charged again and struck down twelve hundred, then called out to Varazad: Stop your army. For today is the day of God's own punishment; the reward of evil, from God, is evil. So dense an army, so many riders, all thrown into panic by one famous man. Faramarz came on with his spear in hand, and closed the road of God to Varazad. When the warrior Faramarz caught sight of him, he let out a roar like a raging lion. He spurred his night black horse from where it stood and tightened his grip upon the spear. He drove one thrust against his belt so hard that beneath the armor his sash split apart. He lifted him from the poplar wood saddle as though he held a single gnat in his hand. He hurled him to the ground, then dismounted and gave many greetings to Siyavash's memory. He severed the famous head from its body; the man's shirt was drenched with blood. He said: Here is the first head of vengeance; the seed of war is scattered now, and has taken root. He set fire to the whole land and its fields, and the smoke rose up to the lofty sky. He wrote a letter to his father about the deed of the battle seeking Varazad: That when I opened the way to vengeance and war, I lifted him from his leopard skin saddle, For the blood of Siyavash I cut off his head, and I kindled fire across his country. From the other side a fast rider took to the road, heading toward the commander of Turan's army. Reporting that Rostam, the mighty one, has come for vengeance, and the nobles of Iran have gathered as one. They cruelly beheaded Varazad, and stirred up ruin across the borders of Turan. They shattered the army utterly, and set fire to the land and its fields. When Afrasiyab heard these words, he grew sick with grief over the old deeds. Not a single free horse was left on the plain; the shepherd brought his whole herd to the field. He opened the treasury of maces and armor plating, of spears and the daggers of India. The same treasure of gold coin, pearls and gems, the same crowns, the collars and golden belts. He took the key from the keeper of the treasury and spread coins across the whole palace and the field. When the whole army had been made ready, the riches were scattered out among them. He beat the brazen war drums and the Indian bells, and the riders set their minds toward battle. The commander drew his forces out of Gang, and led the army from the narrows onto the open plain. He sent for Sorkha and called him before him, and told him many tales about Rostam. He told him: take thirty thousand swordsmen, famous fighters, out to the field of war. Guard your life against the son of Zal; in battle no one is your equal. You are my son and you wish me well; you are the pillar of my army and my moon. As long as you stay alert and keep to the path, who would dare to face you? Now lead the way and stay watchful; keep the army safe from the enemy. Sorkheh set out from his father's side and led the banner and the troops onto the plain. When the scouts saw the dust of the enemy army, they wheeled around and went to Faramarz. From the Iranian army rose the sound of the war drums; the dust of the troops turned the sky black as ebony. The shouting of horsemen and the dust of the army turned the world to night, and the moon vanished. The flash of diamond blades, the spearheads sharpened and bloodied, You would say a mist had risen over the world; they had kindled the fire of battle. Heads of the slain lay scattered on every side; the ground rose like mountains from end to end. When Sorkheh saw the fighting go that way and saw the banner of the commander Faramarz, He gave the rein to his proud chestnut horse, took up his spear, and slung his bow behind him. Faramarz left the center of the army and rode against Sorkheh with his spear, hungry for revenge. He struck one spear thrust like a bolt of fire and lifted him from the saddle to the horse's mane. The Turks came to Sorkheh's aid, filled with fury and eager to fight. In the uproar of the Turks and the hard combat, Faramarz's spear shattered to pieces. Sorkheh realized he was no match for him; grief-stricken, he turned to flee. Faramarz chased after with his sharp sword, riding hard and raising chaos like doomsday. The Iranian horsemen, like demons, roared and thundered after him. When Faramarz got Sorkheh within his grasp, he reached out the way a leopard lunges. He seized him by the belt, tore him from the saddle, and suddenly threw him to the ground. He flung him down on foot, in shame, and dragged him from the battlefield to the camp. Just then Rustam's banner appeared on the road, with the dust of the elephants and the army. Faramarz came before his father like a whirlwind, victorious from the day of battle. He drove before him Sorkheh with his hands bound, having crushed Varazad's neck. Every ravine and plain was full of the slain; the enemy's head had turned away from the fight. The army blessed the champion and that renowned young son. Rustam too gave him his blessing and gave much wealth to the poor. The mighty warrior told a saying: anyone who rises to prominence in a gathering needs wisdom and noble blood, with skill as his ally and learning as his teacher. When he brings these virtues together, he grows brave and gains strength and standing. You expect nothing from fire but flames, and when a whole world stands before it, it burns. No wonder Faramarz is fierce and defiant, for steel has a heart full of fire. When it strikes hard stone, it splits it open and reveals the secret hidden in its heart. Then the mighty warrior looked at Sorkheh: a free-standing cypress on the meadow, chest like a lion's, face like spring, with black musk drawn like patterns over roses. He ordered them to take him out to the field, with a dagger, the executioners, and a basin, to bind his hands with the loop of a lasso and lay him on the ground like a sheep, to cut his head from his body as they did to Siavash, and let the vulture be his shroud. When Tus the commander heard this, he set off swiftly, bent on spilling blood. Sorkheh said to him: O proud king, why do you spill my blood when I am innocent? Siavash was my age and my friend; my soul is full of grief and sorrow for him. My eyes were full of tears day and night, my lips always open in curses against the one who took up that basin and dagger, against the one who beheaded that king. Tus's heart softened deeply with pity for that renowned man whose fortune had turned. He came to Rostam and told him: the commander's son has laid a plea. Rostam said: if the king should be so heartbroken and in mourning, then may Afrasiab's heart and soul be forever full of pain, and both his eyes full of tears. Zavareh carried off that basin and dagger and handed it to the army's executioners. He cut off his head with the dagger, weeping; he cried out a moment, and the deed was done. He hung the severed head and body on the gallows, both feet turned upside down above the head. Out of vengeance he scattered dust over the slain man, and they slashed his body open with the dagger. O world, what do you want from those you raise? What do you want from your heartbroken, wounded children?