Part 15: The Two Warriors Clash

He went to the battlefield, spear in hand, still marveling at what his mother had told him. They narrowed the field to a tight space and fought with short spears, weaving blows. Nothing was left of spear shaft or point, so both pulled their reins to the left. They clashed with Indian swords, striking sparks of fire from the steel. The blades shattered to pieces in the fighting; what wounds, wounds that could raise the dead. Then they took up heavy maces, and the arms of these brave men grew weary. The maces bent from the force of the blows, the horses panting, the heroes grim. The armor plating fell from the horses, and the chain mail tore at the warriors' waists. Both horse and rider broke down, exhausted; neither had strength left in hand or arm. Their bodies drenched in sweat, their mouths full of dust, their tongues cracked from thirst. They stood apart from one another, the father full of pain, the son full of suffering. O world, how strange are your ways: what breaks is from you, and what mends is from you too. In neither of these two did affection stir; wisdom stood far off, and love hid its face. Even beasts know their own young, whether fish in the sea or wild ass on the plain. But out of hardship and greed, a man cannot tell an enemy from his own child. Rustam said: never have I seen a crocodile come to battle like this. My fight with the White Demon now seems trivial to me; today my heart despairs of my own manhood. A youth like this, untested in the world, no famous hero, no renowned lord among the great, has worn me down and wearied me, and two armies stand watching this combat. When the horses of both men had rested from the struggle, the grappling, the shame, and the fight, they both strung their bows again, the young one and the old one alike. There was chain mail, a padded coat, and the tiger-skin cloak; the arrows and their points did no harm. Each grew weary of the other's blows, so both seized hold of the other's belt. Rustam, who if he set his hand to a rock could tear it from the mountain on a black day of war, tried to grip Sohrab's belt to heave him from the saddle in the fight. But the young man's waist did not so much as budge, and Rustam's skilled hand came away empty. The two lion-slayers grew sick of the fight; both wounded, both had lingered long. Once more Sohrab drew the heavy mace from his saddle and pressed his thighs against the horse. He struck with the mace and bruised Rustam's shoulder; Rustam winced but swallowed the pain in his courage. Sohrab laughed and said: rider, you cannot stand up to the blows of brave men. In battle your Rakhsh is like a mere donkey, and the rider's two arms are the worst of all. However tall and stately a champion may be, an old man grows old when he acts unwisely. Each was worn to weakness by the other, and the earth grew so tight upon the two brave men, that they turned their faces away from each other, leaving heart and soul to grief. Rustam charged into the army of Turan the way a leopard falls upon its prey. He came among the troops like a wolf, and that great army scattered. The valiant Sohrab wheeled his reins around and made a charge against the Iranians. He hurled himself upon the Iranian army, and many a famous man was destroyed by his mace. An evil thought crossed Rustam's mind: that harm would surely reach Kavus. From this so skillful young Turk, chest and arms adorned in armor. He raced quickly back toward his own camp, for that was the fear in his heart. There among the troops he saw Sohrab, who had turned the water red as wine with blood. Rustam grew sick at heart when he saw him, and let out a roar like a raging lion. He said to him: bloodthirsty Turk, who from the Iranian army picked a fight with you? Why do you reach out to strike them all, coming among the flock like a wolf? Sohrab said to him: the army of Turan was innocent of starting this battle. You were the ones who moved against them first; no one sought quarrel or feud with you. Rustam said to him: the day has darkened; what will the world-illuminating sword reveal? On this plain there is both gallows and pulpit, for the bright world lies beneath the sword. If it should be that the sword has grown so familiar with one still smelling of mother's milk, then may you never die. At dawn let us turn to the sword of vengeance again; go, and see what the Creator of the world wills.