Rostam and Sohrab: The Duel

When the bright sun spread its wings, the black raven of night lowered its head and fled. The mighty warrior put on his tiger-skin armor and mounted his fierce, raging elephant of a horse. He fastened a lasso to his saddle strap and took an Indian sword in his hand. He came out onto the field of battle, an iron helmet set upon his head. All bitterness comes from wanting more; may no one ever be kin to greed. On the other side, Sohrab sat among his companions, drinking wine to the music of a lute. He said to Human: this lion of a man who keeps circling me in combat, he is no shorter than I am, and in battle his heart never sinks. His chest, shoulders, and neck are just like mine, as if a knowing hand had measured us to match. I keep finding the signs my mother described, and my heart turns toward him because of them. I suspect that he is Rostam, for few in the world are warriors like him. I must not fight my own father, and rashly stand against him in the field. Human said to him: in battle I have crossed paths with Rostam several times. I have heard what that brave man did with his heavy mace in the war of Mazandaran. This horse of yours resembles his Rakhsh, but it lacks his stride and his broad frame. At dawn, when the sun rose, the warriors lifted their heads from sleep. Sohrab put on his coat of battle, his head full of war, his heart full of feasting. He came roaring onto the field of war, an ox-headed mace gripped in his hand. With smiling lips he greeted Rostam, as if they had spent the night together as friends. He asked: how was your night, how did you rise this morning? What did you decide in your heart about the fight? Throw down this mace and sword of vengeance; strike war and injustice to the ground. Let us both sit here together on foot, and brighten our grim faces with fresh wine. Let us make a pact before the Creator, and turn our hearts away from seeking battle. Until someone else comes forward to fight, join me and let us set out a feast. My heart is drawn to love you; a flush of shy tenderness rises to my face. Surely you come from the line of heroes; tell me your noble stock, right here before me. Rostam said to him: young glory-seeker, we never spoke of any such thing. Last night the talk was of wrestling. I will not fall for your tricks, so do not try. You may be young, but I am no child; I have girded my belt for wrestling before. Let us try, and the outcome will be whatever the ruler of the world commands and wills. I have traveled through many highs and lows; I am not a man of empty words, snares, or deceit. Sohrab said: such words from an old man are not what a heart wants to hear. I had wished that you might die in your bed, your last breath leaving you in your own time. That whoever survives you would raise your tomb, your soul taking flight while your body rests in its place. But if your fate lies in my hands, then by God's will let us set to. They dismounted from their war horses, cautious in their armor and helmets. They tied their battle steeds to a rock, and both walked forward, covered in dust. They locked together in wrestling; blood and sweat poured from their bodies. Sohrab struck like a drunken elephant, lifted him off the ground and threw him down flat. Like a lion that sets its claws on a wild ass and brings it crashing head over heels, he sat upon the great warrior's chest, his claws, face, and mouth full of dust. He drew a gleaming dagger, meaning to cut the head from the body. Rostam said to Sohrab: brave lion-hunting champion, master of the lasso and the sword, our custom is different from this; the code of our faith is not like this. One who brings a man down in wrestling, laying a great head low in the dust, does not cut off his head the first time he pins his back to the ground, even in vengeance. Only if he throws him down a second time does he earn the name of lion for the kill. By this trick he hoped to escape from the grip of that dragon, to be spared from death. The bold youth listened to the old man's words and gave in, and the words seemed fitting to him. One reason was his heart, the second was fate, and the third, no doubt, was his own nobility. He let go of him and walked off across the plain, like a lion strolling past a deer. He went off hunting game and forgot all about the man he had just fought. Time passed until Human, like a whirlwind, arrived and asked him about the duel. Sohrab told Human where he had been and everything Rostam had said to him. Human said: young champion, it seems you have grown tired of your own life. What a waste of your chest and arms and neck, your heroic grip and mace, the lion you had caught in your trap, you set free from the snare, and left the work half done. See what this pointless deed of yours will bring upon you in the next battle. He said this and turned his heart cold against the young man's life, still marveling at him. He set off toward his own camp, angry, his heart heavy with grief over the youth's affair. There is a saying fit for a king: never make light of an enemy, however small. When Rostam was freed from Sohrab's hands, he became like a blade of tempered steel. He walked calmly to the running water, like one who has recovered his spirit. He drank, washed his face, head, and body, and first of all bowed before the Creator of the world. He prayed for victory and strength, unaware of the destiny fixed by sun and moon, of how the heavens would turn against him and snatch the crown from his head. From that stream he returned to the field of battle, his heart full of thought, his face pale. Sohrab came galloping like a drunken elephant, a lasso on his arm and a bow in his hand. Prancing, roaring at wild asses, his chestnut horse making the whole world leap beneath him. Rostam kept marveling at him, taking the measure of his fighting. When lion-slaying Sohrab saw him, his heart swelled with the wind of youth. He said: you who escaped from the lion's claws, you who survived the blow of the brave lion,