The Letter to the Shah

When Sohrab turned away, old Gazhdaham called for a skilled scribe and had him sit down. He wrote a letter to the Shah and sent a swift rider off on the road. First he offered praise to the Creator, then spoke of how fortune turns. He wrote: a heavy army has come upon us, all of them warriors hungry for battle, mighty men. At their head is a champion who cannot be more than twelve years old. In height he stands taller than a straight cypress; like the shining sun, he has two bodies of strength. His chest is like an elephant's, his stature towering; I have never seen such an arm or such a mace. When an Indian sword comes into his grip, the sea and the mountains feel too small for him. No thundercloud roars like his voice; no cutting blade is sharper than his arm. The brave Hojir girded himself for war and mounted a swift steed. He rode out to face Sohrab in combat; I saw him unhorsed almost before he stood in the stirrups. Faster than a fighter can blink, quicker than a scent reaching the brain from the nose, Sohrab lifted him clean off his saddle; his chest froze in amazement at that arm's power. Hojir is unharmed and now a prisoner in Sohrab's mercy; my soul is heavy with worry over what will come of him. I have seen many Turkish riders, but I have never heard of a horseman who wields the reins like this. God forbid that in the space between two battle lines he should ever get a single warrior into his hands. The very ground would pity the mountain over which he gallops his horse on the day of vengeance. No one has ever seen a rider like him; you would say Sam himself is riding, no one less. Imagine his greatness reaching the sky, and the fortune of our heroes all fallen asleep. Even if we hold our patience a while longer, we cannot fight, and there is nothing more to say. If the king of the land pauses, does not send his army, and lays no ambush, this boy will seize the fortress and its walls by his sheer strength; no one can hold his hand back. For this fortress cannot withstand him; even a lion would be left slow by his sudden speed. When the letter was sealed that night, Gazhdaham sought out the messenger and opened his mouth to speak. He told him: ride so that by morning no one in that army will catch sight of you. He sent the letter off on the straight road, and then the messenger rose to his feet. He loaded his baggage, pulled in his reins, and vanished onto that trackless road. The people of the fort turned toward Iran and left that fortress behind for Sohrab. When the sun raised its head over the dark mountain, the band of Turks girded themselves for battle. The commander Sohrab, spear in hand, mounted a strong warhorse. He rode up to the walls and looked closely, but saw hardly anyone within them. He came to the fortress and they opened the gate; inside they found not a single fighter. By his command everyone came before him, each one pleading for their life. When the letter reached Kay Khosrow, his heart grew heavy at the words he heard. He summoned the nobles of his army and spoke to them at length about this story. The great men of the army, high and low, sat together with the Shah of Iran. Men like Tus and Gudarz son of Keshvad and Giv, like Gorgin and Bahram and the brave Farhad. The commander read the letter aloud to them; he asked many questions and was left bewildered. He said quietly to the champions: this affair will drag on and grow heavy for us. The way Gazhdaham describes it, it washes all resolve from the heart with worry. What shall we do, and what is the cure for this? Who from Iran can stand against this man in single combat? They all agreed on one thing: that Giv should go to Zabol, to the brave chieftain. He should bring this news to Rostam: that the royal throne itself is in danger. He should summon the elephant-bodied hero to this battlefield, for he is the backbone of the army. Then the king sat and took counsel with his scribe, for a painful task had become unavoidable.