The Fall of a King in a Mill

There was a champion of wide fortune, of the line of Tarkhan and Bizhan by name. His seat was in the city of Samarkand; his ties to that frontier ran deep. When wretched, willful Mahoy grew reckless, a letter went from him to Bizhan. It said: You champion, born unharmed, a war has come your way that will profit you. The king of the world is here with his army, with his crown and throne and diadem. If you come, his head and crown and throne are yours, and so are his treasure and dark royal canopy. When Bizhan looked and read that letter, he saw the willful Mahoy ruling everything before him. He said to his minister: You wisest of men, what comes to mind about this affair? If I lead an army to aid Mahoy, my cause here will be ruined. The king of China will mock me, calling me base and a flatterer. And if I don't, he will say I acted out of fear, that I dread the day of shame and battle. The minister answered him this way: You lionhearted, battle-seeking man, it would be a disgrace for you to leave here, to go to Mahoy's aid and then return. Order Barsam to go with an army to that battlefield to help. If you march to war on the word of Suri, that man of stone will call you frivolous. Bizhan said: This is the plan, then; I need not stir from my place at all. He ordered Barsam to take ten thousand dagger-wielding warrior horsemen, to prepare for war in Merv, so he might seize the treasure of Iran. The army from Bukhara, like a flying pheasant, reached the city of Merv within a week. In the dark night, at the crowing of the cock, the sound of war drums rose from that frontier. The world-ruler knew nothing of this, that Suri, Mahoy's man, wished him harm. At dawn, in the hour of first light, a rider came running toward Khosrow. He said: Mahoy reports that an army has come from the Turks; what does the king now decide? The commander is the Khan and the emperor of China; the earth cannot hold his host. The king grew furious and put on his armor; the whole world went black with dust. When he saw the fighting strength of the Turks, he set his hand and drew his sword from the sheath. He charged into the enemy like an elephant; the ground turned like the river Nile. When he attacked the Turkish army, not one warrior stayed behind at his back. They all turned their backs on their crowned king and abandoned him among the enemy horsemen. When Mahoy turned away, the king of the world understood his hidden treachery. This had been Mahoy's whole plan and scheme: that the king be left alone amid the army. The king of kings grew restless in the fight, striking with sword, with foot and stirrup. He killed many of those famous men; when he grew more helpless, he turned to flee. Many Turks were at his back; in his fist he held a blade of Kabul steel. He raced on, seething, like lightning from a cloud; there was a mill on that gleaming stream. The king of the world dismounted from his steed and hid himself in the mill from his enemy. The horsemen set off in search of him; that whole stream buzzed with talk of him. Left behind was his horse with gold-worked reins, his mace, and his gold-sheathed sword. The Turks clamored to find him, roused to fury by that steed and its gear. Hidden inside the mill house, he sat down on a scrap of dry grass. Such is the way of this house of deceit: its summit is high, and its slope is a steep fall. In the days when his fortune was awake, the heavens raised his throne to the sky. Now a mill was all his lot; his poison far outweighed his honey. Why fix your heart on this house of illusion, where every moment the war drum reaches your ear? A cry goes up: Pack your bags; you will find no throne but the tomb of the grave. Mouth unfed, both eyes full of tears, he stayed until the sun came up. The miller opened the mill door, on his back a load and some grass. Khosrow was a lowly man in name now: no throne, no treasure, no crown, no desire. He made his living from that mill and busied himself with nothing else. He saw a man like a tall cypress, seated on that stone like one in sorrow. A royal crown upon his head, his chest shining with Chinese brocade, on his feet a pair of golden shoes, his sleeves of pearls and gold. Khosrow looked, and the miller stood amazed; in his wonder he called on God's name. He said: You king with a face like the sun, tell me, how did you come to this mill? What place to sit is a mill for you, full of wheat and dust and stalks of grass? What man are you, of such glory, stature, and face? Surely the heavens have seen none like you. The king said: I am one of the Iranians; I fled the army of Turan. Ashamed, the miller said to him: I have no companion but poverty. If barley-broth bread will do for you, or these unworthy greens from the streamside, I will bring whatever else there is; a poor man lives in lament. For three days the king of the world had, since the battle, no table or feast at all. The king said: Bring whatever you have; food will be useful with the sacred twigs. Quickly the humble man set down a wooden tray with greens and barley bread on it. He hurried for the barsam and set off on the road to the place where the wine-house stood. He went straight to the chief of that stream to ask him for barsam twigs. Mahoy had sent men in every direction, searching the world for the king alone. The chief asked that miller: For whom, good man, do you want barsam? Khosrow said: In the mill sits a hero upon the grass. Tall as a slender cypress, in his face the sun with royal grace, two eyebrows like bows and two dark, wounded eyes, his mouth heavy with sighs, his brows drawn tight with pain. He wants to take up the barsam and murmur the prayer; you would be right to marvel at him. I set before him an old wooden tray with barley bread, the best I had. The chief said to him: Run from here and tell all this to Mahoy Suri too. That vile, base-born wretch must not, when he hears this, uncover the man's noble descent. Quickly the chief handed him over to a man and took the world-tried king before Mahoy. Mahoy asked this scheming man: For whom did you want the barsam? Tell the truth. The frightened man answered him: I was only fetching a load. I opened the mill door in anger; know that I saw the sun itself with my eyes. Two eyes like a startled buck's in fear, two eyes like the night's third watch gone by, the mill has become bright from him as if from the sun; his food is dry bread and his seat is grass. Whoever has not seen the divine glory should hear it now from this miller. His crown is full of flawless jewels, his chest ablaze with Chinese brocade. You would say he is a spring in April; no farmer's cypress grows to his height.