Book E7The Story of Khosrow Parviz and Shirin

Now I resume the histories of old,Of Shirin’s love and Khosrow’s reign retold.

This ancient book, grown old, records the deedsAnd words of upright men for him who reads.

I now renew this record of the past,Memorial of the mighty, made to last.

Full sixty thousand couplets I have wrought,A lasting monument of verse and thought.

No Persian book of verse on earth can showSuch vast endurance in its measured flow.

Sift all these lines, and critics will agreeFive hundred flawed ones are the most they see!

Yet that world-ruling king of exalted birth,Who shines supreme above the lords of earth,

Gave these old tales no heed; the fault was laidOn evil fortune and the slanderer’s trade.

They envied all my labor and its song,And poisoned royal judgment with their wrong.

But when the Shah’s chief reads these tales with rareDiscernment, and finds all their worth laid bare,

His bounty then may lift my heart from fear;May no foe’s malice ever reach his ear.

Then he may speak of me before the throne,And let the seed bear fruit that toil has sown.

May crown and throne endure while ages run,His star of Fortune brighter than the sun.

A learned dehqan, old and wise, once said:“By knowledge humankind is helped and led.

Both grief and joy are ours to undergo;The salt and bitter, too, our tongues must know.

For youths, though wise and noble from their birth,Win only through experience their worth.

Experience brings excellence to view,The key to every task we would pursue.”

While still his father lived, Parviz was bold,A youthful Pahlevan of royal mold.

Shirin was then his mate, his living light,Dear as the pupils shining in his sight.

Among the moon-faced beauties of that place,No other form could win his heart or grace.

As king, he spent a time far from her side,At war with Bahram, restless, forced to ride.

She mourned his waning love; she could not sleep,And, while he stayed away, would wake and weep.

One day the Shah resolved to hunt the plain,As kings had done through many an ancient reign.

The hunt was furnished with imperial care,With pomp and servants gathered everywhere.

Three hundred steeds, all decked in beaten gold,Were led before the king, high-necked and bold.

Eleven hundred sixty servants came,On foot, with javelins, to serve his name.

A thousand forty men bore club and blade,With jowshans worn beneath their rich brocade.

Seven hundred falconers came in train,With hawks and falcons for the hunting plain.

Sparrow-hawks too they carried for the prey,While mounted keepers followed on the way.

Three hundred men who tended cheetahs rode,Behind the hawks along the hunting road.

They led full seventy lions, pards in train,All trained, their mouths restrained by golden chain.

Each beast in Chinese brocade showed royal pride,With folds of silk drawn tightly round its hide.

Seven hundred hounds for deer were kept in line,Their golden collars cast a radiant shine.

Behind them, borne on camels, rode a throngOf minstrels, full two thousand, skilled in song.

Gold crowns were set above each singer’s brow,Five hundred camels bore the tentage now.

Those bore the seats, pavilions, screens for rest,And tents prepared for every beast and guest.

Two hundred slaves were there to tend the fire,And lift the censers with their perfumed pyre.

They burned rich aloeswood; the road was sweetWith ambergris and smoke beneath their feet.

Before the Shah two hundred youths advanced,By saffron blooms and narcissus enhanced.

They bore their flowers in ordered, bright array,And fragrance reached the monarch on his way.

One hundred water-bearers led the train,And sprinkled down the dust along the plain.

Rose-water fell across the scented ground,And ambergris spread fragrance all around.

So sudden gusts would leave no dusty traceUpon the king of that auspicious race.

Three hundred youthful princes rode beside,In yellow, red, and violet-dyed pride.

The king rode, Kaviani standard high,With crown and earrings flashing toward the sky.

Gold cloth, a torque, bright armlets met the sight,A gold belt’s jeweled fittings flashed with light.

When Shirin heard, “The mighty Shah is near,Before his army, coming toward us here,”

She put a yellow musk-sweet vestment on,And made her face like blooms at early dawn.

She wore a Roman robe of crimson thread,On cloth of gold, with jeweled patterns spread.

Upon her head she set a royal crown,With Pahlevan-bright jewels blazing down.

She left the pleasant hall and climbed the roof,Her heart from every happiness aloof.

She waited there until the Shah drew near,Then tears ran down the face he once held dear.

At sight of him she rose to all her height,And spoke of former sweetness, love, and light.

Her ailing eyes washed cheeks like flowers in rain;The flowers were sound, the eyes were sick with pain.

All tears and beauty, she began her tale;In Pahlavi she voiced her love’s travail:

“O mighty lion, leader in the fight,Great conqueror, the pride of warriors’ might,

Where is that love, that flood of tears you bore,Which seeing Shirin healed in days before?

Where are those days that into night would creep,With smiling lips, while heart and eyes would weep?

Where are our bonds, our covenant of old?Where are the vows and oaths we used to hold?”

Her bitter, sorrowing tears began to flow,And stained her saffron robe with all her woe.

Khosrow beheld her tears; his own would run;His face turned yellow, likened to the sun.

He sent a led horse decked in beaten gold,And forty trusted Roman eunuchs bold.

They took her to his bower of gold and light,A dwelling rich with jewels shining bright.

Then to the hunting plain he rode along,With drinking comrades, wine and strains of song.

When hill and field had yielded all their pleasure,He turned back toward the city at his leisure.

The roads were dressed to welcome him from chase,While karnays, songs, and voices filled the place.

The king, the fruit of that exalted line,Rode toward his palace under Fortune’s sign.

From his bower Shirin came, her love expressed;She kissed his feet, the ground, and then his breast.

He bade the Mobad: “Keep reproach behind,And let no censure cloud your priestly mind;

Give her to Khosrow; let the tidings ring,And to the world this joyful message bring.”

He took her as his wife by custom old,The proper rite their age was taught to hold.

When news of Khosrow’s marriage reached the court,The nobles and the troops heard this report:

They heard, “Shirin is in the royal bower;The old affair has gained its former power.”

The city grieved; in every street and squareRose curses, pain, and sorrow everywhere.

For three days none of them came to his hall;At dawn upon the fourth he sent his call.

He seated them where noble men should meet,Then spoke with anxious care from his high seat:

“These past few days I have not seen you here;Your absence grieves my heart and dims its cheer.

Your hurt has hurt me; sorrow fills my mind,And in your grief no peace my heart can find.”

He spoke, but none replied to what was said;They held their tongues and bowed each silent head.

Aggrieved, they turned with anger in their gazeToward the Mobad, versed in sacred ways.

He read their looks, then rose in open sight,And voiced their bitter grievance and their plight.

He said, “O generous king of upright name,You came in youth to Fortune, crown, and fame.

You have seen Fortune’s kindness and its force,And heard how rulers’ deeds may shape their course.

Now royal stock is stained, its greatness gone;No former glory in that line lives on.

When sire is pure but mother’s virtue fails,No pure fruit ripens where her vice prevails.

None seeks the straight within a crooked way;Through uprightness, all faults are swept away.

Our hearts are sad: since a Div, fierce and great,Now sits beside the guardian of the state.

Had no other woman lived within the land,How could Iran’s Shah grant her his royal hand?

If Shirin only left the royal sight,Your face would fill the courts and world with light.

Your wise forefathers, upright, clean of thought,Would never turn toward what the Shah has sought.”

He spoke at length; the king made no reply,But kept his counsel, stern and seated high.

The Mobad said, “At dawn we come again;Perhaps the Shah will answer all the men.

Our speech today has lasted long; we mayReceive the king’s reply at break of day.”

At dawn they rose, prepared to serve the throne;Their thoughts on what was said were soon made known.

One said, “Such words should never have been heard,”Another, “Wisdom governed every word.”

A third said, “He will answer us today;May his auspicious words our fears allay.”

The Mobadan approached with solemn grace;The nobles sat, each in his chosen place.

A servant brought a golden basin near,Whose burnished rim had shone like sunlight clear.

He bore it round before the chiefs in row,Where fresh, warm blood defiled the bowl below.

He set it gently by the monarch’s side;The nobles turned their faces all aside.

The hall grew loud with murmurs of dismay;They watched the Shah, their courage drained away.

The Shah asked, “Why, Iranians, meets my sightThis gory vessel that was pure and bright?”

The Mobad said, “That gore makes men abhorThe noble gold they reverenced before.”

When he had spoken, men removed it; thenThe bowl passed hand to hand among the men.

They scoured the bowl with earth and water clean,Till not a stain of gore could dim its sheen.

The bowl was clean; the man who washed it pouredThe wine within, its brightness now restored.

They sprinkled rosewater and musk; the bowlShone like the risen sun, its luster whole.

Khosrow Parviz toward the priest then turned:“Is this the bowl that all men lately spurned?”

The Mobad answered, “May your days be bright;From evil now has goodness come to light.

Your order made a paradise from hell,And laid on ugly deeds a lovely spell.”

Khosrow replied, “Shirin, within this town,Was like that bowl when foulness weighed it down.

But in my bower, she is a bowl of wine;Her fragrance rises, sweetened now by mine.

Through me her name was stained; she did not courtThe friendship of the great, nor their support.”

Then all the nobles blessed his royal reign:“Long may your crown and throne on earth remain.

You make the good grow better by your hand;Those you make great stand foremost in the land.

You are our king, our Mobad and our guide,God’s shadow on the earth where we abide.”

From then the Shah’s great fortune mounted high,The moon became the sun within the sky.

He passed his days with Caesar’s daughter, raisedAbove his other women, highest praised.

Because of her, Shirin grew sick with pain,Her cheeks were pale with envy’s inward stain.

At last she gave her poison, darkly planned,And Maryam died beneath her hidden hand.

No person knew the trick Shirin had played,For in her heart alone the plot was laid.

A year had passed since Maryam died; his fairGold chambers then he gave to Shirin’s care.

When Shiruyeh reached at last his sixteenth year,His height above grown men began to appear.

His father summoned learned men to teachThe prince, and set all wisdom in his reach.

One Mobad held the royal charge to keepThe youth in view, a watch that knew no sleep.

One day the Mobad came from court and foundThe prince at sport, to idle pastimes bound.

He cast Kalila’s pages to the floor,Refusing ancient wisdom’s moral lore.

In his left hand he clutched a wolf’s dried claw,A baleful plaything that the Mobad saw.

His right a horn, which against the claw he beat,Boasting of battle, bloodshed, and defeat.

The Mobad shivered at that grim design,Where slaughter stood inscribed in every sign.

He feared the harm that might in time ariseFrom such a luckless prince of haughty guise.

He saw the birth-chart; he had heard with dreadWhat minister and treasurer had said.

He sought the High Mobad in deep dismay:“This youth has given all his heart to play.”

The High Mobad approached the king with awe,And told him what the watchful Mobad saw.

The Shah then kept close watch upon his heir;His cheeks grew pale with grief and anxious care.

His heart was full of pain, his liver burnedAt what the star-reckoner had discerned.

He said, “I wait for Heaven’s Lord to showHow this affair will end in joy or woe.”

When twenty-three years of his reign had passed,Shiruyeh’s frame had grown both strong and vast.

The monarch’s mind, which once had smiled in ease,Grew troubled as his son grew by degrees.

He shut the youth within his palace walls,With one foster-brother in those royal halls.

All those attached to him who sought his aidAnd counsel were confined; with him they stayed.

More than three thousand men were gathered near,Confined with him, kept under watch in fear.

The royal workman opened hall to hall,To make one prison dwelling of them all.

With clothes and food, with gifts and coverings fine,They decked the halls and sent them slaves and wine.

Attendants served them; players came to play,And ample wealth was theirs throughout their stay.

At proper times they ate and took delight;Their forty guardsmen kept them in their sight.

I speak of Taqdis, throne of kingly fame,Which Khosrow raised, as truthful tongues proclaim.

He set it in the hippodrome on high,A marvel built to captivate the eye.

Its oldest story reached Zahhak’s dark day,When that foul tyrant made the world obey.

When Fereydoon’s heroic hand had thrustThe Arab tyranny into the dust,

A noble dwelt upon Damavand’s height,Whom Fereydoon held high in royal sight.

Jahan Barzin was that favored man of might,Renowned within the realm, his name shone bright.

For that great Shah he made a jeweled throne,With gems like stars in splendor thickly sown.

When Fereydoon beheld the work complete,His joy rose high; he praised the artist’s feat.

He gave him silver coins, a rich reward:Full thirty thousand from the grateful lord.

A crown of gold, two earrings shining bright,Were added to the gifts in his delight.

He granted him by royal writ made sureBoth Sari and Amol to hold secure.

Those northern lands, granted by the monarch’s hand,Were like a paradise, so rich and grand.

To Iraj, youngest son, he gave commandOf all Iran, that ancient royal land.

He gave three treasures to his royal son,To add to Iran’s royal wealth, each one:

The jeweled throne; the ox-head gorz of might,Whose fame through every royal hall burned bright;

And third, that gem of multifaceted designs,The Seven Springs, wherein all splendor shines.

When Iraj passed away, those treasures remained,And Manuchehr rejoiced in what he gained.

Each crowned king added something to that seat,And made its wealth and majesty complete.

When it came down to fortunate Kay Khosrow,He raised its height and made its grandeur grow.

It passed in turn to Lohrasp’s royal hand,Then reached Goshtasb, the ruler of the land.

Goshtasb beheld it, moved by what was shown:“Great work,” he said, “must never stay unknown.”

He said to wise Jamasp, “O noble man,Add to this throne what lasting wisdom can.

Look everywhere; seek ways to win us praiseThat will endure beyond our mortal days.”

Jamasp beheld the throne; before his eyesLay wisdom’s key, a treasure for the wise.

He marked the ordered heavens’ every sign,And traced the courses of their vast design.

By order of the Shah, from Saturn’s height,He set each planet down to lunar light.

Thus through the years the throne passed evermore,Until it reached Iskandar’s royal store.

Each Shah who saw it added wealth and art,With gold and silver set in every part.

With ivory and shiz wood added too,Its splendor through the generations grew.

In ignorance, Iskandar broke the throne,And shattered all the splendor it had known.

Yet nobles hid and saved full many a shard,And handed fragments down with watchful guard.

So matters stood until Ardeshir reigned;The throne’s old name through passing years remained.

He found no trace; so, leaving that, he soughtAnother throne, for his own glory wrought.

He lived to taste the joys of high command,Then died and left it to the royal land.

His heirs received it, each in turn and state,Until Parviz assumed the throne of fate.

From every land he summoned noble men,And spoke about the ancient throne again.

He found among them fragments of that seat,And hastened, glad to make the work complete.

He brought the throne of Ardeshir in view,And gathered all Iran’s best craftsmen too.

So in that victorious monarch’s days,They built the throne again for royal praise.

From Rum and distant Chin the craftsmen sped,From Makran, Babylon, Iran were led.

One thousand and one hundred twenty came;They knew the throne’s construction and its frame.

Each master had beneath him thirty hands,From Rum, Babylon, all Iran’s wide lands.

The Shah commanded all to labor hard,And every pause and respite firmly barred.

In two years’ toil they raised the royal throne,And when it rose, high Fortune brightly shone.

The royal cubit marked its measured span;One hundred seventy its length then ran.

Its breadth, one hundred twenty cubits wide,A mountain made of treasure, craft, and pride.

Five common cubits made the royal measure;So vast the throne that bore the king’s great treasure.

Each morning through the month a carpet lay,A different splendor greeted every day.

One hundred forty thousand plates of goldBore turquoise figures, wondrous to behold.

The nails and fittings were of silver rare,Exact in weight and fashioned with great care.

Each weighed full sixty-six mithqals; each shoneWithin the framework of the finished throne.

When Aries’ sun lit up the garden’s face,Behind the throne the plain stretched out in space.

When sunlight raged in Leo’s sign, the seatWas turned, its back against the blazing heat.

In Tir, the month of festival and fruit,The throne faced gardens, flower, branch, and root.

It caught the fragrance of the fruit and flowers,And filled with sweetness all the royal hours.

In winter days of rain and bitter cold,No seated lord felt storm within that hold.

The arches, screened with hangings rich and wide,Had khazz and sable draped on every side.

Against the chill, the wardrobe keeper broughtA thousand globes of gold and silver wrought.

Each weighed five hundred mithqals, bright with flame,And glowed like coral in the royal frame.

One half lay in the fire to gather heat;The other faced the warriors at their seat.

The twelve celestial signs, the planets seven,The ordered motions of the vault of heaven,

The moon within whatever sign it crossed,And fixed and wandering lights through darkness tossed,

Were shown upon the throne to watching eyes,With all the measured turning of the skies.

One skilled in stars could judge how night had run,And how the heavens wheeled to bring the sun.

Among the towers some were made of gold;Their jeweled wealth was more than thought could hold.

No expert mind could count their full array,Or price the gems that blazed in bright display.

The cheapest cost some seventy gold coins’ weight;For some, seven hundred fell below their rate.

Full many crimson gems were beyond price,And lit the night like Venus clear as ice.

Three seats upon the throne were raised on high,Their jewels heaped in splendor to the eye.

Four golden steps, with gems inlaid between,Rose from one seat to the next in golden sheen.

They called the first the Ram’s Head, gleaming bright;There dehqans sat with those of lesser might.

The next, called Lapis, rose in splendor proud,Where mighty horsemen sat above the crowd.

The turquoise seat above was set apartFor loyal ministers of mind and heart.

A cloth of gold, with jeweled fringes fine,Displayed the heavens in its woven design.

Seven realms, with dehqans, filled its woven ground;And scenes of warriors’ battles there were found.

With forty-eight crowned kings the fabric shone,Their royal crowns depicted, throne by throne.

Through seven years a peerless man of ChinHad worked whole worlds into its golden sheen.

When Farvardin renewed the turning year,On Ormozd’s day he made his work appear.

They spread the cloth; with wine, a feast was made;Sarkash sang praise while tuneful strings were played.

Upon the cloth the nobles’ jewels were cast;They called it the great carpet, rich and vast.

Still greater was the Shah on Fortune’s throne,While year by year the Shah’s renown had grown.

When twenty-eight full years had crowned his reign,No suitor at his court had sought in vain,

Barbad heard news of all the royal cheer,And what the people told him reached his ear:

“The mighty Shah holds minstrels’ music dear;If both of you were brought for him to hear,

He would set you above Sarkash in praise,And grant the higher honor to your lays.”

Then longing stirred within Barbad’s breast;Though well supplied, he would not stay at rest.

He left his province for the royal court,And studied all the minstrels and their sort.

When Sarkash heard him play, his heart was sore;Confounded, he could bear the sound no more.

He sought the chamberlain who kept the way,And bribed him well with gold and silver pay.

He said, “A minstrel waits before the gate,In years and skill above my present state.

He must not stand before the monarch’s eyes;We grow stale here, while he may freshly rise.”

The keeper heard and barred the singer’s road;Barbad gained nothing from the skill he showed.

Whenever he approached, the door was closed;His hope grew thin, his offered art opposed.

Despairing of the court, he made his wayWith lute in hand to where the gardens lay.

The royal garden drew him through its shade,Where Mardvi served and tended every glade.

That gardener revived his fading hope,And gave his thwarted wish a wider scope.

At New Year feasts, the Shah would often spendTwo weeks in feasting there from end to end.

Barbad approached the gardener that same day,And friendship eased his trouble and delay.

He said, “You are the soul, and I the frame;One little favor is my modest claim.

When mighty Khosrow comes here for delight,Let me behold him, hidden from his sight.”

Mardvi replied, “This favor I will do,And lift the burden of concern from you.”

When Khosrow wished to visit that green place,The gardener’s heart shone bright with sudden grace.

He sought Barbad, and hastened to declare:“The Shah will soon be here; so now prepare.”

His clothes and lute alike he colored green,To rest among the branches there unseen.

He reached the spot the king would choose in spring,Where every year he held his festal ring.

A verdant cypress spread its leafy crown,Its branches broad and bending richly down.

Its limbs like warrior ranks stretched all around;He climbed, his lute held close, above the ground.

He waited, still and high, within the shade,Till Khosrow left his palace for the glade.

The gardener had prepared the royal place;With wine there came a youth of moonlike face.

The youthful bearer brought the king his wine;The Shah received the crystal, bright and fine.

The crimson liquor made the crystal fade,As though red fire through glass had been displayed.

When daylight yellowed and the evening came,And night was lapis with a deep-blue flame,

The minstrel in the cypress, hid from sight,Began a hero’s song that filled the night.

He sang so sweetly from the cypress bough,The wakeful Shah sat rapt and wondering now.

The tune that we call Dadafrid by namePoured from his voice like clear and living flame.

The court was struck with wonder and surprise,While nobles searched the dark with questing eyes.

The music drove Sarkash toward frantic dread;He knew the source, yet not a word he said.

He thought, “None plays like Barbad; none can knowThat heroic song, or make its music flow.”

The Shah commanded, “Search the garden through.”They searched and came with nothing else in view.

Sly Sarkash said, “No wonder at this thing;Fortune has filled the garden for the king.

So favored is the Shah that tree and roseMake music everywhere his garden grows.”

He added, “May his crown and head endure,His Fortune fixed, his royal glory sure.”

The lovely cupbearer came back and broughtThe wine; the king received the cup he sought.

The hidden minstrel changed his opening strain,And shaped another song to entertain.

He sang the tune called Paikar-e-Gurd by name,The name by which that song to others came.

The Shah drank wine and listened to the sound,Then ordered, “Let this player now be found.

Search all the garden, every inward place.”They carried lamps and moved through every space.

They found no player underneath the trees,But cypress, willow, pheasant, rose, and breeze.

They saw the pheasants pacing through the close,But not the man from whom the music rose.

The king of kings commanded wine be poured,And raised his head to catch the coming chord.

Again the lute-song came with altered art,A tune called Sabz dar sabz that pierced the heart.

Thus art can weave enchantment through its lays;Khosrow rose up in wonder and in praise.

The king called for a brimming cup of wine;It held one man, a measure of the vine.

He drank it in one breath, then spoke his thought,In wonder at the music’s marvel caught:

“Were this an angel, musk would form his frame,With ambergris; but were a Div to blame,

He could not sing, nor would he understandThe art of striking strings with skillful hand.

Find out the player; search both left and right,Through garden beds and flowers in the light.

I shall fill his mouth and lap with royal treasure,And make him chief of minstrels for my pleasure.”

When Barbad heard the monarch’s gracious call,His fear dissolved; he chose to answer all.

He climbed down from the cypress, glad of heart,And came before the king who praised his art.

He placed his face upon the dust, bowed low;The king said, “Speak! Who are you? Let me know.”

He answered, “Shah, I am your slave, and liveOnly by what your voice and throne can give.”

He told the king his story from the start,And all that he had borne in flesh and heart.

The king rejoiced to see him, as the roseRejoices when the springtime wind first blows.

He turned to Sarkash: “You have earned disgrace;Beside his sweetness, gall is in your place.

Why did you bar his entrance to my hall,And grudge his music to us, one and all?”

Barbad sang on; the monarch drank his wine,Till sleep began to make his head incline.

The Shah filled Barbad’s mouth with pearls of light;Barbad became chief minstrel in his sight.

The tale of Barbad now has reached its end;May you be spared a false, destructive friend.

Since chief and commoner to death descend,Why should the sage let grief his spirit bend?

So many, high and low, have passed from sight;I seek no waking from my final night.

Now sixty-six full years of life have fled;Let none bring harm upon an old man’s head.

When I have brought these famed lays to a close,My praise through every countryside then flows.

I shall not die; I live beyond death’s reach,For I have scattered wide the seed of speech.

All those of Faith, sound counsel, learned lore,Will praise my name when I am seen no more.

I tell of Madain and Khosrow’s grand seat,The palace he raised in splendor complete.

An Iranian sage recalled that former age,And calmly told the tale from memory’s page.

Khosrow sent men to Rum, Hind, Chin, and landsWhere skill had shaped the work of master hands.

From every clime three thousand craftsmen came,All men of practice, reputation, fame.

From these he chose a hundred masters tried,Whose skill in brick and mortar none denied.

Iran, Ahvaz, and Roman lands suppliedThe experts who were tested at his side.

From these he chose but thirty men of fame,And three supreme among the thirty came:

Two Romans and one craftsman from Iran;And at their head a Roman named Farghan.

The seasoned builder stood before the king,And spoke of what his soaring skill could bring.

The Roman’s words revealed his practiced skill;In speech he bested Iran’s speaker still.

The Shah said, “Hear the work that I command;Attend my words and clearly understand.

I need a palace for my child and line,To last two hundred years by your design.

No rain, no snow, no sun shall make it bow,Nor heat nor cold shall ever harm it now.”

The expert took the task: “My skill,” he said,“Is equal to the work that lies ahead.”

Ten royal cubits deep he laid the base;Five royal cubits marked its breadth of space.

With stone and plaster, following his art,He laid foundations, mindful of his part.

When palace walls had risen from the clay,He came before the Shah without delay.

He said, “Send men whose years have made them wise,Whose practiced knowledge fits them to advise.

A kindly Mobad with them should be sent,To view the wall and judge the work’s extent.”

The Shah sent men to view the work as planned;They saw the wall, how straight it came to stand.

The artist brought them silk, and from that silkThey twisted one thin cord, as pale as milk.

They measured from the wall-top to the ground,And in the cord preserved the height they found.

He measured out the cord before their eyes,Before the Shah’s officials, old and wise.

He bore it to the treasury to seal,And gave the keeper charge with honest zeal.

Then, at the court, he spoke in measured tone:“The walls have risen high in brick and stone.

Although the Shah has urged me, ‘Build with speed,’I will not press the work beyond its need.

For forty days allow the work to rest;The Shah chose me from craftsmen he deemed best.

When it is time to raise the vault on high,Its height shall rival Saturn in the sky.

Let not the Shah’s wrath ruin careful toil,Nor haste make sound and ordered labor spoil.”

Khosrow replied, “Why seek delay today,And let your discontent hold work at bay?

You must not leave the work to stand this way;No longer let delay prolong your stay.”

He ordered thirty thousand coins be paidIn silver, lest the man should be dismayed.

They paid the man to keep his anger tame;Yet still he feared his fellow craftsmen’s blame.

If experts saw the haste his work displayed,He stood to lose his living and his trade.

And if the palace fell, his name would fall;His fortune, too; he would have lost it all.

That night he disappeared from every eye;None knew where he had gone, nor could say why.

When Khosrow heard, “The Roman’s fled away,”His wrath struck him who brought the news that day.

He cried, “How could a dullard dare to claimSuch airs before my throne and royal name?”

He ordered, “View the work from end to end,And all the Romans into prison send.

Bring craftsmen here, and let the workmen bearThe plaster, bricks and stones we must prepare.”

But those who came to view the walls took flight;Fearing the Shah, they fled beyond his sight.

The Shah was forced to leave the work alone,And turned his mind where other skill was known.

He looked to Ahvaz, hoping he might meetAn architect whose skill was made complete.

For three full years they searched at his command,But no surpassing master crossed the land.

Still people spoke about the former man,The architect who had conceived the plan.

Then in the fourth year he retraced the road;Swift ran the tidings to the king’s abode.

A prudent man informed the anxious king;The Roman came as swiftly as on wing.

The Shah said, “Guilty man, what can you say?What plea will turn my wrath from you away?”

The Roman said, “If now the king will sendOne trusted man with me, my case may mend.

I will explain my doings on the site;When truth is shown, my pardon will be right.”

The Shah dispatched them from the palace gate,The noble artist and his man of state.

The clever Roman took the measuring line,And with the Shah’s own man reviewed the sign.

They measured; seven cubits less they foundThan when the cord first reached from wall to ground.

They carried back the line in open sight;The expert’s comrade set the matter right.

The Roman said, “Had I raised vault and wall,No work, O Shah, could have endured at all.

No arch or roof or chamber would have stayed;And I would answer for the ruin made.”

Khosrow perceived the truth within his speech,And saw that skill had justified its reach.

He freed the prisoners, harmful men and kind;No one within the prison stayed confined.

A purse of gold was given to the man;To prisoners, too, the royal bounty ran.

Much time had passed; the Shah still longed to viewThe finished palace rising grand and new.

After seven years the noble work was done,And wise Khosrow approved what skill had won.

He gave him water, land, and gold; to raiseHis name, he added silver coins and praise.

All went to view that palace in its pride;The Shah spent Nowruz in its halls inside.

No eye had seen, no craftsman known before,A palace of such wonder, wealth, and lore.

A golden ring was fixed above the hall,Hung from the vaulted structure over all.

From that ring swung a ruddy chain of gold,With jeweled links for royal eyes to hold.

When Khosrow sat upon the ivory seat,They hung the crown above him, rich, complete.

When Nowruz came and Khosrow took his place,A Mobad sat the nearest, shown due grace.

Below him sat the chiefs of noble race,With those who dealt provision in that space.

Below the nobles sat the men of trade;Beneath, the poor whom their own toil repaid.

Below, the limbs of traitors met the eye,Whom royal justice had condemned to die.

Then from the throne a proclamation came,To stir all hearts beneath the monarch’s name:

“O subjects of the king who rules the land,Let no dark thought or doubt your hearts command.

Who looks above himself will find his thoughtDisturbed by all the things his eyes have sought.

Look farther from the Kayanian throne;Count those below the station you have known.

Then look upon the bodies of the deadAlong the path that you once more will tread.”

Then none, accused or guiltless, stayed confined;The Shah gave clothes and coin of every kind.

The poor who had no share in New Year’s cheerWere seated at the palace entrance near.

The Shah poured silver from his treasure-hoard;The guilty feared the anger of their lord.

The heedless woke as if from heavy sleep;The Shah had roused them from their slumber deep.

Another herald cried as men withdrew:“O proud and gifted chiefs, these words are true:

Why seek so many marks of higher place?Look on the lowly; mourn their hapless case.

First ponder what you do, that you may staySecure in life and health from day to day.

Reflect before you act; do not impartFresh grief to those less wise, nor break their heart.

First measure, then cut out; let wisdom guide;Give ear to those whose knowledge has been tried.

Who keeps the proper path may rest at night,Secure from royal anger and its might.

But he who reaches for another’s shareWill find our wrath lies waiting, like a snare.”

I next recall the Shah in all his prime,Reviving greatness lost to passing time.

Such majesty as his, among the great,Lives in no memory of equal state.

Who reads the royal record ought to shakeHis hem free of the world, for wisdom’s sake.

And I may speak these words, assured and clear,For wise men will defend what they shall hear.

Be not at home in this world’s house of pain;Its bane is greater than its healing gain.

Shun greed and hate; make not this house of strifeYour settled home, this passing road of life.

It is a passing house; you age, and thenNewcomers take your place among its men.

One comes, another passes and is gone;They strut and feed awhile, and all pass on.

The ant’s small head and elephant’s vast frame,At death’s command, return to dust the same.

When you have heard Khosrow’s astounding tale,Hold it in mind, and let its truth prevail.

His power and lofty rank were both so great,So grand his throne and crown, his royal state,

That should you ask of every learned sage,Not one would name his peer in any age.

From Hind and from Turan, in ceaseless flow,Came tribute such as subject lands bestow:

Young slaves and serving maids, a wondrous sight,With pearls and rubies, gems of luster bright.

His treasures and his gold surpassed all count;No king had ever held such an amount.

The eagle, falcon, hawk all paid him heed,And served his royal will in thought and deed.

The leopard, lion, and nahangs obeyed;All honored him and kept the pact they made.

His mind was bright as sunlight over land;The world obeyed the scepter in his hand.

First Arus: Chin and Rum supplied its store,And Rus and Bartas added treasures more.

The next held watered pearls in rich supply,And rose an arrow’s flight into the sky.

The Arab chiefs and sages named that treasureThe Khazra, rich beyond all count or measure.

Then came Bad Awar, driven from the sea,When ocean storms enriched his treasury.

Then Diba-e-Khosrovi, famed and bright,With Afrasiab’s hoard of matchless light.

No hoard like it was found on sea or land;Then Sukhta blazed, a wonder vast and grand.

Its luster filled the realm with spreading rays,And turned the darkest nights to shining days.

Then great Shadward, which minstrels celebrate,A treasure fit for songs of royal state.

On red gold, gems were woven, bright to view,With twisted golden threads that shimmered through.

Sarkash and Barbad served the royal hall,And answered Khosrow’s wish with every call.

Their market flourished under royal praise;Song filled his halls through all his golden days.

Twelve thousand slave girls filled his golden bower,As fair as springtime gardens, flower by flower.

Two thousand elephants, two hundred more,Seemed more than earth could bear from shore to shore.

Twelve thousand warhorses made up the score,Two hundred riding horses swelled the store.

Twelve thousand camels bore loads in the train,And sixty-six bore litters on the plain.

No white-haired veteran had known or toldOf herds so vast a monarch’s stalls could hold.

Yet by a base-born hireling’s hand he fell,As turning skies and ancient records tell.

Choose rather life made free from anxious care,If you would earn through justice praises fair.

For good and evil pass away with death,And time is counting every mortal breath.

Though throne and crown and treasury be your part,At last dust claims the labor of your heart.

So sow good seed and shun the grasping hand;Let goodness be the harvest of your land.

His throne and crown, his world-embracing state,Could not content him, though his power was great.

He raised the dust throughout those mighty lands,Iran and Turan, under his commands.

The Shah, once just, now took a tyrant’s part,His servants’ wrongs brought gladness to his heart.

Farrokhzad, who appeared with sullen face,Was harsh to every man of humbler place.

He seized their wealth and set them all at strife,One with another, souring common life.

The shepherd turned a wolf against the sheep;The land was plunged in lamentations deep.

His single wish was wealth beyond all need,And fresh distress arose from all that greed.

With neither bread nor water, worn with pain,They fled Iran, too weak to bear the strain.

The broken people crossed to hostile ground,From town rose smoke of curses all around.

A mighty chief, Guraz, the Boar of fame,To whom the frontier’s high command once came,

Held all the Roman march with stern command,The proudest warrior in the Western land.

When that once righteous Shah embraced disgrace,Guraz first turned from Iran and shamed his race.

Another favorite rose within the court,Zad Farrokh, who controlled the king’s resort.

None reached the king within his hall of stateUnless Zad Farrokh pleaded at the gate.

As royal Fortune neared its destined end,This favorite’s heart to evil too would bend.

He joined with old Guraz in secret thought,From realm to realm their secret plans were brought.

Guraz wrote Caesar: “Rise, seize Iran’s land;I shall be first to come and lend a hand.”

Then Caesar read and marshaled his command,And led Rum’s legions toward that borderland.

The king dismissed the danger as but slight,And knew Guraz had stirred Rum’s lord to fight.

He summoned him, but Guraz would not come,For fear had struck his heart and made it numb.

He feared Khosrow, the court, the chiefs of state,And shunned the summons, wary of his fate.

The king of kings then sat among the great,With Iran’s leading chiefs, to hold debate.

He cleared his heart of care and searched aroundFor every craft by which relief was found.

At last a bright expedient filled his mind;He wrote to Guraz words designed to blind:

“The course you take has all my warm applause;I praised it to my court without a pause.

Your cunning arts have brought him to his fall;You have outwitted Caesar, schemes and all.

When this arrives, let sharpest wisdom wake;Wait till I move, then your own action take.

So Caesar, caught between forces, shall fail,And all his Roman purposes grow pale.

We shall lead Caesar captive in our chain,And take his Roman legions in our train.”

Then from his court he chose one man of skill,Resourceful, eloquent, and firm of will.

He said, “In secret let this letter go;Bear it as those who spy upon the foe.

Yet shape your road so Roman eyes may seeAnd question you on what your task may be.

Let them interrogate you on the road,Then carry you to Caesar’s own abode.

Do not reveal from where your travels start;Say, ‘I am but a servant skilled in art.

I have come far along a weary way;A letter meant for Guraz I convey.’

Bind it upon your right arm, firm and tight;If they remove it, then our plan is right.”

The courtier left the court by Khosrow’s will,And bound the letter to his arm with skill.

A Roman patrician saw him on the road,And seized him with the letter and its load.

They brought him straight to Caesar, dust on head,With pallid cheeks and lips like livid lead.

Then Caesar asked, “Where does Parviz remain?Speak truth, and make your answer clear and plain.”

The envoy stood bewildered in that place,And fear drew down the features of his face.

Then Caesar said, “Search him, this man of ill,With wicked speech and thoughts and evil will.”

Shrewd men searched all his garments, arm, and hand,And found the letter tied beneath its band.

They sought a learned man to read the scroll,Whose Pahlavi would yield its meaning whole.

The scribe read out the letter, word by word;Like pitch grew Caesar’s face at what he heard.

Within his heart he spoke in deep disdain:“Guraz has drawn us toward a deadly chain.

The king of kings commands so vast a force:Three hundred thousand men of foot and horse.

His elephants for war exceed all count;No man can tell their number or amount.

Guraz would cast me in the monarch’s net;May darkness shroud the end that waits him yet.”

He left his purpose, wheeled his army round,And turned from conquest on Iranian ground.

When Guraz learned that Caesar had withdrawnTo Rum, his cheek grew pale, all gladness gone.

He picked a rider from his troops, then wroteWith sighs, and sorrow rising in his throat:

“Why is great Caesar now displeased and cold?Why leave Iran and cast me from your fold?

The Shah knows I have brought this state of pain;His heart will turn to hatred and disdain.”

When Caesar read the letter Guraz sent,He chose a noble, who as envoy went.

He sent him swiftly with this sharp reply:“God freed you from such need; then tell me why:

Would you make desolate my crown and reign,And burn my troops with fire for your own gain?

Your former letter, wretch, was meant to throwMy wealth to ruin, lay my legions low.

Its purpose was to hand me over boundTo Khosrow Parviz on Iranian ground.

May greatness never enter at your door;May Fortune keep you wretched evermore.

You should have known, while kings of Kayan reign,Iranians will not choose a foreign chain.

No Caesar-born, however wise or great,Would find Iranians welcoming his state.”

Guraz sent many pleas toward Caesar’s throne,But Caesar’s ear was barred as if by stone.

Then Khosrow chose an envoy from his side,A learned counselor, eloquent and tried.

He sent to Guraz words of cold disdain:“You worthless villain, steeped in guilt and stain.

I summoned you to court time after time,But you have turned from loyalty to crime.

The troops beside you, through each month and year,Like Ormozd, have sustained your fortunes here,

All back great Caesar both in heart and will,And hide their inward treason, seeming still.

Send me those men who turn from my command,Who plot rebellion in your armed band.”

When this arrived, the wary chieftain thought,And weighed the danger that the letter brought.

He chose twelve thousand horsemen, brave and bold,And spoke to loosen fear’s increasing hold:

“Be one in heart and let no tongue betray;Let no man’s words divide you on the way.

Remain awhile upon this river’s side,And do not hurry on with hasty stride.

If tongue and heart are joined in single will,You may uproot a mountain through that skill.”

The army moved ahead in ordered train,Toward Khorra-e-Ardeshir’s broad plain.

Beside the Tigris stream they formed in rank,And pitched their rebel tents upon the bank.

The king refused to look upon their face,But sent forth Zad Farrokh to state his case.

He ordered him to say, “Till now you stoodBeside the Shah and served him as you should.

Why did you let great Caesar cross our bound,And bring invading armies onto our ground?

Who has transgressed the road of God and right,And left the path of duty for the night?”

At Khosrow’s message, edged with royal dread,The soldiers’ faces darkened as it spread.

None dared to answer; all remained in pain,Pale-faced and silent by the river plain.

The messenger served Guraz in his heart,Yet hid that loyalty with subtle art.

He went in private to the leaders’ side,And lit their darkened thoughts where fears abide.

“Fear not, O chiefs; let heart and tongue combine;The Shah has found no open fault or sign.

Be one in heart and tongue; let none point outWhich man among you stands beneath a doubt.

If one is blamed, one tent shall cover all;We stand as one, whatever may befall.”

The chiefs all heard him, understood his aim,And shaped their answer in the selfsame frame.

Then Zad Farrokh returned with flying speed,And told the Shah their answer as agreed.

The Shah said, “Go again to them and say:‘Which man among you chose betrayal’s way?

Whom has ill-fated Caesar made his ownWith treasure, arms, with royal crown and throne?

That man has sinned against our royal name,And turned from crown and throne to lasting shame.

Send all such disaffected men to me,Or every rebel shall my anger see.

If not, the dungeon and the gibbet wait,For those who leave obedience to the state.’”

Then Zad Farrokh conveyed the royal threat;Old griefs awoke, and anger fed regret.

None dared to speak; they mourned in silence deep,Their minds awake, though tongues were sunk in sleep.

Then Zad Farrokh spoke out with shameless breath:“Why fear the Shah and all his threats of death?

Among these young and valiant troops, I findNo weakling and no coward left behind.

His troops are scattered through the world afar;At court no chief upholds his royal star.

Despise my words; fear none of my own threats;Curse me and curse the Shah without regrets.”

They heard and knew the king’s good Fortune fled;Their lips shaped curses, wrath within them spread.

Then Zad Farrokh returned and spoke his mind:“The troops stand joined, of one accord and kind.

If sent again, I fear for my own life;Their hearts are armed with mutiny and strife.”

Khosrow perceived, “This knave will cause a floodOf tears and battle, and a waste of blood.”

He feared the envoy’s brother, held his tongue,And hid the truth, though bitter thoughts had stung.

For Rostam had revolted in that land,With ten full thousand swordsmen at command.

He kept Zad Farrokh’s cause close to his heart,And drew his own men to the rebels’ part.

Now Zad Farrokh knew well the Shah had guessedWhose hand had stirred the army to unrest.

So when the malcontent had left the hall,He dared not face the Shah again at all.

He stayed outside and worked upon the crowd,And spoke to men in whispers and aloud.

He won them one by one, till every cordOf loyalty was severed from their lord.

He told them all; they answered with one voice:“Another Shah must be the nation’s choice.

This king has lost the farr, the royal way,The Fortune that once brightened every day.”

With Zad Farrokh there was an ancient man,Skilled in affairs and careful in his plan.

He said, “The Shah imputes the army’s faultTo you; his hidden anger will not halt.

Until you find a king to take the crown,Let no more quarrels tear this country down.

This thriving land will fall to ruin and woe;Iran, like Niran, grief and strife will know.

Look through his sons for modesty and grace,And choose the one who gives no quarrel place.

Enthrone him, give him honor and the crown,And over him let gold be showered down.

Since shrewd Shiruyeh, eldest-born, lies bound,No other prince need anywhere be found.”

They all agreed; within a few short daysTukhar’s troops marched on through the dusty haze.

His coming made their daunting tasks seem light,And gave them hope to carry through their fight.

Then Zad Farrokh went out to Tukhar’s side,With many troops in martial ranks allied.

They met, and much discourse between them passed,In public and in private, first and last.

Then Zad Farrokh let loose his tongue and toldThe wrongs Khosrow had done in days grown cold.

He said, “The troops, through counsel and through might,Will set a king upon the throne outright.”

The sepahbod replied, “I shun all talk;In war I block each path my foes would walk.

This king, when young, was loved by every chief,By every Pahlevan beyond belief.

When such a man’s bright day is turned to night,May crown and throne be kept from every sight.

The fatal hour began when he turned unjust,And loved the crimes of servants he would trust.”

When Zad Farrokh heard all that Tukhar said,He chose him from the chiefs; to him he pled:

“We go to prison, where the luckless wait,And bear Shiruyeh, the brave prince, through the gate.

Six thousand proven horsemen, with their chief,Keep watch upon the captives in their grief.”

Tukhar replied, “We held that captain light,That guardian with all his troops of might.

If Khosrow rises once more to command,No Pahlevan will live in Iran’s land.

The gibbet, bonds, and dungeon wait for all;No man shall flee the kingdom’s coming fall.”

He spoke and urged his charger toward the fight,Like Azargashasp in his fiery might.

He led his forces forward in array;The captain met him fiercely on the way.

Those famous troops were shattered in the fray,The army’s captain met his death that day.

The royal forces scattered in that strife;The day grew dark; the king’s cause lost its life.

In battle dress, through battle’s opened way,He entered that cramped prison straightaway.

He called exalted Shiruyeh from the cell;The prince replied, and knew his purpose well.

At Tukhar’s shining face, his sorrow spread;His heart swelled up with grief and aching dread.

Yet still he wept: “Where is Parviz today?To free us is no task for you, I say.”

Tukhar replied, “Do not deny our will,Or count yourself apart, resisting still.

If one in sixteen sons should fail our need,Still fifteen brothers wait of royal seed.

Each one is fit for sovereignty and crown;Each one would grace the throne of high renown.”

Shiruyeh, still bewildered, wept, then passedBeyond the prison door that held him fast.

Meanwhile, Zad Farrokh barred the royal gate,And kept all news from Khosrow until late.

He stood as chamberlain before the court,And barred all access, cutting off report.

As daylight faded, each lord sought his bed;He summoned those by whom the watch was led.

He said, “Tonight proclaim a different word;Let not last night’s old name again be heard.

Through every watch cry out Qobad alone;Let that new title through the night be known!”

They answered: “Khosrow’s name shall fade tonight;Qobad shall ring till dawn brings back the light!”

When night had drawn about its pitch-black cloak,From town and market one great clamor broke:

“Forever live Qobad, of noble strain;May every province glorify his reign.”

Khosrow lay sleeping, Shirin by his side;She heard the watchmen’s cry and shook inside.

She cried, “O Shah, what shall we do tonight?What act remains to meet this sudden plight?”

Her voice awoke the Shah; he stirred in pain,And heard her anxious words with sharp disdain.

He said, “Moon-face, why rouse me from my sleep?”She said, “The watchmen cry from every keep.”

He paled, and said, “Three watches now have fled;Recall the words the star-reader once said.

I named him so in secret; all the courtCalled him Shiruyeh, by the world’s report.

This steward calls him Qobad in the night;We must make ready for a secret flight.

To Chin, or Machin, Makran we may go,And pass by guile beyond our watchful foe.

Then from the Faghfoor I shall seek a force,And ask the lord of Chin to aid our course.”

But darkened Fortune made his counsel vain;His guile could find no path beyond his pain.

Then Shirin said, “The destined hour is here;Our foes have mastered all our guile, I fear.

Now use your wisdom; on no foe rely;At dawn our enemies will draw close by.”

He called for jowshan, helm of Roman craft,Two Indian swords, and shaft on feathered shaft.

His quiver and his golden shield were brought,With one brave servant, fearless when he fought.

He reached the garden in the dark of night,When waking crows foretold the morning light.

No room among the trees for a throne was found;His shield hung from a branch above the ground.

On saffron and narcissus sat the king;Beneath his knee he laid his sword’s cold sting.

When sunlight shot its arrows on the plain,The enemy approached the palace lane.

The workers of the Div’s dark labor came,And circled round the splendid royal frame.

They found the throne abandoned and alone,And men despoiled the treasures as their own.

No one considered Khosrow’s grief and pain;They seized his wealth beneath the new king’s reign.

They all returned with tears that filled their eyes,Dismayed by all the changes of the skies.

What shall we ask of heaven’s turning sphere,That never rests throughout the circling year?

To one it grants a crown and royal state;To feed the fishes is another’s fate.

One wanders bareheaded, and without bread,And sleeps without a shelter or a bed.

Another tastes of milk and honey sweet,In silk, brocade, and furs from head to feet.

At last both lie beneath the burial ground;In death’s dark snare both high and low are bound.

For sages, never to be born were best,Since being gives no mortal creature rest.

Now hear new toil for Khosrow’s fallen state;I bring fresh knowledge of his altered fate.

The Shah remained within that meadow wide,A lofty tree above him at his side.

When half the lengthened day had passed him by,The pangs of hunger made his strength run dry.

Within the garden, one poor laborer stayed,Who did not know the king whom he obeyed.

The sun-faced Shah addressed the slave, who knelt:“Cut off the jeweled strip of this gold belt.”

That piece displayed five golden studs of worth,With jewels bright as stars above the earth.

The king then told the gardener, “Take these;They may provide us what we need with ease.

Buy bread and roast within the market square,And shun the crowds, and of all eyes beware.”

The gems were worth, to one who prized their kind,Full thirty thousand silver coins combined.

The gardener brought the golden piece for bread,And showed it to the baker, who then said:

“Its worth is more than I can claim to know;I dare not let this golden treasure go.”

They next approached a jeweler skilled in gold,And asked what price the workmanship might hold.

He scanned each stud and cried, “Who would be boldEnough to buy such treasure, were it sold?

Such pieces lay in Khosrow’s jeweled store;Each year a hundred new ones swelled it more.

From whom were these bright jewels stolen away?Cut from a sleeping servant where he lay?”

The three men hurried to Zad Farrokh’s gate,And brought the gold and gems to learn their fate.

He saw the severed piece of golden band,Then bore it to the prince who held command.

Shiruyeh said, “Now name the owner here,And make the source of these bright jewels clear.

Refuse, and I shall strike your head away,And all your kin shall meet that fate today.”

The gardener answered, “In the garden’s shade,A man in jowshan sits there, fearless, staid.

He holds a bow, a tall and royal sight;His spring-bright cheeks make all the garden bright.

His jowshan shines like sun across the field;A branch above him bears his golden shield.

Before him stood a servant, girdle bound,Who cut this piece with gems set all around.

He handed it to me and bade me goTo market for bread and meat, avoiding show.

Swift as the wind, I left him there just now.”Shiruyeh knew Khosrow by that shape and brow.

He sent three hundred horsemen out in force,Who raced toward the garden on their course.

When Khosrow saw them coming from afar,He paled and drew his keen-edged scimitar.

But when they saw the king of kings arrayedIn jowshan, back they turned, in tears, dismayed.

They went to Zad Farrokh and said in shame:“We are but slaves; he bears the royal name.

He is Khosrow Parviz, our rightful king,Whom this black day has stripped of everything.

No man in garden or in battle-frayWould dare affront him in the slightest way.”

Then Zad Farrokh brought soldiers from the court,And went alone to make his own report.

He said, “If now the Shah will let me speak,And grant the safety for my deeds I seek,

I will come in and speak, or turn my face,And make my way again to my own place.”

Khosrow replied, “Say what you have to say;You bring no comfort, seek no war today.”

He said, “Consider this with sober thought:Though you should slay a thousand as you fought,

You still would weary of the war you wage,While all Iran stands fast against your rage.

Against you all stand joined in heart and mind;Wait now, and see what Heaven has designed.

Perhaps this hate may turn to love one day.”Khosrow replied, “Yes, it is as you say.

What most I fear are vile men drawing near,Who may abuse me without shame or fear.”

When Zad Farrokh had spoken to the king,The old prediction made his sorrow sting.

For astrologers had once foretold his fate,And stirred his heart to grief at what might wait:

“Between two mountains shall your death be found,A servant kills you, with no crowd around.

One height is gold, the other silver-bright;Between them, broken-hearted, ends your light.

Your sky is gold; beneath you iron lies;Your Fortune turns to grief before your eyes.”

He said, “This armor now is earth to me,My golden shield the heaven I can see.

The mountains are these garden treasures bright,That filled my heart, as lamps fill rooms with light.

In truth my days are drawing to their end;Where is my star that once made worlds attend?

Where are the peace and joy that once were mine?Where are the crowns on which my name would shine?”

They brought an elephant; his soul was dark,And sorrow quenched in him its royal spark.

He mounted, and the troops led him away;In Pahlavi he cried aloud that day:

“O treasure, if you have become my foe,Be not a friend to those who bring me low.

Today I stand in Ahriman’s command;You do not help me in this hostile land.

Conceal yourself and show yourself to none;Let not my foes rejoice in what is done.”

Qobad then gave his minister this word:“Let no ill word concerning him be heard.

Convey him now to Tisfoon, lead the way,And guide him to that house where he shall stay.

Keep him some days in custody, but safe;Let no rough hand or word his spirit chafe.

Let Galinush the keeper’s charge fulfill,A thousand horsemen subject to his will.”

When heaven had turned its circle overhead,His reign through thirty-eight full years had spread.

On Dey-day, under frosty Azar’s sign,When hearth-fires glow and feasters ask for wine,

Then Qobad rose and took the royal seat,And sat upon the throne in joy complete.

All Iran’s troops paid homage at his court;He gave a year’s full pay for their support.

He lived but seven months beyond that day;Call him a Shah or nothing, as you may.

Such is this house of wrong in which we stay;Expect no faith from it along the way.