Khosrow and Shirin by Nezami (Translated by Peter J. Chelkowski, further editing by Farshad Torkashvand)

 

Khosrow and Shirin

In the land of Persia, long ago, lived King Hormuzd the Great. Called "the light of the world's justice," he was the son of the illustrious Khosrow Anushirvan, who had been a king of great renown in his own time. For many years King Hormuzd awaited an heir, a son, to assure the continuation of his line. Night and day, he prayed to God, and when at last a son was born, his gratitude was boundless. And as his son grew, so grew the king's thankfulness, for the child was a bounding boy of winning eloquence.

Named Khosrow for his grandfather, the boy was called Parviz, "the Victorious One"—such was the king's delight in him. The crown prince excelled in all he did. No star in the northern sky shone with greater brilliance than this magnitude­to-be. By the age of nine, he was schooled in all the intellectual disciplines; in five years more, he was an expert horseman and accomplished hunter. A wizard with the sword, the spear, and the arrow, Khosrow soon mastered the art of war. His skill would one day make his beloved Persia the glittering mistress of the East.

Now in the court of Hormuzd was a sage, Bozorg Omid by name, who took it upon himself to counsel both father and son. As he admitted Khosrow to the mysteries of the stars and the even more subtle ways of man and beast, he en­treated Hormuzd to be a just and worthy ruler. "What use, Magnificence, to guard your own good with zeal while the state of your subjects goes untended? Who will grant throne respect when those who uphold it have nothing? The rights of the ruled must always rule: let this byword never leave your thoughts."

Hormuzd, a wise son of a wise father, accepted this advice and proclaimed new laws to a fanfare of trumpets. Hormuzd promised to protect his people against property theft and destruction and to guard their homes' privacy. Stern edicts, respecting no one person more than another, assured redress for all. And of all the youths in Persia, none admired the uprightness of the king more than his own son.

One morning, he, who was the court's darling, rode forth to the hunt. Little did Khosrow know, as the sun rose and climbed to the top of its blue dome, that his father's clarion commands would ring so close to his own ears.

It was a glorious day. The sun was bright, the air was clear, and best of all, the game was plentiful. Then, as the sun began its descent, Khosrow and his companions came upon an amicable settlement on the green plain. The young prince commandeered a peasant's house for food and lodging, and soon the revelry began. Inspired by his minstrel's tunes and the abundant wine, Khosrow and his companions rocked the house with cheers and drank throughout the night. Lost in wine and laughter, Khosrow was unaware that one of his servants had reeled into the vineyard to pick grapes and so frightened the prince's horse that the steed reared, broke loose, and trampled the peasant's newly sprouted crops.

Daybreak saw the bleary-eyed huntsmen home. With the rising of the golden sun, the outraged peasant's complaint reached the court. Khosrow was brought before the king at once. "No sooner do my decrees go forth than they are trampled by your horse's hooves! Since when, my high-born son, are you to take pleasure at my people's cost?"

The penalties were harsh. The man who had picked the grapes was given to the owner of the vineyard as a slave; the hooves of Khosrow's horse were ruth­lessly cut, and Khosrow's princely throne was given to the peasant. Then the min­strel's fingernails were clipped, and his harp was unstrung.

Ashamed that his companions should be punished for his sake and pained by his father's wrath, Khosrow begged the court elders to plead for his pardon. The counselors, who dearly loved the prince, went to Hormuzd with an apology. So intense was his regret that Khosrow dressed himself in a shroud, took a sharp sword, wept bitterly, and writhed on the ground. "Here is my sword and my submissive head. I can bear any sorrow of this life but the king's anger." When Hormuzd heard of this speech, he kissed Khosrow, forgave him, and made him crown prince once again.

That night, in a dream, Khosrow was visited by his grandfather, Khosrow Anushirvan. "Listen to me," said the old man, "I foresee your happy future because of your willingness to accept chastisement. In place of what you have lost, you will receive four things of even greater worth: you shall ride Shabdiz, the world's swiftest and most fabled steed, who will shake his mane to your glory across a mighty empire bordered by the seas; you shall sit on Taqdis, the throne of thrones, which makes your throne surrendered but a bench; at your bidding Barbad the musician shall play and with the lightest touch will far surpass the broken notes of your lost minstrel. But beyond all these, you shall have Shirin, your destined love, whose sweetness and beauty will sustain you all your days." With this last promise, Khosrow Anushirvan vanished, and the prince awoke.

Now Khosrow's dearest friend and second self was the youth Shapur, a painter of great skill and self-confidence. "When I draw a person's head, it moves; the bird whose wing I draw will fly," he was wont to boast. It was said of Shapur that his art was so magical that he could draw pictures on water. Shapur excelled at portraiture; he could capture not only the likeness but the subject's soul.

A born adventurer, Shapur had traveled far and wide. One day, while recount­ing to Khosrow the many marvels he had seen, Shapur told of a journey to Armenia. He praised the mountains' beauty, the court's splendor, and the Armenian queen Mihin Banu. A woman of great wealth and property, Mihin Banu had no husband, yet passed her life content and was stronger than any man. But above all, he praised the queen's niece, Shirin. "Her face is a wild rose, and her lips are as sweet as her name. Her charming words please everyone, and she has been chosen as the heir of Queen Mihin Banu. Never have I seen a maiden as enchanting as Shirin! And never have I seen anything like the queen's black horse Shabdiz!"

"Shirin! Did you say Shirin? How astonishing! How fortunate!" Then Khosrow told his friend about the dream and sent Shapur at once to bring Shirin to him. "If she be like wax, impress her with our seal. If her heart be iron, return at once and tell me so that I shall not strike cold iron!"

Thus was Shapur instructed; he promised not to fail. "Fear not, my prince! Failure has no chance as long as my brushes and paints attend me!" And so he departed.

When he reached Armenia, it was spring; the mountains were covered with flowers, and the woods and fields were green. While riding, Shapur came upon an aged priest who lived in a small, ancient monastery carved out of rock high up on a cliff. The old man told a curious tale. "At the foot of this very mountain is a cave, and in the cave is a black stone that every horseman in the world would covet—if he only knew of it. From nearby and faraway plains, the swift mares come to this great stone and, when in heat, rub themselves against it. Every foal born to these mares is wonderfully swift, but the swiftest of all is Shabdiz, that horse of lightning hooves, the stallion of our queen."

"I know of him," Shapur replied and told the priest that he had traveled to Armenia to visit the court. Then the old man pointed to a pretty meadow where the royal party was accustomed to spreading their picnic cloth.

The following day, at dawn, Shapur went to the pretty meadow. He took a piece of paper in his hand and sketched a portrait of the prince, a likeness so exact as to make the most reluctant maiden swoon. Then he hung the picture from a tree branch and hid himself. He did not have to wait long, for soon Shirin appeared with her attendants.

The day shimmered with promise, every leaf dancing in the breeze. Shirin and her companions spread their carpets on the grass and, sipping wine, amused themselves with singing, dancing to the music of lutes, and fashioning wreaths of flowers for each other. Then, at last, Shirin noticed the portrait. She asked that it be brought to her. She held it in her hands and gazed at the handsome prince. Then her heart dissolved with joy, and she embraced the portrait. Frightened at her trembling and supposing that the picture was the work of evil spirits, her handmaidens destroyed the image and burned rue to stop the spell. Only then did Shirin recover her senses, and the party moved on.

The following morning, Shapur went to the meadow again, made a portrait of the prince, hung it from a branch, and hid. When Shirin appeared and saw the portrait, her soul again took flight. But this time, her maids refused to bring the picture to her. They rolled up their carpets, and the party fled.

On the third morning, Shirin and her companions set out for a different meadow. Following them, Shapur made yet another portrait, hung it as before, and hid himself. Soon Shirin caught sight of it. She seized it from the branch herself and worshipped it as if it were an idol. In its homage she drank wine; with every sip, she kissed the ground. At last, she sent her maids to search for someone who might be able to explain the mystery; but not a soul could be found. Then, at the meadow's far end, Shirin noticed a stranger. Believing that this person had some knowledge of the portrait, she instructed her attendants to ask if he knew the name and rank of the one who had captured her heart.

When Shapur—for the stranger was none other than the painter—saw the maidens approach, he knew that his stratagem had not failed. To their inquiries, he answered that the secret could be imparted only to Shirin herself. When the maidens gave this message to their mistress, Shirin ran eagerly across the field. As she drew near, Shapur was overwhelmed, so delicate was her beauty.

"Who might you be? Where are you from? What do you know?" she breath­lessly asked. Shapur replied that he had traveled far and wide, that he could unlock many mysteries and would divulge the story of the portrait, but only if they were left entirely alone. Shirin dismissed her maidens. The painter then told her that the one she loved was a fine prince, Khosrow Parviz, by name. She then confessed that her happiness was so entwined with the portrait that she wor­shipped it night and day. Whereupon Shapur told how the prince had dreamed about Shirin, his destined love, and had sent him to Armenia to find her. As Shapur spoke, Shirin was overcome with joy.

Then the painter, ever ingenious, devised a plan. The following day, at dawn, Shirin was to ride to the hunt on Shabdiz and flee from her companions—so swift was the steed that she would not be caught—and she was to journey toward Persia. Then Shapur gave Shirin a seal ring belonging to Khosrow and told her to show it to anyone she met along the way. Perhaps the stranger she met would be Khosrow himself. Shirin would recognize him, for he would be garbed in red from head to foot; his horse's hooves would be shod with gold. Should Shirin not encounter Khosrow, she must go to the royal palace Moshku, in the capital city of Mada'in, and show the seal ring to the servants there.

Then, with great pride and pleasure in the powers of his palette, Shapur departed; the princess summoned her attendants and returned to the palace of Queen Mihin Banu. That night she pleaded with the queen to be allowed to ride on Shabdiz the next day. As the stallion was exceedingly strong-spirited, the queen was reluctant to agree but agreed she did.

At dawn, Shirin and her attendants made ready for the hunt. The party rode forth at a gallop, dressed in a manly manner, as was the custom in Armenia for hunting on the plains. Soon Shabdiz had left the other horses far behind. Shirin's companions tried to follow, but in vain, and after spending the day in fruitless search, they rode back to the palace with their doleful news. Throughout the night, the good queen wept and mourned, but then she had a dream: her beloved falcon flew away, and as she grieved, it returned. She took this as a happy omen, so the following day, to the amazement of her court, no search was called.

Meanwhile, Shirin rode toward Persia in search of her beloved prince. For fourteen days and fourteen nights, she traveled. Then she came upon an emerald field in which there gleamed a gentle pool. Weary and covered with dust from head to foot, she stopped. When she had satisfied herself that she was entirely alone, she tethered Shabdiz and prepared to bathe. Beautiful was the whiteness of her skin against the blueness of the water. She loosed her braids and washed her long black hair, and the moon-like reflection of her face was caught in the pool's shallows. And then she sat in the cool, refreshing water, dreaming of Khosrow.

She did not know that from the very day Khosrow had sent Shapur to Armenia, fate had sent ill fortune to the prince. For Khosrow had enemies in Persia, men who had envied him from the hour of his birth. Now they began to strike coins in his name and circulate them in the cities of the realm. Hormuzd, thinking his son was plotting to seize the throne, ordered the prince cast into prison. When the good sage Bozorg Omid heard of the decree, he urged Khosrow to flee.

Khosrow rode directly to the palace and told his servants that he would be hunting for a fortnight. If, meanwhile, a beauty appeared, riding a black stallion like a peacock on a raven's back, she was to be welcomed as an honored guest and given every courtesy. Indeed, if the palace was not to her liking, another was to be built for her in any place she might prefer. "See to this as you would to your own safety!" Khosrow ordered, and then, disguising himself in robes other than his customary red, he departed for Armenia. So swiftly did he ride that he covered two days' distance in one. Then, stopping, he ordered his attendants to feed their horses while he rode on alone. Suddenly, he came upon the pool in the emerald field and saw Shirin sitting in the water like a lily. At the sight of her, his heart caught fire and burned; he trembled with desire in every limb. Softly he rode toward her and whispered to himself how he would like to have such a beautiful maiden and such a black horse as hers, little knowing that one day they would both be his.

Suddenly Shirin looked up. Startled, she gathered her black hair about her like a cloak, emerged from the pool, dressed, and mounted her horse. At the touch of her heel, Shabdiz carried her off into the shadows of the late afternoon. Watching her, Khosrow was as much astonished by the swiftness of her flight as by her beauty. When she had disappeared, he wept, then continued his journey toward Armenia.

As she rode, Shirin dwelled on the stranger from whom she had fled. She won­dered if he might have been Khosrow even though he was not garbed in red, as Shapur had advised.

Riding on, Shirin finally reached the palace Moshku. She presented the prince's ring and was welcomed with a grand ceremony; Shabdiz was taken to the stable. When asked to tell her story, she refused; she would wait until Khosrow's return. Weeks went by like flights of swallows with not a word from Khosrow. Shirin became uneasy; the palace did not please her, as no window offered happy views. She longed for the green mountains of Armenia; at last, she became so restive that the maidservants told her of Khosrow's command that a new residence be built for her should she desire. Shirin eagerly requested that a new palace be built on a mountain plain. The servants, envying her beauty and her privilege, arranged, instead, for the palace to be built in an unhealthy place, a place so hot, the saying went, that it could make a child into an old man in less than a week. It was a place not far from Kermanshah but far from the world. To this prison, the palace did Shirin repair, where grief was her constant companion.

By this time, Khosrow had reached the borders of Armenia. When Queen Mihin Banu heard of his arrival, she went with all her retinue to welcome him. A chair was placed for him at the foot of her throne, and she commanded that grand festivities be held in his honor. Musicians played, girls danced, and in every tent, a fire burned, and lavish feasts were set. Game, fruits, and wine were as abundant as the pasturelands and orchards of Armenia. But for Khosrow, the wine was bitter; even as he dallied with the pretty maidens, he drank only his desire for Shirin.

One night in the midst of these amusements, Shapur appeared at Khosrow's tent. He kissed the ground before the prince' and told of what had passed: how he had found Shirin and had worked magic with his paints and how Shirin had ridden off on Shabdiz—indeed, she was at the palace Moshku even now—and he greatly praised her beauty and strong-mindedness. So overjoyed was Khosrow when he heard these words that he covered his friend with jewels and gave him a precious robe. Then he ordered Shapur to go to Shirin as quickly as a moth flies toward a light.

Soon afterward, Queen Mihin Banu happened to come to Khosrow's tent, and the prince told her of the messenger who had brought news of Shirin; the faithful Shapur would be sent to bring her back from Persia. As he made ready to depart, the queen ordered her second-swiftest steed, Golgun—sired, like Shabdiz, in the mountain cave—given to Shapur to take with him in case Shirin no longer had Shabdiz. Within the hour, Shapur set out, mounted on his own horse and leading the splendid Golgun.

At last, he arrived in Persia and found the disconsolate princess sequestered in her wretched palace. Upon seeing Shapur, Shirin trembled with joy, so long had she despaired of word from Khosrow. The following day, at the golden break of dawn, they departed in haste for Armenia; Shirin rode Golgun, for Shabdiz had remained in the stable at the palace Moshku. When they reached the court of Queen Mihin Banu, there was rejoicing beyond imagining, so happy was the queen to see Shirin.

But while Shapur and Shirin were on their way to Armenia, word had come to Khosrow of his father's death, King Hormuzd, and he had hurried back to Persia to claim his rightful throne. He arrived in the capital city of Mada'in hoping to find Shirin, but she had already departed. Her black stallion Shabdiz was still in the stable, so to console himself in her absence, Khosrow rode Shabdiz to the hunt, for the young king immensely enjoyed that sport. And after the hunt, he took his pleasure in drinking fine wine.

Khosrow ruled with justice, like his father and grandfather before him, and his subjects were well pleased. But their^- contentment had not long to last, for soon, Bahram Chubin, the wily general who had commanded the armies under Hormuzd, devised a treacherous scheme to seize the throne. He had it whispered among the people that Khosrow had ordered his father killed and that he was a murderer and unfit to wear the Persian crown. He also had it whispered that Khosrow valued a gulp of wine more than the blood of a hundred brothers, that he would surrender his kingdom for a price, and that he was so distracted by his love for Shirin that he could not rule. Thus did the evil Bahram Chubin spread his subtle plague and turn the people against Khosrow, and once again, Khosrow was forced to flee his native land. Under cover of night, he saddled Shabdiz and rode toward Armenia—and Shirin. He traveled on without rest until he neared