Khosrow and Shirin by Nezami (Translated by Peter J. Chelkowski, further editing by Farshad Torkashvand) Part 3

 

for then, he threw himself from Mount Bisutun to his death. Now the axe of Farhad had a handle of pomegranate wood, and in the very place where it landed, the handle took root and sprouted into a tree. And even to this day, on the branches of that tree, fruit does grow.

When Shirin learned of Farhad's death, her grief was great. As time passed, she mourned more deeply still, for she understood how true Farhad had been. And she caused a dome to be built over his grave as a place of pilgrimage for faithful lovers. For his part, Khosrow was so tortured with remorse that he did not know a moment's peace. At last, he sent a letter to Shirin, lamenting Farhad's fate and soothing her sorrow by reminding her that no one is immortal. Shirin joyfully kissed the letter in three places and pondered every word. But soon, she turned from Khosrow, knowing in her heart that he had crafted the destruc­tion of Farhad.

Now it happened, shortly afterward, that the king's consort Maryam became ill and died. Khosrow wore robes of black and withdrew from his court, but he mourned only for display. In secret, he rejoiced; no longer was he bound by his promise to the emperor of Byzantium. Shirin mourned for the princess for the time prescribed, for such was the duty of everyone in the land, but after a long while sent a reply to Khosrow's letter. Gently she reminded the king that there is good and bad in life, weddings and deaths, and now that Maryam was dead, there would be other brides for him. Khosrow, she tenderly wrote, should overcome his grief and take another wife. Whereupon Khosrow sent a mes­senger to tell Shirin that he would marry her at last.

But this was not to be; for a while, they were exchanging messages, and Khosrow passed his time in feasting and enjoyment. All the world rulers came to his court to pay him homage. And one day, surrounded by splendid company, he playfully inquired as to where the most beautiful women in the world were to be found. The most substantial claim was for the Persian city of Isfahan and for the beauty Shekar. The charms of Shekar were vividly described to him, yet for a year, Khosrow waited, unsure of his desires.

At last, he saddled Shabdiz and set out for Isfahan. He was well received at Shekar's residence; a banquet was set, musicians played, and the lovely Shekar was brought to amuse him. Khosrow was entranced. But when nodding from the wine, he was led to his chamber; Shekar sent one of her handmaidens in her place. The following day the girl reported to her mistress that Khosrow was unpleasing only in the sourness of his breath. Thereupon the playful Shekar revealed her trick to Khosrow and ordered him to return in a year's time; meanwhile, he was to eat only certain foods.

In a year's time, Khosrow dutifully returned, and again, when night came, Shekar played her trick. At dawn, she sent for him and told him that no man had yet enjoyed her love. Khosrow went into the streets of Isfahan, and when he learned from the people that Shekar had spoken truly, he brought her to his capital as his bride. Such comfort did the beautiful Shekar provide that Khosrow soon forgot his realm and his love for Shirin.

When Shirin first heard of this, she hid her sorrow; as the gardener tends his flowers, so did she cultivate indifference. But for all her pretenses, her grief took hold like a tenacious weed, and she soon gave in to despair. The name of Khosrow was forbidden in her presence, and so troubled was she that she could not sleep. Each night seemed like a year; from sundown until daybreak, she would pray to God to release her from her plight. At last, her prayers were answered. In a short time, Khosrow tired of his new companion and once again began to think of Shirin.

One day Khosrow ordered a royal hunt of unsurpassed splendor to be arranged. Among his entourage were the emperor of China and the commander of the armies of Byzantium. Before them went youths, leading horses and scattering incense. Guards had been brought from far-off lands, and they rode on elephants. Musicians played drums and pipes, and banners flapped in the breeze. When it came time to hunt, the king's prize falcons were released, and within a week, the fields and forests were despoiled of partridges and quail. Then Khosrow left the company and started toward Shirin's palace. It was winter, and the night was cold. He ordered a fire made from precious scented woods, and in the morn­ing, he warmed himself with several cups of wine. As he drank, he stirred with longing and sent a messenger ahead to tell Shirin's court of his arrival; he rode on in haste.

When word of Khosrow's approach reached the palace, Shirin had all the doors locked. Then she stationed attendants at the gate and gave each a tray filled with gold coins to scatter before Khosrow. She caused a path to be made of carpets and embroidered cloths and set attendants in readiness to burn aloe-wood when the king at last arrived. Then Shirin went to the roof of her palace to watch for him. First, she saw dust, then Khosrow's companions, then Khosrow himself, carrying white narcissus, her favorite flower. At the sight of him in the distance, she fainted but recovered quickly and retired to her chamber.

Khosrow was welcomed with great festivity. Gold was showered; silks were spread; tents were raised and covered with jeweled canopies. And in the most enormous tent stood a golden, six-legged throne, especially for Khosrow. He was a joyful king as he triumphantly approached the palace door. But when he tried to enter, he was amazed to find it locked. He questioned all who stood around and sent a message to Shirin, telling her that he had come to beg forgiveness at her feet and he would remain in the courtyard until she showed herself to him. Shirin replied that she would only speak to him from her roof. Then she put on her finest robes and returned to the roof. When Khosrow saw her, he was so overcome that he kissed the ground. He praised her gifts—the gold, the silks, the throne—then reproached her for locking the door against him. Was this the way to treat an honored guest, no less a king?

Torn between desire and anger, Shirin wished Khosrow a welcome with queenly dignity. But then desire succumbed to rage, and she bitterly described the sufferings she had endured. She reproached him for coming to her merry with wine. If he sought love, he must be sober and take her as his wife. If he sought only pleasure, let him return to Shekar and never come to her palace again. Thus they quarreled, Khosrow repenting and pleading the excesses of youth, Shirin thinking of her dishonor and the faithful Farhad. What had Khosrow done to prove his love? With words as hard as the ice, she berated him, and at last, in great despair, he left the palace. Seeking sweetness, he had found only bitterness. In the cold rain and snow, he rode back through the forest to his hunting party. When he reached his tent, he ordered his attendants to leave him alone with his sorrow and the faithful Shapur, who had followed him from Shirin's castle. All night long, Khosrow was restless; he told Shapur that he still loved Shirin and the painter replied that lovers' quarrels are more show than substance. "What beauty is won with ease? Does not a rose have thorns? Take heart, my king! Fortune is good, and all will be well in the end!"

Now, as she watched Khosrow depart, Shirin felt deep remorse and wept. That night she saddled Golgun and, following the tracks of Shabdiz through the woods, found her way to Khosrow's camp. At the sound of hooves, Shapur ran out—the guards were drunk and sleeping—and helped Shirin dismount. She told him of her change of heart and asked two things: first, that Shapur hide her in the camp until such time as she should decide to show herself to Khosrow, and second, that Shapur was to help her return in safety to her palace if Khosrow refused to marry her. Shapur agreed; he tethered Golgun, hid Shirin, and re­turned to Khosrow's tent.

The king slept fitfully, and when he awoke, he told Shapur that he had dreamt he was in a beautiful garden with a beautiful maiden at his side. Shapur told him that the maiden indeed was Shirin and that they would soon be reunited. In the meantime, Khosrow should celebrate this good omen with festivities. And so, the next day, as the sun descended from the sky, Khosrow called forth his cup-bearers and close attendants and drank and scattered gold. Then he dismissed all but Shapur and summoned the spell-binding musician Barbad.

Now there was in Khosrow's camp a second musician of unsurpassed skill. And Shirin asked Shapur to bring Nikisa, for this was his name, to the tent in which she hid and to station him outside so that she could whisper instructions from within. "Let me direct him in my heart's true measures while Barbad gives voice to Khosrow," she said.

So it was that the lovers conversed in song. Their music was as clear as the cold night air; each word shone like a star. First, Nikisa sang for Shirin: she would not be a slave to Khosrow, yet her fury had been tempered, and she would show sweetness to him. To which Barbad replied by pledging Khosrow's eternal love. Then Nikisa sang of loneliness: better for Shirin to die than live without Khosrow. In turn, Barbad bewailed Shirin's locked door; if she would come to Khosrow, he would make her his queen and never leave her side.

As Barbad sang, Khosrow was overwhelmed and spoke above the playing of the harp. He asked a hundred times for forgiveness and spoke so movingly of his devotion that Shirin, unable to restrain herself, cried out. When he heard her voice, Khosrow ran toward the tent where she hid; she came forth, and he tried to embrace her. But Shirin drew back, reminding Khosrow that she would not be his until she was his wife. Then Khosrow ordered a marriage settlement to be drafted; while this was done, they would celebrate together. Shirin became insensible with happiness; she was so joyful and lovely that Khosrow was enraptured, and he could not stop gazing at her beauty. For seven days did his eyes feast on her. Then Shirin went back to her palace riding in a golden litter, and Khosrow returned to the capital of Meda'in to make ready for the wedding. After much deliberation, the royal astrologers scanned the heavens for auspicious omens and fixed upon a day. Then Khosrow sent a caravan of camels and horses laden with precious gifts to Shirin to bring her back. He summoned all his nobles and told them that Shirin would be his wife at last. They rejoiced, and a splendid marriage took place on the appointed day.

No sooner had Khosrow and Shirin exchanged their vows and invoked God's blessing than the blue of the sky deepened to purple with the coming of night, and there was revelry throughout the land. The feasting and drinking at the royal palace were more incredible than ever before. The musicians Barbad and Nikisa played their harps until the early hours of the morning. Then, as the heavens began to lighten, Khosrow was carried to the bridal chamber to which Shirin, long wearied of the festivities, had withdrawn. When she saw that Khosrow was dazed by wine, she was angered and sent a wrinkled, hairy, hunchbacked old woman servant to him. It was a crone whom Khosrow took in his eager embrace; a crow in place of beauty, a dragon instead of the moon. The king cried out and cursed and threw her from the chamber. Well satisfied that Khosrow was not beyond his senses, Shirin dismissed the servant and went into him.

 

As dawn broke, the lovers were united in perfect love. The strength of the lion mingled with the sweetness of the rose. All that day and night, and even the next, and the day and night after that, they lingered within until, at last, their joy was spent. Then Khosrow sat on his throne again, and all around him shared his good fortune. He gave a grand estate and the choice of Shirin's handmaidens for a bride to the faithful Shapur. And the excellent sage Bozorg Omid and the musicians Barbad and Nikisa were given brides as well.

For many years the reign of Khosrow and Shirin was a happy one. Khosrow was just, and his subjects knew prosperity, peace, and glory. The prophecy of his grandfather Khosrow Anushirvan was fulfilled, for Khosrow now possessed the four things promised him: the black stallion Shabdiz, the world's swiftest steed, was in his stable; Taqdis, the throne of thrones, covered with precious jewels, stood in his palace; in his banquet-hall played the musician Barbad, who with the touch of his Harp string surpassed all other minstrels, and at his side was his destined love, Shirin.

But fate is fickle, and in time the wheel of fortune turned. It so happened that a son had been born to Khosrow and the princess Maryam, and at the hour of his birth, the signs were such that the astrologers shook their heads and sighed. Shiruyeh, as he was named, grew up just as the heavens foretold, a moody child and a stranger to his father. Even as a boy, Shiruyeh plotted to seize the throne • that one day would rightfully be his. Perceiving evil in his heart, Khosrow had thought to kill him, but he was restrained only by the wise Bozorg Omid, who counseled, "Might it not be, Magnificence, that from bad comes good? Who can know God's will?"

And so it came to pass that one day, while Khosrow was praying, the wicked Shiruyeh invaded the palace with his forces and claimed the throne. Khosrow was put in chains and cast into a dungeon, and Shirin voluntarily went to prison with him. Great was Khosrow's grief, though Shirin comforted him gently day and night. In the darkness, for the thick stone walls would admit not a single ray of sun, she would remind him that there is both good and evil in the world. Fortunes rise and fall; all things change. "The only constant in life," she said, "is inconstancy itself." Then she spoke of love and told him stories of the kind that close the eyes of anxious children. As he slept, she paced back and forth to stay awake, for she was afraid that harm would come to them if they were both to sleep.

One night, as Khosrow slept, so weary was Shirin that she succumbed to sleep. It was a strange, eerie night, for not one star could be seen. And it was this night that a treacherous assassin crept into the dungeon through a chink in the stone wall and made his way to Khosrow's cell. With his dagger,' the killer stabbed Khosrow in the liver and ran off. Khosrow awoke to find himself wounded and close to death. He thirsted for water but would not disturb Shirin, for he knew how tired she was. The blood flowed from his wound, and without the slightest motion or whisper, Khosrow breathed his last.

Disturbed by the wetness of the blood-soaked robes, Shirin awoke. When she saw Khosrow, her heart went numb with sorrow, and she wept for hours. Then she asked her jailers for musk and camphor so that she could bathe Khosrow's body.

Now at the time Khosrow and Shirin were wed, Shiruyeh was only a boy. But even so, he lusted for Shirin, and ever since, he desired his father's wife as greedily as he coveted his father's throne. And so he sent a messenger to the dungeon to ask Shirin to marry him, promising her a life of luxury and ease. Shirin consented but requested first that all Khosrow's possessions be distributed among the poor. When this had been done, a golden bier was brought, and Khosrow's body was placed on it, and he was buried with great splendor. In the streets of the city Meda'in, the people wept as the body was carried past. Kings and emperors came from distant lands, as far-off even as the Orient, to march in the funeral procession. And among them, all went Shirin, dressed not in mourning but, to the astonishment of all, in robes of red and yellow.

When the procession reached the vault that housed the royal tombs, the bier was carried inside. Shirin followed and asked that she be left alone to say farewell to Khosrow and to think fondly of her future happiness. Shiruyeh, flushed with love and triumph, readily agreed. Shirin entered the vault, locked the door, and went to Khosrow's side. She covered him with kisses and, with a dagger she had hidden in her robes, fatally stabbed herself in the same place where Khosrow had been stabbed.

Now it is said by some that when her blood flowed over Khosrow's body, he awakened for a moment, and the lovers kissed. Yet others say that Khosrow stirred not from his timeless sleep but that the stars paused in their celestial course in stark amazement at love so fine.

When all outside the vault learned of what had passed within, a great wailing arose, and a year's mourning was decreed throughout the land of Persia. Shirin was buried beside her beloved, and above their graves, an inscription was carved as a memorial to all who love. Thus were Khosrow and Shirin united for all eternity. And their story has been told and told again, and has become a legend, an inspiration to all lovers, faithful and true, from that time to this very day.