Rostam and Sohrab

Rostam, the great champion of Iran, was on a hunting trip near the borders of Turan when his horse Rakhsh was stolen in the night. Searching for him, Rostam came to the city of Samangan. The king there welcomed him as the greatest hero alive, gave him a feast, and promised the horse would be found.

That night, the king's daughter Tahmineh came to Rostam's chamber. She was beautiful, and proud, and clear-spoken. "I have heard your name from a child," she said. "I have wanted no other husband. Take me as your wife, and you will have a son who will be like you. The horse will be brought back to you in the morning."

Rostam, who was a man, agreed. They were married that night by the king's chamberlain. In the morning Rakhsh was returned, and Rostam left for Iran. He gave Tahmineh a clasp from his arm. "If we have a son," he said, "fasten this on his arm. If a daughter, in her hair. They will know me by it."

A son was born, and he was as tall and as strong at five as other boys at fifteen. Tahmineh called him Sohrab. She did not tell him at first who his father was, because she was afraid that if Rostam in Iran knew of the boy he would take him away, and if the king of Turan knew, he would use the boy in war against his own father.

Sohrab grew. He asked his mother who his father was. She told him. Sohrab said: "Then I will gather an army. I will overthrow the king of Iran and put my father Rostam in his place. Then we will overthrow the king of Turan and rule together. There will be no greater family in the world."

Word reached Afrasiab, king of Turan. Afrasiab thought: a young hero of his own people, who can be trained against Iran. But he knew Sohrab and Rostam must not recognize each other. He sent two of his most trusted men with Sohrab as guides, with secret orders to keep them apart in any battle that came.

Sohrab marched into Iran with his Turanian army. He took the White Castle on the border. He sent a challenge to the great heroes of Iran. He asked over and over, of every man he met, "Is your name Rostam?" Each time he was given some other answer, because the men he met were minor heroes, and they did not know that he was looking for his father, and Rostam himself was kept away from the front by Afrasiab's plotters.

At last Rostam came to the field. He came at night, in plain armor, without a banner. He came to the camp of Sohrab to look at this young champion who had defeated everyone sent against him. He saw a boy in the firelight, broad-shouldered, who looked like himself thirty years ago. He felt a stirring he could not place. He went away.

The next day they met on the field. Both were in armor. Both wore helmets. They did not see each other's faces.

Sohrab said: "Tell me your name. You have the look of a great hero. Are you Rostam?"

Rostam, who had been warned by Afrasiab's plotters that Sohrab was a wild young upstart looking for him, gave a false name. He said only: "I am a man come to fight you."

Sohrab said, "Let us not fight. Let us be friends. There is a hero somewhere, my father, that I am looking for. Maybe you know him. Tell me, are you Rostam?"

Rostam said: "I am not. Fight."

They fought. They fought all day with spears and they broke the spears. They fought with swords and broke the swords. They fought with maces and the maces bent. They fought with their bare hands, and at last Sohrab threw Rostam to the ground and drew his dagger. Rostam, hurt and shaken, said: "Wait. It is the custom of our people that a man may only kill another in single combat on the second throw. The first throw does not count."

Sohrab, who was honorable and young, believed him. He let Rostam up. They fought again the next morning.

This time Rostam was rested. He had prayed in the night for strength, and his old strength came back. He threw Sohrab. He drew his dagger and drove it into Sohrab's side, all the way to the hilt.

Sohrab fell. He looked up at the man who had killed him, his armor still hiding his face, and he said: "I die not from your skill but from a trick. I let you up. The world will know it. And know this: I am the son of Rostam. My mother is Tahmineh of Samangan. I came here looking for him. He will avenge me on you, whoever you are. Only run. He will find you wherever you go."

Rostam went still. He bent down. He pulled off Sohrab's helmet. He saw the boy's face for the first time. He saw, on the boy's arm, the clasp he had given Tahmineh.

He cried out. He tore his clothes. He poured dust on his head. He held the dying boy in his arms and called for help. He sent a rider with all the speed of his horse Rakhsh to the king's palace, to bring the king's nushdaru, the medicine that healed all wounds. The king refused to send it. He had been jealous of Rostam too long.

By the time the messenger came back empty-handed, the boy was dead.

Rostam buried him with his own hands, on a hill in Iran, where the wind crossed. He sent the news to Tahmineh. She came to the grave and cut off her hair and laid it on it. She did not eat for many days, and she died of grief in the year that followed.

Rostam lived on. He lived for many more battles. But the old champion was hollow at the center after that day. The Shahnameh tells us he never spoke of his son to anyone, but each year on the day of the battle he went to the grave on the hill and sat by it, and what he said to the boy who could no longer hear him, only the wind knew.