THE COMBAT OF SOHRAB AGAINST RUSTEM
Give ear unto the combat of Sohrab against Rustem, though it be a tale replete with tears. So runneth the legend as told by Firdusi. But upon the morning after the night of feasting in his pavilion, tears were far from the eyes of brave Sohrab. For was he not bent upon the accomplishment of great deeds? Yea, and did he not hope soon to behold the face of his illustrious father?
But alas! a bitter disappointment awaited the hero in the early morning, for in vain did he try to learn from Hujir, the defeated champion of the White Fort, which of the mighty warriors encamped upon the plains before them was Rustem, the great hero of the Persians. For that brave patriot, fearing for the safety of Iran, refused utterly to discover the identity of the Great Champion unto his enemy, even though Sohrab strongly suspected a certain great warrior in a green tent, who was, indeed, Rustem.
Defeated in this endeavor, therefore, Sohrab returned unto the Fort, where, donning his chain mail and arming himself, he and his band of sturdy warriors sallied forth unto the plain. Now so sudden and swift was the onset that the Persians were taken unawares, so that Sohrab in hurling the army of Turan against the intrenched camp of the Shah, was able to penetrate almost at once unto its very centre. And truly it was a magnificent sight to behold the irresistible charge of this stripling, who, though but a mere youth, yet appeared a very god of war.
But, though taken by surprise, the Persians soon rallied, and then so fearful was the contest that the very earth seemed to shake beneath the shock, and the carnage was fearful. For, though from end to end the plain glittered with bright steel armor, it covered, alas, the forms of fallen heroes as often as it shielded the daring hearts of living riders, since as the tide of battle ebbed and flowed, thousands fell upon either side, night alone putting an end to the fearful conflict.
Now through all the long hours of battle, although Sohrab seemed to be everywhere upon the field, never once did he catch a glimpse of the owner of the green tent, and much he wondered. Nay; not even when he thundered forth words of pride in the very face of the Shah, telling him he had sworn to hang him alive upon a gallows, to avenge the death of Zendeh, and challenging him to combat, did he—or any other champion—stand forth. So great was the terror that his valor had aroused in the hearts of his foes!
But in spite of the day’s successes, that night Sohrab lay wakeful in his tent, restlessly tossing upon his bed of skins, while busy thoughts surged through his brain. Finally, however, when the first faint streak of dawn had crimsoned the eastern sky, behold, the Hero arose, passing through the silent line of tents, until he reached the one set apart for Piran-Wisa, the old chief who had but reached the scene of battle the by-gone eve. Here, lifting the heavy curtain, Sohrab entered silently, but seeing that his old friend was also awake, he said:
“O glorious chief, whose wisdom hath ever been my guiding star, behold, once more I come to seek thy counsel and to make known unto thee a plan which hath kept me wakeful upon my bed.
“Now it is indeed well to fight valiantly and win success upon the field of battle as we did to-day, but for me, Sohrab, that is not enough; for I long without ceasing to perform some mighty deed that shall reach the ears of Rustem, my father, whom I seem destined never to find. So now I have reached a conclusion: I would have thee challenge the bravest of the Persian Pehliva to meet me, man to man, in single combat. If I prevail, Rustem will surely learn of it; while if I fail, no man need hear of me again.”
So spake impetuous Sohrab, and Piran-Wisa listened quietly. When he had finished, however, he said unto him: