Rostam and Sohrab

Long ago, in a time when the world was still young enough for the footprints of giants to be seen in the mountain clay, there lived a hero whose name was spoken in whispers of awe from the peaks of the Alborz mountains to the shores of the Caspian Sea. His name was Rostom. If you had stood before him in those days, you would have felt as though you were standing in the shadow of a mountain, or a great ancient oak. He was the champion of Persia, a land of glittering blue tiled domes, vast salt deserts, and gardens that smelled of sweet pomegranate and mint. This story comes from that grand and beautiful country, preserved for over a thousand years in a magnificent epic poem called the Shahnameh, or the Book of Kings, written down by the poet Ferdowsi. For centuries, in crowded marketplaces, under starry desert skies, and beside warm hearths, storytellers have gathered listeners to hear of Rostom. And of all his deeds, this is the one they tell with the softest voices. Rostom was a man of such immense strength that when he walked, his boots sank deep into the solid earth, and when he rode, only one horse in all the world could bear his weight. That horse was Raksh, a stallion with a coat like rose petals scattered over saffron, possessing the strength of an elephant and the intelligence of a sage. Together, man and horse were the shield of Persia. Whenever danger threatened the borders, the Shah would send for Rostom, and Rostom would ride out, wearing his coat of wild tiger skin to drive the invaders away. But even the greatest of champions can grow weary of the endless clamor of steel and the shouting of kings. One afternoon, seeking peace, Rostom rode Raksh far beyond the Persian borders, into the green, mist-shrouded forests of Samangan. It was a kingdom that lay between the empires, a place of quiet valleys and deep cool rivers. Rostom hunted until the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised plum and gold. Exhausted, he lay down beneath a wild walnut tree to sleep, letting Raksh graze freely in the lush meadows. While the champion slept, a band of horsemen from the city of Samangan passed by. Seeing the magnificent stallion grazing unattended, and recognizing him as the legendary Raksh, they cast their ropes around his neck. Raksh fought like a demon, striking with his hooves and biting with his teeth, but there were too many of them. They led him away into the city, hoping to breed his legendary strength into their own herds. When Rostom awoke and found the meadow empty, his heart sank. To lose his horse was to lose his companion, his brother in arms, and his pride. He followed the deep tracks of Raksh's hooves through the soft earth, his heavy footsteps shaking the forest floor, until he reached the gates of the walled city of Samangan. The King of Samangan, hearing that the great champion of Persia stood at his gates, and knowing that an angry Rostom could level his city walls with a single blow, hurried out to meet him. "Oh, peerless champion," the king said, bowing low. "Do not let anger darken your brow. Your horse is safe within our royal stables. Rest tonight in my palace as our guest, and tomorrow, Raksh shall be returned to you, groomed and fed." Rostom, though suspicious, accepted the invitation. That evening, a great feast was held in his honor. The tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, rice fragrant with saffron, and bowls of sweet plums. Yet, amidst all the music and laughter, Rostom felt a strange quiet stillness settle over him. Later that night, as the palace fell silent, the door to Rostom's chamber creaked open. A young woman entered, preceded by the scent of wild jasmine and roses. She was Tamina, the princess of Samangan. Her eyes were as dark as the midnight sky, and her spirit was as fierce and bright as a polished blade. She had heard of Rostom's bravery for years, and seeing him now, she…

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