As the radiant sun withdrew from the celestial dome and the bustling market quieted, Homa and Beh-Afarid, the two royal sisters of Esfandiyar, emerged from the citadel bearing clay pitchers. Once princesses of Iran, they were now stripped of their dignity, walking barefoot and uncovered through the city square to draw water for their captors. Spotting the rich merchant's lodge, they approached with tearful eyes to seek tidings of their homeland. Seeing his sisters in such bitter degradation, Esfandiyar hid his face beneath a coarse blanket, his heart quaking with grief and the dread of betrayal.
The weeping maidens mistook him for an ordinary trader. They offered blessings upon his voyage and implored him for any news of King Goshtasp and Prince Esfandiyar, lamenting their miserable plight as water-bearers while their royal father slept in comfort. To preserve his disguise, Esfandiyar shouted harshly from beneath his mantle, cursing both Goshtasp and Esfandiyar and claiming to be a simple merchant concerned only with his livelihood. Yet Homa, quick of spirit, recognized the indelible cadence of her brother's voice beneath the rough disguise. Her heart leaped with newfound hope, yet she wisely concealed her discovery, weeping silently in her tattered garments.
Realizing that Homa had recognized him, Esfandiyar uncovered his face, eyes brimmed with blood-tinged tears. He bade his sisters keep absolute silence for a few days, revealing that he had come not for commerce, but through fiery peril to wreak vengeance and rescue them. Shortly thereafter, Esfandiyar—acting as Khorrad the merchant—gained audience with King Arjasp. He spun a cunning tale of a violent ocean storm that had nearly swallowed his ships, telling how he had sworn a solemn vow to God that should he survive, he would host a magnificent feast for the realm's great lords and give alms to the needy.
Flattered and greedy, Arjasp joyfully granted permission. Esfandiyar requested to host the celebration atop the lofty ramparts of the Bronze Fortress, citing the arrival of the sacred month of Mehr. He commanded vast stores of timber to be hauled up the battlements and slaughtered horses and sheep for the banquet. As the bonfire roared to life, a colossal pillar of smoke obscured the heavens—the prearranged signal to Pashotan and the Iranian host waiting outside. Wine flowed without stint, and Esfandiyar urged the Turanian commanders to drink deeply until every noble champion lay helplessly intoxicated upon the high walls, holding narcissus blossoms in their insensate hands.