Time rolled on while the armies of Iran remained scattered and leaderless. In the heart of Rome, King Shapur lay bound in a harrowing and cruel captivity, his refined form encased tightly within a dried ass's hide that cut into his skin day and night. Yet within the Caesar’s palace dwelt a gentle maiden of Iranian lineage. Her heart burned with sorrow whenever she beheld the captive's torment, and tears filled her eyes. One day, approaching Shapur, she implored him to reveal his identity and the cause of his hidden agony, lamenting how his once cypress-tall stature had been bent into a ring of suffering. Shapur replied that if any compassion dwelt in her heart, she must first swear a binding oath never to betray him to his adversaries. Thereupon, the maiden swore by the Almighty, by the soul of the Messiah, by the Holy Cross, and by the faith of the realm that no secret of his would ever pass her lips. Shapur then entrusted his true identity and his plan to her: if she would bring him warm milk secretly every day, he could soak the stiff hide until it softened enough for him to break free. For two weeks, the loyal maiden secretly heated cups of milk over the fire and poured them onto Shapur's casing. At last, the raw hide softened completely, and Shapur emerged, his body sore and bloodied, but his spirit unbroken. Free from the hide, Shapur urged that they prepare an immediate escape from the hated land of Rome. The maiden assured him that on the morrow, the citizens and nobles of Rome would leave the city for a grand outdoor festival, leaving the palace deserted. She promised to secure two noble steeds, heavy maces, bows, swords, body armor, and Indian helmets. As the sun sank below the western horizon and night wrapped the world in pitch-black darkness, Shapur’s heart swelled with anxious thought, anticipating the fateful dawn.