Bahgoor

In the golden warmth of spring, King Bahram Gur commanded his emerald turquoise throne to be carried into a blossoming garden and set beneath the sheltering boughs of a flower-scattering tree. With wine-cups flowing and minstrel harp-strings vibrating, he gathered his highest ministers. Yet amidst the splendor, a sudden gravity touched the monarch’s heart. He spoke to his counselor of the transience of all earthly glory, reflecting that whether king or beggar, every soul must at last lie solitary in the dust of the tomb. All earthly registries of grandeur are erased by death, and only a good name endures beyond the grave. Observing that he had reached thirty-eight years of age, he observed that as forty approaches, a person must turn their soul toward the Almighty, don the garment of humility, and abandon vanity. Yet, he resolved to spend two final years enjoying the chase and the cup before devoting himself entirely to pious reflection.

When the cool autumn breezes of Shahrivar rustled the leaves and the festival of Mehregan arrived, Bahram donned fine furs and turned his eyes toward the famed hunting grounds of the plain of Jaz—a vast wilderness where wild tamarisks grew tall as spears, teeming with plump wild asses and roaring lions. Leading ten thousand sword-bearing cavalrymen, the King set out in grand array. His engineers rode ahead, digging deep wells and fitting them with water-wheels wrapped in silk to ensure abundance for the host. Reaching the fringes of Jaz, Bahram marveled at the wild thickets resounding with the roars of predators.

At break of day, after a night of festive drinking, Bahram rode straight into the dense forest. A ferocious lion, satiated after devouring a wild ass, charged out with terrifying fury. Refusing to use his bow or mace, Bahram drew his sharp sword, declaring that a true king must face the king of beasts blade-to-blade so that none could question his valor. With a single mighty blow, he cleaved the lion cleanly in two from head to waist; when its roaring mate bounded forth, he struck her down instantly with a swift blade to the neck.

The elderly mobad stepped forward, praising Bahram’s unparalleled strength yet gently counseling him to spare himself such rash peril, reminding him that he was now the sovereign protector of all Iran and his life belonged to his empire. Bahram graciously accepted the wisdom of the priest and returned to his royal pavilion.

That evening, as the army feasted off golden platters, Bahram lifted a heavy crystal goblet. He offered a noble toast to the memory of Ardashir Babakan, the righteous restorer of the realm, while condemning Alexander of Macedon for his brutal destruction of Iran's ancient royal dynasties. Bahram pledged that his own reign would be defined solely by justice and generosity. He immediately dispatched heralds through the army, proclaiming a strict royal edict: any soldier who plundered even a single thread of silk, a grain of wheat, or damaged an orchard in the lands of Jaz and Barquh would be bound backward upon his mount and dispatched in shame to the sacred fire temple of Adur Gushnasp to face imprisonment and pay full restitution. Hearing of the King's absolute protection, the merchants and townspeople of Jaz rejoiced, and the desert markets flourished like the vibrant bazaars of Cathay.