When the dust of the approaching hosts rose to the heavens, Ram-Barzin sounded the brass trumpets and marshaled the royal array. The churning hooves of armored horsemen and the brandishing of heavy maces raised such a tempest of dust that the very heart of the granite rocks shattered, and the radiant sun was swallowed by the dark sky. At the heart of the rebellious army stood Prince Nushzad, his head crowned with a Roman helmet. Surrounding him was an immense host of Roman Catholicoi and warriors, so vast that the bare earth vanished beneath iron shoes, as though the ground itself boiled and the heavens thundered above.
Out of the imperial ranks rode a brave, armored champion named Piruz-Shir. He raised his voice and addressed the prince: 'O renowned Nushzad! Who has turned your mind away from justice? Why have you abandoned the ancient paths of your forefathers—the rites of Keyumars, Hushang, and Tahmuras? Have you forgotten what your glorious father, King Khosrow, brought upon the Roman Caesar? How can you now raise your hand in battle against him?'
Looking upon Nushzad’s moon-like countenance and royal stature, Piruz-Shir grieved deeply and cried: 'Alas for this moon-like beauty, this mighty frame and majestic crown, that you now cast to the wind! Even were you a raging elephant or a roaring lion, you could never match the power of King Khosrow. Dismount your warhorse, lay down that Roman helmet and heavy mace, and crave quarter! Should even a cold wind dust your face, the King's heart will burn with sorrow. Do not sow the seeds of stubbornness, for it ill becomes a prince. Hear my counsel today, lest the whispers of evil flatterers bring you to ruin when it is too late.'