Parviz

When the revolving sun withdrew its light and the night star ascended the dark vault, Caesar of Rome summoned his master engineers and sorcerers, commanding them to construct an astonishing mechanical automaton—a talisman so lifelike that no observer could distinguish its synthetic form from a living creature. The Roman artisans crafted a breathtakingly beautiful maiden seated upon a royal throne, clothed in rich embroidered garments, surrounded by silent attendants stationed before and behind her. The clockwork figure resembled a grief-stricken maiden mourning the death of the Messiah, her face pale and her eyelashes wet with perpetual weeping, her hand raising periodically to flick away a tear.

When the wondrous construct was complete, Caesar marveled at the craftsmanship and devised a subtle scheme to test and outwit the Iranian nobles staying at his court. He summoned Gostahm, the renowned Iranian champion, and spun a sorrowful tale: 'I had a daughter beautiful as a painting, whom I gave in marriage to a noble youth according to the rites of the Messiah. But fate took the youth, and now my daughter sits trapped in silent agony, taking no counsel and speaking to no one. You are a valiant knight of heroic lineage; go to her, for perhaps she will break her silence for you.' Gostahm, moved by courtesy and wisdom, agreed to help.

Upon approaching the royal dais, the automaton—triggered by internal mechanisms—bowed gracefully to Gostahm. The champion sat beside her and delivered a profound discourse on the transience of life, reminding her that death spares neither the soaring eagle, the forest lion, nor the fish in the deep sea. Yet the figure remained silent, its hand moving mechanically at fixed intervals to drop a single tear. Unaware of the illusion, Gostahm returned to Caesar baffled, reporting that his wise words had failed to pierce her grief.

The following day, Caesar enacted the same ruse upon the Iranian nobles Baloy, Shapur, and Andiyan. The three eloquent champions delivered impassioned speeches to the figure, but met only total silence and the same precise, repetitive movement. They returned to Caesar defeated. Caesar feigned sorrow, secretly mocking the Iranian warriors' lack of discernment. Finally, he turned to Kharad Barzin, the brilliant scribe and statesman descended from the lineage of Ardashir.

Kharad Barzin walked into the chamber and scrutinized the silent figure, her crown, and her motionless attendants. Standing before her, his keen mind began to analyze the phenomena: If the princess was lost in stupor, why were all her servants equally motionless? Why did her tear fall onto the exact same spot on her lap every single time? Why did her arm follow a single invariant path without any natural variation of flesh and soul? Kharad Barzin realized at once that this was no living maiden, but a mechanical automaton devised by Roman philosophy and engineering.

Smiling, Kharad Barzin returned to Caesar and exposed the deception, declaring that the Romans had built this clever automaton to trick the eyes of the Iranians, but Iranian sagacity had pierced the illusion. He noted that King Khosrow Parviz would laugh with delight upon hearing how Rome's grand trick had been unmasked by true wisdom.