When word spread among the Iranian nobility and the ranks of the army that Shirin had entered Khosrow’s royal harem, a shadow of gloom and anger fell upon the realm. Whispers of discontent filled the streets, for Shirin’s long separation and past afflictions had gathered a cloud of ill repute around her name. For three full days, the high priests and grandees abstained from attending the royal court. On the fourth dawn, King Khosrow summoned the grandees and seated them in their honored places, asking why they had grieved his heart through their absence.
No one dared answer; their tongues were tied with dread until all eyes turned toward the Mobad, the High Priest. Rising before the throne, the Mobad spoke with daring candor: 'O noble King, you took the crown in your youth and have witnessed the world's deep turns. Greatness relies on the purity of the royal line, yet today that noble bloodline is tainted. If a pure father mates with an unvirtuous mother, no wholesome fruit can grow. Our hearts are heavy that an evil influence has found a home beside our sovereign! Was there no other woman in Iran that Shirin must enter the holy meshku of Khosrow? Your wise ancestors never countenanced such a act.'
Khosrow listened to the lengthy rebuke in absolute silence. Seeing the King's quiet resolve, the Mobad suggested they retreat and return the following morning to receive the royal answer. The next day at dawn, the nobles assembled at the palace gates—some arguing that the Mobad spoke with ultimate wisdom, others anticipating the King’s formidable reply.
Once all were seated in the great hall, a servant entered bearing a shining golden basin. By Khosrow’s order, warm, dark blood was poured into it and placed before the assembly. Every lord turned his face away in revulsion at the filthy stench. The Mobad declared it an abhorrent stain. Then, Khosrow commanded the basin to be thoroughly washed with pure water and soil until it glittered immaculate. Thereupon, it was filled with brilliant red wine and sprinkled with sweet musk and rosewater, transforming it into a vessel radiating warmth and heavenly fragrance like the morning sun.
Khosrow turned to the Mobad and explained his parable: 'Behold this vessel—was it not the selfsame basin that moments ago aroused horror? So too was Shirin in the eyes of the populace—a poisoned vessel degraded by fate and my own early love for her. But now, received into our royal embrace and sanctified by the crown, she is washed clean of all slander and filled with precious fragrance.'
Overcome by the King's profound wisdom and poetic justice, the Mobad and the lords bowed low, chanting praises: 'May the world never be bereft of your crown and throne! You alone turn hell into paradise and mend ugly deeds into radiant virtue. You are at once King, High Priest, and Supreme Guide—the true shadow of the Divine upon the earth!'