One aim of the book I'm currently writing is to weave the mythical yarn of the old myths of Steppe nomads with those of their cousins inhabiting the oases along Inner Asia's trade routes into the fabric of facts as we know them today.
No easy task when it comes to the knotted mythologies of Inner Asia.
The mythical origins of the Turks and Iranians, the Scyths and Soghdians, or the Indo-European speaking Tokharians who inhabited the Tarim oases of Central Asia when General Pan Chao was loosed against them by the Han Dynasty is a subject of enduring fascination. But the origins, like those of the Turks are as clear as the name of their mythical homeland: the Land of Darkness. An academic black hole, at least in English, if ever there was one; sure, there is Dede Korkut and its two extant manuscripts, but it's a mish-mash of legends, some Greek, others Turkish, and the rest possibly of an older provenance mixed up with anachronisms itching to be teased out. In this it resembles another great book, almost as hard to study in English, the Shahnameh, or Persian book of Kings.
More after the jump.
The Shahnameh is the great epic poem of Persia composed, ironically enough, for a penurious, if rather brutal Turk named Mahmud of Ghazni in the 11th century. Most of the decent literature, academic and lay, is usually a hundred or more years old, derivative of a Persian poetry fad in late 18th, early 19th century England. This fact alone makes even the casual study of the Shahnameh difficult. The last full translation of the Shahnameh went out of print 80 years ago.
When Good Kings Go Bad
Like two other Central Asian epic poems, the Dede Korkut of the Turks and the Manas of the Kyrgyz, the Shahnameh is riddled with anachronisms, fantastic if composite characters and its share of morality tales. One of the main features of the Shahnameh is the focus on the royal farr, which is ancient Persia's version of China's "Mandate of Heaven." Like Chinese history there are good kings and bad kings throughout Iran's long 2,500 year history. And like the "Mandate of Heaven" the people—in most cases not actually "the people" but rather a bunch of power hungry nobles acting in "the people's" name—are usually right in tossing them aside when their rulers go bad.
Sometimes, however, even kings in the Shahnameh get away with everything. Take the story of Kay Kavus for example, which takes place about a quarter of the way into the Shahnameh. For starters, Kavus is a bad king. What, with getting his nation into unwinnable wars through a combination of cock-sure arrogance and a persistent inability to heed good advice he's the archetype of bad kings. Oh yeah, he's a repeat offender too.
Back to Kavus, however.
There's A Story In Here Somewhere
Like an ancient Iranian Prince Humperdinck Kavus announces a campaign to conquer Mazanderan, which is the lush, Edenic province of Iran, opposite the Elburz Mountains along the southern shores of the Caspian Sea. Kavus' advisers warn him that he cannot defeat the demon-kings that rule Mazanderan, rhythmically intoning like a Greek Chorus, "if you attack them, you won't see again/the gold you throw away there, or the men."
Kavus disregards the collective wisdom of his people and marches off to war. Soon Kavus finds himself in trouble. Lotsa trouble.
Trapped with his army by the White-Demon, Mazanderan's King of Kings, the Persian force, Kavus included, is blinded, stripped of their arms and wealth and finally imprisoned.
There Goes My Hero
Rostam, who, as the editor and translator of this edition of the Shahnameh, Dick Davis says, "is the pre-eminent hero of the poem," hears of his king's troubles in his far away home of Zabolestan.
This Persian Hercules, a sun hero for fire-worshippers, saddles up his horse—there always seems to be a horse in the Shahnameh's stories, perhaps this is Ferdowsi's subtle nod to the old nomadic ways—and rides off towards Mazanderan.
Rostam soon finds himself in the thick of seven trials (one of which is actually completed by his faithful horse Raksh) along his journey to rescue Kavus. First he kills a lion, then he must find water (Iran equals desert, remember). After slaking his thirst he then kills a dragon, quickly followed by a witch. He then captures Olad but not before ripping his servant's ears off. Rostam then forces Olad to act as his guide into Mazanderan. Once in Mazanderan he slays Arzhang, a demon-general, and his army.
His final task: kill the White Demon, which he does by hacking out his heart and liver. Foie gras anyone?
After all this slaying of dragons, murdering of witches, and cutting a wide and bloody swath through an army of demons Rostam is then ordered to complete the conquest of Mazanderan. And this he does without a hint of discord. Rostam is, if nothing else, dutiful to his liege lord.
With his sight and army restored, Kavus upon his throne, dismisses Rostam, who, much like a Persian Cincinnatus returns home to Zabolestan.
There's Always A Girl
One would think that was enough adventure for one reign, right?
Well, not for good ol' Kavus.
And it came to pass (I've always wanted to write that), that while the king was touring the frontiers of his realm the Barbary Kingdom, Egypt and Hamaveran rose up in rebellion.
This time King Kavus smashes his enemies without the help of his hero, Rostam.
The first to capitulate is the King of Hamaveran, named, Hamaveran. Through king-like trickery Kavus discovers the Hamaverani king's daughter has "hair like black musk [and] a tongue like a dagger lodged between/lips sweet as sugarcane . . . fit for a monarch, if one should decide/to choose this moonlike beauty as his bride." He promptly falls in love and requests an audience with King Hamaveran.
Kavus asks the good King Hamaveran for his daughter's hand. Having just lost the war to the great Kavus, Hamaveran can hardly say no, although he loves his daughter "dearer than life itself."
There is happiness and rejoicing in Persia when Kavus returns with his new bride.
The Wedding Was Fantastic But The Honeymoon Sucked
Hamaveran went to pieces once he lost his daughter and quickly decided to get her back. He invited the newlyweds to celebrate their nuptials in his kingdom, whilst dastardly-like planning to kidnap his daughter and imprison his foe, Kavus.
Sudabeh, Hamaveran's daughter is wise to her father's ploy and pleads with her new husband not to go, that "all of this is on [her] account and will be a cause of sorrow to you."
As I've heretofore mentioned, Kavus doesn't take good advice when it's proffered so he packs up a kingly caravan of treasure replete with coins, musk, frankincense and brocades of Chinese silk and off the newlyweds travel, right into Hamaveran's trap. Kavus and his royal retinue are seized soon after they arrive in the Kingdom of Hamaveran. Sudabeh and her father, Hamaveran, are, of course, happily reunited too.
Er, actually they aren't, for Sudabeh is an honorable woman.
Chiding her father in front of his lackeys, she yells out, "you lie and break your oaths and cheat/ and ambush him with welcoming deceit."
Off to prison she went.
Once word leaks that the King of Persia is in Hamaveran's captivity all of Persia's enemies stike. Turan invades from the North, Hamaveran from the South and Barbary (presumably) from the West. Persia finds itself in crisis, and in need of a hero. (One similarity to Western epics is the deus ex machina.)
Enter Rostam, who gathers a force from Zabolestan and quickly destroys three armies, shredding the resistance to King Kavus' will like an ancient Jack Bauer plowing through a field of Afghan poppies.
Kavus and Sudabeh, released from prison are once again safe. All is in balance and happiness abounds in the kingdom of Persia.
A Flight of Fancy
Meanwhile Eblis, an Arabic name for the Devil, plots. He calls his demons to a convocation—can't you just see that in your minds eye, registration desks, name tags, introductory meetings and those silly ten question psyche profiles people like to give at convocations like this—and challenges them to make Persia unhappy again. Things are just a bit too good right now. Kavus' is on the throne, the nobles are fleecing the peasants, the kings advisors have the country convinced all is well and dear Rostam is back in Zabolestan chilling with his loyal steed Raksh.
One particular demon, we're not told his name, takes up Eblis' challenge. "I'm wily enough for this," he says.
"Wrench his mind away from God and bring his royal glory down into the dust," demands Eblis of his demon.
The king soon tires of his kingdom's well-being and goes on a hunt. Eblis spies his opportunity and at once our fair demon is transformed into a handsome, yet cunning courtier who magically appears in the midst of Kavus' hunt. The king is quickly enchanted by his new courtier's schemes.
"The sun still keeps its secrets from you," his fair courtier says, "how it turns in the heavens [is] as yet unknown to you."
With nobles bereft of any decent ideas, all goes to hell when Kavus, deciding now is the time to learn the secrets of the heavens, lashes four hungry eagles to the corners of a lightweight throne. Lambs dangle just out of reach of the eagles' terrible talons whose hunger propels Kavus into the sky like a senile Icarus.
Alas, the eagles tire, the throne falls to the ground, the king is once more rescued by Rostam near the Caspian Sea town of Amol and the secrets of the universe remain secret.
What Does It All Mean?
I've sat with this story most of the day, wondering what it means. I'm of the opinion that most mythical, epic poetry usually contains a grain of truth, some plausible historicity. After all, Heinrich Schliemann did discover the real Troy in the 1870s right where Homer said it was. (Funny no one had ever before thought to look, no?)
That there are cultural clues in myths has been a fruitful line of inquiry for academics for several decades now, at least Western, Greek and Roman oriented mythology. Sometimes the myths are even used in more scientific subjects, like psychology, as a way of better understanding ourselves. Myths as metaphors for human interaction and relationships? Who knew?
More often than not, however, myths are morality tales, like Aesop's Fables. The tale of Kavus certainly has elements of that: Kavus is arrogant. He's selfish. He doesn't take good advice. And he has an elevated sense of his own abilities. All that is obvious from the narrative of the tale, but what I find most interesting is how this story seems to have an underlying substrate, or even multiple levels of myth conflated and layered on top of the main narrative. But that's for another post.
Kavus, at this point in the poem, is a better developed character than Rostam. He's a full character, if hardly a rounded one. He's boorish, arrogant, licentious. There's nothing to like about him and yet he still manages depth.
Poor Rostam, though, he's nothing like Kavus, much less Achilles. Achilles was a real character. He was the hero that you couldn't but hate, blood thirsty, obsessed with his own destiny and a real man, with real appetites, yearnings, ambitions.
Rostam just does all these heroic things but doesn't seem to have any wants or desires. There's no qiud for his quo. He's just an automated deus ex machina for Persian monarchs in trouble.
Hardly real, but then again, how much of my knowledge of Achilles is culturally received? How much of his story is baggage, or little random bits of code floating around my synapses and firing my neurons? Achilles' is a story I've accumulated over the course of my life, so perhaps this is why Rostam seems so hollow.
There's a moral to this story. Somewhere.