Deceived

Chapter 1: Educating a Khan

in the Twentieth Century

Not one arrow had been launched. Not one sword had been unsheathed. As the great Persian conqueror Cyrus turned his gallant steed toward the hanging gardens of Babylon, he lifted his eyes toward heaven. Ahura Mazda, God of all wisdom and all knowledge, he prayed as he rode toward destiny, protect this land of my people from war, from famine, but above all… protect this empire from the lie… whose power is greater than war; greater than famine. Keep us in truth. Utterly destroy the liar. By this I will know that what I have done, the peoples you have allowed me to unite in law and in justice, will forever remain a testimony to righteous. For without honesty there can be no trust. Without trust there can be no peace.

Truth was the mark of a true Zarathustrian of the royal line. Truth was held in the highest esteem… even above their love of knowledge and justice. Although Cyrus would die in battle with invaders from the east, and the priests of the Medes which he had welcomed into his religion would murder his heir and attempt to abscond with his great empire, a distant cousin would rally to preserve what Cyrus had begun. Darius would achieve even more for the Persian people.

Only the lies of the Greeks would halt the Persian expansion. Only the deceit of a powerful vizier would weaken the line of Achaemenian kings. Only the blood lust of Alexander the Macedonian would burn their capital to the ground and steal centuries of knowledge… along with Persia’s wives and children.

Still, again and again the noble people, who were blessed by the prayers of Cyrus, would arise from ashes and lies to continue their tradition of acceptance and honesty. The lie would remain accursed among them… until the Arabs of Islam brought deceit to Persia and pronounced that it was clever. Trickery became an honored way of life. And the greatest liar was among the most powerful.

The old ways of Cyrus were forgotten by all but a few Persians. The Khorasanis were among the last who still prayed his prayer.

Although the rest of the world had realized the turn of the century from the nineteenth to the twentieth, a country in the Middle East, Westerners called Persia, had forgotten to keep abreast of the times. Her impotent government had ignored her until a son of the land took it upon himself to drag her into industry and meaningful production. The new king’s pride and joy was the railway which linked the sleeping cat from her collar to her toes. But the old ways were slow to change and there was much insecurity. There was no public education. There were no hospitals. There was no police protection. Life was a desert nomad.

Far to the east of the new railway, dust hung in dark clouds above a road near Meshed as troops passed on their war-weary stallions. Dust coated the grasses and wild flowers of the wayside and rose to find the hooded face of a traveler on foot. He stopped to wipe the layer of brown from his forehead. His nose burned. His dim eyes smarted as he watched the peace-keepers ride toward the little village ahead. Then, he returned to his rut on one side of the much-traveled road. His long staff marked his slow but steady pace.

The old man limped past fields and furrows. He made his way to the gate outside the lands of the house of Khorasani. He paused to rest before entering. The end of his journey was near.

A young tribesman recognized the ancient as a cleric and left his post to bring water and a rough, wooden stool. Teacher, the guard began, we were told to expect you. Honor me, a while, with your presence. The road is long to my master’s house.

Not as long as the road I have traveled, the tutor smiled. These old bones cry for rest. A drink would be the honey-wine of the Prophet.

Of course, the younger man bowed to his elder. He sat the wooden stool in the shade of the earthen wall and seated the old man. Then he ran to fetch the water bag.

His elder leaned his staff against the wall and turned to accept the drinking-skin. After a liberal partaking, he lowered his dust-covered hood to reveal hair of silver. Now, tell me, young sir, he asked as he returned the bag to the guardsman, about your master. Is he a fair man?

He is a general of the Northern army. Being so, he is away a great deal. When he is with us, he is very fair.

Hum, mumbled the ancient. Any honorable tribesman would speak the same.

Not so, declared the young guard. I speak as my heart tells me. All of us are encouraged by my master to speak only truth.

I fear you have an unbridled tongue, the old man chuckled.

At the tutor’s insinuation the loyal tribesman took offense. My master has never bridled the tongue, the hands, or the heart of my people, he insisted. Old one, do you come as a friend or to try us and spy on us?

The old man reached for his staff and used it to come, unsteadily, to his feet. I come as a teacher who wishes to know his employer, nothing more.

The tribesman gathered up the wooden stool in one hand and accompanied the sage to the gateway with the other. You come to teach my master? he sounded skeptical.

As tutor to young Nadir Khorasani, his elder answered, your future master. The blessings of al Lah be upon you for your kindness. He bowed to the young man who returned a lower bow of respect.

Setting the hood in its place, the old teacher moved on. His brief rest had allowed the dust time to settle out of hoof-beaten air. As he walked, he pondered his new position. Being an experienced tutor he knew that few Persian parents could afford to hire a teacher for one child. The younger children of a wealthy family seemed to have an easier life. It was the eldest who was being trained to inherit his father’s lands and responsibilities.

The old man had heard tales of the Khorasani family. It was said that they had fought and died for Iran from before the time of the great kings. Their lives were bathed in the ancient traditions. Because of all the noble things he had heard about them, he was apprehensive about his new employment.

The tutor let his mind fly over the ancient legends he would be expected to teach the young master Khorasani. They tripped through his head until he found himself standing before his new home. The roar of manly laughter poured from its door.

An elderly servant, not many years his junior, was returning from the stables. Everyone is feasting, he called as he came in sight of the visitor. Whom do you seek?

Please forgive the late hour. I am Zirak the scholar. I was summoned, by writing, to be tutor to young Master Nadir Khorasani. He produced a small scroll bearing the broken seal of the family Khorasani.

Ah, yes, the teacher. We have been expecting you. You are most welcome, sir, said the servant. I am Gaodhasti, keeper of my master’s horses. The general has recently returned from the northern army to spend the evening with his family and friends. He would want you settled in the house he selected for you. Come, and I will show you.

When will I be allowed to meet my charge? queried the ancient.

Whenever my master wishes, the servant spoke plainly. He motioned for the new tutor to follow.

A much smaller house stood within sight of the main complex. It was surrounded by similar buildings. As the elderly men approached the one-room structure, the sun’s light was beginning to fade. Smoke was rising from a hole in the roof.

The servant, Gaodhasti, seemed surprised. He blocked the entrance protectively as he let the door creak open. Who is there? he called.

Just me, Gaodhasti, a child’s small voice came from beside the fireplace.

Master Nadir? the old servant asked. He entered, and the old teacher followed.

They stood facing the fire until their eyes became adjusted to the dimness. What they found was a small, eight-year-old boy stoking the smoldering fire.

Your father is home, Gaodhasti told the boy.

Yes, I know.

Why are you not with the others?

The old tutor noticed how soft-spoken and gentle the old servant was with the boy. Theirs was more than the usual old servant/young master relationship. There was mutual affection in the voices.

It was very loud inside, the youngster tried to explain, so I came here.

The old servant nodded as if he understood the needs of the child and turned to indicate the hooded traveler. Master, this is the tutor your father has chosen for you. It is his house you have entered unbidden.

The boy jumped to his feet. My apologies, Sir, he said.

No apology necessary, returned the teacher, you have warmed my home for me. For that, I am grateful. Then, to the servant, This young man is my student?

This is Nadir, my master’s eldest son. He turned again to the boy. You will be missed, he reminded him.

I suppose I must go back then, the eight-year-old said, grudgingly. He let his right foot play in some loose dirt on the earthen floor.

Could he… ? the old tutor began, then hesitated.

Nadir’s big brown eyes left the floor and found the eyes of his new teacher.

Would it be allowed… for him to stay… for just a while longer? the new employee asked.

Gaodhasti gave Zirak a look that passed for distain, but he said, finally, As you wish, and he bowed and turned to go.

Nadir’s eyes followed the departure of the familiar figure. As Gaodhasti closed the door on the room containing the boy and the stranger, Nadir Khorasani sat, cross-legged, on the floor beside the fire. He was unsure of this new teacher.

The old tutor removed his hooded coat and set his staff against the wall. He found some food stores and rummaged through the shelves until he had located a container of dried fruits. He opened the jar and set it on the floor in front of the boy. Then, with great effort, he lowered himself to sit beside the child.

The old man fished inside the jar of dried fruits for a tasty-looking morsel and placed it in the grubby hand of the sniffling eight-year-old. When we arrived, there was water on your face, young man, he accused. Tell me, why would you possibly be afraid of your father?

I am not afraid, the boy began to protest.

Ah, but you are. You see, the tutor smiled, I can read your mind.

Nadir fingered the dried apricot but did not taste it. He had no reason to doubt his elder.

You can tell me, Nadir, the teacher coaxed. I am your tutor now. That means I have to tell you all about history and mathematics. And, you have to tell me what you are thinking. You must never hide your thoughts from me.

But, if you can read my mind, reasoned the child, you know what I am thinking. He hesitated to eat the fruit. There was a lump of emotion in his small throat.

Yes, of course I know, said the tutor, so that, when you tell me, I will know if you speak truth.

A blazing log crackled in the fireplace. It startled the boy, and he dropped his piece of fruit. Not wanting to, he sobbed aloud.

The old teacher set his wrinkled hand gently beside the child’s head and drew it slowly into his arms. He tussled the black curly locks while speaking softly in the little ear.

He began an ancient tale so full of wisdom and adventure that Nadir’s concerns slipped away into his own imagination. Before the end of the third epic, the child’s eyelids surrendered to the hour and the exhaustion of his own emotions.

Young Nadir awakened to the dying embers of an unattended fire and the sound of his mother’s voice calling his name. It took a few moments for the cobwebs in his head to clear and to realize that he was, still, in the arms of the, now sleeping, old teacher. Carefully, he slipped from the caress of his new tutor and raced out of the hut. He came to an abrupt halt at his mother’s side.

Mother Khorasani gave Nadir a stern look but, in accordance with custom, said nothing. Her dark eyes watched him to his room. As he slid between the covers of his bed, he could hear his father giving commands to his officers. Everything was, already, being prepared for the general’s next, long absence.

Nadir fell asleep with troubled thoughts. They led to troubled dreams. Chief Reza Khorasani was riding past him on a great, white Arabian horse. They were in the fields close to the house. But every time Nadir tried to reach his mother and home, his father would brush his sides, knocking him to the ground. Instead of coming closer to home and safety, Reza Khan was driving him farther and farther away. He awakened, with a start, at the touch of the old sayer.

The servants are going into town for supplies, he told his new student. We must hurry if we are to ride with them. He tousled Nadir’s curly hair. I will wait for you in the wagon. Do not be slow. Old men do not waste their winter years well.

Nadir didn’t understand the reference, but he did want to go with the others to Meshed. He sprang from his bed, pulled on his clothes, splashed his face, gulped his breakfast, much to his mother’s chagrin, and ran for the door to her call of slowly, slowly!.

One leap landed the energetic youngster in the back of the hay wagon beside his teacher. With hay dust flying over the driver and his two passengers, the servant gave a verbal command to the team, and they trotted toward the town road. The wooden wheels groaned. Young Nadir was encouraged to identify each tree and flower along the way. He had no difficulty.

At last the gates of Meshed loomed ahead. The young boy’s heart fairly leaped. He was anxious to shop the bazaar with his new tutor. The expedition, however, proved to be a frustrating experience for the eight-year-old student. Every item Nadir thought indispensable, the old man found childish. The things his tutor had him purchase, Nadir thought uninteresting.

Zirak had his charge buy paper, pens, ink, a compass, and a gold medallion in the likeness of the prophet Ali. The old teacher even insisted on having the Khorasani seal engraved on the back of Nadir’s new necklace. They, both, approved the Jasmine perfume the child wanted to give his mother.

The boy had been running from booth to booth when he turned to discover that his elderly companion had disappeared in the crowd. An hour later he was no closer to finding his tutor, and his burst of adventuresome energy was gone.

As the Iranian child stood against the tiled wall of the carpet merchant, watching the bustle of the tribesmen as they purchased last-minute goods in the bazaar, his mind wandered to the past evening’s tales.

Nadir remembered the ancient legend of Prince Baromagul, who would be king. Being a king, the old teacher had warned, like being a tribal leader, is not an easy thing. The boy recalled the story of how the ancient king had tested his son to prove the worth of the prince.

The way of a king is very hard, the tutor had begun the tale. To be king a prince must prove himself worthy of that responsibility. Baromagul was the son of Yazdijerd. ‘If you would be king after me,’ his father told him, ‘you must claim your throne from two other kings.’ The golden crown of the Iranian throne lay on the earth between two hungry lions. The young prince walked boldly into the arena. The huge lions attacked. In less than the pounding of a heart, the battle was over. The great beasts lay dead. Prince Baromagul, strong and brave, had earned the right to be king of all Iran.

Eight-year-old Nadir had seen many ancient carvings and silver workings in the homes of wealthy merchants, friends of his father. Some of them depicted Baromagul’s victory over the lions.

The high-pitched sounds of dealing in trade filled the marketplace. The youngster had observed the bickering and arguing over price many times. It no longer held his attention. He slipped back into his imaginings. Soon he was remembering another story his tutor had shared with him the previous night. He had been especially interested in the tale because it concerned the son of his grandfather’s, and his own, namesake, King Nadir. He had been reminded many times that Nadir Shah had been the last great general and warring king of his country. The boy recalled the legend almost word for word.

Katur was not his father’s equal, his tutor had told young Nadir. "The strength and fearlessness of the father had not been fostered in the son. When King Nadir placed Meshed in his son’s control, Katur did the best he could to care for the city and its people. But the prince had been neither honest nor just. Many tribesmen had complained to the king. Nadir Shah hoped that, as his son’s responsibilities grew, the prince would learn to be more understanding with his people. Katur did not.

"Two elderly tribesmen came before the new governor with a complaint. Each held property that the other wanted for himself. Instead of guiding the tribesmen in their bargaining, Katur abused his power and confiscated both their lands. One of the men had no sons to care for him, and he hanged himself.

"When King Nadir received word of the injustice his son had inflicted upon these men, he was consumed with rage. In his hatred of the deed, and in his misery at the loss of an innocent tribesman, Nadir Shah ordered that the eyes of his greedy son be darkened forever. Katur was blinded.

"Almost immediately, King Nadir regretted his hasty decision. His mind reeled with thoughts of what he had done to his own son. The flesh of his flesh had shown weakness, and he had compounded his son’s cruelty with his own.

"Darkness crept from Katur’s empty eyes into the mind of the great king. When Nadir Shah’s insanity threatened the entire government of Iran, his generals decided that something unthinkable had to be done.

Canker must be removed before it poisons the entire body and destroys it. Although he was a greater general than Darius, or even the Great King Cyrus, the leaders of Nadir Shah’s army had their king killed… for the sake of the Iranian people."

Even at the young age of eight years, Nadir Khorasani understood the lesson. A great king had died, and his short-lived dynasty had ended, because of the weakness and cruelty of his firstborn son. To be strong and brave was not enough. A king must be honest and fair. And to be a khan demanded no less of a man than the demands to be a king. To rule Oochan Village, Nadir Khorasani would require the qualities of a king.

The child was troubled. What sort of man would be become? Would he be strong and brave like Prince Baromagul? Or would he fail his father and disgrace his family like Prince Katur? How would he know if he was worthy to be Khan, to be Chieftain of Oochan?

Nadir? It was his teacher. Why are you standing idle when there is so much to be done?

You were lost, the boy remarked.

Lost? I knew where I was, the old man scoffed.

Young Khorasani smiled. I knew where I was, he told his teacher.

Well, then, neither of us was lost, reasoned the old man, and now we are together. Come. The tribesmen are waiting for us to join them. His elder left the boy to continue shuffling his way through the crowded bazaar. Nadir followed more closely, this time.

They found the Khorasani servants and Oochan tribesmen jovial and patient, as they always were with their chieftain’s firstborn. Nadir was a favored child. He could have joined the horse of any tribesman in his father’s army, and welcome, but he chose to ride in the jostling wagon with Zirak.

The boy expected to take the same nature test he had taken on their trip from the village or face some other lesson. Instead the old teacher asked Nadir one question which kept the eight-year-old silent for most of their return journey. Without warning the old man asked, Nadir, are you afraid of your father, or are you more afraid of disappointing your father?

Could his new teacher really read Nadir’s mind? Reza Khorasani’s heir never answered Zirak’s question. Zirak never asked it again.

The old tutor knew Nadir’s need for his father was no less passionate than the elder Khorasani’s love for his son. War and politics kept the khan from his home at a time when the boy craved his father’s attention. The Khan of Oochan Village had hardly the time to visit his family before his responsibility to politics called him away. Before young Nadir returned from his trip, with his new teacher, to the bazaar in Meshed, General Khorasani was off to another called meeting of tribal leaders.

For months he had waged war. Two nights at home, and, now, it was politics that pulled him away, again. As he walked into the meeting house and took his place among the other tribal leaders, Chief Reza wondered if he were doing the more important thing.

Debate was at a high pitch as tempers flared and emotions fought head to head with reason. Reza Khan settled himself to wait his turn, or his chance, to speak his own mind and make known his own grievances. Slowly, his ears became attuned to the loudest voice in the sea of words.

He has thrown the wearers of the turban in prison, he has outlawed the women’s veil, he has commanded our priests to be licensed, one red-faced chieftain was screaming. Our ancient Mohammedan laws have been nullified and, in their place, he has established his own ideals and those of the western world! The last words were spit as if they gave the speaker a sour taste.

How soon you forget, Rehum, an older chieftain shouted from across the room. Could you walk the streets of your city at night and not expect your throat to be slashed by some bandit? Could you travel the highways in safety with your goods or your gold? We had no police before this king. Or have you forgotten the thieves and robbers? Why, I dare say one could travel with a vase of gold coins atop his head from Kermah to Tabriz, and no man would dare to touch a single coin or harm a hair of his head.

Yes, the young chief retorted. Torture is, indeed, a strong deterrent.

At this the din grew louder as each man began to voice the successes and failures of the new dynasty. It was obvious to General Khorasani that lines would soon be drawn. Sides would soon be taken. He forgot his own grievances as he listened, more intently, to the opinions of others.

Food prices have doubled, taxes have trebled! came a shout from the far corner.

Would you have us continue to be at the mercy of foreign loans? countered the man at Reza’s left.

His Majesty has solved our problem with land titles, ventured a slightly over-weight sheik.

Laughter came from a small group near the center of the house as their acknowledged leader responded with, Yes, and how did he solve them? Vast areas of our land simply became known as crown property.

Now, my friends, an elderly chief began, we must consider the benefits of this new government. Already we have new beet-sugar factories, power plants, roads, cotton mills…

At the mention of cotton he was interrupted by one, angry chieftain who cried, Cotton? My fields were stripped of wheat to plant the King’s cotton. The drought wiped-out the cotton. There was nothing for the market. Nothing!

It was just as well, my friend, another man added. If you had gone to market you would have found no money there. The falling world market made my cotton worth more before I put it in the ground than when I took it out.

He has initiated government-sponsored, primary education and built many new schools, said one.

He has taken the education of our young people away from the clergy, said another.

His Britannic Majesty’s naval forces are no longer welcomed to make their base in Iranian waters, someone voiced, proudly, using the new name of their country.

And how soon could they return to haunt us, one quipped, since they are only across the gulf in the Bahrain Islands?

The excitement was growing to an emotional plateau which, Reza felt sure, would give way to violence.

Our sovereign’s strategies are of the highest nature, a man in the middle of the room was saying to his counterpart across the table.

The two men were standing, facing each other, nose to nose. Each was propped with his left hand planted, firmly, on the table over which he leaned. Each, as he spoke, was jabbing the other with a pointed finger.

The first man continued, Persia will soon have eight-hundred and sixty-five miles of railroad, containing no foreign ownership nor based on any foreign loan, which could well be used to repulse the Russians from the north or a British invasion from the Persian Gulf.

A pointed jab came from the second man as he said, Good! His Imperial Majesty can soon ride, by rail, from his lands on the Persian Gulf to his estates on the Caspian Sea!

The tribal chieftain opened his mouth to retort, but no words were heard. Instead, a rumble, like thunder, spread through the meeting house. At first, General Reza thought the fight he had anticipated had begun. He struggled to regain his footing. But, in an instant, his mind told him he had felt no blow. His feet had left their place of their own accord.

Although not accustomed to fear, the realization that this fiery, political meeting had not been interrupted by man made his stomach churn. This was an earthquake! The tribal chieftains began running for the doorway. Khorasani dodged chunks of falling ceiling to join them in the mad scramble. As he stumbled into the open, his thoughts, his prayers, were for his wife and three children near Meshed. He remembered he had held and loved each of them the night before he left Oochan. He had shown his love to each of them… except his firstborn, Nadir.

In that little village just north of Meshed, two of the khan’s children were at play in a field near the house of their older brother’s newly-hired teacher. As he watched the younger boy and girl having fun, Zirak was concerned that his student was not with them.

In a few moments Nadir’s mother appeared to call the frolicking youngsters to their mid-day meal. The tutor moved to join her. He was weighing thoughts of speaking to another man’s wife about her elder son when the field suddenly dropped below his line of sight.

Mother had insisted that the heir of Oochan Village put in extra study time while she prepared his lunch. Alone inside the house, eight-year-old Nadir was not familiar with the new sound, the low rumble coming from beneath the floor. Too soon, however, he came to understand its meaning. The walls around him began to crumble. Zelzeleh! (Earthquake) he managed to scream before he was buried in the rubble that had once been his home.

Everything was darkness. A dusty fireball enclosed his small body and burned his lungs. He felt a sharp pain in his left arm as he tried to protect his head and face. So, this is what it is to die, he thought. He found it interesting, somehow, that he was not afraid.

Nadir gave an involuntary shudder under the pressing load above him. He thought he heard someone calling his name. Just then a space appeared in the darkness. In it was a tiny light, like a single candle on a moonless night. And in this space was the precious breath he needed to cry aloud. He called for the one person foremost on his mind and in his heart. Pedar! (Father)

Then all the pain was gone. Nadir found himself standing alone inside the brightest light he had ever seen. He wondered why it did not hurt his eyes. Never had he felt so warm, and safe, and happy. Someone was there with him. A shadowy figure stood just ahead of him. He looked like a much older version of himself. But from far away he could hear his name. He turned away from the figure at the urgency of his mother’s voice. Nadir! Nadir! He knew he had to answer his mother’s desperate call.

It was his mother and his new teacher who were digging through the debris of the family kitchen. It was his mother and his new teacher who were pulling his small form up, up, up from the peace of death into the suffering of life.

His lungs gasped for air. He felt the warmth of his mother’s embrace and the wetness of her tears. And when he felt the pain in his arm and chest, he realized he was alive.

When Zirak could wrestle the boy from his mother’s arms he found a broken arm and cracked ribs among the cuts and bruises sustained by his young student. He proceeded to set and bandage Nadir’s injuries. As he finished, the old man kissed the pendant the boy still wore around his neck and offered a prayer of thanksgiving that his only pupil had been found so quickly.

Nadir’s mother and siblings joined the servants in erecting tents on the Khorasani lawn and preparing food and medicines for the people of the village. It was common knowledge that the chieftain’s estates were the collection point for villagers to gather and assess needs in the event of a disaster. There would be survivors who would come from as far away as Meshed.

Since the ancient tutor was much too old to aid in the searches or in the clearing away and rebuilding, he focused on his primary task… the education of the Khorasani heir. Once the proper herbs had been applied to lessen the boy’s pain, Zirak positioned his patient on a comfortable rug and sat cross-legged before him.

Nadir’s eyes fixed themselves intensely on those of his teacher as the old man began another Iraji legend for his student’s instruction.

"A religious man trusts his fate to al Lah (the God). A zealot trusts his all to faith. King Tamos was a zealous man. When word reached the palace that Mamud-Afghan had crossed the border with Afghanistan, Tamos was not stirred. ‘Trust in al Lah,’ he told his advisors. ‘Al Lah will protect us.’

"When the nervous military officers reported that Mamud-Afghan had reached the capital city, Tamos stood firm. ‘Al Lah will protect us,’ he said again. ‘Mamud-Afghan is outside the palace gates!’ cried the guards. ‘Al Lah will protect us,’ said Tamos.

"The proud Afghani tribesman marched into the chamber of the king. He had fought many battles and killed many Persians. As he threw open the inner chamber doors, a nervous little zealot stepped from his throne and placed a crown of gold on Mamud-Afghan’s head. ‘By the will of al Lah, the most high, you are now king,’ Tamos said with a shaking voice.

Do you understand the weakness of such a faith Nadir? the old man asked the boy.

Trust in al Lah, but tie your camel, Nadir offered.

Simple but true, agreed his tutor. Zealots have faith, or so they say, but true faith, young Khorasani, is faith in the abilities that al Lah places within you. Faith in al Lah is faith in yourself and the people you trust. Al Lah works through us.

So, if I am strong, or if I am weak, it is al Lah working in me?

Al Lah does not give weakness, promised Zirak, only strength. To increase that strength, or allow it to become weakness, is our choice. Your namesake, Nadir, was a religious man, his teacher continued.

The youngster’s thick, dark eyebrows shot upward at the mention of the warrior for whom he and his grandfather had been named.

"This was his country. He had been born on its plains, the son of a nomad. He was a strong and brave khan of his tribe who was not afraid of war or death.

Nadir began in the east and pushed his men against the enemy. War, death, loss, and victory, he led his troops into the capital city. Mamud-Afghan was defeated. The country was restored. Nadir of Persia placed the crown, once again, on Tamos’ head.

No!

No? The old man was startled by the interruption.

Teacher, if Nadir returned the crown to Tamos, how did he become king?

Listen and learn, his tutor chided the boy. "The great people of Persia were not blind. They saw the weakness of Tamos and the wisdom of Nadir. Many of them came to the khan and asked him to make himself their king. At first, Nadir refused. ‘Will you question a king?’ he asked them. But, when he saw that the shame of Tamos threatened the security of all the people, Nadir yielded to his destiny.

"The king whose proud name you bear, Nadir, was a tactician, a disciplinarian, a warrior, and a great leader. He increased the borders of our country as had the other great kings before him. He marched his army through Afghanistan and on to the then powerful and wealthy nation of India.

When a huge chasm cut his path, he ordered a bridge be made of the tail hairs of his army’s horses. When the enemy’s elephants blocked the way of his camels, and threatened to stampede the smaller animals, he lit fires on the humps of his desert travelers. The shrieks of the galloping, long-necked beasts produced such frenzy among the gray mammoths of the Indians that his charge left the enemy trampled beneath the feet of their own animals.

King Nadir was not royalty? asked the boy. He was a nomad?

Neither was Aryamehr royalty, commented Zirak. Still, he has taken our country in his hands much as the Nadir of legend.

Then any man can be king.

No Nadir. Only special men, chosen men whose names are written in the Farr, can be king.

Then, how can we know? young Khorasani wondered. The Farr has been lost to us for many dynasties.

We will know by the honesty of those men and the justice they provide for our people, said the tutor. A listing of future kings is not necessary while we can know the quality of the man. And, remember young khan, no less will be expected of a chieftain than of a shah. He tussled Nadir’s dark, curly hair as he settled himself to begin another tale. Justice, to be true, is justice for all.

Young Khorasani loved the folklore and legends of his country. They were a major part of a khan’s education. For over two-thousand years tales had passed from generation to generation by oral tradition. He listened intently so that he, too, would be able to share those stories with his own descendants.

"A small brown donkey rambled sluggishly toward the castle wall. Perhaps the grass was tempting there, sweeter, more tender. In his attempt to meet his small needs, the poor animal took no heed of the rope that dangled before him. He had no thought of the bell that rested above him.

"He wanted to eat. He wanted to rest. He wanted to scratch the itch that was spreading across his shoulder. The animal turned his thoughts from his meal. He raised his head and bared his teeth to subdue the attacking insects that had invaded his back. The rope strayed from its place. The bell responded to the movement.

"Any who wished audience with the supreme judge were not turned away. When the bell of justice sounded, the king was never far from his people. A servant of the king brought the passive little creature into the throne room.

"His Majesty’s first impulse was to laugh, but the serious posture of his servant prevented it. ‘Is this donkey the loyal subject who requests a court of justice?’ the shah asked. ‘He rang the bell, Your Highness,’ replied the servant. ‘This is he who rang the bell of justice.’ ‘So be it,’ said the king. ‘Have this animal bought and freed from his master. Set him loose on the royal grounds. Let him roam them freely for the rest of his life. Surely some injustice was done to this subject of mine, or he would not have asked an audience of me.’

So the little brown donkey was set free to roam the fields, and eat his fill of palace grass, all the days of his life. This is the tale of the king of ancient times, King Anushirvan the Just.

As the story ended, Nadir, who had been so intent on hearing the ancient legends of his country that he had managed to forget the pain in his arm and side, winced.

We have shared enough for this day, the old tutor told his student. Now I am going to give you a potion to help you sleep. When you are rested, we will continue your lessons.

Nadir drank all the vile liquid without complaint and slipped into a darkness void of sound or pain. Then the aftershocks began.

General Khorasani took note of the number of tents dotting his estates. Here the survivors would stay until ruins were cleared and they could pitch their temporary residences nearer the remains of their own homes. For now food and water would be meted-out from the khan’s stores. It would be enough.

Chief Reza headed for the house of the oldest family member, his Uncle Abdul. It was damaged but standing. His cousin Kirkuk came to meet him. The smile on his face was reassuring to the khan.

Good to see you cousin, Abdul’s eldest son spoke in greeting. Was your conference to your satisfaction?

Nothing was decided, admitted the weary khan. The earthquake ended our debate.

As you can see, we have been busy in your absence, Kirkuk admitted. No one has come from Meshed.

They will not come. The city withstood the quake well. Meshed will care for its own, as we must.

Next came the information Khorasani dreaded to hear. The death count is twenty-three, his cousin reported. Injured, fifty-nine, mostly broken bones. Rebuilding has begun in the village. The families remain with us. They are being fed. All is secure.

His younger relative placed a heavy hand on Kirkuk’s shoulder. Yes, he said, I have seen the good work you have done, my cousin, and I thank you. I seldom worry about our people when they are in the care of your capable hands. He rubbed his tired eyes. Is your father well? I must speak with him.

He has been anxious for your return, the khan’s relative was solemn. He is in mourning. It becomes my sad duty to report that Ashan and Darab were lost in the first quake.

Oh, Kirkuk, not your brothers! I am so sorry, Chief Khorasani was stunned. How is my uncle taking the loss of his sons?

It is hard… for all of us, of course. But my pedar has many sons. He paused. Reza, there were three aftershocks. Your horseman, Gaodhasti, was searching a house for survivors when the second one came. We found him as soon as we could, but he was dead.

More bad news. The chieftain would miss his cousins. And his old servant had been a trusted friend for as long as he could remember. Almost afraid to ask, Reza Khorasani pressed his cousin for news of his immediate family. Kirkuk, what of my wives and children?

Safe, his cousin answered. Young Nadir was buried in the first quake, but his mother and teacher found him very quickly. He is bruised and broken, but he will mend. Children heal fast, he added.

At the mention of his eldest son the khan’s heart leaped into his throat. He knew he had failed to do his duty toward the boy. And it was his obligation toward his heir that had sent him to obtain the counsel of his elder.

I must see Uncle Abdul, the Chief of Oochan told his cousin. I have decided to send your brother Gushtahm to command the northeast sector. He has been by my side in many battles. He will know how he should lead our tribesmen. And, I want you to take my place on the Council of Khans.

Kirkuk was surprised, but he bowed subserviently. We are yours to command, he assured his cousin. Come. By now my father knows you are here. He will be angry if we delay.

Reza followed. The earthquake had ended the regional political arguments as well as a long personal debate. The zelzeleh had convinced Khorasani Khan that his responsibilities to tribe and family were more important than obligations to war and politics. He had finally decided to divide his tasks among his clansmen. With his uncle’s blessing, it would be time to rule Oochan from his home.

His father’s younger brother had always supported his nephew in leadership decisions. Sometimes, he gave his support after giving advice or reminding his nephew of some forgotten truth. This time he simply suggested the khan seek the wisdom of his son’s new tutor. Abdul Khorasani’s insight told him there was some contention between father and son. He believed Zirak would be able to enlighten Nadir’s father.

On leaving his uncle’s house, Chief Khorasani went immediately to the home of the new tutor. He was painfully aware of his position with his eight-year-old heir. After listening to the new tutor’s evaluation of the child’s intelligence, temperament, and heart, the Oochan leader thanked the old sage and hurried to awaken Nadir. It was early morning.

The cold air drove the sleepiness from young Khorasani’s eyes. His father gathered his firstborn into his arms and gently carried the boy to the stables. There was no servant to assist them.

Your teacher has told me of your bravery, my son, his father complimented the child. I am proud of you.

The stables were intact. Their surroundings reminded Nadir of the loss of the old servant. Pedar? Gaodhasti was brave too, he remarked.

The general felt a swelling in his throat. Yes, my son. Gaodhasti was a very brave man.

He was brave, but he died, the boy wondered. Do the brave not always receive al Lah’s favor?

A brave man is always favored by al Lah, the khan told his son, but sometimes bravery is not enough. Sometimes the brave must join their ancestors in Paradise.

Nadir shook his head to indicate that he could not understand.

When you are older, you will see that I am right, his father promised. For now it is enough to praise al Lah that both of you are safe. You are safe here with your mother and me, and Gaodhasti is safe in a special place close to the heart of al Lah.

Although they did not make him happy, his father’s words took the sadness from young Nadir’s face.

Let us not talk of loss, insisted Chief Khorasani. I did not bring you here to speak of the past. I have a very special surprise for my brave son.

He had Nadir light an oil lamp, and he carried the injured little boy past row after row of huge animals. In the far corner of the stable stood a beautiful Arabian mare. Beside her was a wobbly-legged foal. He was solid black and hardly old enough to stand.

See that little one there? His father indicated the new baby. He is my present to you, Nadir.

Pedar! My horse? The boy was ecstatic. All thoughts of grief and pain were put aside by the exciting gift. He’s wonderful! He’s so shiny and… The foal stumbled as all four legs slid in opposing directions.

. . . funny! exclaimed Nadir. Thank you so much, Pedar, but…

His father had not anticipated hesitancy. But? But what, Nadir?

Who will help me train my horse? Without Gaodhasti… ?

I shall help you train him.

The boy was skeptical. You are always away.

At that moment, Reza Khorasani knew his uncle and the old tutor had been right. The contention between he and his son was the distance he had physically allowed to separate them. Nadir’s words were a dagger in his heart. He held his son closer as he promised, No more. A restless stallion demands patience and proper training. Much time must be spent together to mold a wild spirit. You will train your horse, and I will be here to help you. I will be here, Nadir.

His father was somber as he told the boy, You are to be the next leader of Oochan. But the old Iran is changing. She must find her place in a changing world. We must change with her. I have relinquished my roles as military leader and as political representative of our people. I will remain here as ruler of our tribe while others serve in my place.

Nadir was dumbfounded. He was not certain of what his father was trying to tell him. You will not be going away anymore? he ventured.

No, Nadir. Not anymore.

Father and son observed the foal as he nestled close to his mother. Chief Khorasani recognized joy in the eyes of his eldest son.

For the next two years Nadir was the model student and heir-in-training. He was gracious, attentive, and obedient. He and his father were becoming very close as they worked together with Nadir’s stallion and the needs of the people of Oochan. When he was not at the mercy of his tutor and his academic training, young Khorasani could be found at his father’s side, listening, observing, learning.

Nadir’s teacher and his parents were proud of the boy’s development. Perhaps, they were a bit too proud of the boy, for when he did show signs of being a typical youth they were shocked. One day it happened, as it was fated to happen. The ten-year-old faltered. The facade of perfection crumbled away to reveal Nadir’s humanity and fallibility. The catalyst of his downfall was the new motorbike his cousin brought from Teheran.

As it sat propped against the front porch of the khan’s house it glistened and gleamed in the sun. Nadir was fascinated. He moved closer to the object of his interest. How did it work? How had it been made? Would cousin show him how to ride the new machine?

Inside the house his father and Cousin Kirkuk, newly elected to parliament, were speaking of higher things, politics, words young men his age could not yet understand and were not welcomed to share. However, not being included in discussions over Iranian politics failed to bother Nadir. His attention had been redirected. He pressed ever closer to the shiny new motorbike.

Gazing intently at the leather and chrome, Nadir’s imagination began to tempt him. How would it feel to sit astride such a feat of technology? It looked nothing at all like a horse or a motor car, but Cousin said it could go faster than either of those means of transportation.

Just to sit on it for awhile would hurt nothing, he told himself as he threw a leg over the leather seat. His foot slipped off some lever.

For what happened next he would never have an explanation. He certainly had not intended that it happen. It was as if the new metal monster had a mind of its own. With young Nadir clinging frantically to its cold metallic handle-grips, the bike leaped forward and began speeding away.

How to stop it? He had not even known how to start it! The thing beneath him had initiated the journey, and the thing within his grasp would have to end it. All the reluctant passenger could manage was to avoid the trees by the porch, the fence post, and the gate surrounding the inner garden with what little maneuverability afforded him by the handles of the roaring monster.

Then he was off down the road toward somewhere. Wherever it was taking him was not Nadir’s direction. The motorbike had its own ideas.

Too soon it became obvious that the runaway machine was taking Nadir off his father’s property. And, that was no small excursion as his father’s estates were immense. Worse, still, was the realization that neither he nor the bike would reach that destination. As he well knew, his pedar’s lands were completely surrounded by rock walls and barricaded portals. It was for one of these guarded barricades that the metal monster took aim.

Had his father’s security seen the approaching duo before it happened, they, still, would not have had time to remove that heavy wooden barrier. The collision could not have been avoided. The bike was at full throttle.

Of course the motor monster saw the blockage. It seemed to laugh at