Barbad the minstrel

After twenty-eight years of Khosrow Parviz's reign the king's minstrel is Sarkash, showered with jewels by the nobles. Word reaches a younger musician, Barbad, that the king loves music, and that if he could only be heard he would be crowned above Sarkash. Barbad comes to court. Sarkash hears him play, takes fright, and bribes the chamberlain to keep the newcomer out.

Barbad tries again and again and gets nowhere. So he takes his barbat (a lute) to the royal garden and makes a friend of the gardener, Mardui. At Nowruz, the New Year, the king spends two weeks feasting in that garden, and Mardui promises to let Barbad know when he is coming. When the day comes Barbad dresses all in green and climbs a cypress whose thick branches spread over the place where the king will sit.

At sunset, as the king drinks, a voice sings from the tree, a song that is now called Dad-afarid. The company is amazed. The king orders a search, and nothing is found. Sarkash knows perfectly well who is singing, but says only that the king's fortune is such that even roses and cypresses make music for him. With a second cup comes a second song, Peykar-e gord; a search by lamplight finds only willows, cypresses and pheasants. With a third cup comes Sabz dar sabz. Khosrow jumps to his feet and drains a cup that holds a whole man of wine. If this singer were an angel, he cries, he would be made of musk and ambergris; if he were a demon, he could not sing. Find him, and his mouth shall be filled with jewels.

Barbad climbs down, lays his face in the dust and tells his story. "I am your servant," he says, "and I live by your voice." Khosrow turns on Sarkash: "You are colocynth, and he is sugar." He drinks to Barbad's songs until he falls asleep, fills the singer's mouth with pearls and makes him chief of all his minstrels. Ferdowsi ends the scene with a play on the name: may you never have a yar-e bad, a bad companion.

The lament

Years later, when Khosrow has been overthrown by his son Shirui and is held prisoner, Barbad comes from Jahrom to Tisfun with tears in his eyes. He sees the king, then goes to the hall and sings a lament for him in Pahlavi. Where is your greatness now, he asks, your crown and ivory throne, your Kaviani banner, your blue swords? Where is Shabdiz, your horse with the golden stirrups? Iran will become a den of leopards and lions now that its shepherd has been struck down. Then he swears by God, by Nowruz and Mehregan and the spring, that his hand will never play again. He cuts off four of his fingers, goes home, lights a fire and burns every one of his instruments.

Later Persian and Arabic writers remembered Barbad as the greatest musician of the Sasanian court and credited him with whole cycles of melodies. No music from his time survives, but song names like the three he sings in Khosrow's garden have kept his memory alive.