Descendants of Cyrus

by Thornton, Christopher;

  As ancient goddesses go, Anahita was quite an appealing goddess in the pagan pantheon. She represented all the cleansing and life-giving forces of water, her primary element, but in the Zoroastrian sphere she also stood for wisdom and purifying forces of all kinds. In the Aban Yasht, a Zoroastrian hymn, Anahita is described as

  The life increasing, the herd increasing, the fold increasing who makes prosperity for all countries. She is wide flowing and healing . . . associated with fertility and purifying the seed of men, encouraging the flow of milk for newborns. As a river divinity, she is responsible for the fertility of the soil and the growth of crops that nurture both man and beast.

  The Aban Yasht refers to the Yazata, the life-giving river that was the source of all creation. Anahita’s complete name was Aredevi Sura Anahita, which means “damp, powerful, and pure.” Representing the holy element of water within the Zoroastrian cosmos, she was the source of all creation. Another Zoroastrian text, the Bundahishn, from the early Middle Ages, goes on to credit Anahita for being the source of all life:

  All the waters of the world created by Ahura Mazda originate from the source Aredvi Sura Anahita, the life increasing, herd increasing, fold increasing, who makes prosperity for all countries. This source is at the top of the world mountain Hara Berezaiti, “High Hara,” around which the sky revolves and that is at the center of Airyanem Vaejah, the first of the lands created by Mazda.

  The text continues much more colorfully, in 3-D Hollywood form:

  The water, warm and clear, flows through a hundred thousand golden channels towards Mount Hugar, “the Lofty,” one of the daughter-peaks of Hara Berezaiti. On the summit of that mountain is Lake Urvis, “the Turmoil,” into which the waters flow, becoming quite purified and exiting through another golden channel. Through that channel, which is at the height of a thousand men, one portion of the great spring Aredvi Sura Anahita drizzles in moisture upon the whole earth, where it dispels the dryness of the air and all the creatures of Mazda acquire health from it.

  Later writers felt the need to give Anahita more physical representation. Water imagery was not enough, so she was dressed in golden robes, wearing a golden crown and jewelry, and, as an odd fashion statement, ankle boots with golden laces. To get around, she cruised the heavens in a chariot drawn by four horses whose names also evoked water in all its forms: Wind, Cloud, Rain, and Sleet.

  For all her power in the Zoroastrian world, Anahita had relatives, other goddesses who shared many of her characteristics in other pagan pantheons. There was Mat Zemlya, the “Moist Mother Earth” in Slavic lands; the Egyptian goddess Isis; the Roman Venus; Ishtar, the Mesopotamian goddess of sex and war; and Nana, from Bactria.

  In Babylonian times, the beginning of the New Year was seen as one of the best times for marriage plans, because it was celebrated as the union of Heaven and Earth. And if problems in the realm of the sensuous appeared, Zoroastrians believed that an invocation to Anahita could help:

  To increase passion or sexual confidence, take a warm bath before meeting your partner. Perhaps add some lusty aromatics to the water (cinnamon, vanilla, mint or violet) to put you in the right frame of mind. Let Anahita’s waters stimulate your skin and your interest, then enjoy!

  Considering Anahita’s powers, it shouldn’t be surprising that she was also designated the guardian of prostitutes who worked within the temple, whose task was to “purify the seed of men and the womb and the milk of women,” wrote the Greek historian Strabo.

  Whether or not sex appeal was the driving force, the image of Anahita so captivated the Achaemenid king Artaxerxes II that he advertised his fixation for the water goddess through a means previously unknown in the Persian Empire—statuary. While the Greeks and Romans were fond of representing their deities in marble, the Persians held back, not believing that gods bore the likenesses of men and women. Then along came Artaxerxes with his obsession for Anahita. According to the Greek historian Herodotus, stone likenesses of Anahita began to spread throughout the empire. In contemporary terms, Anahita had gone viral. Her image appeared in Armenia and the Caucuses, Turkey, Syria, and Palestine. Along the way she acquired avian symbols—the peacock and the dove. In Armenia, eligible young women performed their religious duties at a lavish temple dedicated to Anahita at Eriza before choosing their husbands. As late as Sassanid times, images of naked or minimally clad women on silverware are believed to depict a lustful Anahita.

  Anahita’s image on silverware reminds me of an odd habit of Iranian dining—that rarely is one given a knife as part of the silverware set. Usually a spoon and fork are meant to suffice. One might conclude that the voluptuous figure of Anahita can not be confined to the narrow diameter of a table knife. But no, the reason has more to do with Persian cuisine, a waiter in Tehran told me: “One only needs a knife to cut meat, and in traditional Persian cooking meats are usually in stews or made tender before they are grilled in kebabs, so there isn’t any need for a knife to cut them. Most of the time they can be pulled apart with a fork and spoon.”

  After a walk around the ruins I headed back to the road where Sohrab had dropped me off, saying he would be back “in a little while,” with, of course, that perfect Persian obtuseness that refused to even hint at what “a while” meant. I waited, and after a few minutes his white Volvo appeared, along with an explanation for his tardiness: he had gone in search of a quick lunch. My hunch was that demands other than the nutritional had kept him away, but in keeping with Persian ambiguity, I knew only that I would never know for sure.

  This night I had a special dinner to look forward to, with or without a knife, with or without a sinewy image of Anahita to wedge its way between the fork and spoon. It was December 21, the shortest night of the year, otherwise known as Yalda in Iran and other countries where Zoroastrianism is practiced. Yalda night is—after Noruz—the most important date on the Persian and Zoroastrian calendars.

  In the forty years since the Islamic Revolution the regime has tried to quash all reminders of Iran’s Zoroastrian past, but with abysmal success. Like Hanukkah for Jews, Christmas for Christians, Diwali for Hindus, and numerous pagan festivals that commemorate the longest night of the year, Yalda continues to be a special occasion for Iranians.

  The term yalda is not Persian, but Syriac, and it came with the arrival of persecuted Syrian Christians, who found sanctuary in Sassanid Persia from the first to the third centuries. In the Middle Aramaic dialect yalda means “birth,” and so it became the name for Christmas before it spread beyond the early Christian communities. In third-century Persia a bit of Christian and pagan crossover took place, where the Prophet Jesus as the “Light of the World” became a force of brightness and light to ward off the evil spirits of Ahriman (or others of your choosing). Linguists speculate that the Old Norse Yule may have derived from the Arabic yelda, or “dark night.”

  Whatever one’s language or religious heritage, on Yalda night it is important to stay up late, preferably in the company of friends and family members, telling stories and jokes, dancing, doing anything to vanquish the dark forces of Ahriman. Get through the night and the next day begins the lengthening of the days, and the birth of the Zoroastrian goddess Mithra, goddess of—what else?—light. She can also go by the name Mehr, which is also the seventh month of the Persian calendar. The fourteenth-century poet Saadi saw the festival as an opportunity for renewal and staring down the dark elements of life that suppress the brighter possibilities of human beings:

  With all my pains there is still the hope of recovery

  Like the eve of Yalda, there will finally be an end.

  Saadi also tied Yalda to the favorite theme of all Persians—love:

  The sight of you each morning is a new year,

  And night of your departure is the eve of Yalda.

  Almost everywhere in the world the celebration of festivals centers around food. Yalda is no exception. On Yalda night it is advisable to nibble on slices of watermelon and pomegranate, because their bright red
color symbolizes the glow of the sunrise and the resurgent forces of light. If no watermelon or pomegranate is available, beets or apples will suffice. To guard against insect bites, eat some carrots, peas, or green olives. To ward off joint pain, garlic will help. But watermelon is also ideal, because it fights off any discomfort brought on by summer heat. A fistful of nuts—almonds, pistachios, or hazelnuts—along with dried figs, apricots, or any other fruit has to be part of the mix because no Persian feast is complete without them.

  My own feast, at the Shayli in the center of Kermanshah, began with a greeting by the host. On display in the middle of the room was an arrangement of nuts and dried fruit, and sliced pomegranate and chunks of watermelon forecast the sunrise.

  Ancient societies all over the world depended on seasonal celebrations to restore faith in stability and continuity, which the cycle of the seasons represented. Chaos and disorder, violence and war, these were the result of human conflict. The reliability of the seasonal cycle brought psychological comfort, especially in times of political upheaval. Yalda is therefore a celebration of the stronger forces of nature over those of fickle, unpredictable humans.

  The host sat me at a table at the end of the room with the best view of the hall. I was early. Iranians are typically late diners. As the hour approached nine, the tables began to fill up, and when the room reached its breaking point, one of the waiters brought around a collection of sealed envelopes, each of which contained a verse by the fourteenth-century poet Hafez. This was the introduction to another important ritual of Yalda night. In the privacy of their homes—and here in the Shayli—Iranians typically make a wish and then flip through a dog-eared copy of Hafez and pinpoint a passage. The words of the master are supposed to deliver a reply to the wish. All gathered attempt to define the meaning.

  I didn’t have the luxury of choosing my own Hafez lines. The answer to any wish I might have made was left to fate, and the host who handed me an envelope as he circled the room. I breathed deeply and tore it open. It read:

  If the gardener desires the company of flowers, for a day or two,

  for the bitter separation must bear the patience of a nightingale,

  Oh heart, snared in the curls of the lover, do not despair;

  a clever bird caught in the trap must show patience!

  A rebel rend and expedience, why should he care?

  laying plans and caution relate to those with possessions!

  In the way of tarighat reliance on piety and gnosis is heretical;

  the journeyer, even with a thousand talents, must yield to God,

  With such tresses and face, no roving eyes to catch

  the face of jasmine, her jet black curls smelling of hyacinth.

  Love her wind and her coyness:

  this frenzied heart is mad for her black hair and tresses.

  I was glad that I had forgotten to make a wish, so I had no hint as to whether it would be made true or dashed. I was able to listen without a worry to the Persian music that had started up, played by a band of musicians that had gathered at an empty table on the other side of the room.

  More diners arrived to replace those who had left. Music played. Strands of the santour, tar, ney, dutar, and daf circled the room, aided by the soft curve of the walls.

  Oh Saghi, how long will you neglect circulating the vessel?

  The impossible, when with lovers, must turn infinite.

  So wrote Hafez, and in the way only he could—not only the choice of words but their arrangement, and the context in which they are used, combine to create a baffling number of interpretations. Throw in the poetic tools of symbolism, nuance, and double and triple meanings, and the “meaning” of the poem can be as elusive as the seeds of a dandelion released to a summer breeze.

  What the hell, I thought. If my fate was laid out somewhere within this tangle of imagery, it was worth taking a whack at. Hafez referred to a garden and distance, and the anguish of the heart ended with a plea for patience. Then he mentioned, or advised, “laying plans and caution,” and took a swipe at knowledge. Then came the thousand talents of the journeyer. Hafez’s choice of the term gardener made me wonder if he had me in mind at all, and the “god” he mentioned could easily be a stand-in for fate, or serendipity, or any other force outside our control. “Her jet black curls” threw the door of meaning open wide, for every reader of poetry knows that female imagery can stand for anything but the female in the flesh—perhaps a dream, a desire, maybe an ideal, or a flight of fancy.

  It was easy to see how Iranians could delight in this. It was a verbal and mystical game of hide-and-go-seek—twisting and tweaking the choices of wording and shades of meaning like the combinations of a lock, but one that was destined never to open.

  None of the other diners seemed bothered very much. The fun was in the parsing of possibilities, and to solve the puzzle would have spoiled the fun. The Shayli’s other guests passed their envelopes around the group, while the waiters circulated serving trays piled with slices of watermelon, followed by red apples and figs. A cluster of musicians seized a santour, a dutar, and a ney and started putting out more traditional tunes. At the front entrance, all the Yalda foods were arranged on a korsi, or ceremonial display, and these slowly disappeared as the plates and bowls filled with dried fruits and nuts and other goodies made their way around the room.

  There was a slight skirting of tradition, for if this had been a true Yalda, observed to-the-letter, the waiter and cooks and kitchen help would have taken their places at the tables, and the customers would have become servers. The children would tell their parents when it was time to leave, and the parents would obey. The Shayli’s owner would wash the dishes and sweep the floor, for Yalda night is also a celebration of disorder and turning the world upside down, letting chaos reign in a confused world to rattle the evil intentions of Ahriman.

  It was not yet midnight, meaning the partying still had a ways to go. I trusted that the revelry going on all over Kermanshah would be enough to protect me from Ahriman, so I caught a taxi to head back to my hotel. Also breaking with Yalda tradition, I let the driver take the wheel, and when we arrived back at the hotel, the night clerk was snoozing in a ratty armchair, as he should. He was still wearing his rumpled sport jacket, and the woman closing the office hadn’t shed her scarf and manteau, which meant, in Yalda terms, that all was still well with the world.

  The next morning all was still well with the world. The axis of the Earth had trembled but righted itself. It had weathered the night of Ahriman. Ahriman would be back next year, to try again, but no matter, today the sun rose, a bright, pink glow just like the slivers of watermelon and pomegranate that had long been cleared from the Shayli’s serving trays, and a minute earlier than it had the day before. In the hotel’s breakfast room the guests were munching on slices of feta cheese laid across thick warm slices of barbari bread, while the waitstaff dutifully tended the coffee machines and orange juice dispenser, as their duty sheet prescribed. Sohrab showed up in the hotel lobby to pick me up with his usual punctuality.

  In Kermanshah the best was saved for last. In Kermanshah the most significant and heavily visited historic sight is Bisotun, not quite within the boundaries of Kermanshah but not far away, about twenty-five miles along a two-lane road that skirts a line of sloping, craggy rock formations. As we breezed along the road the sun rose higher and the morning chill burned away a cover of low-lying fog. A few millennia ago the road was a dirt track that connected the Persian Empire with the Babylonian kingdom of ancient Mesopotamia, and it was a later link in the caravan routes that served as the commercial corridor funneling goods between western and central Asia. Today, the sheep were nonplussed as the Volvo cruised past. They had seen so much traffic that the tire tracks of a single car were just another imprint on a groove dug centuries deep.

  At Bisotun is where the Achaemenid emperor Darius I made his mark, in stone and in imagery. After the death of Cyrus the empire faced challenges of succession from nine opport
unists claiming to be the rightful heir to the throne. Persian history refers to them as the nine imposters. Darius fought a series of nineteen battles against them, defeating them all to preserve the integrity of the empire. At Bisotun, in enormous relief sculptures carved out of the rock two hundred feet up the cliff face, Darius is shown squashing one of the defeated under his foot. Victories over the other upstarts, their necks looped with ropes and hands tied together, are also memorialized in the rock. The unfortunate figure lying under Darius’s boot is believed to be Gaumata, the last of the nine pretenders Darius defeated, somewhere near Bisotun. The sculptural panorama is believed to date from 522 BCE.

  It is reasonable to believe that this is where Darius would take his victory dance, memorializing the event in stone to serve as a warning to future moochers who might pass along the ancient road. To add a little divine weight to the warning, above Darius the winged image of Farvahar, the symbol of Zoroastrianism, hovers. Several inscriptions were carved into the stone to describe Darius’s victory. One of the oldest states:

  The kingdom that had been wrested from our line I brought back and I reestablished it on its foundation. The temples which Gaumata, the Magian, had destroyed, I restored to the people, and the pasture lands, and the herds and the dwelling places, and the houses which Gaumata, the Magian, had taken away. I settled the people in their place, the people of Persia, and Media, and the other provinces. I restored that which had been taken away, as it was in the days of old. This did I by the grace of Ahuramazda, I labored until I had established our dynasty in its place, as in the days of old.

  To ensure nothing would be lost in translation, Darius wrote his entire text in three languages: Babylonian, Elamite, and Persian. Elamite came first, as it was the lingua franca of the time. The others were added later. It is this feature that persuaded UNESCO to give Bisotun World Heritage status, for nowhere else had three versions of the same text been written in cuneiform script, and the Bisotun inscriptions became the key for deciphering the ancient language, making Bisotun as important to cuneiform as the Rosetta Stone is to Egyptian hieroglyphics.