All scenes I wrote featuring the Persian king, Shapur were deleted from the final text. This kept the document size from expanding considerably, but we missed learning about Shapur, his background, threats, and motivations. Here is the first of a two-part series about him hunting lions.
King Shapur Hunts Lions, Part 1
A royal retinue followed King Shapur, his son Narses, and Maricq, head of Shapur’s bodyguards, rode east, across a shallow river and then toward the distant mountains. There, higher elevations and dryer climates sustained the open plains preferred by lions.
Waist-high grasses rippled in late-morning breezes. Vultures soared across a distant sky between small white clouds. Shapur paused to point at the birds. “They’ll lead us to the lions.” He urged his horse forward. “First there were hunters,” Shapur began a story that Narses and his brothers had heard many times before. “Long ago men had to hunt animals for food—for them it was a matter of survival. To be a successful hunter required skill and courage, virtues not all men possessed. Wars came later when hunters began fighting each other for the same food. It was the hunters, turned warriors, who became leaders of their people.”
Shapur held up a hand and stopped beside a thick grove of bushes. He fitted an arrow into his bow then waited. Nothing stirred. Satisfied, Shapur urged his horse forward and resumed his story. “Some men grow crops, other men raise animals, and hunting has become a sport, not a necessity. But to be a good hunter still requires skill and courage, just as it does to be a good warrior, just as it does to be a good ruler. The weak and fearful…”
A large boar crashed through the undergrowth and charged directly at Shapur’s horse. The startled animal bolted ahead instinctively. Shapur struggled to keep from pitching backward onto the ground in front of a charging boar. But he pressed his knees firmly against the horse’s sides and held the reins tightly in his left hand. In an instant he had recovered. The horse’s sudden dash opened the distance between it and the boar, which had overshot the horse in its initial charge. It still pursued them doggedly. Shapur’s pull on the reins finally convinced the horse to stop. He twisted to his right to look over the horse’s back. Since he’d been holding his bow in his right hand, his shot would have to be left-handed. Shapur drew the bowstring taut as he turned. He shot without a conscious thought. The arrow struck the boar in the flank, a nonfatal wound. It squealed in anger and continued the charge. Shapur cursed, then let fly a second arrow that struck the boar between the shoulder blades. The animal fell to the ground a few feet in front of Shapur’s frightened horse, twitched slightly, and then lay still. Shapur dismounted, drew his sword, and slowly approached the large animal. If the boar still lived, it would try to attack again, and a boar’s large tusks could open a man’s leg. Shapur continued his cautious approach towards the animal. He poked it with his sword. It lay still. Satisfied that it was dead, Shapur sheathed his sword, then walked wordlessly back to his horse. The game keeper and his men surrounded the boar and began to prepare it for that evening’s dinner.
“Excellent shooting, my lord, especially left-handed.” Maricq offered.
“A careless first shot,” Shapur shook his head angrily as he mounted his horse. They rode on in silence for a time. “Where was I?” Shapur finally asked Narses.
“The weak and fearful either die or become your subjects and your slaves, Father,” Narses finished the sentence that his father had begun.
“Yes.” Shapur smiled at the thought. “Take the Romans, for example. With them it’s much like one of those board games of strategy my father was fond of playing. Both sides start with the same strength. But in life, the sides are rarely equally matched, wouldn’t you say Maricq?”
“Nor do we know who’s the stronger before the game begins, Lord,” Maricq agreed.
“What are Valerian’s intentions, for example,” Shapur posed the question to Narses, “and what are his capabilities, his weaknesses?” Narses had no immediate response.
“It’s clear he distrusts his generals,” Maricq observed.
Shapur shot a quick glance at Maricq. So he’s reached the same conclusion I came to.
“Of course, to some extent Valerian’s intentions are inconsequential.” Shapur noticed vultures circling nearby, and abruptly returned his attention to the hunt. They rode in silence until they came to a slight rise in the ground. About a hundred yards beyond the crest lay an antelope, recently slain. A lioness tore at its hind leg, her muzzle covered with blood. The lioness glanced towards the intruders and growled a warning to come no closer.
“Wait here,” Shapur said to the others. He coaxed his horse forward, drew an arrow from his quiver, and readied it in his bow. While his horse moved deliberately down the gentle slope towards the lioness, Shapur studied the surrounding terrain—open grasslands dotted with small clusters of low shrubs, much like the one the boar had attacked from. The antelope lay beside one of the groves—perhaps the lioness had hidden there to surprise the animal. When he had covered half the remaining distance, the beast looked at him again and snarled a second warning. Shapur urged his skittish horse to continue.
The lioness sprang from beside the antelope and charged towards Shapur. His horse tried to wheel and flee. He held it fast, and waited. When the lioness was about fifty yards away, Shapur let his first arrow fly. It was defective and flew wildly to the side. He drew and fired another arrow. It grazed the beast’s left flank. She rushed forward undeterred. Shapur hadn’t waited to see what the arrow would do, but had drawn another and let it fly almost immediately. The lioness roared as the arrow struck her left shoulder. She flinched, but continued to charge—now about ten yards away. Shapur shot a fourth arrow, then spurred his horse to the right. He didn’t see where the fourth arrow had gone, nor did he see how close the lioness’ leap had come to his horse. When he wheeled his horse back around, he saw nothing but the tall grass.
It might be dead, Shapur thought as he rode slowly back to where he’d last seen the lioness, but that’s a dangerous assumption. He dismounted, considering it cowardly to hunt a wounded animal on horseback. Shapur left his bow and arrows. They’d be ineffective on foot in tall grass. He drew his sword and pulled one of the spears from the quiver attached beside the saddle. Slowly he moved ahead through the waist-high grass looking for signs of the lioness—traces of blood, flattened grass, a glimpse of the beast, a sound. He was acutely aware of everything around him—a breeze playing across the field, heat of the afternoon, smells of the dried grass, a nearby rustling. Shapur swung to his left and took a step back, sword ready. Nothing. He stood motionless until he was satisfied there was no threat. Again he moved forward. Shapur stopped beside the first trace of blood, then looked carefully around. He decided to go to the right. A few steps later he found more blood and, just beyond, he heard the lioness’ ragged breathing and inched forward. They saw each other at the same instant. The lioness lay in a pool of blood, two arrows protruding from her shoulder. She roared and leapt toward him. Shapur stepped left. He thrust his sword into her exposed belly. The animal struck Shapur a glancing blow, knocking him to the ground. The hilt of Shapur’s sword struck the ground first, the sword still in the lioness’ belly. She landed, half on top of Shapur, half on the ground. Then all was still.
