What do the Kazakhs know about Iskander,

The son of Philip, King of Macedon?

Both strength ‘thout end and courage had Iskander,

But he was vain, a vain ambitious man.

King Philip died. His son, then twenty-one,

Ascended to the throne and was crowned king.

Obsessed by lust of power, thereupon

He laid his plans his neighbours’ lands to seize.

He armed a force, his scheme of conquest ripe,

And went to war against his neighbours all.

Much blood he shed, whole nations he wiped out,

Seized towns and citadels, and kings dethroned.

He conquered all the lands round Macedon

And flooded them with their own people’s blood.

He made his laws, he subjugated all,

And ruled them with a cruelty unheard.

All the khanates were his, all khans deposed,

But his ambition drove him on and on.

He was possessed by it, he wanted to be king

Of all the world, to rule the universe.

A hard and ruthless ruler was Iskander,

His subjects trembling at the thought of him.

His retinue to his ambition pandered

And called him Khan of Khans, and King of Kings.

The whole wide world he wanted at his feet,

To worship him and, cowed, to sing his fame.

And, arming countless legions to the teeth,

He set him out upon his great campaign.

And none Isk-ander’s armies could repulse,

All did surrender to his mighty force.

With no resistance meeting, he marched on,

This man, the would-be ruler of the world.

And then they came into an arid desert

(A trial sent Iskander from above!),

Their store of water they could not replenish,

And thirst tormented men and horses both.

Iskander, by this lack of water tortured,

Like all his men was spent and near collapse.

The thought occurred to him to kill his servants,

Lest he be called upon to share the drops

Of precious liquid with them… Next his horse

Who had succumbed to thirst he then lay down,

And though his sight was dimmed by suffering,

A gleam he caught of something that did seem

Like water. . . . To his men he called and rode,

Ahead to see what ’twas, and lo! did find

A babbling brook… His face into the water,

Iskander plunged. The water tasted sweet

And cool to him. A salted fish was brought

And dipped into the brook upon his order.

He was amazed, for was it not a wonder:

The fish was salt no longer—it was sweet!

Iskander cried: “What miracle is this?

Drink of this water, bathe your faces in it,

And then we’ll ride along this brook upstream,

For it must lead us to a land of riches.

Men, drink your fill, sing glory to Iskander,

For it was I, the King of Kings, who gave you  water!

Now, follow me, myself I’ll lead the force,

And seize the town that must stand at its source.”

The music blared, and to its rousing sounds

The mounted men, well armed and clad in armour,

Obeying him, across the desert started

To seize another city for Iskander.

They rode beside the brook without a halt

Until at last they reached a narrow gorge.

No further could they go, the way was blocked:

A golden gate stood there, and it was locked.

Dismounting, King Iskander to the gate

Strode resolute and at the handle pulled

With all his might. Alas ’twas all in vain . . .

And to his men he turned to seek advice.

Men who are never crossed become cross-grained.

And such was he. A wilful man besides.

So when he saw how helpless were his men,

How none of them could offer sound advice,

He was enraged, the blood rushed to his head,

And, pounding on the gate, he shouted

In voice so angry it would rouse the dead:

“Unlock that gate! You hear me? Open!”

Now footsteps sounded on the other side,

It was the keeper, and he answered calmly:

“Through this one gate your armies shall not ride.

The way is barred, for it leads straight to Allah.

” Iskander shouted arrogantly: “Open!

I am Iskander, conqueror of the world.

I shall not be humiliated. Open!

And tell me what strange country lies beyond.”

“Do not be arrogant,” replied the man.

“Subdue your temper and your avarice.

You are a wicked and ambitious khan,

And men like you are not admitted here.”

“I’ve seen the world,” Iskander said more softly.

“I have great plans, I’m after lofty aims.

Just give me something then, some trifling token,

My story of this happening to support.”

The keeper said: “You want a token? Here,”

And something wrapped in cloth pushed through a  chink.

“Here, take it, wicked man, your token.

Try to divine its meaning, give it thought.”

Iskander snatched the token eagerly,

A precious prize, he felt, again he’d won.

But sad his disappointment, for the cloth

Contained a bit of ordinary bone.

Infuriated that he had been mocked,

He flung the bone away with angry haste.

Beside himself with fury he invoked:

“How dare he laugh at me! A trick so base!”

Then Aristotle, wisest of his friends,

Picked up the bone and to Iskander said:

“It’s not an ordinary bit of bone

As you, my King, will soon see for yourself.

We’ll weigh this little bone upon the scales,

And gold upon the other dish we’ll place,”

He had no equal in his day in wisdom,

And none, of course, can disobey a sage.

Iskander had the balance brought at once,

Upon one dish the little bone was placed,

And on the other—gold, and yet more gold,

The bone looked light but always tipped the scales.

Iskander watched in wonder and dismay.

He added all his armour to the gold,

But still it had no power to outweigh

The bit of bone that tipped the scales again.

And then Iskander said to Aristotle:

“That bone’s devoured all our treasury.

Think hard, my friend, and tell me, if you know,

What will outweigh this magic bit of bone.”

The wise man bent and scooped a little earth

Into his hand and threw it on the bone.

The dish soared up. It had no weight or worth.

It was an ordinary bit of bone.

Iskander called the sage aside and asked:

“Is this a miracle or is it sleight of hand?”

His puzzlement he did not try to hide.

“What does it mean? I want to understand.”

“This is an eye bone. Men have greedy eyes,

They always crave more land, more gold, more  wealth.

But when they die the lust is gratified

By one small handful of the plainest earth.

The greedy are much troubled by their eyes.

It’s a peculiar property they have.

But when their owner dies and has been buried,

The orbit, filled with earth, is just a bone.

I have not finished. Bear with me, my lord.

The golden gate before you did not open,

Because you had forgotten certain truths

This eye bone you were given for a token.”

Iskander pondered on the vanity

Of his career and his great aspirations,

And thought about the miracle he’d seen.

The brook, the gate, the bone, was divine will.

He bowed to it, and turned his armies home.

*   *   *

On this, my reader, ends the tale at last.

No ordinary tale, you’ll realise.

The moral’s clear: when wealth you have amassed

Don’t lust for more to satisfy your eyes.

Don’t let the vanities of life enthrall you,

Do not be lured by pleasures of a moment,

And do not forfeit conscience and honour,

Or you will pay for it with moral torment.

Why boast in order to be praised by people

For merits of a trite and transient worth?

They’ll marvel at your wisdom to your face,

And when your back is turned they’ll laugh and   scoff.

A braggart is so anxious to succeed,

His merits he proclaims for all to hear.

Your qualities are best judged by your deeds,

If you’ve done good—the praise will be sincere.

Еranslated by Olga Shartse

  A.Kunanbayev. Poems. / Designed by V.Chistyakov. Moscow, 1971