The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  Instinctively I sought Umar, who rode at the front of the caravan and whom I followed at a distance so that I might avoid Talha’s distasteful company. Yet as I spurred my camel forward along the line, I saw that mocker gazing at the woman’s body with every swing of her hips. Talha’s mouth twitched at the corners, as it seemed always to do. He inclined his head toward that of his young friend Abdallah—my cousin al-Zubayr’s son, A’isha’s nephew—and said, “By al-Lah! Behold the woman’s spasmodic twitching! Has she swallowed a honeybee, or an entire hive?”

  With skin the translucent hue of milk and the graceful upward sweep of her hair—red hair, reminding me unpleasantly of A’isha, whom I had sought to escape on this journey—the dancer’s feminine delicacy was apparent, even if her morality was not. With equal measures of approval and worry I watched Umar stomp up to the unsuspecting woman, his whip in his right hand. How imposing was his figure! Certainly she would cease her flagrancy as soon as he commanded her to cover herself.

  He lifted the whip and brought it down with a crack upon her tender, exposed bosom. The dancer screamed and crouched, covering herself with her arms, but his next strike fell on her back, leaving a welt so angry it oozed droplets of blood. No one rushed forth to protect her, and when her admirers realized her admonisher’s identity, they scurried away like startled rats.

  My pulse pounded like a fist against my throat as I watched Umar strike the woman, his pocked face as livid as a bruise; as I heard her shrieks of pain, which rose and echoed off the stone buildings; and as I saw the blood rise upon her pale skin. How could I end this punishment? Muhammad would not have condoned this.

  The poor, sobbing dancer fell to the street while I watched. Indecision paralyzed me. Should I interfere? Muhammad would certainly have done so, but he was the Prophet of God. Yet as Umar raised his whip again I was commanding my camel to drop to its knees, and then running toward the fallen woman as if pushed by some hand other than my own. When I reached her I yanked off my woolen robe and flung it over her shuddering body, protecting her from Umar’s sting and hiding her from his unforgiving eyes.

  I half expected to feel the lash of Umar’s fury on my shoulders and head, but my interruption had halted his assault. He stood with his hand suspended, the whip dangling against his wrist, his eyes narrowed.

  “I have ended her offense, yaa khalifa,” I said. “She is now covered. Al-Lah willing, she will remain so, now that you have pointed out her error.”

  He did not reply. Instead, he turned and stomped back to where his camel awaited. My face burned: Surely he suspected more than ever that I would usurp his authority. An act of retribution would be necessary, I knew, to place me again into my proper position.

  As I turned to the woman at my feet, I could not regret my actions. I reached down to help her with my sleeve over my hand, showing my respect for her by placing a barrier between my skin and hers. From the moment Umar’s whip had welted her, she had ceased to be a sinner in my eyes and had become, instead, a human being deserving of compassion. When I touched her, however, the robe slipped away from her hair and I noticed again its color, the orange-red of a cactus flower. The memory of A’isha cast its long shadow across my mind.

  But I helped this fire-haired woman more gently than I had ever even thought to touch A’isha. As a young girl, A’isha had aroused my ire many times with her pranks and her tart mouth; as a young woman, she had inspired my dislike with her petty jealousies over Muhammad, her disrespectful treatment of my beloved Fatima, and her relentless ambition to become queen of the harim. I had fantasized many times about seeing her punished, but now, beholding this woman who reminded me of her, I recognized A’isha as woman who could be hurt and humiliated, just as this dancer had been.

  “I owe you my life,” she murmured in a voice like the breeze. Her egg-blue eyes gazed through a veil of tears as she offered up my robe, but I waved it away.

  “Please keep it so that you may hide yourself from the eyes of men,” I said to her. “The Prophet admonished us to clothe ourselves in modesty so as not to incite sinful desires.”

  Her tears disappeared. “Am I to be ashamed of that which God has given me?” she said, tossing her head and spilling red hair across her bared arms. “No, and not ashamed of the stripes your leader has marked me with, either. I will display them so that my fellow Syrians can see the pain this new islam inflicts. Our Christian God—” she lifted her chin “—is a God of love.”

  As she handed my robe to me, I thought again of the arrogant A’isha. I hastened to my camel, donning my robe and glaring at all I passed, daring any man to comment while hoping someone might. I hungered for a fight.

  I noted the eyes of Talha in the crowd, eyes that danced with laughter under his ridiculous yellow turban. Young Abdallah, A’isha’s nephew, had disappeared and had been replaced by the warrior ‘Amr, who was seated beside Talha on his horse. As I passed the pair, Talha bowed to me as if in deference, although I knew he meant to mock.

  “The red hair of a woman is to Ali as a flickering flame to a moth,” Talha said. “Attracting and scorching at once. Do I speak truly, yaa Ali?”

  The lilting tone he used was like a bellows to my smoldering rage. In the flash of a blade I held Zulfikar, my double-pointed sword, mere inches from Talha’s face. He laughed no more.

  A single thrust and I could have pierced both his eyes at once. I imagined Talha’s howl, his smirk lost in rivers of blood. ‘Amr’s sword clashed against mine, calling me back to the moment.

  “Yaa Ali, is that dancer so important that you would fight over her?” ‘Amr asked. “If you attack Umar’s Companion Talha, our khalifa will deprive you of every advantage you now enjoy. And, despite your closeness to the Prophet, he would certainly have you whipped.”

  ‘Amr’s warning deflated my passion, leaving me cold. He spoke truly: Umar enjoyed Talha’s wit. I sheathed my sword without deigning to respond and walked away to my camel.

  As we neared the former Byzantine church—now a mosque—I felt my spirits lift in anticipation of a good meal and a soft bed. The journey had been long, comprising several weeks of straddling camels and chewing on dried barley. Even the sturdy Umar must be in need of rest and a proper meal.

  But my spirits sank when I beheld a retinue of men in gold-embroidered robes and bejeweled turbans stepping forth to greet us. Their long beards were sleek and trimmed, delicately curling about the edges and oiled with perfumes that made them glisten as if dipped in starlight. Their hands, which carried colorful pillows laden with plump figs and purple grapes, were smooth and free of calluses, and their fingers flashed with gold rings. Umar’s camel knelt at their approach. I could not see Umar’s face, but I knew he would not appreciate such finery.

  The tapping of tambourine bells, pleasing to all ears except Umar’s, kept time with the rhythmic stepping of the servants. Behind them walked an elaborately manicured and extravagantly clothed man at whom I had to stare for many moments before recognizing the savage warrior Khalid ibn al-Walid. Gone was his crude turban stuck with arrows; in its place, a snow white hat perched like a dove atop his head. In his right hand he held a scepter wafting incense, which he waved before his flaring nostrils. His robe, in contrast to those worn by his servants, was a deep, lustrous indigo, embroidered in a rainbow of colors to depict the feathers of a peacock in full plumage.

  “By al-Lah! How dare you parade before me in this way.” Umar dismounted his camel in a spry leap to tower over the men who greeted him. He was so tall that he appeared to be on a horse even as he stood with his feet on the ground. His height rarely failed to intimidate.

  The servants halted at his shout and folded their bodies around their goods as if to guard them from being scattered to the ground. But Umar was a frugal man. He grabbed an empty sack from his camel, pulled it open, and scooped the pillowed fruits into the bag. He did the same with all the food, and then, while we in his caravan watched with watering mouths, he motioned for me to descend and come forward
.

  “Take this bag and distribute its contents among the poor,” he said. “Take nothing for yourself.” He raised his voice so all our men could hear. “Because Ali has challenged my authority today, you will all feel the effects. I alone will sleep in the room prepared for me tonight, while the rest of you will spend the night in your tents.” No one dared complain, but several of our men glared at me as if they might slit my throat while I slept. I dropped my gaze to the bag in my hand, contemplating with dread another night on the hard ground, with no bath to refresh me.

  But Umar had more punishments in store. “I also command you all to partake only of the rations provided you at the beginning of our journey,” he thundered. “I alone will dine with the governor of Syria tonight.”

  I continued staring at the ground, trying to swallow my disappointment with a closed throat. By disciplining all for my sin—the sin of compassion, by al-Lah!—Umar had meted to me a most undesirable punishment: the resentment of my fellow travelers and, with my humiliation, the loss of their respect.

  “Yaa khalifa, how long must we endure these painful conditions?” Abdallah ibn al-Zubayr, my cousin’s son, dared to ask. The whip was Umar’s answer, lashing at the youth’s cheek and leaving a welt there.

  “There is your pain!” Umar roared. He placed his hands on his hips. “Does anyone else have a complaint?” No one responded. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yaa Ali, are you waiting for Ramadan to distribute those goods?” As I did so, he continued to rant. “By al-Lah, I am astounded at the frowns I see on the faces of my men, Muslim men. Should we enjoy these rich fruits while so many hunger? Barley and dates satisfied the Prophet. They will satisfy us, also.”

  How could I argue? I agreed with Umar in principle, for I knew Muhammad would not have allowed a single fig or a grape to pass his lips while the streets of Damascus held even one malnourished child. I distributed the delicacies among the eager Damascenes: a girl with a face like a skull and hair that fell in clumps about her shoulders; a shaykh with a back bent in two and hands that shook as he accepted my gifts; a woman, clutching an infant to her breast, whose large, expressive eyes spilled tears as she chewed a fig and placed the paste into her baby’s mouth.

  When I had finished, my stomach continued to feel empty but my heart, by al-Lah, brimmed like that mother’s eyes. Others in the caravan grumbled about giving away what was rightfully ours—and as I passed Talha on his horse, I heard him tell ‘Amr that the khalifa has repaid us well today for Ali’s interference.

  I knew that he had wished for me to hear it. I stopped and turned toward the grinning men with an exaggerated bow.

  “No, Talha, he has done the opposite,” I said. “By assigning to me the task of feeding the poor, Umar made me the Prophet’s surrogate. With this honor, Umar demonstrates that, although he is the political khalifa, I am my cousin’s spiritual successor.”

  I groaned to myself as soon as I had spoken these words, knowing that they would reach Umar’s ears and increase his suspicions of me. Yet they served my purpose. Talha narrowed his eyes—allowing me, for once, to be the grinning one.

  “Do not worry, Talha,” ‘Amr called as I stepped away. “Someday, while Ali is distributing alms to the poor, you will sit in the khalifa’s seat, commanding the world.”

  I laughed at this remark, for it revealed the true nature of Talha’s ambitions. As I glanced at the men around us, however, I did not see anyone else who appeared discomfited. In truth, I could see no indication that anyone had even heard ‘Amr’s comment, for the entire caravan was slumping to the ground as the camels knelt to allow their riders to dismount. We would not sleep or eat here, but we would all enter the mosque to greet Syria’s governor, Yazid ibn Abi Sufyan.

  As I directed my servant to feed and water my camel, I heard Umar’s sharp cry from the front of the caravan. I raced to his side. He was shouting and waving Khalid’s scepter as though he might strike Khalid with it.

  “How dare you appear before me dressed in such finery!” Umar yelled. “By al-Lah, I do not know what has happened here. The rumors of decadence in Syria appear to be true, and I appear to be a fool! In truth, I see no warriors, but only soft, vain women in perfume and jewels.”

  Khalid lifted his hands to his embroidered garment and ripped it open to reveal his trousers, leather jerkin, and fitted shirt—his battle uniform.

  “We attired ourselves to honor you, yaa khalifa,” he said in a low, even tone that sent chills rippling along my arms and neck. “As you can see, I remain a warrior.”

  Umar narrowed his eyes. “And beneath the battle gear? Only al-Lah can view your heart.” He brought the scepter down on a large rock, breaking it in two, and handed the pieces to Khalid. “When I have prayed, perhaps He will reveal your heart to me, also.”

  As Umar swept past Khalid, leaving us all in his wake, I could only stare at the man who had once been the umma’s fiercest general. With his beautiful robe rent open and hanging like mourner’s rags and the pieces of his scepter in his hands, Khalid appeared broken also, a pitiful contrast to the haughty figure he had once presented. The scar on his cheek writhed like a worm as he tensed his jaw against these humiliations. As I passed him, I glanced down at his feet and saw a pair of golden sandals glittering with jewels. I could have sworn that I detected the aroma of wine rising from his body.

  In contrast to the chaos outside the mosque, I expected to find order within. Yazid was heralded not only as a shrewd commander on the battlefield but also as an effective governor, popular with his Syrian subjects. Despite my reservations when Umar had appointed him—he was, after all, the son of Abu Sufyan, who had once been Muhammad’s mortal enemy—I had to admit that the choice had been a wise one. The congenial Yazid had charmed the Damascenes into forgetting that they had been conquered.

  Yet it was not he who greeted us but his brother Mu’awiyya, a tall man with fair hair, like mine, and piercing eyes the color of sand. Unlike the fat, red-bearded Yazid, Mu’awiyya had inherited his features from his mother, Hind. And, unlike Khalid and his courtiers, Mu’awiyya wore a simple gown and turban of the deepest blue—the color of mourning.

  His eyes gazed warmly into Umar’s, as if they were long-time friends, and he clasped Umar’s elbow as boldly as if he were the governor instead of his brother. Mu’awiyya was but a mere warrior under Umar’s command. Like his father, who had tried many times to kill Muhammad, Mu’awiyya appeared to hold an inflated opinion of himself. But Umar, preoccupied with other matters, apparently did not notice the insult.

  “I am pleased to see you, Mu’awiyya, but where is Yazid?” Umar said. “I am anxious to speak with him.”

  Mu’awiyya’s eyes filled with tears—conjured tears, I was certain, for he had never shown any love for his brother, and had once threatened to kill him in the market at Mecca until their father intervened. “Yazid died yesterday,” he said. “We have suffered a terrible plague in our city—”

  “By al-Lah, you are infested with a plague and we are only learning this now?” I cried. “Why did you not send messengers to alert us? By allowing the khalifa to enter the city, you have endangered his life.”

  Umar placed his hand on my arm. Mu’awiyya turned his disturbing eyes upon me. I had seen that cold expression before, when he was but a youth, as I had pressed my sword against his father’s neck and demanded he convert to islam. Mu’awiyya watched Abu Sufyan grovel before me and heard him beg, and he had hated me ever since.

  “Excuse me for being preoccupied with my brother’s demise as well as that of his two sons,” Mu’awiyya spat. “Family is extremely close to the hearts of Abu Sufyan’s sons and daughters.”

  “But surely you knew we were approaching,” I said—but again, Umar silenced me with a touch.

  “My deepest condolences, Mu’awiyya,” Umar said. “Your brother was a superior general and a great statesman. He will be difficult to replace. Who has assumed the leadership here?”

  Mu’awiyya’s expression became as stone.
How clever he was, such an expert at concealing his true emotions. “Your general Khalid ibn al-Walid has graciously taken on this difficult task,” he said.

  Umar’s frown deepened. “And you?” he said. “Why did you not take your brother’s place?”

  Mu’awiyya wiped a false tear from the corner of one eye. “I did not wish to presume,” he said. “Such an honor is only the khalifa’s to confer.”

  “Khalid had no such qualms,” Umar muttered to me and my uncle a few moments later, as Mu’awiyya led us down a long, dim hallway to the khalifa’s sleeping quarters. I could have spoken for hours about Khalid ibn al-Walid’s arrogance, his cruelty—so antithetical to islam—and his ruthlessly ambitious nature, but I said nothing, loath to reveal my inner thoughts before the cunning Mu’awiyya. When Umar entered his rooms, beckoning me and al-Abbas to join him, I knew he would be seeking our advice. “Send Mughira to me, also,” he said as he dismissed Mu’awiyya.

  Inside, I gazed around the spacious rooms, my mouth hanging open like a child’s. These quarters were more luxurious than any I had seen, with ceilings so high even ten men standing on one another’s shoulders would not be able to reach them, large arched windows, plush carpets and tapestries, and a bed whose plump stuffed mattress could accommodate four men. I tried not to think about my own sleeping quarters that night, a thin pallet on the hard-packed earth in a tent that smelled like camel sweat, torch smoke, and body odor.