Having given her the eulogy she deserved, I stepped back among my sister-wives and welcomed their embraces. “Thank you,” Umm Salama whispered, “for doing what I should have done.” Yet I noticed that Ramlah, like Ali, was shooting me disapproving looks. I didn’t need to ask what either of them was thinking, for I had heard it from them both before: Once again, A’isha has to make herself the center of attention. Of course, if I had been a man—an Arab man, I should say, considering the baleful looks Akiiki was getting—no one would have disapproved. In truth, everyone would have murmured agreement with my sentiments.
As the crowd began to drift away, leaving the gravediggers to cover Maryam’s body with dirt, I felt a tug at my sleeve. I turned to face Talha, who gazed at me as though I were the full moon. I had to bite back a response: Save those adoring glances for your wife, or, if you’re looking for another wife, save them for someone available to you.
“Yaa A’isha, your verse was quite appropriate,” he said. “Such a beautiful homage you gave to the honorable Maryam. Muhammad would be very proud.”
And what would he think of you, blatantly displaying your desire for his widow?
Before I could say anything, though, we heard a splintering scream. We turned in the direction of the cries to see Akiiki’s long body fold and tumble into Maryam’s grave, a dagger in his stomach and his blood gushing.
“By al-Lah, the eunuch has taken his own life,” Uthman cried, holding out his arms toward Akiiki as if to catch him.
“He has gone to join his beloved,” old Umm Ayman said with a knowing nod to Sawdah.
“He loved her, everybody knew that,” Sawdah said. “But Maryam was faithful to Muhammad.”
“That is not what people are saying about her,” Umm Ayman said. “Or about your sister-wives, either. Behold A’isha and Talha, for instance. How closely they stand to each other. Does he not visit her hut from time to time?” I took a step backward, and pulled my wrapper closer to hide the flush of heat spreading across my face and neck.
“Get that blackamoor out of Maryam’s grave,” Umar gruffed, then walked away shaking his head. As he passed me, he added, “Yaa A’isha, I want to talk with you in the mosque. Immediately.”
My stomach pulled tight. I turned to follow Umar, feeling Talha’s gaze as I walked away. What did Umar want? Would he chastise me for speaking at Maryam’s grave? Or had he, also, heard rumors about me and Talha? That would hurt Talha’s chance of being named the next khalifa. Umar would never name a successor who had been tainted by scandal.
As I followed Umar, Mughira, and Ali to the mosque, a small, dark man stepped into Umar’s path. “Afwan, yaa khalifa, forgive me for intruding,” he said. “I am Abu Lulu’a, a former slave. I earned my freedom two years ago but your Companion Mughira still enslaves me. He takes two pieces of silver per day from my earnings as a carpenter. I beg you to lift this unfair tax.”
Umar turned Mughira beside him, who shrugged. “He learned his craft under my sponsorship,” he said. “It is only fair that I should benefit.”
“You have so much wealth, while I have nothing,” Abu Lulu’a screeched. “This is not fair.”
Umar drew back as if Abu Lulu’a had spit at him, and gave the little man a stern frown. “Would you have me insult Mughira, one of my most valuable advisors, for the sake of a slave such as you?”
Abu Lulu’a bowed again. “According to the Prophet, we are all one in the eyes of al-Lah.”
Umar nodded. “You speak truly. But Mughira is important not only to me, but to islam. When you have demonstrated that you are equally important, than I will admonish him.” He started to walk away, but the little man stepped backwards and blocked his path again.
“What can I do to prove my worthiness to you?”
“Hmm.” Umar tugged at his beard. “That is a very good question, yaa Abu Lulu’a. What can you do? Hmm.” He tugged at his beard as if deep in thought, but his wink at Mughira told us he was far from serious.
“By al-Lah, my answer has revealed itself,” Umar said with a snap of his fingers. “Abu Lulu’a, as you know, our wells in Medina are so depleted that we cannot retrieve their water. Can you build a windmill for pumping the water? If you can do that, then I will speak to Mughira on your behalf.” He grinned at his advisor, who grinned back.
“A windmill!” A whine edged Abu Lulu’a’s voice. “I am skilled, but I am not a djinni.”
Umar shrugged. “That is unfortunate for you. But at least I gave you a chance.”
He began to walk again, motioning for us all to follow, leaving Abu Lulu’a standing with his arms akimbo.
“You will be sorry for this,” he cried. “Al-Lah will punish you!”
Umar inclined his head toward Mughira. “Yaa Mughira, I think a tax of two dirhams is not enough in this case,” he said. “I suggest you charge him three.” Mughira grinned, showing his ugly yellow teeth.
At the mosque entrance, Umar ordered his Companions to take their leave, then beckoned me to follow him inside. At his behest, I sat across from him. He poured us each a bowl of water and we drank, but my gaze never left his face as I tried to figure out why he’d brought me into his majlis, Umar’s male sanctum.
Finally, he put down his bowl, wiped his beard with his sleeve, and looked at me.
“A’isha, I am sure you have heard the rumors,” he said. My intuition had been correct. Angry over the lies swirling through the umma, Umar was going to banish me from Talha. I cast about for arguments. Yaa al-Lah, give me the words to change his mind.
But, as it turned out, Umar hadn’t brought me here to discuss Talha.
“As you know, I can offer her an excellent home,” he was saying. “And my other wives will treat her kindly. If you will give your consent, of course.”
I shook my head. “What about Talha?” I said frowning.
He shook his head. “It seems grief over Maryam has settled like a fog on your ability to reason,” he said. “No one has mentioned Talha.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless there is something you wish to reveal.”
“No.” I took a sip of water. “You speak truly about my mind being confused. Did you say something about a marriage?”
He let out a short, impatient sigh. “Yes. I want to marry Abu Bakr’s youngest daughter,” he said. “Your sister Umm Kulthum. If you will give your consent, of course.”
Suddenly I felt as if I had plunged headlong into the Sea of Hijaz. My thoughts flailed. Umar’s eyes watched me steadily, waiting—and again I felt grateful for my hijab. With it, Umar couldn’t see the turmoil I felt. Send my little sister to live with a man who beat his wives for speaking above a whisper?
“Umm Kulthum?” He nodded. “But she is only four years old. Why would you choose her?”
“Betrothal to a daughter of our esteemed khalifa Abu Bakr would enhance my status,” he said. He gave me a thin smile. “And Muhammad has forbidden you to remarry.”
Praise al-Lah for that. I cleared my throat. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Why not say ‘yes’? The match would be advantageous for your family, also.”
“Yes, but—” Needing more time, I forced a cough. Umar poured the last drops of precious water for me and I sipped them slowly.
Umar folded his arms over his shrunken belly and smiled, his eyes gleaming as he anticipated my assent. His eagerness sweetened the taste of my lie.
“She—she is spoken for,” I said. “Talha asked my father before he died.” I shook my head. “By al-Lah, I can’t believe abi never told you. You two were so close.”
I don’t know which delighted me most—Umar’s disappointed frown or his obvious embarrassment. “I and your father did not often discuss family matters,” he said. “But it makes no difference. What is done is done.”
“I hope your heart won’t suffer from losing my sister’s hand,” I said sweetly, goading him.
He reddened even more. “Of course not. What kind of man would I be, to lust after a four-year-old? I told you,
the marriage would have been political, and nothing more.”
I bowed to him. “It will be the same for Talha. He hopes to be khalifa some day. If al-Lah wills it.”
“Yes, yes.” Umar stood, and I followed. “I am sure he would be an excellent candidate.” He stepped toward the majlis entryway and, with my head meekly lowered, I followed him. Then he stopped and turned around to peer at me, his eyes glinting.
“In truth, marrying your sister will enhance Talha’s chances at the title,” he said. “Much more so than the other route he has been pursuing.”
The accusatory lift of his eyebrows told all, and I thought I should defend myself against his insinuations.
“What route is that, khalifa?” I said.
“A route that leads directly to Hell,” he said. “Dangerous to all concerned, especially you.”
I lowered my head to hide my guilt. “I didn’t know you cared,” I said wryly.
“I do not,” he said. “Not in the way you are thinking. I do, however, care about the reputation of the Prophet’s widows, and the deleterious effects of gossip. If Talha’s engagement to Umm Kulthum will restore some peace among the tongue-waggers, then I will give the couple my full support.”
I lifted my head to offer him a smile and say something truthful, at last. “I couldn’t agree more. This marriage will be good for everyone concerned.” Now, all I had to do was convince Talha—and hope that being married to my sister would, someday, turn his thoughts away from me.
Ali
When Umar insulted Abu Lulu’a with his offer of freedom in exchange for a windmill, I thought little of the incident. Slaves approached the khalifa daily with complaints, and Abu Lulu’a should have known that Umar would display little sympathy. Although Muhammad had encouraged Muslims to free their slaves, Umar lacked my cousin’s tenderness of heart.
So when my cousin Abd Allah ibn al-Abbas came to my home to announce that Umar had been stabbed, the news struck me like a fist to my chest. Abd Allah’s face shone as brightly and excitedly as if he were announcing a birth instead of an impending death.
“Praise al-Lah, the path for you is cleared at last!” my cousin said. I led him into my majlis, where he seized my beard with such vehemence that my eyes began to water.
“Umar lies dying in the mosque, may al-Lah be with him. His Companions are gathering to hear his instructions. Yaa Ali, you must come and let him know that you are a contender for the khalifa. The future of islam depends on your appointment.”
I wanted to tell him that islam had survived very well without me as its leader, but in truth I did not believe that it had. Grandiose mosque expansions, a pension system that pitted Qurayshi against Bedouins and early converts against new ones, the appointment of that deceiver Mu’awiyya to govern Syria—so many of Umar’s initiatives had, in my view, served to corrupt the islam revealed by Muhammad. I wanted to return the faith to its origin—to restore equality among men, respect for women, and honesty and humility in government. Could my time be at hand?
We stepped outside into mayhem. Everyone in Medina, it appeared, had surged into the street: men with bared teeth and fire in their eyes, veiled women crying their children’s names, and children re-enacting with sticks the terrible attack that had befallen Umar as he had walked from his home to the mosque that morning.
We wove our way through the swirl and crash of children, men, shaykhs, women, dogs, horses, camels, goats, and ubiquitous flies to hurry into the mosque, where Umar lay on a mattress, holding his side to stem the flow of blood that the reddening bandage wrapped around his waist could not. His face had turned an unpleasant ashen color. Beside him sat his first-wife, Zaynab bint Maz’un, patting the hand of her weeping daughter Hafsa, who had remained inexplicably attached to Umar despite his harsh treatment. A’isha knelt beside Umar’s bed and mixed a poultice to apply to a clean bandage, which she laid across the terrible gushing wound.
Umar paid little attention to the ministrations of the women but clung, instead, to the robe of his friend Abd al-Rahman. In spite of the drought and famine, the wealthy Qurayshi merchant had somehow managed to cultivate three chins under his dyed black beard.
“There is no better man,” Umar was saying between gasps. “Please accept, so that I can die in peace.”
I murmured a greeting, hiding the alarm that I knew must be flashing across my face. Umar was attempting to appoint Abd al-Rahman to the khalifa. Such an action would only increase the corruption of islam, for Abd al-Rahman loved only one thing more than money, and that was status. I had heard him speak disparagingly about Bedouins, Persians, Yemeni, and Egyptians, whose members now made up most of the Muslim populace. I knew he had donated generously to Umar’s mosque expansion in exchange for coveted positions for his sons, brothers, and cousins. As khalifa, he would place a relative into every governorship throughout our territory, which would heighten complaints that islam had become a religion of, and for, Quraysh.
Abd al-Rahman’s reply alleviated my concerns. “I am honored, yaa Umar, but I cannot accept this appointment. Have you not said many times that the khalifa should be chosen by the people? I beseech you to convene a shura. If its members elect me, I would gladly, and humbly, serve.”
Although I knew there was nothing humble about Abd al-Rahman, I could not dispute the wisdom of his words. After Abu Bakr had appointed Umar, many had muttered, wondering why I, the father of the Prophet’s heirs, had not been considered. My supporters among the ansari and the Bedouins stemmed partly from my blood relationship to Muhammad and partly from my respect for them. Under Umar’s harsh reign, the complaints about my being overlooked for the khalifa had lately increased. For Umar to appoint his successor would surely cause a rift in the umma. That in turn could leave our vast empire vulnerable to conquest by that power-monger Mu’awiyya.
But my hopes plummeted as Umar named the men who would serve on the electing council: Abd al-Rahman; the esteemed general Sa’d, who had served under my command as a foot soldier at Badr and Uhud; Umar’s oldest son, Abdallah; Uthman, and al-Zubayr, my cousin, who had supported me in the beginning, refusing to pledge allegiance to Abu Bakr, but had then turned against me. My name was not mentioned.
“And what about Talha?” A’isha said, although she had not been asked to offer her opinion. “You’ve relied on him often enough for advice.”
“You speak truly,” Umar wheezed.
“Yaa khalifa, I request your permission to speak.” My cousin Abd Allah stepped forward and bowed. He suggested that I be included, also.
“There are rumors of Talha’s ambition for the khalifa,” Abd Allah said. “Also, many Believers support Ali for the position. To avoid dissent, why not appoint them both to your council? Then no one could say that Umar had unfairly cheated Ali of his birthright.”
“People are going to talk no matter what you do,” A’isha began, but Abd al-Rahman cut her off, earning from me a measure of respect that would, alas, be short-lived.
“I agree with the son of al-Abbas,” he said. “Our highest hope for the continuation of the umma and of islam depends on having an impartial, balanced council choose your successor.”
And so with spirits lifted, I stepped forth from the mosque a member of the prestigious shura that would decide the future of the Islamic community. We were to meet almost immediately, but first, the members needed to be summoned, and Umar needed to rest. “Do not worry,” he said, gasping, “I will not take my final breath until a successor is named.” Yet the way he struggled to focus his gaze and the parchment-like pallor of his skin told us that his time, and ours in which to choose a khalifa, was very short.
For his comfort we closed the mosque to all except his family and the shura members. A’isha had advised against moving Umar to his home, saying the pain would be great for him and that doing so might shorten his life.
I hurried to the home of al-Abbas with the news of my appointment to the shura. For all my doubts about my uncle, I could not dispute his shrewdness in
political affairs, and I desired his advice before entering into the deliberations that could shape my destiny.
“Praise al-Lah for Abd al-Rahman!” he cried when I had related the tale of the shura’s formation. I cringed to think of praising that smug sack of goat-grease, but then my uncle added, “His lack of intelligence is our gain. What he has unwisely refused, we will seize for ourselves.”
I did not like the greed in his eyes, for I neither intended to “seize” anything nor to claim the khalifa for my uncle’s sake. His ambitions, I had learned, could prompt me to perform deeds against my conscience. As I walked to my home to tell Asma the news, a scream more deafening than a howling samoom bounced against the building next to me. I ran in one direction, then another before finding Umar’s assassin, Abu Lulu’a, lying in the street, his face smeared with mucous and blood, his throat slit open. Beside him stood Umar’s youngest son, Ubayd Allah, a blood-dripping knife in his right hand and a grimace on his lips.
“Now begins my vengeance!” he cried. His eyes were bulging and unfocused, staring into the crowd gathering around the slain man. “Let his collaborators beware, for they will be the next to taste death’s dust.”
“Yaa Ubayd Allah,” I said, eyeing his knife warily. “Of whom do you speak? Umar angered Abu Lulu’a, and Abu Lulu’a attacked him in return. Now you have avenged your father, and the blood-price is paid. Any more killings would make you a murderer.”
“Murderer!” he snarled. He took a step toward me, his eyes gleaming. The aroma of blood pierced my nose. I gripped my sword handle. “The dogs of Persia are the ones who have murdered today,” he said. “By al-Lah, before night falls the streets of Medina will be steeped in Persian blood!”
He turned and, shouting his father’s name, fled into the crowd. I hurried back toward the mosque, forgoing the embraces of my lovely Asma in order to alert Umar to the dangers his son posed. Ubayd Allah was like a stampeding bull, and I had no doubt that he would hunt down additional Persians to kill. But once I reached Umar’s bedside, I knew he was not the one to tell. He lay on his back with his hands folded on his chest, his face flushed and shining as though it had been rubbed with oil, his breathing like water bubbling through gravel, his bandages soaked and dripping onto his mattress.
The Sword Of Medina Page 13
