The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  I spat onto the dirt floor. Damn A’isha! Her task was to tend to Umar, yet she had left him alone without man or woman to greet him should he awaken. Once again she had proved herself as irresponsible as a child.

  And she was as gullible, also. She would try to help Talha take the khalifa, I had no doubt, although how much influence she would wield was unclear. Talha was in Khaybar, inspecting his date plantation and enjoying the cool date-palm breezes created by his crowd of servant girls. Without being here to advocate for himself, he had almost no chance of being chosen today.

  I knocked on the door of A’isha’s hut, but heard no response. I looked for her in the cooking tent, but it was empty. At last I stepped into the treasury, intending to inquire of Abd al-Rahman. I found him there, but I also discovered the other men of the shura—plus, to my astonishment, A’isha, who was pleading her favorite’s case.

  “Talha can’t possibly ride all the way back from Khaybar in such a short time,” she was saying.

  “Umar was clear,” Abd al-Rahman said. He folded his hands and studied us all with the gravity of a man who has assumed a weighty role against his inclinations. “He has directed me to choose his successor within three days. To leave the position unfilled for too long will cause strife in the umma and give others an opportunity to put forth their own candidates. We must avoid the confusion that would result.”

  “But Talha was appointed by Umar,” she said.

  “So were we all,” I interjected. Heads turned at the sound of my voice. “But the rest of us are here in Medina, not lounging in the cool Khaybar oasis.”

  A’isha’s face reddened. “Talha is working, and you know it. He has date plantations to manage and workers to pay.”

  In truth, I did not relish the presence of Talha in these shura meetings for I knew he would campaign aggressively against me. Judging from what I had overheard in Damascus between him and Mu’awiyya, his election would bring a complete corruption of islam. Talha thought only of his own ambitions and very little of the desires of al-Lah. Preventing his ascension to the khalifa was more important to me, therefore, than my own appointment. Yet, as I pondered the alternatives, I felt certain that I was right for the task.

  “You speak the truth, A’isha,” Abd al-Rahman said, nodding like a sage old shaykh. “Umar did appoint Talha—at your suggestion, and possibly without recalling that he had departed for Khaybar. I have sent a messenger to request his return. He will certainly arrive as soon as possible. In the meantime, I agree with Umar that we should begin our deliberations.”

  He glanced around the room, but I barely met his gaze. I stared angrily at A’isha. I knew she had summoned the other shura members, and purposely neglected to include me. She would do anything to undermine my candidacy—as she proved with her next words.

  “Yaa Abd al-Rahman, why not allow me to speak in Talha’s stead?” she said. “As you know, I and he agree on every matter.”

  “An excellent idea!” my traitorous cousin al-Zubayr exulted. By al-Lah, what had brought those two so closely together? My mouth felt dry. I said nothing, knowing that I must appear nonchalant if I desired success.

  “Afwan, yaa Abd al-Rahman, but I do not think my father would approve of a woman’s involvement in these talks,” Abdallah ibn Umar said. I suppressed a smile. A’isha glared at him. “Forgive me, Mother of the Believers,” he murmured.

  Uthman cleared his throat. “I agree with Abdallah, although I wish it were not so,” he said, inclining his head toward A’isha. “You have much wisdom to contribute, A’isha, and you can speak for our Prophet, also. But Umar did not appoint you, and I think it would be wrong to violate our dying khalifa’s wishes.”

  “Holding the shura without Talha will violate his wishes, also,” she pressed. She turned her eye on each of us, but no one replied. “Don’t fool yourselves,” she said with a snort. “It’s not the khalifa’s desires you’re protecting, but your own.” She stomped from the room with her head high.

  The relief I felt at her exit must have been experienced by others, also, for immediately we began to talk as we lifted cushions from the corner of the room and placed them around the long, low table Umar used for counting and disbursing money. Abd al-Rahman placed himself in the center position, assuming the leadership.

  “Before we begin the deliberations, we must know who desires the khalifa,” he said, gazing at each of us with the shrewd, piercing eyes of a bird. “Anyone who wishes to compete, place your right hand on the table.”

  Silence fell about our heads like dust settling after a storm. As wary as if we were predators stalking the same prey, the six of us watched one another and waited for the first hand to appear. Finally, Abd al-Rahman placed his hand, palm down, on the table and said, “I will begin by announcing my own interest. Who joins me?”

  I looked down at my trembling hands, unable to lift either, wondering if my desire to lead the umma sprang from the will of al-Lah or from myself. Please, God, guide me in this momentous decision. If I vied for the khalifa now and lost, I might never again have the opportunity to try again. But if I did not make the attempt, would I be failing al-Lah, islam, and all those who had supported me? I knew I could rely on Sa’d. I had saved his life at Uhud, and encouraged Muhammad to promote him after the Battle of the Trench. But who else here would vote for me? Umar’s son, Abdallah? We had fought together, also, but he was indolent and I had been harsh with him. Al-Zubayr, that traitor? Perhaps. And certainly Uthman, one of Muhammad’s closest Companions, would support me. He knew how often Muhammad had relied on my aid and advice

  But, no. Across the table, Uthman coughed, covering his mouth with his hand, said “Afwan,” and set his hand down on the table. A sense of urgency flared in me, urging me to declare myself. I could not bear to see either of these men governing the faithful and guiding the Believers in the ways of islam.

  “Excellent.” Abd al-Rahman beamed at Uthman, his brother-in-law and close companion. “It looks as though we two are the only contenders for this khalifa. And since I am advanced in years and lack the energy that the position requires, I will happily—”

  Hurry hurry hurry hurry you are losing it all—stop him now!

  The slap of my palm on the table made Abd al-Rahman’s eyes fly open as though a bucket of cold water had been slung in his face. Uthman twisted his mustache and frowned.

  “Ah. Ali.” Abd al-Rahman’s smile was a thin attempt at pleasantness. “Of course you still desire to fill the Prophet’s place.” He cleared his throat and glanced brightly around the table again. “Any others? No? Then please note the candidates: Me, Uthman, and Ali. Those in favor of me, place your hand on the table.”

  He left his hand there, and Umar’s son Abdallah added his own. “Because it is my father’s desire,” he said.

  Next came the vote for Uthman. Al-Zubayr, that deceptive dog, planted his hand beside Uthman’s. “I had thought of vying, also,” he said, “but to compete against a man so generous would feel dishonorable. You have treated my wife well.” I felt a smirk creep across my mouth. Was al-Zubayr unaware of Uthman’s reputation with women?

  And at last Abd al-Rahman spoke my name, and the only remaining hand—that belonging to the estimable young general Sa’d—came down for me. “I have not forgotten your years as my commander,” he said. “Never did a man wield a sword so expertly or so bravely. Your courage and skill would translate well to the khalifa.”

  And so, without Talha to cast a seventh vote—thank al-Lah!—we found ourselves with no winner. “Does anyone wish to nominate a man outside this room?” Abd al-Rahman said.

  “What about Talha?” al-Zubayr said.

  “Are you nominating him?” Abd al-Rahman said. “Then you must withdraw your support from Uthman.”

  “Would Talha offer himself as a candidate against such formidable opponents?” Abdallah said. “Which of the candidates might he support, instead? Since we have no way of knowing, I think we have to omit him.”

  Abd al
-Rahman called a second vote, but the results were identical. For a long while we sat in confusion—until at last Abd al-Rahman said, “It is important to have a clear consensus regarding the khalifa. If we cannot decide who will lead us, how can we expect the umma to support our final choice?”

  He called again for a vote, but the results did not vary.

  “Praise al-Lah, He has handed us a challenge,” Abd al-Rahman said, but his voice sounded weary rather than excited. “And now I will attempt to meet that challenge with this offer: I will remove my name—if you all will allow me to choose the next khalifa, with al-Lah’s direction.”

  That sly son of Satan! He and Uthman were the closest of friends. It was no mystery whom he would select.

  “An excellent idea, Abd al-Rahman,” Uthman said, smiling. “As a flawlessly pious man and Companion to the Prophet, you will rely on alLah for assistance in this important decision, I know.”

  “I will fast and pray until He reveals His will to me,” Abd al-Rahman said.

  I hesitated to protest, fearing that I might seem overly contentious. Seeing that Sa’d was not going to question this dubious offer, however, I allowed myself to speak. “And what if He does not reveal His will, Abd al-Rahman?” I said. “On what basis will you choose between me, whom you have never supported before, and your relative, who also happens to be your bosom companion?”

  “Afwan, Ali, but you are speaking without thinking,” al-Zubayr said. “Abd al-Rahman is well respected in our umma as the most faithful of Believers. Did not the Prophet say, ‘Truly, You hear all prayers?’ Surely al-Lah would listen to the man our khalifa would have chosen as his replacement.”

  The treachery of al-Zubayr, my long-beloved cousin, made me gnash out the words I had repressed for so long.

  “And you, cousin?” I snarled. “You supported me in the past, but you have turned with the prevailing winds like an inconstant flag. How many dinars did Uthman pay for your vote today?”

  Al-Zubayr leapt to his feet, his hand on his sword. “Insulting Uthman, the Prophet’s beloved Companion! If not for Muhammad’s love for you, I would cut out your tongue this very moment.”

  I stood, also, and touched my sword hilt. “The only man I wished to insult, cousin, was you.”

  “Yaa Ali,” my lone supporter, Sa’d, said quietly, “this is not the way to gain the khalifa.”

  I glanced down at him and then at the other faces, all like locked doors. Why should they disagree with Abd al-Rahman’s offer when he would gladly perform this difficult task in their stead? Once again I would be denied the khalifa. I turned and I stormed out of the room—and, on the other side of the doorway, collided so violently with someone that I nearly fell.

  When I had steadied myself I looked down into the flushed face of A’isha, who lay in an awkward sprawl at my feet. Her wrapper had slipped down, allowing her hair to float like a fine red mist about her face. She looked so vulnerable that I might have offered my hand to help her from the floor—until she reached out a sandaled foot and kicked me in the shin.

  “Watch where you’re going, in the name of al-Lah!” she growled as she pushed herself upward.

  “Afwan,” I said, hiding with a scowl my unbidden—and unwelcome—feelings of compassion. “I should have expected to catch you spying, the same as when you were a child. How foolish of me to think you might have grown out of it.”

  “I have an interest in those proceedings, the same as you,” she said. “Unlike you, though, I was forced to leave.”

  “Why would I remain? To witness yet another act of treachery by your bosom friend al-Zubayr?”

  She laughed. “Al-Zubayr is no friend of mine. He supports Talha and the return of islam to its original state, the way Muhammad envisioned it.”

  I wanted the same thing, I could have said—but she already knew that. I was the one she hated, not my beliefs. “Supporting that weakling Uthman will do nothing to help islam, as you and al-Zubayr should know,” I said.

  She pulled her wrapper aside for one instant, to taunt me with her wicked smile. “He’s keeping you out of the khalifa, isn’t he? Talha will be here soon. Then, we’ll see—”

  A shout from outside the mosque interrupted us. I frowned to see Abu Hurayra with his ever-present cat cradled in one arm and the other arm flailing as if he were trying to fly.

  “Murder!” he was crying. “Murder in the streets of Medina! Yaa Ali, heir to the Prophet, I beg you, protect us, hide us from the killer of Persians!”

  His words were a hand squeezing my throat. Ubayd Allah! In my surprise at seeing the shura convened, I had forgotten my concerns about the son of Umar’s vengeful rampage.

  I ran to Abu Hurayra and grasped his beard, sending his cat scrambling to the floor. “Tell me of whom you speak and I will have him arrested.”

  “Ubayd Allah, son of Umar,” he said in a quaking voice, confirming my worst fears. “He has killed two Persian men, and now he wants my Persian cat.”

  Just then Ubayd Allah burst into the mosque gripping his bloody dagger. His eyes blazed as he lunged toward Abu Hurayra.

  I possessed little affection for the pest Abu Hurayra, Muhammad’s self-appointed servant, who had annoyed me immensely by following Muhammad everywhere—into the majlis, into his wives’ bedrooms, into my home—and, after my cousin died, inventing sayings by Muhammad to suit his every convenience. Yet I did not wish to witness more bloodshed, and I certainly could not condone killing in the mosque. I yanked Zulfikar from its sheath and sliced my trusty blade against the right arm of Ubayd Allah. He dropped his dagger and slumped to his knees.

  “Afwan, yaa Ubayd Allah,” I said. “I cannot permit any more killings.”

  Abdallah and Sa’d rushed into the room—but stopped at the sight of Ubayd Allah bleeding on the floor. “Yaa brother, what has happened?” Abdallah said, glaring at me.

  “The Persians have murdered our father,” Ubayd Allah groaned, holding his arm. “I have taken revenge.”

  “One Persian did the deed, not all of them,” I corrected him. “And your father yet clings to life. Who knows whether he will defeat this wound and return to rule us all?”

  “You are mistaken, Ali,” Abdallah Ibn Umar said in a thick voice. Tears spilled over his face. “Our father breathed his final breath today in my mother’s arms—while we of the shura fought over the khalifa like scavengers over scraps of meat.”

  A’isha

  Where is Talha? In spite of the anticipation and excitement filling the mosque on the day the next khalifa was to be chosen, I felt only anxiety as I waited for Talha to magically appear. In the eight years since Muhammad’s death, islam had taken some disturbing turns away from its original path. Conquest and booty drove the umma now, rather than love for God. Orphans, slaves, and women, the people Muhammad had helped, were forgotten as men strove for wealth and military honors. Talha hated these changes as much as I, and, as khalifa, would work with me to restore compassion and generosity to islam. But we had to begin now—before it was too late.

  Umar had doubled the size of Muhammad’s mosque, but I could see from my hut’s doorway that it wasn’t nearly big enough on this day. The spacious room filled quickly with men and their chatter, hundreds of voices rising in a confused swarm that stung my ears with the name of Ali and soothed them with the murmur of Uthman. If only it had been Talha’s name soaring to the sky! We could have accomplished so much for islam. But alas, he wasn’t here and the khalifa was about to be given to someone else—and all I could do was pray that it would be someone other than Ali.

  Standing with my sister-wives pressing around me, I watched as Ali and al-Abbas entered to a smattering of cheers. Even from this distance, I could smell al-Abbas’s perfume, an unctuous musk scent that made me gag. He had been busy, I’d heard, recruiting supporters for Ali, but he widened his eyes at the chanting men as though he’d never seen such an astonishing sight. Ali climbed the steps to the marble platform and faced the crowd, his jaw tight and his hands clenched.
He had dressed plainly for the occasion, in a simple white gown and robe the color of sand—clean but a bit tattered, despite his generous pension. Of course, he had a family and a stomach to feed, both of which seemed to be growing all the time.

  On the other side of the platform stood Uthman, his mustache slick and curling over his copper-dyed beard and his mouth smiling as though he’d just filled his belly with warm milk, which he probably had done. His rich red robe and saffron gown told me he expected to be appointed today, and why not? Abd al-Rahman, his closest companion, was making the choice.

  Uthman’s eyes met mine and his smile widened. I nodded and smiled back to him. Although I had desperately wanted Talha for the khalifa, in truth I would have supported a donkey over Ali. If Ali were named, not only would I lose my pension and my freedom—for he’d be certain to tighten the restrictions Umar had imposed, and banish me to my hut—but islam would lose its soul to the greed of Ali’s uncle.

  “Listen to those men chanting Ali’s name,” Sawdah said from her cushion on my floor, where she busily sewed leather leggings for our warriors. “The Prophet would not have liked this, believe me.”

  “You speak truly,” Juwairriyah said from behind me, shaking her head and filling the room with the scent of lavender from her hair. “Muhammad always admonished us to treat one another kindly.”

  “There’s nothing kind about that chanting!” Saffiya’s eyes shone and a red dot glowed on each of her cheeks. “Think how poor Uthman must feel.”

  “I’m sure he feels anything but poor.” Raihana rolled her eyes.

  “He has to expect opposition if he’s going to try for the khalifa,” Hafsa pointed out. “A’isha’s father had competition, and Umar had detractors, also.”

  “But they had already become the khalifa,” I said. “I agree with Saffiya—advocating for Ali like this is rude. Those men should be made to leave the mosque.”