Uthman, to his credit, had done away with Umar’s “merit” system and equalized pensions among all, depending on rank, not longevity. Yet he’d awarded the best, highest-paying positions in the government and the army to members of his family. I’d advised against it, warning him that the Bedouins, especially, would grumble. Does not a wise leader appoint men whom he knows and trusts? Uthman had said with a smile.
I liked Uthman. He was a generous man who had given large sums of money to Muhammad, saving him from starvation more than once. Yet, like my brother, I wasn’t sure he was the best man to lead the umma. He wasn’t strong enough to refuse favors to his family members, and he never denied himself anything. His knowledge of the qur’an seemed thin, and his health always seemed to be failing. During his first year as khalifa, he hadn’t been able to lead the pilgrimage to Mecca because of a nosebleed that wouldn’t stop. Now that he was eighty, everyone seemed to be waiting for him to die—and jostling for position in the contest for the khalifa.
Ali, I could see, still thought the job should be his. But instead of increasing his status with money, he’d focused on building a huge household of wives, concubines, and thirty children.
“By al-Lah, is he trying to rival Solomon?” Hafsa said to me now as, plucking grapes from a bowl outside the cooking tent, we watched Ali place his hand on Asma’s swelling stomach.
“Yes, and not just in wives and children,” I said. “He wants to be a king like Solomon, also.” I told her about my conversation with Mohammad and Hud, and her eyebrows lifted.
“Do your brother’s opinions come from Ali?” she said. “I’ve heard similar talk elsewhere.”
“I’d wager my next month’s pension that these rumors of unrest are coming from Ali,” I said. “Of course, he’s too feeble-hearted to start a rebellion by himself. But his uncle al-Abbas is perfectly capable of doing the job.”
Servants marched past bearing platters of food: loaves of wheat bread as light as air; rice scented with saffron; lamb stewed with figs; tender asparagus braised with leeks and ghee; cheeses of various textures and colors made from the milk of goats, sheep, and cows; and sesame cakes drizzled with rummaniya, a syrup made from pomegranate juice. They wafted behind them a scent trail to make our mouths water—cumin, cinnamon, cloves, and lemon—yet I couldn’t help remembering a time, while Muhammad lived, when a feast like this would have made our stomachs flip in delight. Back then, our household subsisted on barley, dates, and water. Most of the rest of the umma had fared only slightly better. But Persia was closed to us then, and caravans from Egypt and Syria were rare. Now we owned those lands and imported their foods, and money to buy them was ever at hand. Only the poorest among us ate barley bread these days, or relied on dates to survive.
Behind the servants lumbered Sawdah, nearly seventy now and barely able to walk ten steps without resting. “I see you two hungering after the meal. It is good, the best feast I have ever been in charge of,” she said proudly, mopping sweat from her face with a handkerchief. “But you know you can’t eat, A’isha, until you congratulate the bride and groom.” She narrowed her eyes, giving me a look so pointed it prodded me across the courtyard to Talha and Umm Kulthum, the disturbingly happy couple.
“A’isha!” My sister glowed as if she’d been dipped in starlight as she kissed me. What a difference between her wedding day and mine! She certainly wasn’t the frightened bride I’d been. Of course, I’d been nine, and terrified that Muhammad would want to consummate our marriage that night. If I’d known that my new husband was willing to wait until I was ready—and beyond, as it turned out—would I have collapsed on the floor during the ceremony, crying, while our families and friends looked on? Or would I have smiled as radiantly as my sister was doing now? She loved Talha. She would have married him the day they became engaged, when she was just four, if I’d let her. He, on the other hand, was supposed to love me. So why did his eyes sparkle deliriously as he invited me now to the Sawad?
“I’ve built a huge house, big enough to get lost in, with lots of rooms, patios, fountains, and servants,” he said. “Why don’t you join us? Plan to stay a few weeks so you can view every room.”
“Yes, come with us, A’isha.” Umm Kulthum grabbed my hand and squeezed it as she snuggled into Talha’s embrace. “It’ll be a nice change for you, and very restful.”
I shook my head. Watching Talha fondle my sister didn’t sound restful to me. “I don’t feel comfortable in big houses,” I said. “Like Muhammad, I prefer simplicity.”
Umm Kulthum frowned. “I’ve noticed. That gown you’re wearing is older than I am. A’isha, there’s no need to live so austerely anymore. We’re not fighting for survival the way you did in the olden days. The umma has money now.”
Talha nodded. “Your sister speaks truly, A’isha,” he said. “People are once again measuring a man by his wealth. With my great house in the Sawad, I’m more respected, and my chances of becoming khalifa are increasing. Things are changing—and Umm Kulthum, my fresh young bride, can help prepare us for the future.”
They turned together as one and, arm-in-arm, floated like lovers into the mosque. Beside me, Hafsa tugged at my sleeve.
“Yaa A’isha, you’re crying!” she whispered. In truth, I was. I dropped my gaze, hoping no one could see the tears spilling onto my cheeks as my sister-wife led me into the mosque for the wedding feast.
I plopped without grace onto a cushion, as I struggled to control my emotions. How often Talha used to gaze at me the way he now gazed at Umm Kulthum! A dish of lamb was placed before us but I barely noticed it. Umm Kulthum, of course, was a beautiful girl, with skin like dew and a mouth as plump as ripe figs. I, on the other hand, was an old woman of forty. It was obvious why any man would prefer her to me. My fresh young bride, Talha had called her. He’d never see me the same way again.
Praise al-Lah for that, a voice inside me admonished. Doesn’t Umm Kulthum deserve happiness? I shook off my self-pity and reached for a piece of bread and a bite of lamb so tender it fell apart on my tongue. My little sister was the closest thing to a child of my own that I would ever know. Her happiness was everything to me—as I’d proven by giving up the man I loved for her sake. Tears filled my mouth, choking out the taste of my food. I was a married woman, promised to Muhammad for eternity. I shouldn’t be having thoughts about men and love that didn’t involve my husband.
Things are changing. In truth, they were, and not all for the best. What had Talha said—that people were again measuring men by their wealth? He hadn’t seemed to disapprove of that attitude, while Muhammad had adamantly rejected it. A man’s money means nothing to al-Lah, unless he uses it for the good of others, he’d said many times. Now, just twenty-one years after his death, people were forgetting the true meaning of islam and honoring men for their possessions instead of their hearts. Uthman, who flaunted wealth, was partly to blame. But so, in my opinion, was Ali.
I looked at him now, escorting Asma to a group of women far away from me before joining the men’s side of the banquet. He was wearing his old military uniform, the most modest apparel at this event except, perhaps, for my old gown. But his swagger bespoke arrogance, and his choice of seating—with ‘Amr, the Egyptian governor-conqueror, and the despicable Marwan—told me that power was still on his mind.
When we’d finished our meal, and the dishes and cloths had been gathered up and carried away, Uthman creaked up the steps to the platform, preparing to lead a prayer for the bride and groom. But when he turned to face the crowd, the heavy doors to the mosque creaked open. In walked the skinny, gray-bearded shaykh Ibn Masud, one of Muhammad’s most respected Companions. Until my seclusion at age six, he had dandled me on his knee during many visits to my parents’ home.
Murmurs flurried through the mosque as he stepped up to the platform, as spry as a man half his age, and shook his cane at Uthman. “Yaa Uthman, I am told that you have refused my petition for a hearing today,” he shouted. “A man of my status and age should n
ot be refused, especially when he has come all the way from Kufa.”
Uthman frowned. “As you see, Ibn Masud, we are in the midst of a wedding ceremony. I am afraid your complaint will have to wait.”
“There is no waiting when you are as old as I am,” Ibn Masud said. “As you should know.”
Uthman reddened, being a vain man who preferred not to talk about his age. “Yaa Ibn Masud, were you invited to this wedding? If not, I must ask that you leave the mosque and come back tomorrow.”
“I may be dead tomorrow,” he said, waving his cane. “Here is what I came to say. Listen to me now. Your brother Walid is the mortification of Kufa. I left that lovely village on the day he led the prayer services drunk on wine. He vomited on the mosque steps.” Gasps punctuated the room.
“Enough!” Uthman cried. “Yaa Ibn Masud, I told you I would see you in the morning.”
The old man stomped his foot. “You must correct this now,” he said. “It is blasphemy against al-Lah and an embarrassment for you, khalifa. And as keeper of the treasury of Kufa, I have come to tell you in person what my messengers have told you many times: Walid has been stealing dinars and dirhams for his own enrichment. For example, he uses the money to pay dancing girls for private performances. When I complained he suggested I take some gold for myself, which of course I did not do. Uthman, with your brother setting the example, corruption pervades your administration!”
“I said that is enough,” Uthman cried. “If you do not take yourself out of the mosque this instant, I will—I will—”
“He will have you forcibly removed,” Marwan called from his seat on the floor.
Uthman nodded. “Marwan speaks the truth. I will have you forcibly removed.”
“But khalifa, there is more. Your attempts to compile the qur’an into a single version are tainted.”
“That is enough!”
“I am an old man, but my mind is as sharp as a dagger. I can recite every word of the Prophet’s recitations exactly as they fell from his lips. Your compilers are making changes.”
“I do not want to hear this!” Uthman cried. “I warn you for the last time, Ibn Masud.”
“Changes in God’s word, Uthman! This is the greatest sin of all, and if you do not correct it, you are in danger of hellfire.”
“Where are my men?” Uthman was screaming now, his face wizened with rage. Two of his guards ran up to the platform, wiping pomegranate syrup from their mustaches. Uthman pointed a quavering finger at the shaykh. “Throw him out! Now! And I mean throw him, as far as he will go!”
I leapt to my feet as the men picked up Muhammad’s old friend. “No! Stop!” I yelled as they ran with him toward the open door. I raced toward them, stepping on platters, kicking over cups, calling out to the guards to be careful, that he was the Prophet’s Companion—but I was too late. Just before I reached them, the guards tossed the poor old man high into the air, his arms and legs flailing, to land hard on his stomach, wheezing and bleeding from his nose and mouth.
How I yearned to run my sword through the gut of the rat-faced guard who stood chuckling at Ibn Masud! The poor old man lay in a heap. “That should teach you to obey our khalifa,” the other guard said with a sneer. I ran to Ibn Masud and knelt by his side.
“I am unharmed, Mother of the Believers,” he said. I blushed with pleasure at the honor of hearing him use my kunya. He tried to stand and found that he could not. “My ribs,” he said, sitting on the ground, doubled over in pain. I ran my hands along his ribcage and found two jagged breaks trying to tear through his skin. By al-Lah! He would need treatment, and soon.
The guards had gone back inside the mosque, slapping each other’s backs in congratulation. No one had followed me. Did no one care about this important shaykh, a reciter of the qur’an and one of the last honest men in the Muslim empire?
As if in answer to my question, the two Mohammads—my brother and his friend Mohammad ibn Hudheifa—burst forth from the mosque. “We would have come sooner,” my brother murmured, “but Uthman insisted on leading the prayer.”
“While the most pious one lay in the dust, mistreated at his behest?” Heat rose from my belly. Leaving the Mohammads to help Ibn Masud, I snatched up my sword and stomped back into the mosque—just in time to confront Uthman before he began his descent from the minbar.
“What has happened to you, yaa Uthman?” I snapped, forgoing the praise and ring-kissing he enjoyed before being addressed. “Have you forgotten your promise to follow Muhammad’s path? Or have you decided the Prophet’s vision for islam is now out of date?”
“A’isha, please seat yourself,” Uthman said—gently, for he knew that having me thrown out would start a mutiny. “Honor your sister Umm Kulthum and your cousin Talha with your silence. I and you can speak of this later.”
“I am not the one who has dishonored this ceremony, and I will not be silent.” I raised my sword—Muhammad’s sword—high into the air. “I’m disgusted by what I saw here today. What kind of man beats up a wizened old shaykh? Not much of a man at all!”
Cheers arose from the men’s side of the mosque, emboldening me even more.
“For years I’ve defended you against every criticism, against every accusation, but I’m finished with that now. In my opinion, you deserve every damning word that comes your way.”
With that, I turned and walked to the front door of the mosque, ceremoniously shook the dust from my sandals, and, with my head high and my heart broken, stepped out the door.
Ali
I should not have gone to Kufa. My stepson Mohammad ibn Abi Bakr, reclining in my new, spacious home after a delicious meal, invited me to accompany him to that city on the Euphrates. He planned to enlist in the battle against the rebellious Persians resisting our rule. As he told me about it, a foreboding fell upon me like the cold of a desert night.
“You must come, yaa abi,” he’d said. “Every important man in Medina is moving his home to Kufa. It’s said that Paradise is the only place more beautiful.”
After much coaxing, I set aside my reservations and agreed to the journey, for I longed to escape the increasing unrest in Medina over Uthman’s rule.
But I also desired to see Kufa, the new garrison city Umar had built that, I had heard, outshone the sun in splendor. My son told me of a river engorged with water year-round, of trees bejeweled with the sweetest of fruits, and of a mosque so dazzling that to pray under its shining dome seemed to lift the soul to the lap of al-Lah. To view delights such as these would certainly divert my thoughts from the irksome urgings of my uncle to join the agitation against Uthman and position myself for the khalifa.
“The ansari have already pledged their support to you,” al-Abbas had said the day before as we walked home after the Friday services. I held my tongue, not pointing out that the ansari had always supported me. “The Bedouins are more receptive to you, also,” he’d added, as if hearing my thoughts. “They had feared a monarchy if you succeeded Muhammad, but many are saying now that Uthman’s nepotism is more deplorable.”
I found this talk of mutiny thoroughly disgusting. I wanted only to distance myself from it as quickly as possible. So, despite my apprehensions, I told my son that I would accompany him to Kufa—and regretted my decision before we even set out. For, at the front of the caravan, next to Mohammad, rode his bosom companion Hud, Uthman’s foster son and relentless detractor. I would not escape complaints about Uthman, after all.
“It is an honor to have our khalifa accompany us,” Hud said, his face alight with pleasure.
“Your eyesight must be deteriorating, yaa Hud, and at such a young age,” I said to him. “It is not the khalifa who sits before you, but only Ali.”
His eyes shone. “I am too eager for this change. In my view, you already are the khalifa.”
“But without a whip, or evil advisors,” my son added, coming up behind me on the camel I had given him.
At that point, I should have changed my mind and stayed at home. But before I c
ould retreat, the muezzin sounded the call to prayer. Then, after we had rolled up our mats, Mohammad gave me his first embrace in years. What father would turn back after that happy event?
We rode during the night, as was our custom, with blazing torches lighting our way across a land bereft of oases or water. In the so-called sand desert, we had to place blankets as stepping stones under our camels’ hooves so they could walk without sinking. The dunes were impossibly soft and deep, blown into great, sea-like billows by the most violent of samoom winds. We labored for six nights to cross that treacherous land, fearing a storm might swoop down like the hand of a djinni and smother us with its whirling, devilish zauba’ah, pillars of stinging sand.
By the grace of al-Lah we were able to avoid that gruesome fate and cross the sand desert in safety. Yet by the time we reached the other side, I had begun to fear a different foe—one equally out of my control. Each time we camped, the bitterness of Mohammad ibn Hudheifa toward his foster father poured forth from his mouth to taint our food, disgruntle our camels, and disturb my sleep with visions of our blessed qur’an impaled on the tip of a sword and spurting blood.
“People think Uthman is generous, but he only gives when he knows he’ll get something back,” Hud would say. “That’s why the numbers of poor are growing while our treasuries overflow with gold. Uthman’s relatives benefit, because they help keep him in power.” He poked our cook-fire with a stick, causing sparks to fly. “Let me correct myself. Some of his relatives benefit.”
On and on he went, complaining about how Uthman would not appoint him to a governorship until he had proven himself a worthy warrior on the battlefield, snarling over his difficulty obtaining a position in the Egyptian navy, and vowing to wreak revenge on Uthman for treating him poorly.
The Sword Of Medina Page 17
