The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  God answered my prayers as we neared Medina. The rebels joined us on the outskirts of town, provoking glares from al-Walid and his warriors but nothing more, for these protesters numbered in the thousands. At the gates, one hundred of these men continued into the city with us. I and al-Walid entered the mosque as in an angry swarm. Uthman, sitting on his elaborate throne of ivory and gold, stood as quickly as his aged legs would allow and ordered his wine-stinking brother to release me without delay.

  Al-Walid shrugged, too relaxed by his breakfast imbibing to generate enthusiasm for any effort except another drink, and gestured to his men to free me. No sooner had the chains clanked to the floor than did our escorts begin to cheer and chant my name. I rubbed the soreness from my wrists and ankles and willed myself to remain standing. Uthman descended the steps to stand before me, his eyes glaring but his mouth as soft as a lover’s. He was waiting for me to thank him, but I was too dizzy and sick to think. In the next moment he slapped me so hard that I fell to my knees, my ears ringing.

  “Were you plotting my overthrow?” he shouted over the protests of the rebels. “My heart sickens to hear this charge.”

  “It is but a rumor, yaa khalifa, and a false one,” I said, spitting blood and struggling to my feet.

  Al-Walid burst into laughter. Uthman turned to him.

  “He was dining with al-Ashtar, who has escaped from prison with the help of his friends and now occupies the governor’s palace in my absence,” al-Walid said.

  The mercurial al-Ashtar, leader of these dissidents, pushed his way through the Kufan guards.

  “As you can see, yaa khalifa, I occupy no palace,” al-Ashtar said. “I have come with an urgent petition to correct the injustices that your governors in Kufa, Basra, and Fustat have imposed.”

  Uthman drew his mouth into a tight frown as he turned to his brother. Al-Walid’s bald head had turned a fiery red and he was glaring at al-Ashtar with bulging, blood-shot eyes.

  “Is it as this man says, yaa brother?”

  The drunken man emitted a guttural sound not unlike Mount Layla’s belching before she had rained brimstone upon our city a few years before.

  “How dare you insult me with this ridiculous question?” he screamed at Uthman, who drew back from him. “You would take the word of this camel’s teat over that of your beloved brother?”

  Uthman hastened to ascend his platform in time to avoid the spray of outrage spluttering forth from al-Walid’s mouth.

  “Do you not know me after all these years?” the governor continued to shout, turning now to rail at the empty mosque. “Brother, instead of challenging me you should be flogging these traitors with barbed whips! You should remove their heads with dull blades! By God, I should have done that deed for you. By God, I will do it now!”

  He clumsily pulled his sword from the sheath under his arm and stumbled toward al-Ashtar, who sidestepped him with a flourish. The raging drunkard fell to his knees on the floor, the position I had occupied only moments earlier. Al-Walid’s guards assisted him to his feet. After brushing himself off with great care, he thrust out his chin and reeled toward the mosque entrance, anticipating, no doubt, his next draught from the flagon on his horse’s saddle.

  “By al-Lah, yaa brother, you have filled me full of shame,” al-Walid said over his shoulder. “I will retire to my quarters and await your apology.”

  I heard laughter and looked to the courtyard entrance where Talha was winking at al-Zubayr and nudging the arm of the broad-shouldered general ‘Amr. Beside Talha stood A’isha, properly covered, for a change, yet affecting a stance—feet wide apart, arms folded across her chest—that indicated her attitude was far from demure. Unlike in the past, however, I did not resent her presence in the mosque. She, at least, was willing to confront Uthman over his unjust behavior.

  Uthman glared at them as the Egyptians shouted and embraced their beloved ‘Amr.

  “Here, khalifa, is our choice for Fustat.” Al-Ashtar gestured toward ‘Amr. “Reappoint ‘Amr as governor of Egypt and we will be appeased.”

  Uthman sighed and sat heavily on his throne. “I do not know,” he said. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of his chair. “Can I unseat Abdullah? He is my foster brother. And he was an early Companion to Muhammad.”

  “Yes, and the worst kind of Companion!” A’isha called out. “First Abdullah pretended to be a Believer; then he went to Mecca and told lies about Muhammad.”

  Uthman sat up quickly and pointed at A’isha. “I banished you from these meetings!” he cried. “Go to your hut, and do not come out until I summon you.”

  Shouts of outrage filled the mosque from the rebels who stood behind me. Encouraged by their support, A’isha walked into the mosque to stand before the minbar, her chin lifted even higher than before. Uthman slumped in his seat again like a sail that has lost its wind.

  “Yes, A’isha, Abdullah offended the Prophet, but the Prophet forgave him.” Marwan entered the mosque. His narrow eyes jerked about, taking in the gathering: I and the rebels; Talha and his cohorts; A’isha, openly returning his gaze and inspiring me to do the same; and Uthman, slumping in his king’s throne and appearing anything but royal.

  Marwan’s sandals slapped across the tile floor and against the marble steps as he ascended the platform. He settled himself on a second throne, newly installed for him, of polished wood.

  Uthman continued to sprawl in his chair like a drooling old shaykh. Marwan tapped a forefinger against his chin and perused us like a slave buyer eyeing shoddy merchandise. “Yaa Mother of the Believers, why have you not embarked on the hajj, as the khalifa so generously permitted?” he said.

  “Al-Abbas’s son has delayed the caravan’s departure, at my request,” she said, turning her focus to Uthman and ignoring the impertinent Marwan, who behaved increasingly as if he were the khalifa. Gossips said that Marwan had put himself forth as Uthman’s successor. Uthman had been wise not to assent, for the day he agreed would be his final day on earth. He would die either by Marwan’s hand or that of al-Ashtar, who would do anything to prevent Marwan from becoming khalifa. Over supper in Kufa the night we were arrested, al-Ashtar told me how he had risked his life long ago to carry the injured Marwan off the battlefield—and then been insulted in return.

  “Instead of thanking me, he called me a ‘filthy Bedouin,’” al-Ashtar had said. “He complained that, because I had touched him, he would have to be purified.” For this humiliation, al-Ashtar nurtured a vicious grudge.

  A’isha, on the other hand, advocated negotiation, not killing. “Yaa khalifa, I strongly advise you to listen to these men,” she said.

  “I do not recall your being asked—” Marwan began, but A’isha interrupted him, gaining another measure of esteem from me.

  “Uthman, they came all this way to talk to you,” she said. “And they’re only asking you to appoint a new governor in Egypt. It seems like a fair request.”

  Cheers arose from the rebels, which brought Marwan to his feet. “Enough!” he cried. “You have overstepped your boundaries. Abdullah and al-Walid will remain in office at the command of the khalifa. Now, depart before I call our guards, who will show you Bedouin scum how real men behave.”

  His insult fanned the flames of the rebels, who would have rushed onto the platform and attacked him with their swords if al-Ashtar had not urged me to the front alongside A’isha.

  “Yaa khalifa, Abdullah has been a cruel governor,” I said. Marwan began to speak but Uthman, sitting up, shook his head at him.

  “If you knew the tales I have heard, you would be aghast,” I said. “Muhammad would not want any Muslim to be abused as these men have. As for al-Walid, his weaknesses outnumber his strengths. It would be better to keep him in Medina as your advisor than to leave him to his own counsel in Kufa.”

  “We want ‘Amr!” al-Ashtar shouted. “ ‘Amr in Egypt and Mohammad ibn Abi Bakr in Kufa.”

  Marwan’s eyes glinted. “Mohammad ibn Abi Bakr is your stepson,
is he not, Ali? It is no wonder that you have allied yourself with these men. His appointment would certainly enhance your status.”

  I flushed. “I was not aware of any movement to have my son appointed governor,” I said. “Although, in truth, he would perform excellently.”

  “‘Amr and Mohammad! ‘Amr and Mohammad!” the men cried, rushing to the platform and crowding so closely around me and A’isha that we were pushed against each other. Her wrapper fell from her face and her eyes widened in alarm as we were jostled about. She appeared so tiny and fragile that I feared she might be crushed against the marble, but when I reached out an arm to protect her, she whirled around, narrowed her eyes at seeing me so close, then leapt onto the platform.

  “Yaa Uthman, do something!” she cried, holding her sword high in defiance of the mob. She refused to meet my eyes, although I could not remove my gaze from the sight of her. She was so courageous and strong, not like any woman I had ever seen and certainly not the rude, brash girl I had once despised.

  Marwan said something into the ear of Uthman, who nodded and then stood. He walked to the edge of the platform with his hands out to quell the crowd.

  “I will do as you ask,” he said. “‘Amr will be governor of Egypt and Mohammad ibn Abi Bakr may rule Kufa. Forgive me for ignoring your complaints for so long. My territory is vast, and there is always much to be done. Now, please, in the name of al-Lah, go home, and allow the Mother of the Believers safe passage to her hut.”

  He inclined his head toward me. “As for you, Ali, it is evident that you sympathize with the rebels’ complaints but not their tactics. I am dismissing the charges against you. You are free—but, in the future, choose your dining companions more wisely.”

  The room fell silent as we men regarded one another in stunned shock. Had Uthman capitulated so easily? Relief washed over me and I uttered a prayer of thanks to al-Lah.

  “I thought we would have to negotiate for weeks or even months,” Mohammad said as we filed out the front door.

  “Did you see that scoundrel Marwan whispering in Uthman’s ear?” Al-Ashtar’s laugh was coarse. “By al-Lah, he is plotting something evil or I am not a filthy Bedouin.”

  “Yaa Mohammad, that sister of yours is quite persuasive,” Hud said. “I’ll bet ‘Amr is glad to have her on his side.”

  I bade farewell to al-Ashtar and my son at the city’s main gate, declining their request that I join them for the evening meal. I had already endured weeks of imprisonment because of associating with al-Ashtar and his group, who were, in truth, too radical for my liking. Thank you, alLah, for Uthman’s acquiescence. If he had not accommodated them in some measure, they would take his head, or Marwan’s.

  Uthman had spoken truly: Although I agreed with the rebels’ complaints, I did not wish harm upon the khalifa. If any life was sacred, it was that of Muhammad’s successor. Al-Lah had rid the umma of that usurper Abu Bakr only two years after he had deceived his way into the position. Would God allow Uthman to rule for twelve if He had not wanted him for the khalifa?

  But I also denied the men’s dining invitation for another reason: I wanted to be alone to ponder all that had happened today, from the unexpected appearance of the rebels outside the city gates to Uthman’s refusal to acknowledge his brother’s drunken behavior, to my shocking response to A’isha—admiration!—on the mosque floor. I walked slowly down the street to my home—but then, at the door, turned away. I needed to delay the cacophony of wives, concubines, and children for just a few minutes more. As I walked to the hammam, the public baths, I pondered the day’s occurrences, as well as the question that Hud had posed: What did A’isha gain from helping ‘Amr?

  I recalled the scene in the entryway, when the laughing Talha had winked at al-Zubayr, then ‘Amr, and I knew. Placing ‘Amr back in Egypt would be the first step toward procuring the khalifa for Talha—and, in A’isha’s view, power for herself. For I knew that, being a woman and therefore unable to claim the position, she would instead sit by Talha’s side and issue commands for him to carry out. Or so she mistakenly imagined. Judging from what I had heard between Talha and Mu’awiyya that day, Talha’s ambitions extended to no one but himself.

  ♦

  As we soon discovered, we were all mistaken, every one of us: me, A’isha, Talha, al-Zubayr, ‘Amr, al-Ashtar, Mohammad, Hud, and one thousand dissidents. Even Uthman was mistaken, for he apparently thought his decisions would be honored. But as the rebels crossed the desert on their way home, one of their scouts overtook and captured an Abyssinian messenger whose black skin had attracted their notice but whose errand, they discovered, was even darker.

  He had in his possession a letter addressed to the Egyptian governor Abdullah and sealed by Uthman’s ring. ‘Amr is coming with a letter proclaiming that the khalifa has appointed him the new governor. Pay no attention to it. This is a ruse designed to place him in your hands. Dispose of him as you wish. The treacherous order bore Uthman’s signature.

  This time, the men did not pitch tents outside Medina’s gates. This time, one thousand men crashed into the city like a raging, tumultuous, flooding river, trampling Abu Hurayra’s cherished cat, scattering screaming children from the streets and running roughshod over their toys, and summoning me from my home, where I had dandled my delightful baby girl on my knee and amused her with a song. (In truth, this child was the only member of my family able to endure my pitiful, discordant voice.) The clamor of their invasion was so sudden and so heart stopping that I thought Mount Layla had erupted. I jumped to my feet, heedless of the baby’s startled cries, placed her in her mother’s arms, and ran to the door. A blur of horses’ hooves and flowing gowns and snarling men went scudding and tumbling toward the mosque. I turned and ran out the back door of my home to take a more expedient path to the mosque. Inside, I found a white-lipped al-Ashtar, backed by dozens of his followers, screaming at poor Abu Hurayra, who cowered and sniveled and insisted he had only come in search of his cat, Queen of Sheba.

  “Why do your eyes dart about as we question you?” Al-Ashtar pointed his dagger at the little man’s throat. “You know where the khalifa is hidden. Tell us!”

  “Yaa Ashtar, Uthman has probably retired to his home to escape the afternoon heat, as he does every day,” I said. “He will not return until the evening.”

  “By al-Lah, he will never return!” al-Ashtar cried, and in the next instant he had sprung to his horse’s saddle and was leading his men to the palace, where the unsuspecting Uthman lay in the shade beside his fountain enjoying the cool drinks, moist cloths, and breezes from the date-palm fan waved by his lovely young wife Naila.

  Sweat poured into my eyes as I hurried to the stable for my horse then rode at full speed to Uthman’s palace. As always, I rankled at the ostentatious display of wealth this grand edifice presented. Fashioned not of mud-and-straw bricks as were most homes in Medina, Uthman’s palace was built of stones carried in from the cliffs outside the city, large rocks of gray and rose, held in place by thick stripes of white mortar. Instead of the single story or, at most, two, that characterized the ordinary Medina home, Uthman’s palace had three floors. Outside, around the ornate fence of stone and its gleaming copper gate, carefully tended roses and pomegranate trees stunned the senses with beauty and fragrance. A whitewashed balcony jutted out over enormous first-floor double doors of polished teak that had been transported on elephants from India. A garden spanned the entire flat roof, its foliage spilling green and flowers over the outside walls. Muhammad would not have liked this house. My cousin had not frowned on wealth that was used for others’ good, but he disapproved of any man’s flaunting his riches, just as he frowned on women’s publicly displaying their beauty. Nevertheless, when I arrived I stopped a group of men from battering down Uthman’s gate. As much as I would have enjoyed destroying the shameful structure, so contrary to the teachings of islam, I could not condone such violence against our khalifa.

  Gaining entry to the palace was difficult, for Uthman’s se
rvants were allowing no one indoors. Having prepared for this possibility, I attached my ring to an arrow and shot it onto the roof. In moments, Uthman’s wife Naila stepped out to the gate and beckoned me inside. The throng of attackers moved aside as I stepped through their midst and into Uthman’s home.

  To my disgust, the palace’s interior was even more opulent than the exterior. The entryway, whose ceiling seemed to reach the heavens, could have held several rooms of my new house. Red and blue carpets from Persia lined the white marble floor, and bejeweled tapestries sparkled from the walls like stars on a clear night. Lamps of ornately worked gold lined the marble stairway, and the mahogany rail gleamed so pristinely that I hesitated to touch it.

  Naila climbed the stairs. I followed her into a spacious bedroom containing more rugs, tapestries, and furniture including a bed nearly as large as the mosque’s minbar. Closets filled with gowns and robes lined the room, their doors gaping like stuffed mouths, their contents spilling onto the floor. Uthman stood before a mirror, donning a rich blue robe embroidered with flowers of gold thread. His fingers were trembling. His wife retrieved the indigo turban she had been winding and placed it on his head.

  “I see you are preparing to greet your visitors,” I said. “Take care, Uthman, for they aim to seek revenge.”

  “Revenge?” His voice sounded high and reedy, like the whine of a gnat. “For what, by al-Lah? I gave them everything they asked for.”

  I showed him the intercepted letter, and his florid skin drained of color. He seized my beard and stared into my eyes. For the second time that day I beheld that desperate, horrified look I had seen on the battlefield so many times.

  “B-by al-Lah!” he gasped. “This is not my d-doing.”

  His shocked response told me he spoke the truth. “You will have to convince al-Ashtar,” I said. He started for the door, but I seized his arm. “Not out there,” I said, “unless you have ceased to value your life. Uthman, these men want to kill you. Do not place yourself within reach of their sword points. Greet them from your balcony overhead—and wear your chain mail in case someone shoots an arrow at you.”