I frowned. “Why, Talha? Are we going to fight?”
His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. I drew back from him even as I took my sword. This new, angry Talha was so unlike the joking, laughing rascal I’d always known and loved.
“We didn’t ride all this way simply to convey news to you, A’isha,” he said. “We need your help. Ali has refused to bring Uthman’s murderers to justice. This cannot be. If they escape punishment, then islam becomes as lawless as life during the jahiliyya.”
“Ali won’t punish them because he owes his power to them,” I said as I strapped on my scabbard. “But what can we do? All of Medina has pledged allegiance to him now.”
“Perhaps.” Talha looked over the crowded Ka’ba, at the men who talked of the weather and the date crop, for they hadn’t yet heard of the khalifa’s terrible death. “Medina might be lost to us. But Mecca is not.”
“You speak truly.” By bringing Talha here with my sword, I realized, Muhammad had answered my question about what he wanted from me. I might have missed the opportunity to stop Ali in Medina, but that was only one small part of the Islamic territory now. I had Mecca before me, and Basra after that, and, perhaps, Damascus.
Use it well in the jihad to come. I heard Muhammad’s dying words, spoken as he’d handed me this sword. I pulled al-Ma’thur out of its sheath, lifted it in the air, and walked toward the minbar at the front of the room.
“Yaa A’isha, where are you going?” Talha called.
“To recruit an army,” I shouted over my shoulder.
Now was the moment I had been moving toward all my life. This was the jihad, no longer to come, but happening. Now.
THE FOURTH RIGHTLY GUIDED CALIPH
ALI
656–661 A.D.
Ali
When I heard that A’isha had recruited an army against me I realized that, despite my hopes, she had not ceased in her hatred of me. In truth, her animosity seemed to have increased, while my memories of her addressing the crowds in the mosque, and from the balcony at Uthman’s palace, filled me anew with admiration: her tone as clear as the muezzin’s call; her proud stance more regal than the Queen of Sheba’s.
From my seat on the minbar, where I awaited the ceremony that would inaugurate me as khalifa, I imagined the figure she had cut in the Ka’ba, hoisting Muhammad’s bejeweled sword and enticing warriors to her cause. It was a brilliant speech, I had heard, made more so by its impromptu nature, “nearly as impressive as your own spontaneous verses,” Abu Hurayra had fawned. I did not doubt this rumor, for I had heard excerpts that rivaled the rhetoric of our city’s most esteemed poet, Hassan ibn Thabit. We reproached Uthman. . . . He recanted and asked al-Lah for forgiveness. But Ali was not satisfied! He increased the strife that led to the murder of our khalifa, a single finger of whom was better than the whole of Ali.
Her insults stung me, and I rankled also at her outrageous assertion, for it was she, with her dramatic monologues and her hair, shirt, and sandal, who had roused the public ire against Uthman. Yet I could not help admiring the efficacy of her speech. Her well-chosen words had mustered an army, a feat that many men had struggled, and failed, to accomplish.
But she had rallied her army to fight against me. And kill me. The corners of my mouth dragged at my face like desperate hands. In her forty-three years, had A’isha never discovered one quality that made me worthy of life? Had she not come to recognize any of my good qualities, as I had come to recognize hers?
I lowered my head to my hands. Not even the stars, or the shining moon, could illuminate the vision I have seen / Of brother killing brother over the spoils of God / And their Mother at the fore, inciting them with words / Her lust for my smitten blood courting hellfire for us both.
I groaned aloud at the feebleness of my verse. By al-Lah, was my talent for poetry now “smitten,” also? Before I could try again, my uncle’s booming voice intruded on my thoughts. “On the verge of the khalifa, our Ali sleeps in his chair. Yaa Mughira, I hope this is not an omen.”
I stepped to the floor to greet my uncle al-Abbas, my cousin Abd Allah, and al-Mughira, that one-eyed, lecherous opportunist who had flattered his way into Umar’s circle of advisers.
“Apparently you have heard the news about A’isha,” my uncle said, leaning on his cane. “It is, of course, no surprise. She was born a fighter, and where there is no conflict, she creates it.” He shook his head. “By alLah, she is not like any woman I have ever seen.”
“Woman?” Al-Mughira snorted. “She seems more like a hermaphrodite.” His laugh was coarse, laced with dirt.
“Be mindful when you speak of her, Mughira,” I warned. “A’isha was the Prophet’s most beloved wife. When you insult her, you insult Muhammad.”
“By al-Lah!” my uncle’s eyebrows flew together. “Ali, defending A’isha? I must be the one who has fallen asleep.”
“Ali speaks truly, yaa abi,” Abd Allah said gently. He lifted his hand to his father’s elbow to keep al-Abbas from toppling off his cane. “We must be mindful of our speech concerning A’isha. People will not tolerate disrespect toward the Mother of the Believers.”
“That is exactly the point I was trying to make,” I said, nodding. Be calm, Ali, or they will guess your change of heart. “I do not want to offend my followers.”
My uncle frowned. “Hmm,” he said. “Well, whatever you think of A’isha, one thing is clear: She would rather challenge you on the battlefield than support you as khalifa. That makes her an insurgent, and she should be arrested immediately. Whipped, also, in my opinion.”
“She has been deceived by Talha and al-Zubayr.” I walked about the room so my uncle could not see my face. “They pledged their allegiance to me, then raced off to Mecca to form an army against me.”
“So you must form an army, also,” my uncle said. “And you must do so immediately.”
I stopped at the courtyard entrance, gazing out at the widows’ huts, remembering all the times I had seen A’isha sitting under the date-palm tree and feeding milk to her runt lambs with her pinky finger, or heard her exuberant laughter from inside the cooking tent. Were we now to face each other in battle, one of us to be slain, the other to live in guilt and remorse?
As great a fighter as I knew A’isha to be, she was no match for me and Zulfikar, my double-bladed sword. I would best her in any contest. But after I had struck her down, would I then desire to turn my blade upon myself? For I knew Muhammad would not forgive me for causing A’isha injury or death—and I knew, also, that I would never forgive myself.
“What is this? Hesitancy?” My uncle rapped his cane on the tile floor. “After all your bitterness over not being allowed to do battle?” His laugh was incredulous. “And now, when faced with a challenge from your most formidable enemies, you gaze through the doorway as though you wanted to flee.”
I whirled around to face the old prodder. “I wonder, Uncle, who is my enemy and who is my friend? Is my friend the one who compels me to take actions against my nature, simply to gain power and prestige for himself and his heirs?”
My uncle’s eyes widened. “You must fight. Or else you will lose the khalifa—everything we have striven for since before Muhammad’s death.”
I sighed, and my bravado whooshed out from me like the air from a goat’s-bladder ball. “You speak truly,” I said, and gave him a thin smile to compensate for my earlier, disrespectful words. “Yet I do not relish the waging of any war that pits Muslim against Muslim. I do not desire another battle between Medinans and Meccans, between Quraysh and Quraysh. Did not Muhammad say, ‘Never should a Believer kill another Believer’?”
“Yes, and he also said, ‘Did you think you would enter the Garden without first proving which of you would struggle for His cause?’” My uncle bore his gaze into me. “This is the struggle for al-Lah’s cause, Ali, and also for Muhammad’s. They have declared war on you, not the other way around. Would you fight, or hand the khalifa to Talha?”
I cringed thinking of it
. I knew well that Talha was greedy and foolish. I had heard him curry Mu’awiyya’s favor. I had not heard the end of their discussion, but I guessed that Talha had pledged his support for that serpent in Syria in exchange for Mu’awiyya’s assistance in the contest for the khalifa. My uncle spoke truly: Muhammad would have preferred me to rule islam over any man alive, and especially over Talha. As for al-Lah, if He had not desired me for the position, I would not now hold it, for I had done nothing to promote myself. And, contrary to A’isha’s assertions, I did nothing to bring harm to Uthman.
“The first thing you must do, khalifa, is to gain the support of your governors,” al-Mughira said with a dip of his head, as if he possessed a date-seed’s worth of humility. “Al-Walid will certainly assist you—”
“Al-Walid is governor of Kufa no more,” I said. “And Abdullah no longer rules Egypt. I sent messengers out today. Every man Uthman appointed is deposed. I will appoint righteous men in their places.”
Al-Mughira gasped. “Deposed, all? But who will muster your army?”
“I will recruit an army myself. Beginning today, during the ceremony.”
“But—” From his glance at al-Abbas I deduced that they had already spoken of these matters, and reached an agreement among themselves. Resolve was a metal plate on my breast. I was the khalifa, not my uncle, and certainly not al-Mughira. “You would be making a grave error if you deposed Mu’awiyya,” he said. “He is a man of hilm, a true leader, very popular in Syria, and his army is loyal to him. I suggest you retain him, at least.”
“Mu’awiyya!” I spat his name out. “That double-tongued politician is worse than his father Abu Sufyan. No, by God, he will not remain in office under my rule.”
Al-Mughira smiled without showing his teeth, as though he held a secret behind his lips. That was the last time I ever saw him, thank al-Lah, for he left for Damascus that night to offer his services to Mu’awiyya.
As for me, the mention of Uthman’s corrupt relatives motivated me, so that by the time the Believers had gathered in the mosque, I was not only ready but eager to establish myself.
“At last Ali, the Prophet’s kin, is welcomed as your leader, after you spurned me for so long,” I said, glaring at the men who turned up their faces to me as though I were the angel Gabriel. “Now, God has laid down two cures for you: the sword and the whip. Should I be merciful to you, when you have had no mercy toward me?” I turned away from them and began to pace, as though pondering their fate, as though I held the power to crush them all or let them live.
“Yaa khalifa, forgive us!” someone cried. I stopped and looked over these men, hundreds filling the mosque and beyond, my heart bursting with gratitude for their allegiance yet not wanting them to see that I was grateful. After twelve years of Uthman, the umma needed a strong leader. Let me be up to that task.
“Do not call me khalifa!” I shouted. “That title has been sullied by the one who came before me. He was like a raven whose only care is its belly. It would have been better for him, and for us all, if his wings had been clipped years ago.
“Do not call me khalifa. I am your imam, your leader. And forgiveness—” I turned a stern eye upon the crowd “—is the gift of al-Lah. I will ask Him for it on your behalf. But it may be too late for you. You are like sheep that escaped from your pen long ago and have grown accustomed to life in the wild. Can you now return to the fold of austerity, of righteousness, of the values espoused by our Prophet?”
Some of the men in the room began to grumble. Judging from the finery in which they clothed themselves, a return to austerity was not their desire. I held my breath as I watched them turn and walk, two or three at a time and then twenty and thirty all at once, out of the mosque. I retained my mask of outrage, determined that none should see worry or doubt on my face, hoping none could hear the slamming of my heart.
I waited while one-third of the men left the mosque, and those remaining, six hundred or so, crowded eagerly to the platform to shout, wave, and cheer. A glow like the dawn spread through me, casting out my dread that they would all depart and leave me standing alone with my outmoded principles. “Praise be to Muhammad and to his heir Ali!” a man cried. The familiar voice pulled my gaze to the center of the crowd, where al-Ashtar, my son Mohammad, Hud, and others who had assisted with Uthman’s assassination stood waving their swords and pledging their allegiance to me.
I had my army, or its beginnings. My spirits soared, but falteringly. If my leadership stood on the shoulders of assassins, how stable would it be? If I displeased al-Ashtar in some way, might he kill me next?
“Death to A’isha, Talha, and al-Zubayr!” al-Ashtar called, and the men’s roar like crashing sea waves filled the room. My eyes stung at the thought of that brave woman slain, and of the death of my childhood friend al-Zubayr, whom I had loved. I stood above these frenzied men, waving my sword, mindful of the hands grasping at my feet. If I lost my vigilance, even for one moment, they would pull me down.
A’isha
The night was as still as a stopped heart. Outside the city of Basra, I, Talha, and al-Zubayr waited in dread for Ali’s army to arrive.
“Seven thousand men,” Talha’s voice trembled as he paced the dirt floor of the same spacious tent of red camel’s hair that Muhammad had used during battles. “How, by al-Lah, did Ali conjure such a force?”
“Not Ali, but his son al-Hassan.” Al-Zubayr smirked, looking every bit the general in his gleaming chain mail. “It seems that someone in the family, at least, possesses charm.”
Both men turned to me, awaiting my response. I was shocked to hear of such a mighty army under Ali’s command. Seven thousand men could stamp out our small gathering, just a few thousand strong, like a sandal over an anthill. A shiver swept over my bones as I remembered again the strange barking and howling we’d heard a few nights earlier when we’d stopped to water our camels. The cacophony had made the hair on my neck stand up and my palms perspire as I remembered Zaynab’s cryptic warning before she died: Beware the dogs at Hawab.
“What is this place?” I’d asked, but my driver didn’t know. The noise continued as I asked first one man, then another, for the name of the well from which we drank. Then Talha came over and stared at me—and what a sight I must have made, frenzy-eyed, my voice rising with each query.
“Yaa A’isha, this is Hawab.”
“We have to turn back,” I’d told Talha. “Muhammad sent a warning.”
I’d been adamant, despite Talha’s coaxing and, finally, his teasing. “You don’t believe in deathbed predictions, do you, A’isha?” I retreated to my tent and remained there for the rest of the night and the next day, praying for guidance. I waited and listened, but no guidance came—only a deep calm, as I realized that, barking dogs or not, I had come too far to turn back now. Three thousand men had heeded my call to arms. Then Al-Zubayr warned that Ali was on the verge of overtaking us, and I agreed to move on to Basra.
Now I felt that sense of calm return. This battle had been foretold. It was destined to happen. I straightened my shoulders, ignoring the tiny voice of fear tugging at my ear. What we were doing was just and honorable—and, I was convinced, it was the will of al-Lah.
“Ali couldn’t talk a flea into jumping on a hound,” I said. “But his sons resemble Muhammad, and they’re both as gentle as lambs. It was brilliant of Ali to send al-Hassan to recruit the warriors of Kufa. Unfortunately for him, though, his honey-tongued son won’t be helping him on the battlefield. Al-Hassan is not a fighter.”
“You speak truly, A’isha.” The twinkle returned to Talha’s eyes. “Ali has the charisma of a stick.”
I imagined Ali on the battlefield, waving his double-bladed sword, his belly swelling like a shifting dune. Instead of the hatred that usually knotted my stomach at the thought of him, though, I felt something else. I closed my eyes against the idea of spilling his blood. I reached out a hand, longing for a wall to support me, for Muhammad’s shoulder to lean against. How had this happened? Wa
s this what my husband would have wanted?
“Let Hassan’s admirers come to the battlefield,” al-Zubayr was saying. “What concern is it of ours? We have the Mother of the Believers. With one glimpse of A’isha, Ali’s army will abandon him and rush to our side.”
I pictured myself on the hillside behind us, waving al-Ma’thur, challenging Ali as I’d dreamt of doing since I was fourteen. I was still haunted by that awful day when I’d ridden into Medina with another man and endured the jeers of my neighbors. Al-zaniya! they had called me—adulteress. And fahisha, whore. Worst of all, though, was hearing Ali urge Muhammad to divorce me.
You will easily find another child bride, he’d said. As if that were all I meant to Muhammad. As if my young girl’s body had drawn him to me in the first place. As if he had not loved me above all others. As if the allegations against me were true.
From that moment, my hatred of Ali had been bound up with my love for Muhammad. Yet I had never envisioned myself killing Ali or declaring war against him. He was my husband’s kin, as beloved to him as a son. How could I fight him in battle?
Yet how could I not fight against him? First, Ali had let Uthman’s assassination occur. Now he refused to prosecute the men who had broken into our khalifa’s bedroom and pierced his head and throat with their knives. I’d sent him letters, as had Talha and even Mu’awiyya, but he’d ignored us. Of course, we all knew his reasons: The Bedouin al-Ashtar, who had planned the assassination, was Ali’s biggest supporter. He was the reason so many Bedouins marched against us today. If Ali punished him, he would lose more than half his army—and also the khalifa. But by not bringing al-Ashtar and the rest of the assassins to justice, Ali was committing a grave sin against islam. How could the religion of Muhammad survive under a blood-stained khalifa?
It was for this, the future of islam, that I was willing to fight. Yet I dreaded such a battle, for, as in the old days, we’d pit brother against brother, father against son. On our side we had the Quraysh of Mecca and the men of Basra, plus their Bedouin allies. Most had relatives in the approaching army. And so did I—my youngest brother, Mohammad ibn Abi Bakr.
The Sword Of Medina Page 23
