The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  I shuddered to think of his death at our hands—but the alternative, the death of islam, was much worse. I moved my fingers to the hilt of my sword—Muhammad’s sword. Use it well in the jihad to come. With his bequest, Muhammad had established my destiny—and now I was about to fulfill it.

  So why did I feel so empty?

  A boy of about fifteen—the minimum age on the battlefield—stepped into the tent, his long hair spilling over his shoulders. I caught my breath: He reminded me of Safwan, the youth I’d loved, or thought I loved, and for whom I’d almost risked Muhammad’s honor all those years ago. Ali’s hiss filled my mind again: Divorce her. Looking at this boy, with his high cheekbones and almond eyes, made me remember how, at fourteen, I’d dreamt of Safwan while the Prophet of God lay next to me. What a foolish girl I’d been, planning to run away with that boy! Willing to risk islam for him. Muhammad would have been wise to divorce me—if al-Lah hadn’t given him another way out. And, with this realization, my hatred for Ali flew out the window.

  I gasped, drawing the stares of Talha, al-Zubayr, and the messenger. I kept my gaze on the boy, not wanting my friends to misread the alarm in my eyes. My heart pounding, I listened to him deliver his message. “Imam Ali approaches and requests a meeting,” he said.

  “A meeting,” Talha sneered. “As I suspected, the brave Ali possesses more courage on the minbar than he does on the battlefield.”

  I was stung by Talha’s swaggering manner. Was this my lifelong friend, the man who shared my opinions? Apparently, his feelings differedfrom mine in, at least this regard: I wanted to avoid killing our kin, while he seemed eager to fight.

  “If Ali wants to talk, why not indulge him?” I said. “It may be a sign of weakness on his part, but if he gives us what we want, you’ll have the khalifa in your hands.”

  Al-Zubayr cleared his throat. “Afwan, A’isha, but please consider: I, also, would make an excellent choice.”

  I frowned at him. “Choice? For what?”

  He cleared his throat again. “For the khalifa.”

  By al-Lah, I could have toppled over! I’d had no idea al-Zubayr was interested in the position. And, although he spoke truly—a famous general, a loyal Muslim, and a wise man, he would make an excellent khalifa—I felt my stomach sink at his words. Of all the times to make this announcement, now was the very worst. On the cusp of battle, we needed to pull together for one common cause, not split into factions.

  But the damage had been done. Talha’s face looked as though a thundercloud had settled on it, and his pressed-together lips told me he was biting back a response. Not wanting Ali’s messenger to report that we were fighting amongst ourselves, I sent him to his imam with an invitation to join us. When the boy had gone, I turned to my fuming cousin and my defiant brother-in-law, wanting to smooth over the tension between them.

  “By al-Lah, what a perfect team we make!” I said with a laugh. “We all want the same things: a return of islam to its origins, justice for the killers of Uthman, and, now, the khalifa.”

  My remark served its purpose, bringing a smile to the lips of both men. The idea of my being khalifa was ludicrous. How could I, a woman, be a leader of men, my superiors in every way?

  “But this isn’t the time to argue over the khalifa,” I said. “We’ve got to focus on defeating Ali. We can’t do that if we’re bickering.”

  “You speak truly, A’isha, as usual,” al-Zubayr said. “It is a pity that you cannot rule.” He swept out of the tent to his own next door, to rest and wash up.

  As soon as he’d left us, Talha exploded. “By al-Lah, we should have known better than to trust that backstabber.” He paced the floor of my tent. “Do you remember how he urged Ali to rebel against your father when he was appointed? Then he turned against Ali and pledged to your father. He’s like a Bedouin, shifting his allegiance to whomever he thinks will help him the most.” He spat into the sand. “In this case, his allegiance is to himself.”

  Given Talha’s eagerness to fight Ali, I was tempted to argue that he, also, served his own interests. Why would he balk at a meeting unless he worried that Ali would agree to our demands? If that happened, Talha might lose his chance at the khalifa, but more good than bad would come of it. Muslim lives would be spared, and if Uthman’s murder were avenged, the blood that now stained islam would be washed away.

  “The last thing we need is a weak, vacillating khalifa,” Talha was saying. “After Uthman, we need a man of strength. Not al-Zubayr, who acts on impulse and changes his mind every day, and not Ali, who forces allegiance with his sword. We must prevail, or the spirit of islam will die.”

  I agreed with Talha—to a point. I, also, wanted Ali to resign from the khalifa. Yet, judging from the size of his army, he had something that we didn’t: power. He had the support of seven thousand men, while our army numbered less than half that. His blood ties to Muhammad made him, to many, nearly as sacred as the Prophet. And his being the father of al-Hassan and al-Hussein, Muhammad’s sole male heirs, increased his status. I could only marvel at the contradiction: Bedouins hated the idea of dynasty, yet they supported Ali, whose sons would certainly inherit the khalifa.

  “Those Bedouins will race one another to join our ranks once we have defeated their imam in battle,” Talha said. “But to hold their allegiance, we’ll have to kill Ali.” He walked to the tent entrance, gazed across the grass and scrub, then turned and looked as deeply as a lover into my eyes. But the look I saw was urgent, not romantic.

  “Think about it, A’isha,” he said. “With Ali gone, so many of our problems would be resolved. But if he lives, we’ll always have to worry about his trying to retake the khalifa. He would never accept my rule and I couldn’t force him to.” He turned and faced outside again, then smacked his fist into his hand. “As for his keeping the position, I would rather die than allow that to happen.”

  Only a few hours earlier, I might have agreed with Talha. Now, though, I wondered: Was the khalifa worth killing for? Or were there more important considerations—such as justice?

  Listening to Talha rant, I realized we should accept Ali as our ruler if he agreed to our other terms. If Ali gave us al-Ashtar’s head, I would have to pledge my support to him. Without it, as he knew, he’d never have the people’s loyalty, which he needed if he was going to hold onto his position. Ambitious men—predators—such as Mu’awiyya were already sensing his weakness and preparing to pounce.

  “Yaa A’isha, do you have nothing to say?” Talha turned toward me again. “Or have you, like al-Zubayr, shifted your allegiance away from me?”

  I tried to meet his gaze, but my own slid away. “My allegiance is yours, of course.” I cleared my throat. “But—”

  “But! But what?” My cousin’s face bunched up like a fist he might use to hit me. “But you don’t want to fight?”

  “I don’t want to fight our own kinsmen,” I said. “I don’t want to kill Muhammad’s foster-son. Muhammad loved Ali! It doesn’t feel . . . right.”

  “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.” Talha’s laugh was sharp. “Is that A’isha I hear sniveling like Abu Hurayra?”

  Heat flooded my face. “Is it Talha I hear hurling insults at me?” I drew myself up and looked him directly in the eyes. “By al-Lah, you won’t get far with that kind of attitude toward A’isha bint Abi Bakr. If you don’t respect the Mother of the Believers—”

  “Now who is insulting whom? You pretend to oppose Ali for the sake of all your ‘children,’ and for the sake of islam. Perhaps you’ve convinced yourself. But I know better.”

  He placed his hands on my shoulders, but I slapped them away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snapped. “And you know it’s not proper to touch Muhammad’s wives.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Is A’isha so proper now, after years of meeting me in private? You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.” I turned away from him, not wanting him to see the truth on my face. In the n
ext instant I felt his arms around me, holding me tight against him, and his hot breath on my ear, making me shiver.

  “You hate Ali, but not for the sake of islam, or the Believers, or the memory of Muhammad,” Talha murmured, his voice like silk. “You’re still nursing a young girl’s grudge. That’s why you’re here now, with your sword and your self-righteousness and your demands for justice. You came for revenge, A’isha. Revenge, and nothing more.”

  Ali

  This much was apparent to me: My foes were divided.

  I entered A’isha’s tent with a quivering in my chest like a plucked tanbur string—a plaintive note. I knew this tent well, having conferred with Muhammad many times inside its walls. But with my first glimpse of Talha and al-Zubayr’s faces, I had to restrain my mouth from smiling.

  Talha, whose rust-colored beard had sprung filaments of gray, stood with his arms folded and his eyes shooting arrows at al-Zubayr. Al-Zubayr puffed out his chest in a comic fashion and held his body as stiff as if a date-palm trunk had been inserted along his spine. He focused his sights on some distant prize, most likely that of the khalifa, which, I knew, he had been told he might soon possess. I gave silent thanks to al-Lah for preparing my path to victory by creating dissension among my enemies.

  Yet my task was neither complete nor my victory assured, for between these petulant men stood A’isha with the bearing of a queen. Her level gaze, which never left me as I greeted her companions, told me she regarded the quarrel between Talha and al-Zubayr as inconsequential, a rift easily mended. I had come amply supplied to change that situation.

  A’isha’s intensity made me feel as if we were alone in the tent, and that our conflict, mine and hers, was what truly mattered. In truth, if we had been alone, events would have transpired differently. For her demeanor, always before as closed and tight as a date seed, had opened today like a rose in the first stages of bloom.

  For the first time in all the years we had known each other, I felt possibility in her presence. I felt hope. Perhaps we could, after all, avoid spilling our brethren’s blood onto this foreign land. We might be able to reach an agreement that would satisfy us both. Perhaps—my pulse leapt at the thought—perhaps we could find a way to work together, side by side, I as khalifa and she as my adviser. For I had begun to suspect even then, before our initial talks, that we both held close to our hearts the same dream for the future of islam.

  “Assalaamu aleikum,” I said, wishing her peace. Muhammad had instructed us to do in greeting fellow Muslims, but in that moment I sincerely meant the words.

  “Wa aleikum assalaam,” she responded, and the lift in her voice and the brightness in her dark green eyes told me she, too, desired peace. She dipped her head in deference, but Talha and al-Zubayr made no show of respect.

  A’isha turned to the cushions arranged around a pale linen cloth on which platters of food had been placed. My stomach rumbled loudly at the sight—dates, figs, rice, dried meat, honey—for I had barely eaten since leaving Kufa a few days earlier. My stomach had been twisting and turning, filled with apprehension over the coming fight. Now, with hope in the air, I felt relaxed enough for water to flood my mouth.

  We sat before the repast, which I was somehow able to restrain myself from falling upon too eagerly. Long moments of silence followed as I and A’isha partook of the meal, while her companions only nibbled as they glared at each other. Then, when we had satisfied our bodies’ needs and were able to focus on the confrontation at hand, A’isha spoke—but not, to my relief, to demand al-Ashtar’s head.

  “Yaa Ali, your seizing of the khalifa inspired this uprising against you,” she said in a quiet voice. “Muhammad would not have wanted it, as I’m sure you know. He always told me that leadership must be earned.”

  “Mother of the Believers, you must know that the Prophet would not have wanted me to be denied the khalifa again and again. He and I were like two seeds in the same pod. Only you were closer to him than I. As for my seizing the position, you did not witness the events in Medina after Uthman’s death. You must rely on the reports of witnesses—which may not be as accurate as you believe.” I shifted my glance to Talha, who glowered at me, and al-Zubayr, who cleaned his fingernails and avoided my gaze.

  “You forced us to pledge our allegiance by holding swords to our throats,” Talha gruffed.

  “Yaa Talha, I forced nothing.” I looked at A’isha, which was a pleasure that seemed only to increase with each glance. “Others called for my appointment until the streets of Medina filled with a river of supporters. They swept me into their current with affection and clamoring joy. Those who tried to swim against them were turned about by the sword. I witnessed this sad distortion of islam, but my protests were lost in the city’s cries.”

  “You stood helpless, flapping your arms and squawking like a hen, in the presence of tyranny,” al-Zubayr said quietly, looking up at me. “That was excellent leadership.”

  I frowned. Given what I knew about al-Zubayr—thanks to the sleuthing of al-Ashtar—he would be wise to hold his tongue against me. But I kept my secrets for a while longer, wanting more time with A’isha, still hoping an agreement could be forged. To reveal my discoveries now would be like crashing a frightened horse into the tent, distracting us all from the business of avoiding war.

  Given the number of men supporting me and the obvious rift in my opponents’ unity, I knew that I would prevail in a battle between us. Yet the cost of that war—Muslim lives lost, islam further steeped in blood, my own chances destroyed of gaining A’isha’s support and that of her followers—was prohibitively high. Also, I knew the Bedouin mind. A single erroneous rumor could send half my army scurrying to my opponents’ side. The defection of al-Ashtar would certainly have that effect.

  Now, as I had expected, A’isha uttered her dreaded ultimatum: al-Ashtar’s head and those of Uthman’s assassins—or war. “We can never support you until the blood-price is paid,” she said. “And without my allegiance, you hold no power in Mecca and little in Medina.”

  She spoke the truth, but her implication was not as dire as she imagined. Clearly, she did not know that I had moved the khalifa to Kufa, a city more centrally located in our expanded territory, where support for my rule was nearly unanimous. Yet I desired A’isha’s endorsement, for I coveted her advice and her companionship in my new position. Working together, we could not fail to restore islam to its original purpose: that of glorifying al-Lah, not men, and of caring for all God’s children, not just a privileged few.

  Yet how could I meet her demands? If she knew what she asked of me, she would not make such a request. To execute or even punish al-Ashtar would mean the loss of half my supporters, but that was only one reason I could not offer him to the vengeance-seekers. Mohammad, my beloved stepson and A’isha’s brother, was another. As the one who had thrust the dagger into Uthman’s forehead, Mohammad would certainly have to die. My eyes burned at the thought. He was Abu Bakr’s son, but he belonged to me in a way that al-Hassan and al-Hussein never had. They possessed the Prophet’s sweetness and his gentleness of manner, while my foster son Mohammad had somehow acquired my uncompromising idealism and the bold spirit that I had once possessed, but that had seemed to slip away during my years of banishment from the battlefield.

  In my stepson I saw myself as I had once been, and as I longed to be again. How could I sentence him to death for taking action according to his principles? Uthman had been weak; his appointees, corrupt. Mohammad had suffered the results of that failed khalifa first-hand, in the Egyptian prison where he, Hud, al-Ashtar, and their companions had been sent for conspiring against Uthman. Had they not escaped, both would be dead now, or tortured so severely that they would be praying to die.

  I had taken great pains to hide my son’s role in the assassination, sending Naila with my wife Asma, to Ta’if for recovery from her wounds and, I had told her, for protection from further harm. Except for al-Ashtar—who would tell all if I persecuted him—and the men who had ac
companied Mohammad into Uthman’s home, no one else knew the truth. As for A’isha, I wanted to tell her—but how, with those two in the tent with us?

  I lowered my head. “I am sorry. I cannot do as you wish. Al-Ashtar swears he is not the man you seek, and I will not punish him or anyone without proof of guilt.” It was a defense that limped on a broken leg—and, when I glanced up at A’isha’s disappointed face, I knew she was making the same assessment.

  “Then we have nothing to discuss.” She stood, then walked to the tent flap and held it open for me. I stood slowly, ignoring the murderous glares of Talha and al-Zubayr. A’isha did not realize what she was asking for—the execution of her brother. And she did not know how tenuous was her position. Behold her lifted chin, her calm demeanor! She fancied that her side was strong. Now was the time to disabuse her of that notion.

  I ducked as if to leave the tent, then turned toward al-Zubayr and Talha, who now stood together as if bound by their common dislike for me.

  “Yaa cousin, I almost forgot.” I drew out a piece of parchment, whose seal I had broken, and handed it to al-Zubayr. “We intercepted a messenger from Mu’awiyya and took this note from him. It is addressed to you.”

  Al-Zubayr took the packet from me. Talha eyed the exchange with lifted eyebrows.

  “You will find it interesting,” I continued. I turned to A’isha. “Yaa A’isha, I advise you to read it, also, for it contains a promise from Mu’awiyya.”

  I left after stating my desire for another meeting—but my words were lost in the confusion and curiosity now whirling like a zauba’ah through the tent. Once outside, I let myself smile—and my cousin Ibn Abbas, who had listened from the flap, seized my beard in congratulation.