“By al-Lah, there will be no unity in their ranks from this day forward,” he said as we began walking back to our camp, across the scrubby field where the battle, if there were one, would take place.
“Yes, by offering his support to al-Zubayr as khalifa, Mu’awiyya has secured our victory,” I said. But my words sounded flat, saddened as I was by the thought of fighting A’isha.
Ibn Abbas shook his head. “I am confused. Mu’awiyya is known for his shrewdness—yet by dividing our enemy, he has assisted you, whom he professes to hate.”
I nodded. “I, also, wondered at Mu’awiyya’s sudden incompetence—at first. But now, I realize that he wants us to win.”
“He delivers speeches against you every day, but he desires you as khalifa?”
As we neared our camp, I stopped so that we would not be overheard. “Mu’awiyya is known for his shrewdness, as you say,” I said. “But he is also known for his ambition. If I remain khalifa, then he can continue his campaign against me. Eventually, if I cannot depose Mu’awiyya as governor, he might cause me to be overthrown and win the khalifa for himself. But if Talha wins the khalifa, with A’isha by his side—”
“Then Mu’awiyya remains governor of Syria.” Abd Allah’s frown deepened. “But isn’t that what he desires?”
“So he says.” I pulled my cousin close and murmured low, so that only he could hear my words. “By al-Lah, cousin, it has become clear to me whom Mu’awiyya really supports. As you have guessed, it is not me. Nor is it al-Zubayr, and it is certainly not Talha. Mu’awiyya’s choice for the khalifa is none other than Mu’awiyya. And, as he has shown, he will resort to the most devious tactics to obtain it.”
A’isha
For the first time in many weeks, I slept the deep sleep of the satisfied. I’d fallen into slumber with a prayer of thanks on my lips for the compromise we’d finally been able to strike—an agreement that would save countless lives and rescue islam from a future steeped in blood. In my dream, reliving the events of the night before, I clasped Ali’s elbow and he mine, sealing the agreement that would avoid war between us. Then mayhem jolted me awake, and the day began that would change my life forever.
But before that happened, what an alliance—A’isha and Ali! It had been an exasperating four weeks of negotiations, partly because of Talha and al-Zubayr. Each seemed intent on doing battle with Ali, and on establishing himself as the man to take his place. Talha offered little more than smirking comments—A man with thirty children should have no difficulty punishing a few unruly Bedouins—while al-Zubayr challenged Ali directly, thrusting his face close enough to spray him with spittle as he accused Ali of being a weak-livered embarrassment to the Hashim clan. The remark made Ali’s skin pale but he turned his attention back to me, where it remained for the rest of our talks.
As for me, I continued pressing Ali to bring the assassins to justice, but he continued to refuse. In return, he offered the weakest of proposals, including a promise to make the three of us top advisors in his khalifa.
I’d wanted to laugh out loud. Would Ali listen to us later, when he ignored our advice now? Punishing Uthman’s killers might cost him some Bedouin supporters, but it would gain him my allegiance and that of Quraysh, and it would take away that jackal Mu’awiyya’s excuse for seizing the khalifa. Why, then, did Ali stand so firmly against us? Try as I might, I couldn’t understand, and, try as he might, he couldn’t make me see.
Until, at last, we spoke in private.
Here’s how it happened: Our “negotiations” were proceeding as usual, meaning they weren’t proceeding at all. At one point, Talha took the last piece of bread just as al-Zubayr was reaching for it; al-Zubayr muttered that Talha’s selfishness knew no boundaries, and Talha leapt to his feet with his sword unsheathed. “Arise and fight, you hypocrite, or I will cut the insult from your tongue!” Al-Zubayr jumped up, but I stood between them and demanded they settle their argument elsewhere.
“Come back when avoiding bloodshed, not shedding blood, is your intent,” I said.
As the tent flap closed behind them, I took a deep breath—and, all of a sudden, felt as if the air in the room had become lighter. I turned to Ali, whose lips curved in the faintest of smiles.
“Yaa A’isha, I would never have believed that I would say this, but I am pleased to meet with you alone.”
“If you think things will be easier for you now, you’re mistaken. Being a woman doesn’t mean I’m weak.”
He laughed. “I would be the weak one if I held that opinion after knowing you for so many years.” Then he stood and went to the tent flap, which he pulled aside to gaze at the night sky the way Muhammad had done, as if looking for answers in the shifting of the stars or on the face of the moon.
“Yet I must confess, A’isha. I have been disappointed that you would not confer privately with me.”
I shrugged. “Negotiate in private, without Talha and al-Zubayr? I can’t think of a way to insult them more.”
“I am glad, then, that their discord has caused them to leave us.” He turned to look directly into my eyes. “I have a matter to confess, A’isha, one that will explain my refusal to punish Uthman’s assassins.”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure I want to hear this without Talha and al-Zubayr present. They’re the ones in charge, not me.”
“They are the reason I have stilled my tongue,” he said. “My information must remain confidential.”
“But you can tell me?” I arched an eyebrow. “Because we’re such close friends?”
“No, A’isha.” He stepped back over to stand before me, and for a moment I thought he’d place his hands on my shoulders the way Talha liked to do. I took a step back, just out of his reach, and noticed his eyes flicker.
“I can tell you this secret because it concerns someone you love,” he said. “Someone we both love.” He cleared his throat. My heart began a deep, slow pounding.
“Mohammad, my stepson and your brother, is the man who killed Uthman,” he said. I gasped, but his words only came out more quickly, like river waters bursting through a dam. “He and another man gained entry to Uthman’s house. They surprised him and his wife, Naila, in his bedroom. Mohammad was the first to strike, piercing Uthman in the forehead with his dagger. The other man plunged his blade into Uthman’s throat.”
My own throat felt as though it had been pierced. “Mohammad.” I slumped to a cushion and pressed my face into my lap, hiding my head with my arms as though I were under attack. My funny, impassioned little brother, the very likeness of abi, with a fire in his breast that reminded me of myself—Mohammad, a murderer! My beloved brother was the man I’d been urging Ali to behead.
What he’d done was wrong. A small voice reminded me of that fact as I pressed my face into my knees. If others discovered his deed, he’d die—justly. Yet I could not be the one to send my brother to his grave.
“I would have never forgiven myself,” I said. “By al-Lah, if I’d caused Mohammad’s death, I would have killed myself.”
“There is no need to blame yourself.” I felt his hand on my back and I jerked as if burned. Who was he now, this new Ali, who would break the rules of propriety by comforting a woman, who would risk his own position to save my brother’s life, who would take me, his nemesis for more than thirty years, into his confidence? When my father had named Umar to the khalifa, he had predicted that the responsibility would make that fearsome man more gentle. It hadn’t worked—but maybe abi had seen into the future, because it seemed to be happening now, to Ali.
“Ali,” I said. “thank you for protecting Mohammad. He made a terrible mistake. He’s so young and idealistic—”
“Thanking me is not necessary.” His eyes grew moist. “I did not do this for you, A’isha. I love Mohammad as my own son. I would do anything to shield him from dishonor.”
“And I, also,” I said. I straightened my back and, my dignity regained, patted the cushion beside me. As he settled himself on it, I picked up the gour
d on the cloth before us and poured a glass of water for him, then one for myself.
“Since beheading the assassins is now impossible, there is only one way to clean islam of this blood-taint,” I said. “You must resign as khalifa and allow a shura to choose Uthman’s successor. You may yet be chosen.”
There was a long pause as he drank his water and pondered my words. “And whom would you support for the position, A’isha?”
I lifted my own bowl of water, glad for an excuse to shift my gaze away. I was about to betray Talha—my cousin, friend, and confidant for most of my life. But I’d witnessed his childish behavior toward al-Zubayr. I’d seen how greed and ambition had corrupted him. How could I support him as khalifa? Ali’s first deed as imam had been to empty the treasury and give the money to the poor, the very thing Muhammad would have done. Ali had patiently negotiated with me for a month in an effort to avoid war, even though his army far outshone ours in numbers and strength. And he had risked his honor, had risked everything, in order to protect my brother.
I stood and he rose, also. I looked him full in the face, my heart open to him for the first time, this man whom my husband had loved. We were bound to each other in that way, also, by the love of Muhammad. How could anything tear us apart now?
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “If you call an election, I won’t oppose you. The opposite will happen. My allegiance will be yours, Ali.”
Tears filled my eyes as we cast off taboos and dared to touch, not skin-to-skin but my hand on his sleeved elbow and his on mine, clasping each other to affirm our pact. There would be no battle, no brothers killing brothers, praise al-Lah!
In my dream that night, the pact ended with a clamor of shouts and cheers, and spoons pounding against cooking pots, and camels bellowing as their bells were shaken.
And in the next instant I was awake, sitting straight up in my bedroll, my thumping pulse adding to the shouting and bellowing and clanging and crashing that pelted my tent like hailstones. The noise bespoke a calamity as dire as if the moon and stars had plummeted from the sky. Then my tent flap flew open and in careened a man with the long headdress and rotting teeth of a Bedouin. He growled at me with eyes aglow until I snatched up my dagger and ran toward him, sending him howling out again.
Standing at the entrance, I peered out into the camp: Bedouins everywhere, their daggers waving, ripping open barley sacks and spilling the grain on the sand, smashing gourds against rocks and laughing maniacally as the precious water they contained disappeared into the dry earth, pulling down tent poles and breaking them, grabbing our sleeping troops and slicing holes in their beards. I stood paralyzed and confused, not comprehending until, in the roil, I spied the narrow face of al-Ashtar and I knew this had to be the work of Ali.
Ali! I sucked in my breath. How typical of him to say one thing and do another! How naive of me to believe him! For all his talk about returning islam to its pure state, he cared more about holding on to the khalifa.
I heard a guttural cry and looked around to see al-Ashtar slitting the throat of one of my warriors. I strapped on my dagger and grasped my sword. “Get ready to fight!” I cried, running through the camp, waving my blade. “Form your ranks, men! Arm yourselves for battle—Ali has declared war!”
When al-Ashtar saw me running through the camp in my gown, my hair uncovered, his eyes bulged and he quickly stuck his dagger into its sheath. “M-Mother of the Believers,” he said. “I did not know you were camped among the men. Forgive me—”
“Get your men out of here now,” I said, cursing the flush of heat across my neck and face, for why should I be embarrassed? “And tell your cowardly imam that, as gullible as I might be, at least I still have my honor.” To my surprise, he ordered his men back to camp—making me wonder what Ali’s real motive had been in sending them here.
Al-Zubayr and Talha came running up—al-Zubayr scowling, Talha waving his sword as though we had already fought the battle and won. “How dare you order the troops into formation!” al-Zubayr grumbled at me. “Next you will appoint yourself general in my place.”
“If you’re sleeping and I’m awake, and the need for a general arises, I’ll gladly do the job,” I snapped.
“Of course you would,” Talha said, looking as though he wanted to embrace me. I stared at him. How enlivened he appeared by the idea of slaughter! “Quickly, let us go inside and plot our victory. Yaa‘Alqama! Yaa Jawn! Into the tent!”
As Talha and his men stepped inside the tent where I had negotiated peace the night before—alone, for neither Talha nor al-Zubayr had returned before I’d gone to bed—al-Zubayr’s countenance darkened.
“I do not share Talha’s enthusiasm for this fight,” he said. “I would gladly lead as khalifa, but not with Muslim blood on my hands.” He turned and walked away, into the swirl of men gearing up for battle. I called his name, but he continued as though I were merely a squeaking mouse.
Talha thrust his head through the tent flap. “Do not worry, A’isha. He will return,” he said. “Al-Zubayr covets the khalifa too much to forgo the fight for it.” My nephew Abdallah, al-Zubayr’s son, rushed up in search of his father. Talha waved him in, suggesting he take al-Zubayr’s place for the time being.
Soon the men had drawn their battle plans on a date-palm leaf and were marching forth from the tent. Talha bowed to me before following them. “We will prevail, A’isha. I feel victory in my bones. Al-Lah is on the side of the just, and you know that we are just.”
I did know that, especially after Ali’s betrayal today. My hands trembling with indignation, I dressed for battle, and possibly for death, in the white gown I’d worn for the hajj to Mecca. And, as women did during that holy pilgrimage, I declined the veil. Here, as there, my face and heart would be exposed to al-Lah. Nothing would be hidden from Him.
When I’d finished dressing, I went out to review the troops. They stood in long, straight lines, spears and swords in hand, chain-mail suits covering their bodies and leather helmets strapped onto their heads—but, to my alarm, their faces drooped and their shoulders sagged. Only Talha stepped like a jaunty bird among them, oblivious, it seemed, to their listlessness.
I approached him. Appreciation glinted his green eyes. “You look like an angel in Paradise,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows. “Paradise is where we’ll be in a few hours if we don’t do something about these men. Our troops look like they’d rather go back to bed than fight the enemy.”
“We’d heard there was a treaty with Ali.” Abdallah came up from behind us. “Our hearts were gladdened by the news, because we’ve seen the members of the other camp. Our men don’t want to kill Muslim brothers.”
“I don’t blame them,” I said. “But unfortunately, it’s either kill or be killed.” I strode over to a large tree stump, careful to make each step long and purposeful. As the men’s eyes turned to me, I leapt nimbly to the top of the stump.
“Yaa men of al-Lah,” I called out. “Yaa defenders of justice!”
“Yaa Mother of the Believers!” my nephew Abdallah shouted back, alLah bless him. “Yaa most courageous of women!” Soon others were shouting my praises, also.
“I know you have heard that we reached a settlement with Ali. In truth, I sealed a pact with him only hours ago, in which he promised to resign as khalifa and let the people choose a leader. But, as you saw this morning, Ali is not a man who honors his agreements. He betrayed me, and all of you, by ordering this invasion of our camp.”
“He betrays the Prophet of al-Lah!” Talha yelled. “Death to Ali!”
I felt a pang at his cry, recalling how I and Ali had grasped elbows the night before. I’d felt as one with him in our love for Muhammad and our shared mission of restoring islam. My heart had swelled with affection for him. Kill Ali?
But this was no time for sentiment. Ali had lied to me—not for the first time, but certainly for the last.
“Some of you are reluctant to fight against our Prophet’s beloved cousin,” I co
ntinued. “I, also, have resisted. For a month I have been seeking a compromise with Ali. But now, he has allowed his greed for the khalifa to overcome his sense of right and wrong. I know, and he knows, that Muhammad would not have wanted him to seize the position, with only the support of a few—”
“Filthy Bedouins!” someone shouted.
“Camel’s milk drinkers!” another cried.
I lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, for we had several Bedouin tribes in our camp. Yet as the men yelled insults and lifted their daggers, I didn’t admonish them, not wanting to dampen their enthusiasm for war. Their lives, and the future of islam, depended on it.
Al-Ahnaf ibn Qays, leader of the largest Bedouin tribe among us, stepped up to the date-palm stump. His mouth twisted as if he had chewed a bitter herb, and he kept his gaze on my knees.
“Yaa Mother of the Believers, I have come to a decision. I will not fight against the Prophet’s beloved cousin. Neither will I fight against his beloved wife. May al-Lah forgive me for ever thinking otherwise.” He turned and walked through the maze of men and out again, toward the grove of date-palms where our camels were tethered, cutting a swath through the formation as one hundred men in flowing robes followed him.
As I watched the defection of these Bedouins from our outnumbered force, I had to stop myself from crying out in dismay. We couldn’t afford to lose even one man. But I knew there was nothing I could do. After the shameful insults our Qurayshi warriors had hurled—Ai! If only those old men had defected, instead of the young, fierce fighters who followed al-Ahnaf now—. But this wasn’t the time for regrets. We had a battle to fight—and win, with al-Lah’s help.
“Yaa men of al-Lah, listen to me,” I cried, yanking al-Ma’thur from its sheath and hoisting it into the air. “Our enemy has more men, but we have God on our side. Remember the battle at Badr! We Believers were sorely outnumbered, yet with God’s help, we prevailed.” Never mind that many of those here, Meccans, had fought against Muhammad’s army in that battle. “Al-Lah willing, we will prevail today. Now, let us go and fight for what is right—for the future of islam!”
The Sword Of Medina Page 25
