Abu Bakr shook his head. “Child, he left no coins in the treasury. He had given everything away.”
“Then he must have been instructing you to give his camels, goats, and sheep to needy families,” she said, her voice shrinking with each word until, at the end of her sentence, she sounded very far away. This was my Fatima: When she became angry, she never shouted or became shrill, but spoke more and more quietly, until her rage emerged as two red dots, one in the center of each pale cheek.
“Afwan, Fatima. I am sorry. The Prophet left no animals, only the oasis lands for which you ask. As you know, the proceeds from those farmlands have always supported the umma’s poor, as well as the Prophet’s household and yours. I believe he intended for that practice to continue. He certainly would not have wanted his wives or children to take the lands for themselves, and deprive those who depend on their income.”
“You are lying,” she rasped between teeth clenched like a fist. “My father never said it.”
Abu Bakr’s eyes popped open in surprise, a rare show of emotion from him in response to these words of disrespect from Fatima bint Muhammad, usually the perfect example of flowering womanhood. He turned to A’isha, the opposite of my beloved Fatima in every way, for confirmation of his falsehoods.
Her face held little color and her eyes softened as she gazed upon Fatima. For a moment, I thought she might disappoint him.
“Fatima and Ali are in need, yaa abi,” she said, pricking my pride so that my face and neck burned. How humiliating to rely on this spoiled child’s intercession! It was almost enough to send me reeling from the room.
“I’ve been in their home, and they have even less than me and my sister-wives,” she said. “It was appalling, the crudeness of their furnishings, the lack of kitchen equipment, the dearth of food. The baby was lying on the floor for want of even an animal hide! I speak truly, abi: Ali’s household is as poor as many in the tent city.”
To hear her talk of our home in such condescending tones was excruciating. I imagined her standing in my house, casting supercilious glances at the ceiling, the walls, the floor, wrinkling her nose in disgust at what we lacked, touching with only her left hand—her bottom-wiping hand—the few items we did possess.
“But did you not hear the Prophet’s request?” Abu Bakr pressed, his smile tight, his eyes boring like wood-eating worms into his daughter’s hesitancy. “I am certain you must have heard it, for the Prophet’s head rested against your chest as he spoke. Do you not remember how surprised I was to hear him say, ‘We have no heirs, whatever we leave is alms’?”
A’isha’s gaze darted from her father to Fatima and back again. She licked her lips and cleared her throat. Then at last—as I knew she would, for she is her father’s daughter, after all—she nodded her head.
“Yes, abi, it’s just as you say,” that deceitful she-dog said. “I didn’t remember it at first, probably because I was so grief-stricken at the time. But now I can hear Muhammad’s voice clearly. It’s as if he were here in the room with us.”
Although I and Fatima did not touch, I could feel her body’s shiver as if a cold wind had blown into the room. The time had come when I could no longer deny myself the urge to speak on her behalf—and, in truth, on my own behalf, for without the added income we would be relegated to struggle and squalor for the remainder of our lives. Fatima might have little time left in this world. I desired that, when she departed, she should know that her children would thrive.
“Yaa Abu Bakr,” I said, ignoring Fatima’s darting glance of alarm, “may I remind you that the Prophet enjoined us to care for the ahl al-bayt, the ‘people of the house’? He left no sons, but two grandsons—Fatima’s sons, and mine. Clearly, he would have wanted them to be provided for.”
I addressed him in as controlled a tone as I could manage but, by alLah! I did so with a lifted chin. Even now, three months after Muhammad’s death, I had not pledged allegiance to the man who stole the khalifa from me and my sons. I was not going to humble myself before him now, not for what was rightfully mine.
“Several times in the qur’an Muhammad establishes special considerations for the ahl al-bayt,” I said. “He also granted to daughters the right to inherit money and property from their fathers. Would he have wanted to exclude his favorite offspring from these provisions that he himself made?”
“I do not know the answers to your questions,” Abu Bakr said. “I only know what Muhammad said.” He lifted his eyebrows at me in a consternation I knew to be feigned. “Yaa Ali, you were like a son to Muhammad, and I know you loved him well. Do you desire that his deathbed wishes be ignored for the sake of your own gain?”
That condescending tone; that supercilious gaze: Only a fool would have misconstrued his meaning, and Ali ibn Abi Talib is not a fool. Even A’isha’s eyebrows jerked upward, so startled was she by his insinuations.
Unlike Fatima, I do not allow anger to consume my energy. For me, anger is a fiery spice sending heat through my blood and incensing my tongue. Although I had promised Fatima that I would remain calm today, Abu Bakr’s insult acted as a fuel for that anger.
In an instant I had drawn my double-bladed sword and was pointing it at his eyes. A’isha gasped and leapt to her feet, then drew her own sword—my sword, al-Ma’thur, “The Legacy,” bequeathed to me by my cousin along with all his weapons. A’isha claimed he had given it to her, but I knew she had coerced the bejeweled sword from Muhammad in his moment of ultimate weakness. Now she dared point it at me. His gaze still locked with mine, Abu Bakr admonished his errant daughter to sheath her blade and resume her seat.
“Do you think we relished this appearance before you, whom we already knew to be a man with the basest of scruples?” I cried. I paced the floor between him and Fatima, waving my sword.
Stopping before him I said, “In spite of your greedy behaviors of recent months, we approached you in the utmost humility—”
“You have shown perfect humility until this moment.” Abu Bakr spoke as calmly as if he were discussing the sleep he had enjoyed the previous night.
“—knowing you would deny us, yet desiring to give you the opportunity to right past wrongs and redeem yourself,” I continued, ignoring him. “Instead, you increase your sins by depriving the Prophet’s daughter of her inheritance and accusing me of coveting it to enhance my status.”
“You are known for your ambition,” that scoundrel said. “Would you deny it, while you claim an inheritance that was never granted to you?”
“My inheritance has already been wrested from me,” I raged. “This is Fatima’s legacy we are discussing. And your hypocrisy reaches new levels, yaa khalifa, when you accuse me of ambition.”
“Do you deny that you seek the khalifa, then?”
In truth, I desired nothing less at that moment. Abu Bakr had already committed errors that threatened to destroy everything Muhammad had built, such as sending an inexperienced youth, Osama ibn Zayd, to lead a military campaign into Syria. I was denied the privilege of joining the force, despite my stellar achievements as Muhammad’s most courageous and skilled fighter. Obviously, Abu Bakr lacked the judgment needed for this important position. And he could not have chosen a worse time to send our warriors on a muscle-flexing expedition. Bedouin tribes throughout Hijaz now threatened to invade Medina, for they assumed that Muhammad’s death had weakened us. With most of our warriors away, those of us who remained in Medina lived in dread of an attack we could not forestall.
Not only were our numbers too paltry to wage a competent defense, but our stomachs were as empty as gourds. Abu Bakr did not feed us, claiming the treasury had been empty when he inherited it, but he could afford somehow to stage an elaborate show of might in effort to impress our neighbors to the north.
I had no wish to be holding the command when Medina sank to its knees and islam breathed its final breath. Nor did I have the energy that would be required to repair Abu Bakr’s damage. My uncle al-Abbas and my cousin al-Zubayr had been urging me
toward the khalifa since Muhammad’s death, no doubt because they coveted the status that would ensue for them, my relations. As for me, I wanted only what was mine, and I wanted my wife to have what belonged to her.
I lifted my chin at my adversary, knowing that if I denied his accusation he would not believe me. While I stood in silence, my raised arm weakening, my demure wife stepped forward and took the sword from me, and pointed it at the thief-khalifa’s heart.
“If it is Ali’s allegiance you covet, yaa Abu Bakr, then you are not as intelligent as you are reputed to be. Denying my inheritance will only increase his hatred for you. By doing this thing, you injure the umma with a wound that may never heal.”
She handed the sword to me and I placed it in its sheath. “The rest is between you and al-Lah,” she said. “This is the last time I will ever enter this mosque.”
She turned and walked with her head high to the mosque entry. There she flung the dust from her heels with great ceremony. I could think of no more effective action so I merely walked out behind her. I had no worries that Abu Bakr would retaliate against us for our rudeness to him. How could he harm the Prophet of al-Lah’s favorite daughter and most beloved cousin beyond what he had already done? He would lose all his support if he caused injury to either of us.
We swept past a small crowd waiting to petition the khalifa. Fatima ignored their curious stares; I hurled daggers with my eyes. We arrived at our home to find al-Zubayr waiting for us.
“Ahlan, Ali, I have come with an announcement that you will not enjoy, but that I hope you will forgive,” al-Zubayr said. I waited for Fatima to hasten inside and leave us, but she remained, casting a sidelong glance at him.
“I have heard enough bad news for one day, cousin,” I said with a sigh.
Al-Zubayr’s gaze fell from my face to the ground, and he shifted from his right foot to his left. “I wanted to tell you before you heard it from another. I pledged allegiance to Abu Bakr this morning.”
“Traitor!” Fatima hissed the word so quietly, she might have been a serpent about to strike.
“I had no choice,” he said. “I need to fight in the army to earn money for my family. Only those who have pledged may join.”
“So you have sold your loyalty like everyone else in Medina.” Fatima rasped. “And Ali and I stand alone for what is right. So be it. Now you may leave our home, never to return.”
Al-Zubayr turned to me for refutation of her vow, but, by al-Lah, I could not bring myself to contradict a dying woman. I merely stood in silence, unable to meet my cousin’s questioning eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I hear and obey. I will leave you. Ma’ salaama, Ali. Fatima.”
I watched as he trudged away, then turned to Fatima to discuss the matter with her. But her head was lolling and her eyes rolled back so that only the whites were showing. I caught my gentle Fatima—graceful even in sickness—in my arms before she would have fainted at my feet.
Her skin burned; an acrid smell like singed hair made me reel. Perspiration drenched her hair and clothing. Sobbing like a man who has lost everything, and feeling as empty as if my heart had been torn from my chest, I carried my dear, dying Fatima to her bed. The moment her head touched the camel’s-feed bag that served as our pillow, her eyes sprang open to stare at me in horror, as if I had transformed into a fearsome djinni, and she gripped my arm.
“My head,” she said, gasping. “Please . . . Ali . . . help me.”
I hastened next door to fetch our neighbor, Jalila, who was already caring for our children that morning. Then I ran to the market, my every breath measured for Fatima, my every thought now focused on relieving her agony. I had seen a similar expression of torment on Muhammad’s face the day before he died, and I had seen A’isha administer medicine to abate his pain. From her deceitful words this morning, I knew A’isha would be unwilling to assist my wife, but the apothecary at the market would be able to dispense a remedy.
I had known Abu Shams for many years, and had benefited from his potions when, on our arrival in Medina, I had become ill after eating a variety of kema, desert truffles. I had also consulted with him when my oldest son, Ali al-Hassan, had been colicky as an infant and, later, when his baby’s teeth had broken through his gums. Abu Shams’ concoctions were always distasteful but effective, and so it was with hopefulness that I turned to him.
As I approached his stall, I was surprised to detect no warmth on Abu Shams’ gray-bearded face, and to hear no greeting save a grunt from his pinched lips. Preoccupied with Fatima’s illness, I ignored his reticence and launched into my request.
His expression never softened, not even upon hearing my description of Fatima’s symptoms. When I had finished speaking, he regarded me with eyes as narrowed and piercing as those of a cat.
“Yaa Abu al-Hassan,” he said, addressing me by my kunya, my honorary father’s name, “I understand your need. Yet I am obliged to do business only with those who are loyal to our new khalifa.” He frowned. “I hear you have not yet pledged your allegiance to Abu Bakr.”
I felt as if all the blood in my body had rushed to my face, making me hot in the head yet cold in my trembling hands. Speaking in a measured, respectful tone was, for the second time that day, an excruciating struggle.
“Yaa Abu Shams,” I said. “Excuse me. I do not see a connection between this matter and my wife’s need for medicine.”
He shrugged. Was Fatima’s impending death a matter to be cast off so lightly? I clenched my teeth together, trying to smile.
“Only those who serve the khalifa receive service here,” he said. “Afwan, Abu al-Hassan, I did not make this rule. The khalifa sent word of it yesterday.”
In that moment, the storm that had been gathering in me all morning erupted. I snatched the neck of Abu Shams’ bishr.
“God damn the khalifa!” I cried, eliciting gasps from those around us. “Will you deny treatment to the beloved daughter of the Prophet of God? What will you say of this evil deed when you face Muhammad in Paradise? Or perhaps this act will send you to burn in hellfire, instead, with Abu Bakr and his arrogant daughter.”
He tried to sputter an answer. Then, from behind me, I heard the most irritating voice in all of Hijaz. “Arrogant? That’s like the camel telling the cow it’s ugly, isn’t it?” A’isha said. I released Abu Shams and spun away from them both, wanting as much distance as possible between myself and this hated woman. She placed a hand on my sleeve, and I turned to her. To my confusion, she did not smirk, but gazed up at me with concern.
“Is it Fatima?” she said in a low voice. “If you’re trying to buy medicine for her, forget it. They won’t take your money until you pledge allegiance to my father.”
“Your breath is wasted,” I snarled. “Abu Shams has informed me of the shameful boycott.”
“You’re the one who should feel ashamed,” she dared to respond. “Do you realize how close you’ve come to destroying islam? People are fighting in the streets over your so-called right to rule.”
I bore down on her with the force of my stare, my heated breath, and my superior height, pinning her against the stall without touching her. She merely lifted her eyebrows.
“You are the one who will destroy islam, you and your incompetent father,” I said. “First you send our warriors away on a useless mission, leaving the rest of us unprotected. And now you deny Muhammad’s daughter her inheritance. What was my cousin, your husband, supposed to have said? ‘What we leave is alms’? I never heard him utter those words.”
Uncertainty crossed her face but she masked her dishonesty with a laugh. “It’s no wonder you didn’t hear it,” she said. “The dog barks too loudly to hear the eagle’s cry.”
Overhead, the scrape of a crow’s caw brought to mind my beloved Fatima’s anguish, and I raised my fist in despair, wanting only to bring it down upon the taunting, uncaring redhead who defied me with such impertinence. “By al-Lah, where is your shame?” I whispered, but still she would not cringe.
“You wouldn’t assault a Mother of the Believers.” She gazed steadily into my eyes.
A’isha spoke the truth: I could not strike her, no matter how I hated her. She was a widow of Muhammad, revered as the mother of Muslims. Nor would I strike any woman, al-Lah help me, because Muhammad had taught me to exhibit, as he did, the utmost respect for all women—even this one.
“You are mother to all Believers, it seems, except my poor wife.” I took a step back from her and allowed my arm to drop impotently to my side. “She lies dying of the Medina fever, and you and your father deny her care.”
“Dying!” Sorrow clouded her eyes. She turned and said a few words to Abu Shams, who scowled at me, nodded, and handed her a small pouch.
She offered the packet and I snatched it from her, part of me fearing a prank such as she would have played when she was a child. “Give it to Fatima, with my prayers,” she said. “It won’t cure her—only al-Lah can do that—but it will make her feel better.”
And then, as I struggled to form words of thanks, A’isha hurried away from me into the market crowd—not like a lioness, as she so frequently paraded herself before the public, but, for the first time in my memory, with her head down and her eyes to the ground, humbly, as befits a woman.
A’isha
The Medina fever was no way to die, as I knew from years of tending those stricken with it. Imagining Fatima’s agony filled me with compassion as I stood over her grave with the thousands of mourners who’d come to her funeral. I was grateful, for once, for the requirement that the Prophet’s wives veil their faces. Otherwise, those around me might take one look at my red-rimmed eyes and whisper See how A’isha forces her tears!
I and Fatima had not been friends. In truth, we had despised each other. We’d clashed since the day we’d met—not in the way Ali and I did, like sharpened blades, but more quietly, like rams butting heads over a fence. Today, huddled in the drizzle with my sister-wives, I watched Ali step down into Fatima’s grave and I regretted that I hadn’t at least tried to set things right between us during her final weeks.
The Sword Of Medina Page 3