But in the following instant A’isha wrapped herself around Asma as if to protect her from dishonor. Hiding her from me, that she-dog led Asma out of the hut, hurling me looks that would have struck me dead had they been daggers.
I restrained myself from leaping over our dead khalifa and yanking my prize out of that red-haired vixen’s arms. A’isha had hated me since the day, seven years ago, when I had urged Muhammad to divorce her. Even now I remained convinced of the rightness of my position. She had never repented of setting Muslim against Muslim with her irresponsible, illicit night in the desert with the young warrior Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal. Unable to admit any wrongdoing, she still blamed me for her troubles. Now I tried not to imagine the lies she would tell Asma to poison her against me.
As the crowd dispersed, my uncle and cousin approached with smiles. “A wonderful speech, very poetic and spontaneous,” my cousin Ibn al-Abbas was saying, embracing me, while my uncle nodded and leered as though I had committed a lascivious act.
“Very shrewd,” he said, clasping an arm about my shoulders as we left the hut. “Now all of Medina will marvel at Ali ibn Abi Talib’s generous spirit as well as his eloquence of speech. None will even remember that you opposed Abu Bakr, only that you praised him at his burial. You have positioned yourself most excellently for the khalifa, nephew.”
My face and neck burning, I protested, telling my uncle that my words had been sincere. He laughed and winked. “Of course,” he said. “Ali is the epitome of sincerity, second only to his paternal cousin, the Prophet of al-Lah.”
It had been Abu Bakr’s request that, on the same day that he was buried, the people of Medina should pledge allegiance to Umar. The umma must not be without leadership for even one day, he had said. To ensure that the people would support his choice, he had called Asma to help lift him from his bed to the window, where, supported by her remarkable arms, he summoned his remaining strength to ask the crowd outside for their approval. Have I made the right decision in choosing Umar? he had croaked, and they replied with a roar so enthusiastic it seemed to tremble the walls.
Now those same supporters poured like a flash flood into the mosque courtyard to profess their support for Umar as their new khalifa. I made certain I was the first to make the pledge, so that there would be no more speculation about my wanting the title.
Later that afternoon, with a flavor in my mouth like grape seeds, I approached Umar. I hesitated to do so while the pain of Abu Bakr’s passing lay upon him like a fresh wound, yet my uncle was right that, once Umar’s sorrow diminished, he would covet the exquisite Asma for his own. So as not to appear overly eager for her, I first requested the favor I had the least hope of obtaining: permission to ride into battle with my brethren. The famous general Mothanna, who had already won so many victories in Syria, had arrived in Medina last evening to recruit warriors for our Persia campaign. If Umar allowed it, I would be the first to volunteer.
But my desire to fight was not to be fulfilled at that time.
“I remember well the skills you exhibited at Badr and Uhud,” Umar said, referring to two of the umma’s greatest battles under Muhammad’s green standard. We were seated in the majlis, which, despite the umma’s new prosperity, was decorated as austerely as it had been during Muhammad’s time, with only a single curtain of coarse linen on the high, small window, and a plain rug, worn but clean, on the floor. In one corner of the room, near the courtyard entry, lay a pile of cushions that had supplied me and Umar with our seats. Between us on a cloth sat a yellow gourd filled with water and two bowls from which we drank.
“Allowing me to fight would ensure the umma many victories,” I said. “Awarding me a position of command would gain you even more.”
“You speak truly.” Umar peered at me from beneath brows that shaded his eyes like hedges. “Yet we have already lost too many of the Prophet’s Companions in our battles. You are father to the Prophet’s heirs. How can I risk your life?”
I was prepared for this argument. “I fought alongside Muhammad in all his battles. You would be following his example if you allowed me a command in the Muslim army.”
Umar lifted the gourd, poured water into his bowl, drank it down, poured more water, and drank again. I watched his face for clues to his thoughts, but could discern nothing.
“The situation is different now,” he finally said as he wiped his mustache. “Muhammad’s detractors attacked from outside his ranks, while you have attacked the khalifa from within.”
I dipped my head to prevent his seeing the angry tic of my jaw. “I protected Muhammad from his enemies. I would do the same for you, yaa khalifa.”
“Would you protect me from yourself, then, Ali?”
“By al-Lah, I have pledged allegiance to you. I will not endure these slanders!” My shout erupted like the blast from an oven, shooting me to my feet. He scowled, and I knew he was but an utterance away from denying me all I wanted. Yet the idea of again remaining in Medina while others fought was unbearable. Holding my voice steady, I looked Umar in the eyes and dared him with my thrust chin and set jaw to prove his insinuations. “I am no traitor,” I said.
He arose, also, to stand over me, his height much greater than mine. “Nor are you a loyal follower,” he said. “Except, perhaps, of your uncle al-Abbas.”
“I want to fight. If you will not appoint me to a position of command, then at least allow me to serve as a foot soldier.”
He lifted his right arm and snapped it downward, cracking the whip he infamously carried everywhere now. The sound reverberated like a slap against my ears, causing me to flinch.
“Do not command Umar ibn al-Affan,” he cried. “I will not degrade you by sending you into the field as a foot soldier, nor compromise myself by making you a general. You will remain in Medina to advise me as you did Abu Bakr. Now, if that is all . . .”
His face drooped, revealing his exhaustion. I knew he needed rest, yet as he walked me toward the majlis door with shoulders slumped I realized my chance at happiness lay between him and that entryway.
“Yaa khalifa, that is not all.”
He exhaled sharply. “I have made my decision, Ali.”
“I hear and obey,” I said. “Yet if I must remain at home, I would like to request marriage to Abu Bakr’s widow.”
Umar’s scowl remained fixed, but a slight smile seemed to unravel its edges. “Umm Ruman? She seems advanced in years for you, well past the age for bearing children. Yet if you insist—”
“I do not refer to her!” I winced hearing the irritation in my voice, and when Umar’s eyes lit up with his jest, I wished for a whip of my own to brandish. I took a calming breath. “I speak of Asma bint Omas.”
“Asma? Hmm.” Umar tugged at his beard. “That is a prize I had desired for myself.”
My hopes, so lofty when I had approached Umar, now faltered like a bird whose wing has been hurt. I pressed my sweating palms into my robe.
“Afwan, khalifa, I did not intend to feast on a meal you had prepared for your own enjoyment.” I struggled to keep my voice steady. “I erroneously assumed that you would be occupied—”
“Yes, yes, you speak the truth, Ali. The demands of the khalifa will prevent me from meeting the demands of a new wife.” His curt nod sent my spirits soaring again. “If Asma consents, then you have my permission to take her.”
And so with light steps I moved across the courtyard to ask the incomparable Umm Salama to act as my emissary in requesting Asma’s hand in marriage. As required of all Muhammad’s wives, she hid behind a screen as we spoke, shielding her expression from my view. Although she greeted me most warmly, the great lady grew quiet when I presented the reason for my visit.
“I want to marry Asma bint Omas,” I said, smiling, for the act of forming her name seemed to fill my mouth with joy. “Will you honor me by approaching her with my offer? I wish to seal an agreement today.”
The silence between us stretched as long and tight as the leading rope on a stubborn ass.
I yearned to jump up and topple the screen to determine if she had fainted.
“Yaa Umm Salama,” I said. “Did you hear my request?”
“I did,” she said at last. “And I will do as you ask—as soon as Asma has had time to recover from her husband’s death.”
“No.” My mouth grew dry at the idea of waiting, for who knew what might happen to thwart my desires? Another man might make an offer and be accepted. Or A’isha, who had moved temporarily to her father’s home, might influence Asma against me. “Please go today,” I said. “Umar has commanded it.”
She was silent again. “Hearing is obeying,” she said at last. “But I warn you, Ali, I think this is unwise.”
“Why?” I pressed. “What is unwise about it?”
“I cannot reveal more without betraying a confidence,” she said. “But I do not believe this endeavor will go well for you. Al-Lah willing, I am mistaken. At any rate, we shall know very soon.”
♦
I do not mean to suggest that I had been all alone since the death, two years earlier, of my first love, Fatima, may peace be upon her. Following the Prophet’s example, not long after Fatima’s departure I had sought, and obtained, a wife to care for my children.
Umm al-Bunin was stolid and dependable, a loving mother to my boys al-Hassan and al-Hussein and to my girl Zaynab, and dutiful in the bedroom. However, she was also like a field that yields fruit as soon as it is touched by the seed, becoming pregnant on her first night with me and then, after she bore my son Abbas and her waiting period was completed, sprouting another son.
Being a virile man who needs his desires fulfilled, and having obtained a pension from Abu Bakr in exchange for my work as his advisor, I took a second wife, al-Hanifiyya, a haunting woman with dark eyes and a darker soul, whom I freed from slavery but who failed to show appreciation. Initially I found her sullenness alluring and, as she never resisted me in bed, I enjoyed her fully, but her complaints and demands created such hardship for poor Umm al-Bunin that I had to find a third wife to keep peace in the household.
Habiba was my choice, a capable girl with infinite patience and arms strong enough to carry three children at once. But alas, she worked so hard during the day that she often fell asleep as soon as she lay down at night, resulting in many evenings that lacked in luster for me.
I harbored the highest of hopes for nights of passion with the sultry Asma. And, despite Umm Salama’s apprehensions, I did not worry that she would refuse my offer. Umm Salama, my departed wife’s dear friend, would portray me in the best possible light. In addition to her praise, my graveside speech, which had so obviously moved Asma this morning, could not fail to win her consent. If only I could brag of being a general in Umar’s army. Would she, like Talha, think of me as a eunuch because I could not fight? Like a tonic, the sweet imagined taste of Asma filled my mouth and my sword began to quiver, reminding me that I was still very much a man.
Yet when the general Mothanna appeared in the courtyard later that day in all his military splendor, I felt as ineffectual—and as invisible—as a child. As he strode out from the mosque, his great height and strong bearing made me think of a date-palm tree. Unlike the unruly Khalid, with his filthy Bedouin robes and arrow-stuck turban, Mothanna embodied military order and discipline. He wore a long jacket of leather that fit him as closely as a second skin, encasing his arms and hugging his body nearly to his knees, and sewn with metal plates that flashed in the evening sun to make his chest appear as broad and impenetrable as the Medina cliffs. Metal pieces, bound to his legs with leather straps and tied about his calves, covered his shins. On his feet he wore leather boots, and on his head a leather helmet, also bound with riveted metal pieces, whose long leather strip extended down from his forehead to fit over the top of his prominent nose. Although I stood beside Umar in a position of honor, I felt feeble in Mothanna’s presence, as pale and vulnerable as a woman’s belly, as invisible as the Prophet’s widows who now emerged like shadows from their mud-and-brick huts at the courtyard’s edge, their wrappers pulled over their faces.
Cheers arose as Mothanna strode up with a long spear in one hand and the green silk flag of islam in the other. With a downward thrust he planted both in the ground beside A’isha’s door, to the left of the mosque entrance, then walked over to the date-palm where Umar stood with me, Uthman, and Talha. He lowered one knee to the ground, took Umar’s hand in his own, and kissed Muhammad’s signet ring.
“I praise al-Lah for the privilege of serving Umar, the Prophet’s most trusted military commander,” he said in a ringing voice. Forbidden to fight these last two years, I now realized that my stellar achievements on the battlefield had sunk into ignominy, while Umar, who had barked many commands but clashed swords with far fewer men than I, enjoyed the warrior status that I had earned.
Umar led a prayer, asking al-Lah for the wisdom to lead the umma into prosperity, but making no mention of the people’s needs for spiritual guidance. When, I wondered, had the role of khalifa ceased to include this important task? Had Abu Bakr provided advice to Believers regarding islam? As I recalled, when approached he had deferred many times to A’isha, who could recite the qur’an, yes, but no better than I, and who was familiar with Muhammad’s teachings and his beliefs, but again no more so than I. As khalifa, I would have needed no assistance in tending to the spiritual needs of Muslims. Nor would I have shunted al-Lah to the side while I focused on military conquests. Umar invited Mothanna to stand, and the crowd followed. Then the general moved over beside me, eclipsing me in his armored shadow.
“Fellow Believers, the umma stands at a divided route,” Umar said. “Although we are on the cusp of capturing the holy city of Jerusalem as well as Damascus, we face great danger in Persia, where a mere woman threatens to humiliate us.”
As if he thought his audience had not heard, Umar repeated the warning. “The Persian queen Buran would be no one to fear by herself. Despite her love for fighting on horseback, she is a mere female with weak arms and a weaker brain. But her general is a brilliant strategist. He and his warriors recently defeated our fighters in a crucial battle. They are preparing to attack again. If they win, we will lose everything we have gained in Persia. We need fighters now. Mothanna is here to lead you. All who would join him, step forward and grasp the standard of islam.”
Smiling as if he had not just delivered the most tepid of speeches, Umar surveyed the crowd with his chest thrust confidently forward, and waited—but no one approached.
He cleared his throat. “Great honor awaits those who volunteer, both in this world and the next,” he said. “The Prophet watches, and will reward you well in Paradise.”
Still no one came.
I longed to be the first to seize that standard. I envisioned myself defying Umar and volunteering here, before all of Medina, to join our troops on the Persian front. Yet I also knew these men needed more to inspire them than Umar’s lukewarm invitation. They needed a fiery, impassioned speech, which Umar should be able to deliver, being one of the most eloquent orators in all of Hijaz. But he did nothing, only stood there with a drooping mouth.
Unable to restrain myself any longer, I leaned toward him and murmured into his ear. “Yaa khalifa, your formidable skills as a speaker were never needed more than now,” I said. “You can arouse their passions by displaying some of your own.”
He sighed deeply. “My heart is heavy with the loss of Abu Bakr,” he whispered. “How can I inspire my men to action when I want only to retreat from the world?”
Here was an opportunity for me to gain Umar’s trust and, perhaps, a position in his army! Yet I made my offer with trepidation, lest he suspect me of attempting to overshadow him. “Allow me to address your subjects, yaa khalifa,” I said. “Perhaps I can win recruits with tales of what awaits them in that fertile land.”
And so, with Umar’s permission and al-Lah’s assistance, I summoned my imagination and my skills, lifted my voice, and beckoned warriors to Umar’s army with poetry
and promises. Riches such as they had never seen before awaited in Persia, I said. There, even the outhouses were jewel-encrusted, and the women were as ripe fruits dangling from every bough. “Join the fight against the fire-worshippers, and partake of this glorious plunder,” I urged. In the next moment, Abu Ubayd, a man of about eighteen whose beard was as fine as the hair on a baby’s head, stepped forward and grasped the standard. Not to be outdone by a youngster from Ta’if, scores of Medina men followed, as well as many Meccans.
Yet when the recruits had clustered around Mothanna, visions of booty swirling in their heads, and seized one another’s beards in excitement, did Umar reward me with an appointment of my own? By al-Lah, he did not. Instead, he embraced Mothanna as though he had been the one to give the speech, then stepped over to Abu Ubayd, who had been pushed to the edge of the group. Umar grasped Abu Ubayd’s right hand and held it up.
“The first to volunteer will be the first to lead,” he announced. “I hereby appoint Abu Ubayd as your commander under Mothanna.”
The silence that followed was more pronounced than the jubilation that had preceded it. “By al-Lah, would he appoint a boy from Ta’if to command men of Aws, Khazraj, and Quraysh?” one of the Medinans muttered to me. “Do those who served the Prophet hold supremacy no longer?”
As I struggled for a diplomatic answer I felt a tugging at my sleeve. Umm Salama stood behind me and, although I could see only one of her eyes, it was clear to me that she was agitated.
“Yaa Ali, we need to speak,” she murmured.
“I cannot leave now,” I said.
“Please tell me what has happened.”
“I will await you behind my screen,” she said. “When we can talk privately.” She turned to leave.
“No!” I cried. Praise al-Lah, the uproar that now filled the courtyard prevented my outburst from being heard. Umm Salama turned to me with her gaze lowered. “Tell me now,” I said. “We must settle this matter before A’isha . . . before it is too late.”
The Sword Of Medina Page 8