The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  Umar scowled at me, but he nodded.

  “Yaa Ali, what would you have Umar do with the Persian carpet?” I asked.

  Ali folded his arms and widened his stance. “He should cut it into pieces and distribute them to the men of the umma. That would be the way of islam, to share equally with all.”

  “Why couldn’t you display the carpet first for all to see, and then divide it?” I asked. “Then everyone could see the fruits of our conquests and give praise to al-Lah before reaping the benefits.”

  Umar’s smile returned. “Your idea had occurred to me, also, A’isha. Now I am convinced that it is the best way.” He clapped Ali on the shoulder. “You are not the only one who bears the Prophet’s intentions in mind, Ali.”

  Then Umar turned toward the majlis and began to walk away. “It has been a long day for me. I need to rest.”

  “But abi!” Hafsa blurted. Umar stopped, lifted his whip slightly, and looked around at her with lifted eyebrows.

  “What is it?” he asked. Then he shifted his gaze to me, and back to Hafsa. “Yes. Your petition.”

  I stepped forward, my head ducked in submission. “Will the widows of Muhammad receive a portion of this wonderful carpet? Selling it would do much to relieve our suffering and also to enhance your status, for the people of the umma would not like to see us threadbare and starving.”

  “I do not recommend that, khalifa,” Ali said. Umar looked annoyed by the interruption.

  “Would Muhammad object to this, also, Ali?”

  “Not Muhammad. But you might not desire it.”

  “Muhammad would want us to be provided for,” Hafsa said. She walked over to Umar and grasped his hand. “Abi, please,” she said.

  “If you distribute that carpet to Muhammad’s widows, every woman in the umma will want a share,” Ali said. “Shouldn’t their husbands decide how the household income is allocated?”

  Umar released Hafsa’s hand and pulled at his beard. “Ali’s argument is compelling.”

  Hafsa’s shoulders drooped as low as my spirits. “However,” Umar added, “I do not wish to leave the widows of the Prophet in destitution. You speak truly, daughter, when you say that Muhammad would not have wanted you to suffer.”

  He smiled at her then, his eyes as soft as kisses. When he turned his gaze to me, the warmth remained.

  “I will distribute the Persian carpet to the men of the umma only,” Umar said. “As for your sister-wives, yaa A’isha, I will give them each a yearly pension of ten thousand silver dirhams.” Hafsa cried out and threw her arms around her father’s neck, while I stood in stunned silence. What about me? Were my sister-wives to be awarded such a generous amount while I received nothing? My portion of the date harvest from my father’s lands was barely enough to keep me alive.

  Umar patted Hafsa’s back self-consciously, being unused to showing affection. As he pulled her hands away from his neck, he smiled down at her and then at me. “Do not look so forlorn, A’isha,” he said. “Would I forget my friend Muhammad’s favorite wife? Because of his esteem for you and your status in his harim, I will award you more than they receive: twelve thousand dirhams.”

  “Yaa khalifa, do you think that is wise?”

  As rude as always, Ali strode forward to stand in front of me. “We have all heard how A’isha antagonized the other women of the Prophet’s harim. Her jealousy over Muhammad’s affections inspired much resentment among her sister-wives. Awarding her a larger pension might rekindle those old animosities.”

  “Afwan, khalifa,” I said. “Ali seems to be an expert on everything today. What will he say next? That he should be the khalifa instead of you?”

  Umar heard the truth in my words. Ali had overstepped his bounds more than once. He glared at Ali. “A’isha speaks truly. I do not recall asking for your advice today on any matter, yet you have thrust your opinions upon me several times. Utter one more word, and you will feel the sting of my whip!”

  He lifted his whip and jerked his wrist. Its tail snapped so closely to Ali’s head that I saw his hair lift and fall. “Ten thousand dirhams for the others, twelve thousand for A’isha,” he said. “Umar has spoken. I am going to leave you now—unless, Ali, you have something else you want to contribute?” Ali shrugged.

  As soon as Umar had left the room, Ali whirled around and lunged toward me, forcing me back against the mosque wall. “Leave her alone, or I’ll call my father!” Hafsa cried, but I knew I could handle him. Staring into his narrowed eyes, I sent Hafsa to the harim to tell the sister-wives our good news.

  “How dare you belittle me before Umar?” he rasped when she had gone. “By al-Lah, if you had not deceived Muhammad into loving you so ardently, I would find a way to diminish you. Instead, I have forbidden any of my wives to speak to you, lest your unbecoming conduct influence theirs.”

  I struggled to keep my dismay from showing. Not speak to Asma! She and I had grown close after my father’s death. Her grief had been so heartfelt that even my mother had ended up consoling her—and, in the end, loving her.

  But I knew Ali would have a hard time enforcing his new rule during the hajj. Amid so many pilgrims, he’d never be able to watch all four of his wives, especially since he would ride up front with Umar while we women would be in the back.

  “Hearing is obeying,” I said, never breaking my stare. “Now if you’ll step aside, I need to finish packing.”

  A slow grin spread like a shadow across his face. “You have not heard the news,” he said. “And so it is my great pleasure to inform you. After hearing my warnings about dangerous rebels lurking in the desert, Umar has declared that the widows of Muhammad will remain in Medina. You will not make the hajj this year, A’isha. Al-Lah willing, you will never see Mecca again.”

  Al-Lah didn’t seem to be the one making the rules these days. But before I could make the retort Hafsa ran into the mosque, her wrapper forgotten, her hair lashing the air about her head.

  “A’isha, you’ve got to come quickly,” she cried. She jostled Ali aside as if she hadn’t seen him, then grabbed my hands and pulled me toward the courtyard. “Zaynab needs you. She’s vomiting blood.”

  All was a blur as I ran to get my medicine pouch. Ali was forgotten, the hajj of no consequence to me now. None of us would travel while our sister-wife Zaynab lay at the feet of death. Inside her hut, I pushed my way through the sister-wives crowding her bedside. She smiled weakly, parting her parched lips just enough for me to see flecks of blood on her gums. I rummaged through my bag, silently worried, having no experience with this illness. My hands trembled as I pulled out a piece of dried ginger. “We’ll make a tea from this,” I said. “It will soothe your stomach.”

  “A’isha.” Her once-husky voice sounded feeble, a mere rustle like grasses in the wind. “I spoke with Muhammad.”

  I heard a cry, and looked into the panicked eyes of Umm Salama, whose pale face reflected my own terror. Was Zaynab so close to death that she communicated with those in Paradise? I reached out to smooth her hair from her damp brow. Touching her skin was like putting my hand into a fire.

  “Yaa A’isha, why do you cry?” Zaynab reached out to squeeze my hand. “Not for me. I’m going to join Muhammad!”

  “No,” I lied, blinking back my tears. “Not for you. For myself! I hoped I’d be with him soon.”

  “But of course I would be the one to go,” she said. “He was my whole life, you know. But you, A’isha—Muhammad told me—you have to stay. You won’t go to Paradise for many years.”

  “But why?” I said, sobbing now, forgetting that Zaynab was speaking out of delirium. “Doesn’t he want me?”

  “Of course he does.” She squeezed my hand again, but more feebly. She closed her eyes and sighed. I cried out, thinking she was gone—but then she spoke again.

  “You need to be here, A’isha,” she murmured. “Muhammad told me. You have work to do.”

  “Work? What kind of work?”

  “Al-Ma’thur,” she murmured. “The
Legacy.” She closed her eyes.

  “Muhammad’s sword? Does he want me to use it? Against whom? Yaa Zaynab!” My voice rose with my fear of losing her, and my urgent need to hear more.

  “Shhh, A’isha,” Umm Salama whispered, and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Zaynab is resting, can’t you see?”

  I sighed in defeat. When Zaynab awoke, she might not even remember this conversation.

  Please, al-Lah, help her to remember, I prayed. I need Muhammad’s direction more than ever.

  As Umm Salama ushered my sister-wives out of the hut, I stuffed the herbs and medicines back into my pouch, wiping tears from my eyes. Zaynab was dying, and there was nothing I could do. All the ginger tea in the world wouldn’t cure her, and I didn’t know what would. I’d have to go to the market apothecary for help.

  I stood and turned away from her—and then I heard a murmur. I looked down to see Zaynab’s lips moving. “A’isha,” she whispered.

  I fell to my knees. “Zaynab,” I said. “I’m here.”

  Her lips moved again, and I lowered my head so close that I could feel her breath on my ear.

  “Dogs . . .” she said. “Beware the dogs.”

  “What did you say, Zaynab?” I whispered back. “What dogs?”

  “At Hawab,” she said. “Muhammad said . . . beware the dogs at Hawab.”

  And she fell back into her deep slumber, leaving me more confused than before.

  Ali

  Such pleasure it gave me to reveal to A’isha her exclusion from the hajj, and to see her smug expression flee like a slumbering dog startled by a hungry lion. In truth, I felt much like a lion at that moment. But the swelling of my chest, like the fullness in my belly, did not last for long. Only months after the pilgrimage to Mecca had ended, despair had become a sharp stone in my stomach as I scoured the city for barley to feed myself and my growing household. In the market, I moved from vendor to vendor with a coin-heavy purse, thanks to the pension Umar had given to me and my sons. Yet all the dinars in Hijaz would not have benefited me, for the drought we had been experiencing for more than a year had diminished our food supply. Barley and dates, the foundation of our diet, had become scarce.

  Perspiring with anxiety, I snatched the sack of gold into my right hand ready to throw it in exasperation into the next sorrowful face telling me there was no barley available. Apparently seeing my frustration, or perhaps glimpsing the coins in my sheepskin pouch, the old jeweler Umm Ramzi beckoned for me. In a hushed voice he told of a caravan that had arrived that morning bearing wheat from Egypt. The owner of that caravan was none other than Hassan ibn Thabit, our city’s esteemed poet. For this useful news, I gave Umm Ramzi a dinar. His expression brightened: It was an outrageous amount. But I would have paid twice the price to ensure that my family would be fed while I was in Syria.

  These were desperate times for Hijaz. From Khaybar to Ta’if, the ruthless sun beat strong men down to dust, shrinking spirits as well as bodies. Springs had vanished, sucked dry by the earth’s thirst, shriveling the date crop before flowers could form on the trees. Prayers for rain filled the mosque like birds too exhausted to fly, flapping their tired wings against the dirt floor. One afternoon, dark clouds choked the sky with eerie promise—but the few drops of rain they spat dried up before reaching the ground.

  And so with a gladdened heart I entered the mosque that evening, a sack of wheat hoisted upon my shoulder and news for Umar of more grain available from Hassan ibn Thabit. Relief from starvation, at least, was near at hand. Now we could turn our energies to other problems.

  “You must put an end to the decadence of your warriors if you wish to end the drought,” a wizened shaykh said to Umar as I walked into the mosque. “We hear tales of excess from the conquered lands in Syria and Persia. Al-Lah is punishing us for straying from the Prophet’s ideals.”

  I could not argue with this reasoning. My cousin had modeled an ascetic life, for he believed material possessions distracted men from spiritual pursuits. In truth, the pleasures in my life provided by a pension and four wives had lulled me into a malaise like the sleep into which a man lapses after a large meal. Yet we had heard rumors of a greater decadence in Syria, where our warriors had abandoned their fight for the love of dice, dancing girls, and exotic foods.

  “By al-Lah, I know these tales, and I will determine their truth,” Umar said to the shaykh. “We have finished our preparations and leave for Damascus tomorrow. If we find our men engaged in sinful pursuits, I shall order all to return to Medina immediately. If we find the governor condoning this behavior, I shall replace him. By al-Lah! I will put an end either to the wagging tongues or to the causes for God’s displeasure.”

  And so we departed the next evening, one hundred men but no women, for Umar had forbidden wives to join us. “We must not risk exposing our women to corruption,” he’d said, causing many to grumble. I held my tongue, but with difficulty. Without Asma to accompany me, the excursion would be only a duty to be endured.

  Yet Umar had selected a propitious time for this expedition. As we were mounting our camels, the young warrior Said ibn Utba rode up on horseback. Said was dressed in a most amusing fashion, more befitting a eunuch than a man, in a Damascene silk tunic of pale indigo patterned with the figures of horses. “Yaa khalifa, I bring news from Khalid ibn al-Walid,” he said, panting. Umar invited him into the majlis, delaying our departure until Said had eaten from our meager stores, drunk the last of the umma’s goat’s milk, and rested an hour from his long journey.

  “We have taken Jerusalem, the holy city,” Said announced that evening, as he sat in the majlis with me, Umar, Uthman, and Talha. “That prize was not easily won. We besieged the city for weeks until its patriarch, Sophronius, offered to surrender. But he says he will only submit to the khalifa Umar.”

  And so Jerusalem was added to our expedition, and with a sinking heart I contemplated additional months away from Asma’s bed.

  In his winter robe, mended countless times, Umar set out that night with his advisors and supporters. My cheeks still wet with my darling Asma’s tears—for my kindnesses had at last, after two years, won her heart—we made the arduous trek to witness our warriors’ behavior in Damascus and to claim Jerusalem, the city Muhammad had once deemed most holy in the world.

  Besides Asma’s absence, the journey held another disappointment: Umar had invited Talha, whose provocations would certainly irritate me like a blister that refused to heal. I endeavored to remain as far from that mocker as possible.

  Avoiding contact while we traveled was not difficult, since the majority of our journey occurred after dark. Nighttime in the desert is frigid, requiring a man to swaddle himself in blankets as though he were a newborn. And so with little effort I was able to avoid his dancing eyes.

  Undistracted by Talha’s unpleasant jokes, I focused on the pleasures of travel: the contours of the sand dunes, like the curves of a woman; the glassy moon; the sweet, sharp exhilaration brought about by the richness of the desert air in my lungs; the pungent earthen aromas arising from the camels; the acrid smell of burning oil on the torches our men carried to light our way; the yip of jackals and the song of men’s voices reciting verses invented in the moment. The latter was a skill at which I excelled, having been reared in the household of Muhammad, the Greatest Poet of all.

  Only occasionally during our weeks-long march did I happen upon Talha. My uncle al-Abbas was another matter. He had ingratiated himself so thoroughly with Umar as to become one of his chief advisors along with Mughira, a leader of the Quraysh tribe. Mughira was a big, ugly, one-eyed man on whose breath I had smelled both women and wine, but who professed the utmost piety. He prescribed the severest of punishments for those accused of those same transgressions. My uncle cared little for Mughira, knowing him to be the most odious of hypocrites. Yet he visited the man’s tent, and urged me to do the same, for power’s sake. Mughira holds the khalifa in his palm. He could be a valuable ally for you.

  I said nothin
g, fearing that I might burst into laughter and reveal the disrespect for my uncle that had planted itself in my heart. The time was not right for these ambitions. I burned in shame at the memory of the deeds I had committed in the interest of my advancement. In truth, I had never approved of al-Abbas’ tactics for pursuing the khalifa—not Muhammad’s secret burial; not the defiance I was encouraged to display once Abu Bakr had been chosen; and not my uncle’s recruitment of spies and rebels from the umma’s army, men who pledged they would support me as khalifa although I was not a contender.

  I tried demurring, but my uncle refused to listen.

  “In the eyes of Quraysh, I am too young to lead,” I insisted.

  He frowned. “You are less young than you were before, and you will be older tomorrow than you are today.”

  “But the Bedouins will not support a relative of Muhammad’s.”

  My uncle tsked. “Ali, these are not your obstacles. They exist only in others’ minds.”

  Perhaps, but they were no less real to me. I might never be the khalifa. I had accepted this. I felt no urgency to press for the position while Umar held it. Severe though he might be at times, Umar strove to uphold Muhammad’s vision for islam. Nothing else mattered, in my view.

  And when Umar needed guidance in administering islam according to Muhammad’s ideals, to whom did he turn? I possessed the most intimate knowledge of the Prophet’s heart, and I most advised the khalifa on these matters. I only regretted that he did not seek my opinions regarding his treatment of women. I would have made life easier for those gentle creatures. This, I knew, would have been my cousin’s desire.

  As Umar’s Companion, I was able to make nearly as great an impact on the future of islam and the umma as if I had held the khalifa. And after giving my advice, I returned home to my delightful wives and growing brood of children. Would I be more content if I held Umar’s position? I could not imagine it.

  When we reached Damascus, we found that beautiful city in disarray. Women dressed in dark blue huddled at the ornate arched gate and screeched like crows as we entered. In the city, men and women scurried about like ants when they beheld our approach, as though we had come to invade their city a second time. As we entered the heart of the city I could only wonder whether we Muslims controlled anything within its sand-colored walls. True to rumor, we spied men wearing warriors’ clothing hunched in the narrow streets and casting dice of carved stone. Pieces of gold lay scattered at their feet. The rattling of tambourines greeted our ears along with the lilt of women’s voices, and as we rounded the corner we beheld the form of a fleshy dancer in a dress the color of the sea, whose bare arms and throat dripped with jewels and who gyrated her body more sinuously than any serpent’s for the pleasure of a growing crowd of men. Heat spread across my lap as if my robes had caught fire, and I averted my eyes for the dancer’s sake, for al-Lah’s, and for that of my own soul. Yaa al-Lah, allow us to reach this poor woman with Your message.