The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  “Who will send them out, A’isha? You?” Ramlah’s laugh was harsh. “Unsheathe your sword and demonstrate, by al-Lah! I, for one, would like to see that feat.”

  “We all know whom you would like to see named khalifa, yaa Ramlah,” Maymunah said. “But your brother Mu’awiyya is not a contender.”

  “Not yet,” she said. “He would be a much stronger ruler than either that soft-handed Uthman or that hard-headed Ali.”

  “Mu’awiyya’s head is every bit as hard as Ali’s,” Umm Salama said.

  “Not to mention his heart,” I chimed in. I’d heard how Mu’awiyya had tricked Khalid ibn al-Walid into declaring himself governor of Syria, then spread rumors that Khalid had stolen from the treasury. Too proud to speak in his own defense, Khalid—who’d conquered Syria—had been stripped of his rank and Mu’awiyya had become Syria’s governor. As much as I disliked Khalid—and feared him, for his steely eyes never looked at me without violence—I couldn’t condone Mu’awiyya’s deceit. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the unctuous Mu’awiyya had murdered his brother Yazid to gain his seat.

  Yet I didn’t want to think of Mu’awiyya that day as we waited for Abd al-Rahman to arrive. Visions of Talha racing across the desert, urging his camel onward, filled my thoughts even as the impossibility of his getting back in time made me dig my fingernails into my palms. Why, al-Lah, did You let him leave Medina?

  I must have whispered the prayer, for Hafsa squeezed my arm and gazed at me with eyes as large and sad as a doe’s. “Why did al-Lah let my father die? Why did He allow my brother to become possessed? Yaa A’isha, let me know if God answers your questions, because He has ignored mine.”

  I realized how selfish I was being. What was I worried about except power, while Hafsa mourned the loss of her father and the possible execution of her brother Ubayd Allah, whom she loved most in all the world? Yet what was more important than the khalifa? Our next leader would have the power to do tremendous good, to instill the values of equality and mercy throughout our empire. Or he would increase the divisions, resentments, and greed taking hold of our people as our wealth grew.

  “Here comes Abd al-Rahman now,” Saffiya breathed. “Please, al-Lah, let him name Uthman.”

  The softness of her eyes and mouth as she spoke Uthman’s name told me she was in love with him—but, contrary to several years ago when I’d first suspected it, I felt no disapproval now. Loneliness was my companion, and that of my sister-wives. How could I blame Saffiya for wanting to escape our fate?

  The room fell silent as Abd al-Rahman made his way slowly from the mosque’s entryway, across the room, to the platform. His step was sluggish and his white robe seemed to droop from his bent frame, which stooped as though he carried the Ka’ba on his shoulders. He ascended the platform on Uthman’s side and walked to the center, to stand between the candidates. His skin, normally as pink and fresh as a newborn lamb’s, sagged in folds the color of ash below his sunken eyes.

  “Poor thing, he has not slept since Umar died,” Sawdah said. “Umm Ayman took him some food but he wouldn’t let her in the door. He said he was praying night and day until al-Lah told him who to pick.”

  “He was probably hoping he’d die before he had to make this decision,” Raihana said. “Can you imagine the burden?”

  “He offered to do it,” I told her. Of course, he’d seemed certain at the time that God would guide him. Judging from the way he looked today, his prayers hadn’t been answered.

  He lifted trembling arms. “Men of islam,” he began. His voice sounded like he’d eaten sand for his morning meal. “Today marks a momentous occasion.”

  And then, despite his exhaustion, Abd al-Rahman spoke for a full hour. Spellbound at first, his listeners soon became restless, murmuring to one another, shifting from foot to foot, tugging at their beards, and rolling their eyes at one another. My legs grew tired and I was tempted to sit down with Sawdah, but I didn’t want to lose my vantage in the front of the group. So I let my mind wander to thoughts of Talha, envisioning his race across the desert, kicking up sands, picturing his laughing eyes and brilliant smile. If he were here now, I’d be grinning at his quips instead of fretting and chewing my fingernails. Unless, of course, he spent the time caressing me with his eyes and murmuring tender words.

  My pulse quickened at the memory of our last moments together, how his eyes had shone as he praised my eulogy for Maryam. How, I’d wondered, could he display his desire so wantonly when I was still married to the Prophet of al-Lah? I’d been as irked by his attentions as if he were a stray dog trotting at my heels. Yet, ever since he’d left for Khaybar, I’d found myself beset by thoughts of Talha. During the day, I tucked away amusing stories to tell him, imagining how he’d laugh. At night he filled my dreams, caressing my hair with his hands. I awoke feeling guilty—could Muhammad discern dreams?—and more determined than ever to turn desire, his and mine, into a love as innocent as that of a sister and brother.

  Yet—was I an alchemist, able to transform these forbidden feelings into gold? Loneliness and its salt tears had never been my favorite flavors. Having betrothed Talha to my sister Umm Kulthum, I had no choice but to try.

  How I rued, now, my impulsive request! Talha had been reluctant, to say the least. His eyes had dulled when I’d asked him to marry my sister. Since he already had one wife, I’d assumed he would readily agree, to save Umm Kulthum from Umar and his whip. I’d also hoped the engagement would change his feelings for me. Now, though, I despised the thought of his holding my sister close, of the intimacy they would someday share.

  If only I had known that Umar would die before my sister came of age. But al-Lah knows best—and, in truth, Talha’s marriage to my sister might be best for us all. My dreams told me that I was in danger of succumbing to temptation. I hadn’t been intimate with a man in eleven years, and Muhammad and the threat of hellfire seemed so far away. But now, Umm Kulthum’s honor was at stake. I’d have to take care not to let my newly discovered feelings for Talha show.

  Dwelling on these thoughts, I missed most of Abd al-Rahman’s speech. But then he said “Ali,” and my thoughts jerked back to the mosque. I listened and prayed he would not appoint the wrong man.

  “We of the umma are privileged to have as a candidate the beloved cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet,” he said. “Many believe that, as father to Muhammad’s heirs, Ali ibn Abi Talib is best qualified to follow in the Prophet’s footsteps.” The roar of the Bedouins and ansari in the crowd—neither group being known for its manners—made Abd al-Rahman pause. “And in truth, Ali has proved himself impeccable in all aspects: in piety, in intelligence, in his knowledge of the qur’an, and on the battlefield as the Prophet’s most distinguished swordsman.”

  Each word he spoke made the wings of my heart flap harder. Abd al-Rahman was about to name Ali to the khalifa.

  “For these reasons,” Abd al-Rahman went on, “it might be my desire to name Ali our next khalifa.” A great roar like a burst of thunder shook the walls as men shouted Ali’s name and waved their swords. Ali’s eyes grew bigger as Abd al-Rahman spoke—but Uthman didn’t move a hair. His smile stayed on his face as if he’d painted it there, and he nodded his head and twisted his mustache as though he’d written Abd al-Rahman’s speech and it were now being delivered just the way he’d intended.

  Abd al-Rahman held up his hands to quell the noise. “Unfortunately, it is not that simple,” he said when Ali’s supporters had settled again. “I promised al-Lah that I would allow Him to choose the next khalifa. And although I know that both candidates are excellent, He has not indicated which man, Ali or Uthman, I should appoint.”

  “Uthman belongs to the prestigious clan of Abd Shams,” a hook-nosed man in a silk robe called out. “His credentials are adab. Gold! Ali, on the other hand, is only a Hashimite.”

  “As was the Prophet,” al-Abbas cried out. “And Muhammad raised Ali as a son. There are no better credentials.”

  “Ali is young. Inexp
erienced!” the first man cried. “Uthman is a respected shaykh.”

  At this last remark, Abd al-Rahman gave a slow nod of his head. He pressed his lips together. His eyes, whose gaze had been bouncing about the room, fixed themselves on Uthman. My pulse pounded like frantic fists on a locked door.

  “Yaa aunt, are you well?” The words pulled my attention from the floor. My nephew Abdallah stood in front of me.

  “I’m well, by al-Lah, but far from calm!” I said. “Umar has banished women from the mosque, and I need to participate in these proceedings.”

  “Let me help,” he said. “I’ll be your messenger.”

  “Yes. Go tell Abd al-Rahman that I have thought of this test for the candidates.” I leaned down and murmured into his ear.

  A smile leapt onto his face. “By al-Lah, aunt, you’re the most intelligent person in this room!”

  “And you need to be the speediest,” I said. “Hurry, Abdallah, and whisper my suggestion to Abd al-Rahman. Tell him the Mother of the Believers wants to know the candidates’ answers.”

  I prayed as Abdallah pressed through the crowd, calling Abd al-Rahman’s name. Al-Zubayr, standing on the platform with the others in the shura, tapped Abd al-Rahman’s shoulder and pointed to him. While everyone else in the mosque squabbled over the khalifa, I breathed a great sigh of relief. Thank you, God, for giving me a voice in these proceedings.

  Hafsa nudged me with her elbow. “By al-Lah, I should have known you’d find a way to get involved!”

  I shrugged, pretending none of it mattered. “Umar knew Ali’s weaknesses. He wouldn’t have wanted him to be the khalifa.”

  Hafsa slanted her eyes at me. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to help with that choice, either.”

  “I only made a suggestion.” She spoke truly: Umar would decry any woman involved in choosing a khalifa. But I knew Umar’s distrust of women was misguided, and Hafsa knew it, also. His distrust of Ali, on the other hand, was both accurate and wise.

  I held my breath as I watched Abdallah climb the steps to the platform and huddle with Abd al-Rahman. When had my nephew become a young man, and so handsome? The shaykh nodded, to my relief, and a smile washed like cool rain over his face. He straightened his stooped back. He squeezed Abdallah’s shoulder and sent him down the steps, then turned to address the crowd.

  “Al-Lah has answered my prayers at last,” he announced. “He has sent me a question for the contenders, the answer of which will guide me to His will.” The shouts and murmurs among the onlookers faded to the hush of one thousand and one breaths.

  Abd al-Rahman turned to Ali. “Yaa Ali ibn Abi Talib, I will pose the question first to you,” he said. I felt a cry in my throat. Let Ali answer first? Would his response overshadow anything Uthman might say?

  Abd al-Rahman gestured toward Ali, who stepped forward. “If you are appointed to the khalifa, will you rule according to the precedent set by Abu Bakr and Umar?” he asked.

  My heart beat wildly. Say no say no say no—for, although I considered “no” to be the proper answer, since Muhammad, not my father or Umar, was the man to emulate, I knew Abd al-Rahman had revered both and that he would appoint the man who promised yes, to follow in their paths. Ali knew this, also, as I could see in the emotions roiling across his face.

  For twelve years now, ever since Muhammad’s death, Ali had been grumbling over the decisions that my father, then Umar, had made for the umma. My father’s support for the cruel Khalid ibn al-Walid as general had made Ali argue and fume. When Umar had assumed the khalifa with his whip in hand, Ali complained of his harshness. They were strange objections from a man who drew his double-bladed sword whenever he was provoked.

  I, also, had disagreed with these stern measures because I knew Muhammad would never have condoned them. But Ali’s hatred of me took him far from Muhammad’s path. He had complained about my father’s consulting me for advice—which Muhammad had also done—and about Umar’s paying me a larger pension than my sister-wives received, an act which my husband would have encouraged. Ali, follow in their footsteps? The idea made me want to laugh.

  For a long time, Ali didn’t answer Abd al-Rahman’s question. He stood and gazed at the eager faces of his supporters, men nodding and, no doubt, mouthing to him to say yes. He searched the eyes of Abd al-Rahman, certainly hoping to see the correct response there. He looked down at his clasped hands and closed his eyes, probably praying for the right words.

  At last he lifted his face to Abd al-Rahman’s, and his look of calm filled me with dread. Whether with al-Lah’s guidance or with Satan’s, he had arrived at an answer. If Abd al-Rahman chose him, islam would be lost to the dishonesty and greed of Ali and his relatives, and I’d have to watch from the confines of my hut the ruin of everything that Muhammad had worked for.

  “Thank you for the opportunity to address this very important matter.” Ali bowed first to Abd al-Rahman and then to the crowd. “Of course I am aware of the many virtues possessed by Abu Bakr and Umar, not the least of which was their love for my cousin Muhammad, the Prophet of al-Lah.”

  Cheers rose from the crowd again. “If I were appointed khalifa, I would try very hard to follow the example of my predecessors. I would certainly do so to the best of my ability. I might decide on a different direction than these men might have chosen, but only after consulting al-Lah. And if I should fail in any matter, I would be forgiven and my errors rectified by God. For I have no doubt that He would prefer the man closest to His Prophet’s heart to lead His people.”

  Ali’s supporters burst into cheers and Abd al-Rahman’s face took on creases and folds like shifting dunes. As for me, I had to lean against the wall to keep from slumping to the floor. How wily was Ali! He had managed to answer my question without commitment or denial—in truth, without saying anything except to remind us of his ties to Muhammad.

  Ali returned to his place and Uthman stepped forward. His smile was bigger than ever, so that it seemed to surround his face instead of just covering it. Abd al-Rahman turned sad eyes to his friend as though he already knew his answer would be inadequate, as though he were apologizing for having to appoint Ali.

  “Uthman ibn ‘Affan, I ask you the same question,” he said. “If appointed, do you vow to rule according to the example set by first Abu Bakr and then Umar?”

  Uthman began to nod. He looked out at the expectant crowd as though he had already rehearsed this moment with them. Yet, like Ali, he said nothing at first. Ali’s answer had impressed this group, and Uthman, who had never been known for his skills as a speaker, now had to outperform him. Even as I knew he couldn’t do it, and as his smile started to look foolish and his mustache, ridiculous, I prayed that God would give him the words, just this once.

  “What is your answer?” Abd al-Rahman asked. “If appointed, do you promise to follow the example of your predecessors?

  Uthman was still nodding. “Yes, I do,” he said. And he folded his arms over his belly and stood like a ben-tree in a storm, proud and strong.

  “Oh, no!” My cry was lost in the clamor of men shouting Uthman’s name. A simple “yes” was his answer? Around me, the sister-wives who supported Ali hugged and kissed one another, while those who wanted Uthman slumped in place, our eyes blank as we contemplated life under Ali. I gazed around my hut, at the colored glass hung by threads from the ceiling, at the paintings on my mud-brick walls, at the colorful cushions I had sewn, at Muhammad’s grave and that of my father, and I sighed. It was a good thing I loved my home, because, with Ali as khalifa, I wouldn’t be leaving it.

  Maymunah was beaming. “Yaa A’isha, a most excellent question you asked. Now we Hashimites will have the respect we deserve.”

  “Yes, thank you, A’isha,” Ramlah said dryly. “Your meddling has destroyed islam. I’m sure my brother Mu’awiyya will be very grateful.”

  To think of Mu’awiyya’s suffering made Ali’s appointment almost bearable. I was about to say so when Hafsa shushed us all. “By al-Lah, the contest isn’t o
ver.”

  Abd al-Rahman lifted his hands raised toward the ceiling and shouted like a man struck by lightning, “Yaa al-Lah, which is the answer You sought?” Buffeted by indecision, Abd al-Rahman leaned first toward Ali and then toward Uthman.

  Then he began to nod, his eyes closed, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Yes. No equivocating, no faltering, no excuses. Only a simple ‘yes.’ God is pleased with you, yaa Uthman. You have given the best answer.”

  He opened his eyes and beamed at the crowd. “It is my pleasure to announce that Uthman will be the new khalifa,” he said. “Yaa Uthman, please stretch forth your hand so that I may pledge my allegiance to you.”

  Now I was the one cheering, and Hafsa, while Saffiya wiped the tears from her cheeks and gave a hug to Ramlah, who pulled back with a wince. Uthman held out his hand, and as Abd al-Rahman kissed him, his supporters chanted and cheered while Ali’s supporters yanked off their sandals and used them to smack the heads of the others. Abdallah took a blow to his face as he made his way back toward me. I broke free of my sister-wives to go to him.

  And then three miraculous and unexpected things happened. The crowd of men parted when they saw me approach, and many of them bowed to me. “Make way for the Mother of the Believers!” someone cried. I blushed to realize that, in my haste, I had forgotten my wrapper, but the eyes of these men were not gazing upon me with desire or disrespect. I saw reverence, as though I were the angel Gabriel appearing in their midst. And I saw something else in these men’s eyes: love. Not the love of a man for his bride, but, rather, of a man for his mother.

  “Please,” I said, feeling a new power, a mother’s power, “respect our new khalifa with your good wishes and your allegiance. Think how Muhammad must feel, watching Muslims fighting Muslims.”

  Then the second miracle occurred. On the platform, Ali dropped to his knees and kissed Uthman’s hand, which now wore Muhammad’s signet ring. Standing beside my nephew Abdallah—who was unharmed, he assured me—I watched, stunned, as Ali professed his allegiance to Uthman with a graciousness that he’d never shown either to my father or to Umar. When he’d risen, he asked everyone in the room to profess his allegiance, also. All around me, men lifted their hands and spoke Uthman’s name, and I lifted my hands also, at one with these men, the only sons I would ever know. I bowed my head for a brief prayer of thanks. When I looked at the platform again, I felt Ali’s eyes on me and I returned his gaze. And I wondered: Had Ali pledged his allegiance with a sincere desire to unify the umma, or had he done it to draw the crowd’s attention away from me and back to himself?