The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  Then came the third miracle. While the room full of men shouted and slapped one another’s backs, and as Ali and I stared at each other, a mighty crash assaulted our ears. And we heard a hissing like that of a giant serpent. Abu Hurayra, the cat-lover, rushed out into the courtyard and ran back into the mosque—dripping wet.

  “Praise al-Lah, the drought is ended!” he cried. “God has sent us rain to signify His pleasure with the day’s events.”

  From my hut I heard my sister-wives squeal before they disappeared from my doorway. I found them all in the courtyard, barefoot and bareheaded, and dancing like children in the blessed downpour. For five years we had waited for rain, had prayed for it, had licked our cracked lips in memory of the feeling of water on our skin. So many springs had dried up that the public baths had closed and we had to chew dry barley for want of water to cook it in. Many had died of dehydration, including my mother and Abu Sufyan, Ramlah’s father. Today, as the rain fell in cool, misted sheets about our bodies, we forgot the dust that our skin had become and the thickness of our parched tongues in mouths that felt lined with linen. Today we danced. We tossed aside our robes made heavy by the rain and squished our toes in mud and threw it at one another. What man would dare to enter the courtyard, knowing we were here? Our gowns clung to our bodies and our mouths opened like baby birds’ to the wonderful, drenching, cleansing rain and we didn’t care at all about the outlines of our bodies or the glisten of water like diamonds on our skin. We danced until our gowns dragged at our feet. We cared only about soaking it in, all of it, filling ourselves from the outside in with this elixir as precious as life.

  Through the curtain of rain I thought I saw a man’s shadow appear by my hut, then disappear inside it. Who would dare to enter my home? Ali, wanting a confrontation? No one else would be so audacious. I snatched up my robe and my sword and tramped through the muck, across the courtyard and into my hut.

  “By al-Lah, what are you—” I began, but when I saw the intruder, I dropped my sword and threw my arms, instead, around his neck.

  I closed my eyes and breathed him in, dust from his long journey, and sandalwood perfume. “Talha,” I said. “If only you’d arrived an hour ago.”

  “Al-Lah knows best,” he said, and smiled down at me. “I’m glad to be here now.”

  I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him until that moment, when I saw him there in my room with those dancing eyes and those smiling lips that beckoned me, always, like a sweet honey that I had never dared taste. Until now.

  Our lips touched and seemed to melt together and my breath stopped and then, on the verge of fainting, I heard Muhammad’s voice. Beware this sin, I heard him say. Beware this man.

  Fear ripped through my body as I pushed Talha away so violently he staggered backward, his face a jumble of emotions. I stared at him, my hand pressed to my chest, wondering if he’d heard Muhammad also, but he only laughed.

  “By al-Lah, I did not realize you were so frightened of thunder!” he said.

  Chills wracked me. Shivering, I crossed my arms over my chest to warm myself and to hide my body from his view.

  “Thunder is the least of my fears,” I said. And I ducked behind my screen to put on some dry clothes and the facade, at least, of dignity. Mother of the Believers? At that moment, I felt more like a reckless, foolish child.

  THE THIRD RIGHTLY GUIDED CALIPH

  UTHMAN

  654–656 A.D.

  A’isha

  It was the day I had dreaded, yet I had to appear as happy as if the wedding were my own. I knew I could do it, al-Lah willing. I’d become good at pretending after that day in my hut, ten years ago, when I’d been swept into Talha’s arms. I was delirious from the rain, and thrilled that Ali wasn’t named khalifa, I’d explained to him later. I felt I had to kiss someone, or burst.

  He gave me his usual grin, so I didn’t know whether he believed me. In any case, he became an expert at pretending, also, for Talha never touched me again—although his eyes spoke blatantly of desire whenever he looked at me, while my longing for him tugged at my heart, my fingertips, my eyelashes.

  Today, for instance, as he greeted his wedding guests in the mosque courtyard, my gaze returned to him again and again as if his face were the changing moon and my blood the tide-driven sea. Sorrow weighted my body to see him laughing into my sister’s eyes. He looked as handsome as a peacock in his magnificent garments of green and gold silk, while I stood in the shadows, my future as bleak as the grave.

  I had known for a decade that this day would come, that Talha would marry Umm Kulthum when she turned fourteen. I’d seen him grow more and more fond of her as she matured into a young woman with as quick a tongue as mine, yet with a grace and composure I could only marvel at. Recently, when curves had molded her young body, Talha had begun standing closer to her, his hands hovering near as if to touch her. I’d seen it all, had cried into my pillow at night, mourning the loss of Talha’s love, asking Muhammad Why did you do this to me? Why would you deprive me of loving again?

  I’d tried teasing Talha about his burgeoning desire for Umm Kulthum. But the words stuck in my throat like barley mush. Now, watching him feed my sister a bite of bread and hummus with glances that suggested greater pleasures to come, I had to turn away. My dignity was a threadbare garment, threatening to fall about my feet and expose my naked desires. Al-Lah, help me to hold myself together.

  My brother Mohammad, Asma’s son, a strong and handsome youth of sixteen, approached with a cup of galangal water. Seeing him reminded me of another struggle I faced today. With talk of rebellion against Uthman swarming like bees through the umma—talk instigated by my brother, who’d grown up in Ali’s home and loved him as a father—I had to keep politics out of this event. As much as I envied Umm Kulthum, I loved her more, and I’d do anything to make sure her wedding day was peaceful.

  “Yaa sister, who died?” Mohammad was grinning as he handed me the cup. “Take this, by al-Lah, before you faint!”

  “Yes, this heat is really affecting me.” I unclasped my veil to gulp the delicious water and handed the cup back to him, wanting to be alone with my thoughts. “Go fetch me some more, brother.”

  He regarded me soberly, looking every bit like our father. “Only if you stop lying and tell me what’s really bothering you,” he said.

  “Lying!” I frowned and shook my head, pretending to be stern. “That’s the problem with the younger generation. No respect for elders.”

  “Elders?” My brother’s friend Ibn Hudhaifa, Uthman’s foster son, stepped up before I could cover my face, bearing another cup of galangal water—which he handed to me with a flourish. “Yaa Mother of the Believers, of whom are you speaking? I was so dazzled by your youthful beauty that I forgot to listen.”

  I rolled my eyes and laughed. “You are Uthman’s son, to be sure.”

  His happy expression disappeared like the sun in eclipse. “Please, Mother of the Believers, do not call me this. Uthman would not deal with a son as he has dealt with me.”

  Behind him, I saw Uthman walking toward us. I raised my eyebrows, trying to alert Hud, but he was frowning and looking at the ground. “Uthman refused to make Hud a governor,” my brother said. “He said he lacks experience on the battlefield.”

  “And in truth he does,” Uthman said. His clothing was even more ostentatious than the groom’s: indigo silk laced with fine gold thread over a pure white gown studded with jewels.

  “Being the leader of a country is a great responsibility.” He turned to Hud. “How can you send troops into battle, or lead them there yourself, unless you have first become a respected warrior?”

  Hud’s face turned a deep red. “I have been trying to join the new navy ever since I became of age one year ago. But your governor Mu’awiyya will not appoint me.”

  Uthman shrugged. “He desires sea-warriors who are familiar with the ways of water. You do not even know how to swim.”

  “You told him not to appoint me,” Hud yel
led. With a nervous glance at the bride and groom, I shushed him. Hud lowered his head and kicked at the ground with the toe of one foot. “You don’t want me to fight; you’ve told me so many times.”

  “I admit it,” Uthman said. “I do not want to lose you, Hud. Before your father died I promised him I would take good care of you.”

  “I feel the same way about my brother,” I said to Hud. “There’s no real need to do battle anymore. We’re not being invaded, or trying to get rid of idolatry, or conquering new territories. We’re just squelching rebellions in Persia. Anyone can do that.”

  “Yaa sister, as long as there are men there will be battles,” Mohammad said. “We will always need to prove ourselves.”

  “Especially those of us who want to be governors.” Hud glared at Uthman again, who cleared his throat and excused himself.

  I shook my head at the boys. I had my own opinions about Uthman’s rule—or, rather, the rule of Marwan, Uthman’s scheming cousin who had his ear so completely he now sat in a chair beside the khalifa and gave him advice on every petition. Tales about Marwan’s love for women and gambling, and his stealing from the treasury, circled the umma. Yet, in spite of my own concerns, I was determined to keep the peace today.

  “That was rude,” I said. “Not only is Uthman your foster-father, yaa Hud, but he is also our khalifa. He deserves respect.”

  Hud snorted. “Afwan, Mother of the Believers, but you may be the only one who still feels that way.”

  I frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “Everyone,” my brother said. “People are complaining. Uthman only appoints his relatives to the good positions, he pretends not to notice as the umma’s money is misused, he ignores scandalous tales of his appointees drinking, womanizing, gambling, and worse . . .”

  I rolled my eyes, hiding my unease. “These are the same rumors that plagued Umar.”

  “And they were true!” my brother said. “I’ve heard Ali’s tales of traveling to Syria—”

  “Uthman isn’t interested in the truth, not if it will reflect poorly on his relatives,” Hud said. “People come to him from Egypt, from Kufa, from Basra, complaining of corruption and what does he do? He promises to investigate but then does nothing.”

  “He’s losing his support,” Mohammad said. “Even here in Medina, people are speaking against him. Behold the finery he adorns himself with.” He spat on the ground. “He vowed to follow the example of Umar, Abu Bakr, and the Prophet. But that was a lie in order to defeat Ali.”

  Listening to him, it was clear whose home Mohammad had grown up in. My brother might have abi’s eyes, nose, and mouth, but his demean-or—the twist of his lips, his bitter accusations—was pure Ali.

  “Even God has withdrawn His support,” Mohammad said. “Didn’t alLah snatch the Prophet’s signet ring from Uthman’s hand?”

  I shook my head. “That ring fell off Uthman’s hand and into a well. Al-Lah didn’t ‘snatch’ it.”

  Hud narrowed his eyes. “Then where did it go? Every man in Medina tried to find it. They dug up the well, dug up all the dirt around the well, and nothing. It disappeared.”

  Mohammad leaned closer to me and lowered his voice. “Some say it’s a sign from God.”

  I crossed my arms. This conversation was getting more and more ridiculous—and disturbing. “A sign of what, by al-Lah? Of a shaykh’s weight loss?”

  “Do not be upset, Mother of the Believers.” Hud resumed his formal diction, showing his respect. “Your brother and I are not inventing these opinions, nor are we exaggerating them. Our khalifa ruled well for his first six years, but lately he has turned away from the people, while raining down favors upon his kin. Even your brother-in-law Talha shares our view.”

  My brother leaned in close to me. “It is time to prune the diseased branch from the tree.”

  The words brother-in-law hit me like a slap. “I don’t agree,” I said. “And I think you’re mistaken about Talha. But al-Lah knows best.” Shaking my head, I stepped away from those troublemaking youths, lest they notice my distress. Was Talha encouraging mutiny?

  Muhammad’s voice in the thunder ten years ago came back to me now: Beware this man. The warning had haunted my nights, tossing me in my bed as I’d tried to discern its meaning. Except for his desire for me, what was there to “beware” about Talha? Like me, he’d rued the turning of islam away from Muhammad’s vision of charity and equality, and the scrambles for money and power that had gripped our ever-expanding umma. Like me, he opposed Ali. Beware Talha? Must I also beware myself?

  Unable to find an answer, I’d put the warning out of my mind. But lately I’d seen disturbing changes in Talha. With Uthman’s blessing, Talha had traded his date plantation in Khaybar for fertile land in the Persian Sawad, the so-called “Gardens of Quraysh,” and he was now one of the wealthiest men in all of islam. Being engaged to the daughter of Abu Bakr had increased his status even more, which didn’t bother me at first—I had, after all, asked him to marry Umm Kulthum. Recently, though, during one of Uthman’s lavish parties, I’d heard Talha boast about his engagement while talking to ‘Amr, the famous conqueror of Egypt. It is but another example of Abu Bakr’s high regard for me. The lie had taken me aback, and made me wonder if I knew my cousin anymore.

  “It’s a game, yaa A’isha,” he’d said with a laugh when I’d confronted him later. “Every man eyes the same treasure, but I, and you, have the wits to win.”

  “Leave me out of any game that involves lying,” I’d snapped then. Now at the wedding, I’d say the same thing to him about mutiny. Despite my dismay over the direction islam was taking, I also felt bound to support the khalifa. If al-Lah wanted Uthman to step down, He would make it so—without Talha’s help, and without mine.

  My worries were forgotten in the next moment, as I beheld my long-lost friend Asma stepping into the courtyard.

  A pale linen cloth covered her nose and mouth, and her matching gown clasped high at the neck and hid her feet, but I couldn’t mistake those large, round eyes or that graceful walk that made her look as though she floated above the ground. Love warmed me as I approached her for the first time in twelve years. My arms were open, my lips smiling with the pleasure of speaking her name—when Ali stepped into the courtyard and gave me a look that would have felled a camel.

  “I commanded you to refrain from approaching my wives,” he said, stepping in front of Asma.

  I had to laugh. “By al-Lah, that edict is so old your breath smells of ashes when you speak of it!”

  His face looked as hard as stone. His eyes held no expression. Arguing with him would be as fruitful as debating with a statue. Yet my heart longed for just one word with Asma, who had known and loved my father, and whose tenderness after he’d died had helped me endure the most painful days without him.

  “Yaa Ali, I respect your desire to rule your household,” I said as he turned away from me, still sheltering Asma from view. “But I’m also surprised at the way you’re treating Asma. Does she lack a mind? It’s hard for me to believe you were brought up by Muhammad. He gave his wives choices in most matters.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” Ali said. “And I also saw how he suffered for it. You, especially, caused him a lot of trouble with your ‘choices.’” He stepped away from Asma, clearing the space between her and me. “But you do speak truly, A’isha. My cousin allowed his wives much freedom, and it is my desire to follow his example in all respects.”

  Then he turned to Asma and gestured toward me “Asma, I leave the choice to you. Speak with A’isha if you desire, although it means contradicting my wishes. You may decide for yourself whose love you value more, hers or mine.” He walked stiffly across the grass to join Mohammad and Hud under the date-palm tree.

  Face to face with Asma at last, I greeted her with a smile that I hoped showed my love for her.

  “I’ve missed you so much all these years.” I stepped toward her for an embrace. To my shock, she backed away from me. Her gaze darted about. />
  “We were friends once, but that was long ago,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other. “Now my allegiance is to my husband. Afwan, A’isha.” And she scurried off like a frightened rabbit to huddle under the palm tree in the protection of Ali’s arms.

  I stared after her with a hollow feeling in my stomach. How completely Asma had changed! She was devoted to Ali, it was clear. It is my desire to follow his example in all respects, Ali had said without blinking. Ali, following Muhammad’s example? How easily lying came to him. Once again I said a prayer of thanks that Ali had not been given the khalifa.

  As I made my way through the crowd, talking to one opulently dressed person after another, I noticed more keenly than ever how the basic principles of islam had been cast aside. Muhammad had taught equality, but the Muslim people had created a hierarchy. At the top were members of the tribe of Quraysh, Meccans who bragged about their blood ties to Muhammad even though they’d tried to assassinate him. Next came the Medinan ansari, or Helpers, who’d allowed Muhammad and his followers to flee persecution and live in their city.

  Lower down on the ladder were the apostates, Bedouin tribes who had turned away from islam after Muhammad’s death, then later returned to the fold. My father had contributed to prejudice against them by forbidding them to fight in his army. Umar had relaxed that prohibition, in part because he’d needed more warriors; but he’d also increased the jealousies and divisions by giving more pay to longer-time Muslims and less to new converts. Umar rewarded men for their faithfulness, but he’d also created a lot of resentment.