The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  I had held my tongue many times through this diatribe until, one night, my agitation overcame my sensible nature and I answered Hud with sparks of my own.

  “By al-Lah, if you knew how you sounded with these complaints you would never speak another word against Uthman,” I said to him. “You only prove your lack of maturity by focusing on yourself.”

  I did not point out to him that I, who had been denied the khalifa three times, had never complained about my lack of status. Of course, Hud had been a young child, no more than seven or eight years old, when Abd al-Rahman had granted the khalifa to his friend Uthman on the strength of a single, disingenuous “yes.” In contrast to his promise, Uthman had not followed the examples of his predecessors, not even in the smallest of ways.

  Hud raised his stick and pointed it at me across the fire—disrespectful behavior, but better cannot be expected of a man who, as a child, enjoyed the fulfillment of every whim. “Focusing on myself?” he said with a scowl. “I spoke of the poor, didn’t I? That’s more than I’ve heard from you tonight.”

  “Yaa Hud,” my estimable son Mohammad said. “Ali is like a father to me, remember?”

  “Father?” His laugh clattered about our heads. “You speak the word as if it were hallowed, as if I should prostrate myself with respect. I do respect you, Ali,” he said, lowering his stick, “but not because you are a father.”

  “Raising another man’s child is no simple task,” I said, able to defend Uthman on this point, at least. “It requires time, attention, and money. From what I have seen, Uthman has met his obligations to you exceedingly well.”

  “He had to,” Hud said. “He owed money to my abi. That’s the one obligation Uthman ibn ‘Affan can understand.”

  I said nothing more, for it was clear that Hud was not interested in truth, but only in revenge. The more he spoke, the more I understood Uthman’s refusal to grant this hot-headed young man a leadership position. At the same time, I sympathized with Hud’s frustration. Had I not been denied the khalifa because of my impulsivity, quick temper, and youth?

  Of course, I had also faced A’isha’s opposition. She seemed to follow me like a shadow, appearing in the mosque, in the market, everywhere but in my house, from which I had wisely banished her. Her challenges to me seemed relentless and without reason. Did she nurture a grudge for my words and deeds of more than twenty years ago? We had been scarcely more than children. Yet now, as then, she could not admit to wrongdoing of any kind.

  When she railed at Uthman about harming the old shaykh Ibn Masud, I had wondered if she regretted supporting that weakling Uthman’s appointment—but her refusal to tend to Ibn Masud at my home, where my son had brought him to convalesce, told me she still clung to her erroneous choice. Impressed by her speech on the shaykh’s behalf—a speech I should have made, instead of merely sitting and watching Ibn Masud’s mistreatment—I had decided to lift my ban and allow A’isha into my house. But A’isha had sent a surgeon to set Ibn Masud’s broken bones and her servant girl to check on his progress. As always, she held herself above me and made certain that I was aware of it. And so my grudge against her returned.

  The farther away from Medina I traveled, the smaller my concerns over the khalifa, A’isha, and Uthman seemed to become, as if they diminished on the horizon. Even Hud grew tired of grumbling. Instead, he played the tanbur around the fire while we drank coffee.

  After one month, we arrived in Kufa, and soon I felt as much at home as if I had never lived anywhere else. Kufa was a remarkable city, with its houses laid out around the central mosque in a most orderly fashion. The mosque was an imposing building of stone, each side the length of two spear throws, with a row of marble columns across the front. A deep, wide trench—similar to the one that had protected Medina from invasion in the Battle of the Ditch—surrounded the city, whose eastern border was traversed by the green-shaded Euphrates River.

  As soon as I had entered the splendid city, my chest expanded with affection and with the fresh, scented air. The weather was cooler than in Medina, and the gentle breeze blowing from the Euphrates reduced the number of flies. Although the climate was dry, grasses of every texture and hue blanketed the ground, and fragrances of thyme, sage, and fennel enveloped us like a perfumed cloud.

  Within an hour of entering, I was transformed. Gone was the listlessness into which I had sunk in recent years. Losing the khalifa to Uthman had weighted my spirit as if a wet woolen cloak had been thrown across my shoulders. But now, as the citizens rushed into the street with faces of joy and shouts of yaa Ali! on their lips, I perched myself on my camel with a straight back and a light heart.

  Even meeting the besotted governor, al-Walid ibn ‘Uqba, did not quell my enthusiasm for the city. Standing in the spacious, sunlit mosque, I hid my shock at the sight of Uthman’s scandal-ridden brother. His skin was as red as if gossip had placed him in perpetual embarrassment, and his nose had spread and softened into a fleshy blob. He seized my beard in an show of friendship as he greeted me in a blurred voice. I smelled wine and spiced mutton on his breath.

  “I trust you have not come to spy on me,” he said, wearing a large grin that revealed lips stained a red darker than blood. “You would find the employment very dull.”

  “My visit to Kufa is for pleasure only.”

  “Ah.” He winked and slapped my back. “So I have heard. Like me, you have embraced pleasure for its own sake, eh?” He lowered his voice. “I have recently obtained from Syria a lovely singing girl with hair as red as A’isha bint Abi Bakr’s. I know she would entertain you.”

  I felt the hair prickle on the back of my neck. Could this woman be the same performer I had rescued from Umar’s whip in Damascus? How tenderly I had regarded her huddled on the ground, her hair spilling like rusty tears over her damp cheeks, and how churlishly she had responded to my admonition for modesty. In spite of A’isha’s many faults, I could not accuse her of immodesty, not since the day twenty-five years ago when she’d ridden into Medina with her arms around Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal and her neighbors’ shouts punching her like fists.

  A beardless man wearing a tall, narrow cap appeared before al-Walid. “I bring an urgent message for you, yaa governor,” he said. “That group to whom we have been referring is scheduled to meet tonight.”

  Al-Walid lifted his eyebrows at me as if apologizing for the interruption. “Why are you telling me this?” he barked. “Of course you will have them all arrested.”

  “Some of them are prominent men,” the messenger said. “Others are sons of prominent men.”

  “Arrest them all and bring them to me.” Al-Walid excused himself and escorted his visitor from the room. The two Mohammads pulled me out the mosque door, saying hot food and soft beds awaited us. After a month of chewing on dried meat and dates I was eager for a meal. I was not disappointed at the repast laid out for us in the majlis of al-Ashtar, the legendary Bedouin warrior.

  “I approached ‘Amr for a position in his navy, but before he could appoint me, Uthman had deposed him,” Hud said over olives, lemony hummus, skewers of lamb, golden wheat bread, saffron-scented rice, and plump figs. “He did it only in order to appoint his foster brother, whom everyone hates. Uthman doesn’t listen to anyone except his relatives, and all they want is power, status, and money.”

  I barely heard a word, so occupied was I filling my stomach—until al-Ashtar entered the room in an undyed linen gown and a matching head-covering with a red band.

  “Praise al-Lah, He has sent you at last,” he said. “Yaa Ali, we have been praying that you would come.”

  Five or six other men followed him into the majlis, all regarding me with faces as bright as those of children beholding a long-lost father.

  “I told you we would succeed in meeting Ali, with the help of al-Lah,” al-Ashtar said to his men. They settled themselves on cushions, and servants carried in fresh platters of food. He nodded at the Mohammads. “And with the help of these two, also. Now, we can begin the task to whi
ch al-Lah has called us.”

  I turned to Mohammad with lifted eyebrows. His face pinkened, but his eyes shone at al-Ashtar’s praise.

  “Yes, abi, I brought you here for a purpose,” my son said. “Your time has arrived, and with it a new era for islam.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. The boy sounded full of zeal, like myself at his age.

  “My time for what?” I asked, although I had already discerned the answer. I held my expression still lest my feelings—apprehension, excitement, disbelief, fear—shift across my face, exposing my ambivalence. Indecision was a weakness that I would not want anyone to see except my cherished wife, Asma, who had held me in her arms during long nights and assured me that no one truly knows himself.

  “For the khalifa!” Hud leaned forward so that his knees touched the floor, threatening to topple him into the bowl of hummus. He jabbed the air with a crust of bread. “It should have been yours all along. You’re next in line to the Prophet.”

  “Lower your voice,” I rasped. If anyone heard this mutinous talk, we might all be executed.

  “I am aware of my lineage,” I said, and then, noticing the shadow of petulance crossing his face, I reached for a piece of bread to stab playfully back at him. “But the khalifa belongs to Uthman.”

  “Uthman is no leader,” al-Ashtar said. “His cousin, Marwan, that fox, is making the decisions.”

  I shrugged. Behind every ruler is a wily advisor.

  “Marwan is also stealing from the treasury,” al-Ashtar said. “He has taken thousands of dinars. I learned this when ‘Amr was governor of Egypt. Marwan rode into Alexandria, demanded the keys to the treasury, and stuffed his purse with gold and jewels. He left with heavy pouches and a light step. ‘Tell anyone, and I will have you deposed,’ he threatened. ‘Amr told Uthman, and one week later he had lost his position.”

  I frowned. I had never cared for Marwan—he smiled all the time and talked excessively—but I had regarded him as harmless. I had never believed the characterizations of Uthman as corrupt. Muhammad had respected him, and who besides my cousin was a more able judge of men? Yet al-Ashtar’s accusations made sense.

  “Yaa Ali, we have decided to rid islam of this scourge,” al-Ashtar said.

  “Scourge?” Run, a voice in my head urged. Get out now, before it is too late. Yet I knew al-Ashtar would be a dangerous enemy, and the wildness in his eyes warned me not to incur his displeasure. I glanced downward and busied my hands with dipping bread into hummus. “Do you seek to eliminate Marwan, then? You have said that he is the corrupt one.”

  “I speak of Uthman ibn ‘Affan.” He lunged forward and grasped my robe. Holding me with both hands, he pushed his face so close to mine that I could feel the spray of his words on my skin.

  “Uthman must go,” he said. “His weakness is destroying islam. He has allowed his relatives to plunder our treasuries. He has ignored our pleas for mercy while his cousins and brothers inflict cruelties on the innocent. He condones drunkenness, greed, and lasciviousness. He changed the qur’an and altered the rituals of the hajj.”

  “All you say is true, al-Ashtar,” I said, trying to maintain an even voice. “Yet I do not know what you would have me do. Uthman does not consult with me. He listens to Marwan only, as you stated.”

  Al-Ashtar released my robe and sat back on his cushion. “What would we have you do? Is that not obvious?”

  My son cleared his throat. “Yaa abi, we want you for the khalifa.” His eyes seemed to be sending me an urgent message but I could not hear his thoughts.

  “When Uthman dies—” I began, but al-Ashtar cut me off.

  “We want you for the khalifa,” he said. “Now.”

  As I stared at him, unable to believe the suggestion behind his words—mutiny! perhaps even murder—we heard the slamming of a door, then shouts. My son leapt to his feet and gripped the hilt of his sword. His face was pale. I stood beside him with my blade in hand. “Do not be the first to attack,” I murmured. “It will only give them a reason to kill you.”

  “Let them try,” Mohammad said. Yet when the men burst into the majlis, his hands fell away from his weapons. The ten of us could not hope to subdue these thirty big warriors, all in armor, with their swords drawn. Their leader was the man who had interrupted my talk with al-Walid earlier that day with news of a secret meeting.

  “You are under arrest by order of the mayor al-Walid ibn ‘Uqba,” the man said.

  “Arrest? We are merely sharing a meal,” al-Ashtar said, struggling against his captor’s effort to constrain him. “When did that become a crime?”

  “When the purpose of the meeting is to plot the overthrow of our khalifa,” al-Walid’s man said. “By al-Lah, I hope you filled your bellies, because it is the last meal any of you will enjoy for a long time—perhaps forever.”

  A’isha

  While the governor of Kufa was riding into Medina with Ali in his custody, I sat in the cooking tent hiding from the afternoon sun and arguing with my sister-wives about Uthman. Like everyone else in the umma, each of us had an opinion that all the arguments in Hijaz wouldn’t change.

  “He has the heart of a lamb,” Saffiya said, eyeing the new bracelet Uthman had given to her.

  “And the cunning of a fox,” Raihana scoffed. “Habibati, no man gives jewelry like that unless he wants something in return.”

  “Or unless he has already procured what he desires,” Maymunah said with a sly, sidewise glance. Saffiya opened her mouth to protest, but Umm Salama cut her off.

  “It is not necessary to be unkind,” she said calmly. “Uthman is a man of honor.”

  “Honor?” Hafsa snorted as she drew henna designs on my hands. “What’s so honorable about letting your friends and relatives plunder the people’s treasuries?”

  “I see no honor in his harsh treatment of those who disagree with him,” Juwairriyah said. “My father used to say that new points of view enriched the tapestry of government. As leader of our tribe, he listened to every man.”

  “Uthman listens to women,” Saffiya said with a little smile. “He likes women.”

  “So we’ve noticed,” Raihana quipped. Maymunah laughed, as eager as ever to discredit Uthman.

  Ramlah, on the other hand, staunchly supported him. “My cousin Uthman is the best of men, and was beloved by our own Muhammad, do not forget,” she said, never looking up from the sewing in her lap.

  Hearing her call Muhammad “our own”—as if her father, Abu Sufyan, hadn’t tried to kill him many times—made me grit my teeth. “Yaa Ramlah, Muhammad died twenty-four years ago,” I said. “Would he approve of Uthman’s actions today?”

  “Now, A’isha, none of us can answer that question,” Sawdah said, trying to keep the peace.

  “But we can guess!” Hafsa cried. She lifted her brush and jabbed it in the air. “Uthman promised to follow Muhammad’s example, and my father’s, also. Yet I’ve seen him do nothing good.”

  “His first years as khalifa were not controversial,” Ramlah pointed out.

  “Beginning with his appointment by his brother-in-law?” Maymunah huffed. Beads of sweat popped onto her brow, which she dabbed with her scarf. “That display of favoritism set the tone.”

  “A’isha knew Muhammad best.” Saffiya grasped my hands, hoping I’d redeem her beloved patron. “Yaa A’isha, what do you think about Uthman? What would Muhammad think?”

  All heads turned toward me, the first-wife of the harim, Mother of the Believers, and now, apparently, the authority on the Prophet Muhammad. I stared back at them, not sure what to say.

  What would Muhammad think about Uthman? How could I know when I wasn’t sure what I thought? I’d been relieved when he was appointed, because it meant Ali wouldn’t be our next khalifa. I’d never considered him a strong leader, but I didn’t dislike him. He’d always treated me with respect. And, in truth, during his first half-dozen years as khalifa, I’d had few complaints about his rule.

  Ever since Talha’s wedding, though—a s
ad event that I kept trying to forget—I’d begun to see Uthman in a new light. His harsh treatment of Ibn Masud had shown me an arrogance I’d never even suspected. Then he’d cut my pension. I have heard complaints that you hold yourself above your sister-wives, yaa A’isha. I do not believe these rumors, but I have no wish to fuel hostility in the Prophet’s household by giving you more than they receive. I was glad for the veil that covered my smirking lips. It was clear to me why he was reducing my income, and my sister-wives had nothing to do with it. He was punishing me for publicly chastising him.

  Muhammad might have approved of Uthman’s decision, since he’d been careful to treat all of us wives the same. But he would have cried to see poor Ibn Masud writhing on the ground. He also would have deposed al-Walid and ordered him flogged for his drunkenness. Uthman, however, had refused to admit there was a problem, and had lost respect from members of the umma.

  Now Ali stood accused of conspiring to overthrow Uthman, a charge that, if true, would have angered Muhammad. I, also, frowned on talk of mutiny, but I understood the frustration behind it. Every day I had more difficulty defending our khalifa, even to myself. Instead, my criticisms became more vocal, until I hated the sound of my own strident tone. To quell my dissenting voice, Uthman had banned me from the meetings in the majlis. For the first time since girlhood, I had to lurk in the shadows and spy in order to stay informed.

  Listening outside the doorway one morning, I’d heard the news about Ali’s arrest. Uthman’s slippery advisor, Marwan, told the tale with a quaver of glee, but Uthman had shaken his head and said he didn’t believe Ali would plot to overthrow him.

  “I and he served Muhammad together as Companions,” he said. “Ali is a man of integrity. His accusers are mistaken.”

  But Marwan had spoken forcefully and persuasively against Ali. “Yaa cousin, who has more to gain from your abdication than Ali ibn Abi Talib?” he said. “Abu Bakr and Umar both watched him with a wary eye. Follow their example. Do not underestimate Ali’s power, or you may lose yours.”