The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  As much as I distrusted Marwan, I couldn’t help agreeing with him. As a youth, Ali had been quick to brandish his sword and call for attacks against the enemy. I could easily imagine him doing the same in Kufa during his meeting with al-Ashtar. He’d claimed that they’d only been planning a demonstration against Uthman, but the Ali I knew would have urged the others to rebel. He’d never been good at compromise, and I guessed that, with the khalifa at his fingertips, he’d be more excitable now than ever.

  As I pondered Saffiya’s question—what would Muhammad have wanted?—my sister-wives watched me, waiting for my answer. “I—I think Uthman has made some mistakes,” I said. “But he is the khalifa, and he deserves our support.”

  A shout from outside the tent interrupted our talk—a man’s shout, familiar to my leaping heart, calling for Umm Salama. My body quivered like a plucked tanbur string when Talha thrust his face into the cooking tent.

  “Afwan,” he said “I am sorry to intrude, but Umm Salama must come now. Your brother is hurt, yaa Umm Salama. A’isha, we also need you and your medicine bag.”

  Our group rushed outdoors, with me in the rear. To my surprise, Talha stood at the tent as though waiting for me to appear. I averted my eyes to the ground, avoiding his insistent gaze, and hurried past him to my hut, where I grabbed my medicine pouch and some bandages. When I stepped outside, a sob cracked the air.

  Across the courtyard, next to the mosque entrance, Umm Salama knelt beside her brother, her long, loose hair like a waterfall of tears covering him from sight. I ran over to them and gasped at the sight of Ammar, whose face and hair glistened with blood.

  “By al-Lah, what has happened to my brother?” Umm Salama glared at the men who’d carried him in: the narrow-faced Marwan with his skeletal sunken cheeks and snapping eyes; Talha, who’d made his way through the crowd of exclaiming sister-wives to return to Ammar’s side; and al-Zubayr, who cradled the poor man’s head in his lap.

  “Yaa Umm Salama—” Talha began, but Marwan cut him off with a tone as sharp as his nose.

  “Your brother is a traitor.” He spat on the ground. “He accused our khalifa of deception and thievery, after we so graciously made him a governor. Perhaps after today he will think one thousand and one times before displaying such ingratitude to the beneficent Uthman.”

  Having finished his speech, Marwan turned and walked into the mosque. When he had gone, Talha told us what had happened.

  “Ammar came into the mosque and confronted Uthman about jewels missing from the Medina treasury.” He glanced at Saffiya’s braceleted arm, then away. “They belonged to a woman whose husband had offered them as security in lieu of taxes, while he awaited a payment on his date crop. Uthman’s new wife, Naila, was seen wearing a necklace of lapis lazuli recently. One of the missing pieces fits that description.”

  “And a ruby bracelet, I’ll bet,” Raihana drawled. Talha reddened, but not as vividly as Saffiya. She yanked back her arm, hiding her bracelet under her sleeve.

  As for me, I cared only about poor Ammar. His every breath was a labored gasp as Talha and al-Zubayr carried him into Umm Salama’s hut. As I smeared a soothing sandalwood paste on his skin and then applied bandages, my pulse increased from a slow thud to a rapid drumbeat, calling me to action.

  “By al-Lah, this can’t continue!” I forced my trembling hands to fasten Ammar’s bandages gently. Red bled at the edges of my vision until, finished at last, I fled to my hut.

  I paced my floor for long minutes, Ammar’s whimpers haunting me, Marwan’s contempt setting my teeth on edge. When had honesty become a crime? My father had been called al-Siddiq, “the Truthful.” Muhammad’s nickname had been al-Amin, “the Trusty.” What would they say now to the terrible punishment of men who followed their example? What would they do to correct it? Help me, al-Lah. Show me Your way.

  I stopped my frantic pacing and began to breathe more slowly and deeply. My confused thoughts dissipated like dust clouds and I focused on Muhammad’s bejeweled sword, lying on a shelf, waiting for its moment of glory. Use it well in the jihad to come. My beloved’s words rang in my ears as if he were speaking them now. I reached for the sword but my hands fell instead on Muhammad’s relics, lying beside the sword: his long, dark curls, snipped from his head before his burial and bound at the ends with string; his linen shirt, unwashed since the last time he’d worn it; and one of his sandals, made of twine and goatskin, poorly mended many times by Muhammad.

  After insisting these past two years that the khalifa should be respected, and after criticizing those who talked of a revolt, how could I, the Mother of the Believers, approach Uthman with a sword in hand? My goal was to show the khalifa how far he had strayed from Muhammad’s example, and from the Prophet’s vision for islam. What could be more effective than presenting him with these items, which still contained Muhammad’s essence?

  I wrapped them carefully in a piece of cloth and carried them to the mosque—but Marwan, sitting in the cushioned, gold-trimmed chair that Uthman had placed on the minbar for himself, informed me that the khalifa had retired for the day. “He has left me in charge of the umma’s affairs,” he said, looking down his nose at me. “Which, naturally, refers to the concerns of men.”

  I stomped out the front door of the mosque and into the street, heading for Uthman’s palatial home on the edge of town—another change that Muhammad wouldn’t have liked. As Medina had doubled in size with converts from our conquered lands, the squalid tent city, once on the far edge of Medina, became the center of town. Convinced by Marwan that the khalifa belongs in the center of the city—and wanting to claim the now-valuable land—Uthman had sent the tent city’s residents again to the far edge of Medina and put his three-storey white palace in their place. Then he’d sold the rest of the land to other wealthy men, where they’d built their own fabulous houses with terraces, fountains, shaded patios, and rooftop gardens. It was there that I expected to find him, resting under the canopy in his leafy courtyard and sipping galangal water while his new wife fanned him with date-palm leaves.

  I was surprised to see him strolling through the market in his saffron robe, nibbling meat from a skewer and plucking roses from the arms of Abu Hurayra, who walked beside him, to present to the young women he encountered. His smile widened when he saw me, and he pulled a yellow rose from Abu Hurarya’s gourd.

  “Marhaba, A’isha,” he said, holding the flower out to me. “You look as if you might desire some brightness in your day.”

  The roses’ cloying fragrance made me want to retch. I snatched the flower from his hand and flung it to the ground, then stomped on it with my bare foot, heedless of the thorns. “This is truly a dark day,” I said. “I have just come from the bedside of Ammar, who lies near death by your command, punished for telling the truth.”

  I heard gasps and murmurs. I looked around me at the faces of my neighbors, shaykhs like Ibn Masud and young men like Ammar, beautiful women like Saffiya smiling coyly and sniffing the roses bestowed upon them by their charming khalifa—women who had no idea what Uthman ibn ‘Affan had become. Did I want to humiliate him before these people, his admirers? Did I want to incite them against him?

  Just behind Uthman I spotted Umm ‘Umara, the warrior woman I had envied long ago at the Battle of Uhud, one of our early fights against the Meccan Quraysh. She was an old woman now with skin as tough as untanned leather, and she had been given no flower while the lovely young woman beside her held a rose of brilliant red. Uthman had overlooked the old hajja, who’d saved Muhammad’s life in that battle, because she had nothing to offer him in return. Raihana had spoken the truth: Uthman gave generously to those who could benefit him with money, status, or, in a woman’s case, a pretty smile. Those who had nothing to offer received nothing, and if they dared question him, they were whipped, imprisoned, or killed. They were the people I was speaking for—those to whom Muhammad had given a voice, which Uthman had taken away. As the Mother of the Believers, I was well suited to defend them, bec
ause not even Marwan would harm a single hair on my head. Muhammad watched, as did Believers everywhere.

  I pulled out the shirt, the sandal, and the hair, and held them high overhead.

  “How soon you have forgotten the ways of the Prophet, even though these parts of him have not perished!” I cried. Uthman’s eyes bulged at the sight of the relics, and his face turned as pale as if he beheld a djinni. The crowd drew closer.

  “The Prophet gave to the poor, while you take their lands away,” I said. “The Prophet respected the truth, while you abuse it. The Prophet despised corruption, greed, and drunkenness, while you tolerate these sins.”

  “By al-Lah, she speaks truly!” Abu Ramzi, the jeweler, selling necklaces at a stall, called out. “The Prophet gave everything away and kept nothing for himself, while Uthman gives nothing away and keeps all for himself.”

  “Unless you are a member of his family,” Umm ‘Umara cried. “Or a young woman at the height of her beauty.” She snatched the rose from the woman next to her and flung it to the ground, then stomped it with her foot the way I had done.

  “Hail, Mother of the Believers!” she cried, lifting her hands toward me. “Uthman imprisoned my grandson for refusing to sell his date-palm plantation to Marwan. That was land the Prophet gave to me for my bravery.”

  Other shouts arose from the crowd, and fists began to wave. “His governor Sa’id in Basra forced my daughter to dance for him,” I heard someone cry. “She was a woman of virtue, yet Uthman did nothing to punish Sa’id.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, dark-skinned man pull out his sword. Alarmed, I leapt atop a date-palm stump and spread my arms, showing that I carried no blade.

  “Please, put away your weapons,” I said. Inciting a fitna, or battle between Muslims, had not been my intention. “Our khalifa was chosen by al-Lah, and deserves our respect,” I said. “Do not forget: Islam means ‘submission.’”

  “But did not the Prophet say, ‘If people see munkar and they do not try to remedy it, they incur divine punishment’?”

  The voice behind me felt like fingertips on my skin. I turned to see Talha, his sword in hand, his hazel eyes muddled with darkness. He must have heard that I was in the market confronting Uthman, and come to protect me.

  I nodded to him. “Muhammad did admonish us to remedy injustice. That is why I’ve come today, to ask Uthman to correct these errors. But, as you see, I’ve left my sword at home. Would our Prophet want us to use our weapons against his dear Companion?”

  “Make way! Let me through. I have urgent news for the khalifa.”

  Marwan elbowed his way into the melee, glaring at me as he swept past. He murmured something in Uthman’s ear, then whipped out his sword and waved it around, sending men and women stumbling backward to avoid its sting.

  “Go home, all of you,” he snarled. “Or you’ll find yourselves in the desert before nightfall, looking for new homes.”

  “Death to Uthman!” someone cried as the crowd dispersed. Marwan whirled around to discern who had made the threat, but it was impossible to pick out the angriest face—other than Uthman’s.

  I leapt to the ground and stood before him, my relics still in hand. “Yaa Uthman, the people are becoming more agitated with each abuse,” I said. “You know this is not what Muhammad would have wanted.”

  “God damn you, A’isha,” Uthman said in a low growl. “What are you doing? I was enjoying a pleasant afternoon until you appeared. If the people are agitated, it is because of you, not me. And if you continue with these confrontations, I will assign a guard to keep you in your hut.”

  Marwan’s eyes glinted. “An excellent idea, yaa khalifa.” How I wished for my sword then, so that I might silence him once and for all. He placed a hand on Uthman’s plump waist and steered him toward the mosque. “Yaa khalifa, you are needed in the mosque,” he murmured. “Your brother al-Walid is here with Ali.”

  Uthman stopped and exchanged whispers with Marwan. Then he turned to face me again. “Yaa A’isha, good news,” he said, smiling. “I am permitting you to make the pilgrimage to Mecca this season. Matters here will detain me this year, but I have appointed the son of al-Abbas to lead the caravan. It departs tonight. I trust you will join it, for I may revoke the privilege again next year.”

  “That snake,” Talha said as the pair walked away. “You know he wants to get rid of you, A’isha. This is a dangerous time for Uthman, and he doesn’t want the Mother of the Believers here to make things more difficult.”

  “By al-Lah, he doesn’t need my help for that,” I said. “He’s destroying everything Muhammad built, and the people won’t endure it much longer. However, I will go on the hajj. Then, when he’s turned the entire umma against him, he’ll have no one to blame but himself.”

  “I could use your support here in Medina,” he said softly.

  I felt my blood rise. “You have Umm Kulthum for that, remember?” I snapped. I couldn’t help wondering: Why had Talha come today? To protect me, as I’d first assumed? Or to place himself in line for the khalifa with me at his side?

  “A’isha,” he said, “I married Umm Kulthum for your sake. You asked me to, remember? Since our wedding, you’ve avoided me. Two years, A’isha! If you looked into my eyes, you would see the same love I have always felt for you. We were once so close. We shared the same vision for islam. We still do. Unless you’ve changed.”

  I looked up into Talha’s eyes, and, yes, something was different. Gone was the breathless, trusting love that had once swept over me whenever he was near. It had vanished when I’d seen the sultry gaze he’d given my sister at their wedding—a look I’d thought he reserved for me alone. The pain I’d felt had reminded me of the tears I’d shed whenever Muhammad had married a new bride. He’d take a wife supposedly for political reasons, but then, during the ceremony, gaze at her as adoringly as if she were his only wife. I’d thought Talha was marrying Umm Kulthum out of love for me, but his face had shone at their wedding. Now I wondered: What did he really want? My love, or my influence?

  “Marhaba, Talha, my old friend.” I turned to see ‘Amr ibn al-As, Egypt’s conqueror, a broad-shouldered man with pure black eyes and a trim beard sprinkled with gray. He seized Talha’s beard and then smiled at me. “Yaa Mother of the Believers, your speech was eloquent and full of truth, as usual.”

  “Marhabtein.” Talha grinned at his old battle companion. “What brings you to Medina, sahib?”

  ‘Amr glanced to the left and to the right, then lowered his voice. “Come with me to al-Zubayr’s home, and you will find out.”

  They started to walk slowly away, leaving me there in the street with Muhammad’s shirt, sandal, and hair. Whether or not Talha loved me, it was clear that he still wanted the khalifa. Did his meeting with ‘Amr have anything to do with that? Could anything good come of colluding with this conqueror, who bore a grudge against Uthman for deposing him? I tried to call out, to warn Talha, but I only made a strangled sound. Yet it was enough to turn the heads of Talha and ‘Amr.

  ‘Amr smiled at me again. “Yaa Mother of the Believers, will you join us there? Please wait five minutes and then come in without knocking. It is best if you are not seen with me.”

  My body tensed, as if I were riding a horse headed for the edge of a cliff. I knew I should refuse, but I was curious.

  “Are you sure you want me?” I said. “I’m just a woman.”

  Talha grinned. “Yaa A’isha, you are more than just a woman. You are the woman. The Mother of the Believers. Of course we want you.”

  He stepped back over to me and looked deeply into my eyes.

  “Please join us, A’isha,” he said softly. “You have much to offer. Look at what you did today!”

  And then he said the words I’d yearned to hear from him for so long.

  “Of course we want you, A’isha,” he said. “I want you. More now than ever before.”

  Ali

  During my years as a warrior, I saw men’s faces writhe in angu
ish as they beheld my uplifted sword. Their eyes held a terror that anticipated the agony and annihilation of death. I had not encountered fear’s disfigurement since the days of Muhammad, when I had last wielded my sword in battle. But I saw it on Uthman’s face when his brother al-Walid led me into the mosque with chains binding my hands. Behind us, a rabble of shouting malcontents from Kufa, Basra, and Egypt streamed in, making a noise as mighty and alarming as if the earth had split asunder.

  Uthman beheld me in those chains and his mouth trembled. For all his foolish mistakes in recent years, he saw clearly the error his brother had committed in humiliating me, the father of the Prophet’s heirs. It would have been better for al-Walid to behead me in Kufa and declare me a traitor than to lead me, shackled and weak, into Medina before the eyes of my relatives and supporters.

  Even worse for Uthman was this: My son Mohammad and his friends, exiled to Egypt, had learned of al-Walid’s journey and hastily convened a group to support my cause. They’d escaped from prison and fled to Kufa to occupy al-Walid’s palace and rally men in that city, as well. In Basra, Kufa’s sister city, malcontents had also gathered. They all rode forth, then converged at Mecca and marched as one to Medina. Meanwhile, that tippler al-Walid dragged me through the desert, my wrists bound so tightly that I lost feeling in my hands, my mouth parched from the paltry amount of water he allowed me, and my feet blistering from the heat of the sand he made me stumble through while he rode, jerking my tether. Only when I fainted would he allow me to slump over a camel’s back, and then only until I recovered from my swoon. Each loss of consciousness was a blessing, not only because it afforded me a ride, but also because it silenced my fears. What form of torture would Marwan inflict for this charge of treason? How could I convince Uthman of my innocence? Why would he believe me, when neither Abu Bakr nor Umar had trusted me? Help me, al-Lah, to survive.