The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  Bewilderment crossed his face, and I realized that he probably did not possess a chain-mail suit or any other battle accoutrements. Uthman had never fought in a battle: not at Badr, for he had remained at the bedside of his dying wife Ruqayya, Muhammad’s daughter; nor at Uhud, for he had been among those who fled back to Medina at the first glimpse of the enemy streaming like a silver tide over the sand. Muhammad forgave him for that defection, for he admired the gentleness of his friend’s heart despite its timid beat.

  I stepped outdoors to inform al-Ashtar that the khalifa was preparing to greet them, but then Uthman appeared on the balcony, the letter in his hand. “I did not write this, al-Ashtar,” he said in a stronger, more resonant voice than I had ever heard him use. “I demand to know why you forged it. Do you hate me so much that you would invent reasons to kill me?”

  “Was that a forgery?” Mohammad yelled. He pushed the Abyssinian captive to the front of the crowd for Uthman to see. “Here is your messenger. If you don’t recognize him, say so, and I’ll behead him where he stands.”

  “Rahman,” Uthman said. “Of course I know him. He is from my household. You may release him, for he was only obeying a command. Not my command, however.”

  “He lies!” Hud cried.

  “Ask the messenger, then,” I suggested. I turned to the poor, shivering man and asked who’d given him the letter, but he only shrugged.

  “He is mute,” Uthman said. “His tongue was cut off when he was younger, as punishment for telling a false tale.”

  “Yaa Uthman,” I called, “who can verify that the handwriting in that letter is not yours?”

  He frowned. “A’isha has helped me with spelling on some documents. She knows my writing very well. Unfortunately, she may have left on the hajj by now.”

  I had seen her caravan, packed and waiting for the cool of evening, as I had raced my horse down the street to the palace. I turned to Mohammad. “Go and fetch your sister,” I said. “She is likely in her hut, resting for tonight’s ride.”

  An excruciating hour passed. Al-Ashtar delegated a group to collect water for the horses, and others opened barley sacks to feed them. Another contingent went out to establish camps before nightfall. Hud complained about the delay, but al-Ashtar gave him a sensible reply. “We must be certain of the khalifa’s guilt before we take further action,” he said.

  To my irritation, he then walked over to stand beside me under the shade of a ghaza’a tree, as though we were colluders in this siege. Yet I did desire to know what the rebels would choose to do. If they decided on violence, I would stop them.

  Before I could decide my next course of action, Mohammad appeared with A’isha beside him, attired in a fine linen gown of pink and a robe of dark red, her hair hidden by a white wrapper, her face veiled. She was attired as I had long believed she should be, with the modest demeanor befitting the widow of the Prophet Muhammad. As I looked upon her, I felt a surprising impatience for her to look up into my eyes as she passed.

  “Mother of the Believers!” Al-Ashtar bowed before her; she barely inclined her head toward him, I noticed. He noticed it too, and scowled as she swept past him to enter Uthman’s house. After many excruciating moments, Uthman, who had disappeared from his perch on the balcony, re-emerged with A’isha at his side.

  “Yaa Mother of the Believers!” someone shouted. “May al-Lah heap blessings upon you.” Soon the air resonated with cries of her name and praise for the Mother of the Believers. Looking up at her, I felt a rush of emotion. How erect was her bearing, how proud and honorable. She cleared her throat. She held up the letter. She glanced down at al-Ashtar—and then at me. Yet in a flicker of her lashes—dismissive? indifferent?—she was lost to me. She turned her gaze upon the shouting, leaping crowd.

  “Uthman did not write this letter,” she said.

  Grumbles rolled across the crowd. “Then who did write it?” Hud shouted. “A djinni?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, retaining her calm in spite of the shouts and hisses spluttering through the men. “It was sealed with Uthman’s ring, which he has been missing. Perhaps a servant in his household wrote it, or maybe one of his advisors. Whoever it is wanted nothing good for any of you—or for Uthman.”

  Marwan was the thought that blossomed in my mind at the same time al-Ashtar shouted it. “For the answer, you need look no farther,” he said. “Let us confront Marwan. Where is he now, yaa Uthman?”

  Uthman’s scowl seemed directed inward. “I do not know Marwan’s whereabouts,” he said. “I have not seen him since yesterday, when you all left Medina.”

  “Yaa abi, do not try to protect him,” Hud said. “For your own sake, hand him over to us.”

  A’isha gave the young upstart a pointed look. “Yaa Mohammad ibn al-Hudheifa, the khalifa said he doesn’t know Marwan’s whereabouts. Aren’t your ears working? Or are you shouting too much to hear what’s going on?”

  “Uthman is a liar!” someone yelled. I winced at this accusation, knowing it could lead to no good.

  “Ignorant old shaykh!” another man cried. “His mind is so feeble he doesn’t know what is happening in his own household.”

  Al-Ashtar raised his sword. I hurried away from him, then, not wanting to be associated with this treacherous behavior

  “You hear your constituents, Uthman,” al-Ashtar said. “They have lost faith in you. It makes no difference who wrote that letter or who used your seal. Either you did it yourself, which makes you a liar and not worthy to rule, or you lack control over your own household, which also renders you unworthy. It is time you stepped down from your position and gave it to another, someone who is ruled by islam and not by corrupt family members.”

  He nodded his head toward the place where I’d stood. Then, when he realized I had moved from my spot under the tree, he glanced around, searching for me. I uttered a prayer of thanks to al-Lah for prompting me to move when I did.

  But then the swarm of men beside me parted to a cry of, “Make way for the Companions of Muhammad!” Talha and al-Zubayr hastened with drawn swords and puffed chests to Uthman’s front door.

  “We have come to offer our protection, yaa khalifa,” Talha announced. A wave of revulsion crested in the pit of my stomach. For as he stood beneath the balcony flexing his heroic muscles, A’isha gazed upon him with tender admiration. Given our conflicted past, our mistaken present, and our irredeemable future, she would never look at me that way.

  A’isha

  Uthman begged me not to go.

  I would be haunted by the memory for the rest of my life.

  He pleaded with me, his eyes red and rheumy, his face drooping, his voice shivering.

  “Do not leave me, A’isha. You are a powerful orator. You can change their minds with one speech.”

  I stared at him. Hadn’t he practically pushed me out the city gates, urging me to make this hajj? He didn’t want me waving around Muhammad’s relics again and stirring up trouble. He’d wanted me gone.

  Now, after I’d rushed around to find camels, buy food, pack, bathe, and help my sister-wives get ready for the trip, Uthman looked at me with the eyes of a whipped puppy and begged me not to make the hajj.

  Standing on his balcony after Talha and al-Zubayr had gone and after that traitor Ali had disappeared with his djinni-possessed friend al-Ashtar, Uthman pleaded with me to change my plans and stay in Medina.

  “You can change their minds, yaa A’isha,” he said. “Your words would be as charms placed upon their ears.”

  “Their hearts are what need changing,” I said. “Only you can do that.”

  I turned toward the door, intending to leave, for I had planned to meet in secret with Talha, al-Zubayr, and ‘Amr. I felt a tug at my sleeve, and looked down to see Uthman’s hand. I yanked my robe out of his grasp and he grabbed my wrist. I was so astonished that he would touch me that I didn’t even try to pull away.

  “A’isha, you must forgo this pilgrimage,” he said. “You alone can save me. Do you not r
ecall how those men cheered for you? ‘Mother of the Believers,’ they were chanting. They revere you as if you were their mother! You only have to warn them against harming me, and they will desist. You only have to tell them to return to their homes, and they will obey.”

  I recalled the glow on the faces of the men today who’d shouted my name and my kunya, the honorary name given to women who’d borne a child. Since, to my sorrow, I had never given birth, the title Umm al-Mommaniin, “Mother of the Believers”—shared by all my sister-wives—struck an especially poignant note in my heart. Uthman spoke truly: I was like a mother to the people of the umma. Perhaps I could persuade his persecutors to leave the city, and the khalifa, in peace. But did I want to?

  I’d come to Uthman’s aid reluctantly today. I’d already heard about the mysterious letter, and I’d guessed that it had been forged, and by whom. Marwan, who would never be able to gain the khalifa honestly—for he had neither the credentials nor the integrity to lead us—held too much influence over Uthman. The only way to get rid of Marwan was to remove Uthman from office. Before, I’d stood against ousting the khalifa, but now I realized it would be the best thing for the umma.

  Ai! How wrong I turned out to be! If only I’d listened to my instincts, which told me to leave the khalifa in the hands of al-Lah—

  Marwan was an evil man. Uthman was merely old and hapless, his mind grown feeble, his judgment compromised by devotion to his family. It wasn’t difficult to see what would happen if things went on as they were. Something had to change. In truth, change had come in the form of one thousand men on thundering horses. I had no desire to stop it.

  Uthman fell to his knees. Blood rushed to my face and neck. I glanced around to make sure no one watched us. In the doorway his wife Naila stood with a straight back, her black eyes flashing, as if to make up for her husband’s lack of pride. I looked down at the weeping Uthman, his gray curls quivering, his hands clasped as if in prayer, his eyes lifted to me, his savior, he said.

  “A’isha, have mercy,” he said. “Only you can save me.”

  I had no idea what to do. Not about going to Mecca—I was determined to make the journey, for I needed guidance from Muhammad about the future of the umma and my role in the struggle he’d foretold that seemed, at last, to be at hand. I knew that the rebels wouldn’t harm Uthman during this sacred month, for bloodshed was forbidden during the time of the hajj. But I didn’t know how to get Uthman to his feet, to make him behave with dignity befitting the khalifa. I looked over at Naila again. She must have guessed the questions on my furrowed brow, for in the next instant she was gliding across the room, pulling Uthman up off the floor and into her arms and leading him away, cooing to him that he needed rest.

  Left alone, I looked over the balcony at our oasis city, green and lush with palm trees and flowers and springs bursting from the earth. The heady fragrance of lavender, which grew in profusion over the hillsides, filled my nose, soothing and uplifting me all at once. It was hard to imagine violence here in this peaceful haven, a refuge for the Believers in our time of persecution and, now, a destination for so many. From Alexandria to Oman to Azerbaijan they came, converts to islam desiring to meet the Companions of the Prophet, to see where Muhammad was buried, and to pay homage to his widows, grandsons, and other relatives.

  Our latest visitors, it seemed, had come to see Ali. I’d heard them cry out to him, hailing him as “khalifa.” I’d seen the zeal on their faces. I’d heard the excitement in their voices. And I’d seen him standing with them, not against them, as I’d done—standing beside al-Ashtar, that inciter, more impulsive than Ali had ever been and more dangerous, I feared, than even Marwan.

  These men cried out for Uthman to resign, and they wanted Ali in his place. Somehow, they’d decided Ali was next to Muhammad in al-Lah’s eyes, that because he’d fathered Muhammad’s only surviving male heirs, he carried something special in his blood. To them, Ali was sacred, more so than the khalifa. More so than their own lives, which they’d come to risk for his sake.

  I couldn’t stop them. No matter how well they regarded me, those rebels adored Ali more. If he wanted Uthman dead, they’d kill him.

  I went inside. My heart swelled with pity for Uthman, who was not, after all, a bad man. What should I do, yaa Muhammad? No answer came to me, but I hadn’t really expected one. In Mecca, the city my husband had loved like a mother, I would know his desires.

  I climbed the stairs to the rooftop garden, where Uthman lay in the shade under the breeze of Naila’s date-palm frond. His eyes were closed; his face, uncreased. He looked so peaceful that I hesitated to disturb him. But the caravan for Medina would be leaving at any moment. Now was the time to make him see the truth.

  “Yaa Uthman,” I said. When he opened his eyes they were bright, hopeful. I swallowed, feeling sorrow like a fist in my throat.

  “I am sorry, but I cannot do as you request. I have been unable to make the hajj for many years, as you well know, and I cannot miss the opportunity now that it has been granted to me.”

  “Tarry, A’isha, and I will personally escort you next year,” he said, sitting up a little.

  I shook my head. “I need to be near Muhammad, to rest my eyes again on the places he loved, to remember being there with him in his last years. I need his counsel, Uthman, more than ever.”

  He lay back and closed his eyes.

  “While I am in Mecca, I will pray for you and your safety,” I said. “Although I know al-Lah will protect you from harm. Nothing will happen before I return. This is the sacred month, and those men are Muslims. They won’t attack you now.”

  He lay as still as if he were sleeping, but his deep, resigned sigh told me he was very much awake. I pressed on, speaking more rapidly, imagining I heard the tinkle of the camels’ bells as they began the long march to Mecca without me.

  “Uthman, please heed my advice and abdicate the khalifa,” I said. “Al-Ashtar’s men have vowed on the black stone of the Ka’ba that they will not leave Medina with you in power. You must remove yourself—or they will remove you.”

  He sat up quickly, his eyes blazing, and began tying his robe with sure fingers.

  “Am I to remove the mantle laid upon me by al-Lah?” he said, and gave me an eerie smile. “No, I do not think so.”

  My hopes fell like a stone dropped in a deep well. “Talha and al-Zubayr are both good men,” I said. “Either of them would gladly serve in your place—”

  Uthman’s smile became a sardonic laugh. “As would Ali, and Marwan, and every other man in this umma,” he said. “As would A’isha, if not for her womanhood.” He stood up on his own, despite Naila’s rushing over from the corner to help, and gave me a fatherly shake of his head. His face, I noticed, was no longer drooping and his voice no longer quavered.

  “By insisting on making this hajj, you are ensuring my death,” he said. “Sacred month or not. But it will be as al-Lah desires. At least, if I am assassinated, I will go to my grave with a clear conscience. You, on the other hand, will not be able to do the same.”

  Ali

  Al-Ashtar and his rebels besieged Uthman’s palace for weeks. Heedless of the sacred status of the month of the hajj, they bragged among themselves about the merciless death they would inflict if the khalifa were to leave his home. Their violence confined me also to my house, where I could safely ignore the pleas of both al-Ashtar and Uthman for aid and support. For, while I hated the corruption of Uthman’s reign, I abhorred violence against him. Rather than be compelled to join either side, I stayed indoors, away from their eyes and, I hoped, their thoughts.

  Sequestered, I remained ignorant of the events at the palace, except what I gleaned from rumors or from my son Mohammad, who beseeched me daily to join al-Ashtar’s cause. At times he nearly succeeded, for the information he passed on filled me with anger—not against Uthman, but against Talha.

  “Abi, we’re fighting on your behalf and you’re not even there,” my son said with a pout. “My friends are say
ing you’ve become soft and fearful in your old age.”

  I said nothing in response to this ridiculous remark, an obvious tactic designed to inspire me to take up arms. Instead, I repeated the phrase I had uttered many times since that first meeting in al-Ashtar’s home. “I do not advocate killing anyone, and that includes Uthman.”

  “Uthman is ignoring our demands!” Mohammad paced the floor, sword in hand, as I had done many times at his age, in the majlis with Muhammad and the other Companions. “We asked him to hand over Marwan, but he refused. We demanded that he step down as khalifa, but he said ‘no.’ We’ve asked him to negotiate, but he won’t let us inside his house, nor will he come out to us.” That was a wise choice, I could have told my son, for I knew al-Ashtar would strike Uthman dead. He was determined to remove him from the khalifa at any cost.

  Mohammad’s news about the proceedings inside Uthman’s home incited my rage even more. “Talha and al-Zubayr have sent their sons to protect the palace, but they’ve told us secretly that they support our cause,” he said.

  I snorted. “They are like the Bedouins, helping whichever side they deem most likely to benefit them.”

  Mohammad frowned. “Why do you say that, abi? They have given us many dinars for weapons and food.”

  I sucked in my breath at this news. “I cannot imagine why they would expend their wealth only to hand the khalifa to me. I and Talha have long shared enmity between us, and Al-Zubayr has turned against me for reasons I do not understand.”

  Mohammad grinned. “I know why they’re helping us. Each hopes to be khalifa. Al-Ashtar promised they’d be considered, but of course he only wants you. We all want you.”

  “They want to be khalifa!” I spat on the dirt floor. “Talha, that adulterer?” Mohammad’s eyes widened. Not wanting to start rumors about A’isha, whom I felt certain was spotless, I hastened to add, “Or at least he desires to commit adultery. I detect it in his face and his body whenever I see him with A’isha.”