The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  Mohammad’s face reddened. “By al-Lah, if he ever touches her, I will kill him myself.”

  “It is enough that he has risked her reputation with his inappropriate behavior,” I said.

  Mohammad watched me with a hopeful grin as I growled and kicked a cushion across the floor. That deceiver Talha was only encouraging the rebels for his own gain, taking advantage of A’isha’s absence. She certainly would not approve of his conspiring with them. Then another, very disturbing notion filled my head. Had A’isha made the hajj to distance herself from Talha and al-Zubayr’s activities?

  Perhaps A’isha knew of Talha’s plan, and had gone away in order to disassociate herself from this fitna. Being far away in Mecca would enable her to claim ignorance of the situation. That would serve her well later, if her lying cousin succeeded in gaining the khalifa.

  But would Talha commit murder to achieve his ends? Fearful for Uthman’s safety, I sneaked like a thief one night among houses, behind shrubs and trees, in order to view the proceedings at the khalifa’s home. The overcast sky shrouded the moon, but torches provided me with a view of the happenings there. What I saw astonished me: Not only had al-Ashtar and his men encircled the palace, at which they shouted insults, but they also had inflicted great damage to the building and its grounds. They had uprooted the flowers in front of Uthman’s gate, and had chopped down the pomegranate and ghaza’a trees. As I watched, a group of men tore stones from the fence surrounding the palace and hacked at the gate with axes, while others dragged the limbs of the butchered trees to the base of the fence and tried to set them on fire.

  A camel in green silk lined with tassels approached, stopped, and knelt in front of the palace. Out of the green-and-saffron hawdaj emerged a woman covered from the top of her head all the way to the ground in a flowing rose-and-gold gown and robe. She spoke to the men guarding what remained of the gate. They replied, and soon she was waving her hands and shouting. I slipped closer to hear their exchange, and discovered the woman to be Saffiya bint Huyayy, one of Muhammad’s widows, bringing water for Uthman.

  “He’s dying of thirst in there,” she said. “You know how hot these days have been.”

  “I am sorry, Mother of the Believers, but our commander has ordered us not to let anyone in or out of this house.”

  “Take the water in to him yourselves, then,” she said, sounding as shrill as a peacock. Witnessing her agitation, I wondered if the rumors about her and Uthman were true. But how could they be? Al-Lah sees all, and would surely have struck her dead if she had betrayed Muhammad.

  The chastised warrior shook his head. “The khalifa will not admit us for any reason. We tried offering him water, but he refused.”

  “That’s because he knew you were trying to trick him. How foolish of you to think such a weak strategy would deceive Uthman ibn ‘Affan!” She laughed, which made the warrior lower his head. “He’ll let me in, I assure you. Step aside.”

  She turned to take the reins of the ass she had brought with her, a beast that stumbled under the weight of the filled goatskins it carried, and began leading it down the stone path to Uthman’s door. The warrior drew his sword and stepped in front of her.

  “How vile of you to treat a widow of the Prophet this way!” she huffed. “May al-Lah curse you for it.”

  “I would rather face the wrath of God than the displeasure of al-Ashtar,” he said, lifting his sword,. “Take even one more step and I will have to arrest you.”

  Realizing the futility of arguing, Saffiya mounted her camel and rode away, leading her ass beside her. But as I continued to watch, I saw Talha knock on the door of a neighbor’s home, confer with him, then disappear inside. Moments later, the two men were placing wooden planks across the space between the neighbor’s house and Uthman’s. Meanwhile, Saffiya walked her beast around to the neighbor’s door and began handing the water skins to a servant. Talha emerged from the front door to greet Saffiya, who beamed at him with clasped hands.

  When Saffiya had ridden away, several men in dark clothing and Bedouins’ headdresses slipped up to Talha, who ushered them inside and closed the door. Dread filled me as I watched the men emerge on the roof with water skins in each hand. Then the clouds moved away from the moon, and light illuminated the water-bearers’ faces. I clapped my hand over my mouth to muffle my cry. Among the men creeping over the boards to Uthman’s palace was my own stepson, Mohammad.

  His grim expression bespoke murderous intentions. Why, al-Lah, did You allow this to happen? The pulsing of my blood filled my ears as I hurried back to my home and bolted the door behind me. After some deep, calming breaths, I forced myself to walk slowly into my harim. Masking my agitation with a broad smile, I took my baby girl into my arms in full sight of my wives and concubines. They would remember, if asked, that I was at home during Uthman’s assassination. If necessary, I would testify that Mohammad had been with me, also. I would rather be punished by God for lying than to have my son stricken down before he could pray for forgiveness. I fought back tears as I imagined his assassinating al-Lah’s chosen khalifa, a deed that might consign him to hellfire for eternity.

  I lay that night with Asma in my troubled arms, feigning sleep as I tried to make sense of the night’s events. I had no doubt about why Mohammad had entered the palace, or about why Talha had assisted him in gaining access. Damn that self-serving mocker! He would never be khalifa, not as long as Ali ibn Abi Talib remained on this Earth. I would muster an entire army to challenge him if he tried, and I would die defeating him, if necessary.

  I was not surprised by the screams that pierced the early morning twilight, or by the clamor of running feet and shouts filling the street outside my window. I did not arise to join the curious in their rush to the palace, for al-Lah had sent me a dream which told what had taken place: Uthman had been stabbed in the forehead by my son and impaled through the neck by another. His blood poured over the floor and soaked the clothing and hair of his wife Naila, who had flung herself across her husband’s body to protect it from further desecration—and lost two of her fingers.

  Poor Uthman, whose only crime had been weakness, who had died for it even though, at the end of his life, he had demonstrated uncommon courage by ordering his servants and wives to leave his house. Only a couple of loyal servants had insisted on remaining, and they lost their lives defending Uthman, may peace be upon them all.

  As I lay in my bed, trembling with fear for my son, I saw Asma’s eyes questioning me. Whispering, I told her what I had beheld that evening, and what I feared had occurred. Our son, I told her, might now be dead. She sat up with a cry.

  “By al-Lah, husband, what are you doing in bed with these terrible thoughts? Get up, yaa Ali, and go find Mohammad. We must protect him, no matter what he has done!”

  And so, with a heart that seemed to crumble like the house of Uthman, I dressed myself and donned my turban, strapped on my sword and dagger, and opened my door. The sight that greeted me there would have made me slam it shut again, save for al-Ashtar’s hands seizing my beard while the crowd gathered in front of my house chanted my name.

  “Yaa Ali, I bring you the best of news! The evil khalifa Uthman is dead, and two thousand men stand ready here to pledge their allegiance to you.”

  He lifted his hand in a beckoning motion. Mohammad, in fresh clothes, and Hud emerged with their daggers pressed to the throats of Talha and al-Zubayr, who glared at me as if I had ordered their humiliation. In truth, it did not displease me to see them treated roughly.

  Al-Ashtar raised his sword and ordered both men to their knees. “Make your choice,” he said to them, “Be the first to pledge allegiance to our khalifa, Ali ibn Abi Bakr, or prepare to meet your friends in Hell.”

  A’isha

  The hajj had been a success. I packed up my camel, my heart filled with love and longing for Muhammad and hopes for a speedy return to Medina. Show me what to do about Uthman, I’d prayed in the spare, windowless Ka’ba, prostrating myself among thousands of
Believers in the very place where Muhammad had destroyed idols and dedicated all of Mecca to al-Lah, the One God. Not only had I received my answer, but I would carry home precious memories of Muhammad, so vivid that he almost seemed alive.

  I’d been with him on the day he’d reclaimed Mecca for his own. I’d sat beside him on the stone steps while he’d accepted the allegiance of every citizen including Abu Sufyan. Although we hadn’t been touching, I’d felt Muhammad’s joy radiating from his skin. In the city where he’d been born, raised, married, widowed, persecuted, and forced into exile, Muhammad had found acceptance at last.

  Returning to Mecca had been his dream for nearly a decade before he’d ridden triumphantly into the city. Now, making the hajj for the first time since Umar had forbidden the Prophet’s wives to travel, I’d felt his presence here as keenly as if he sat next to me again. As I’d prayed for guidance about the khalifa, I’d suddenly sensed Muhammad’s wishes as clearly as if the muezzin had shouted them from the rooftop. Today my goal was to return home as quickly as possible, before the sacred month ended, and to shame those Bedouin friends of Ali’s into showing some respect for Muhammad’s old Companion. I’d block his door with my body, if I needed to. In protecting Uthman, you protect the khalifa, and islam , I’d heard Muhammad say.

  Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the camels thundering up the street until they were practically on top of me. I cried out in delight when I saw that their riders were Talha and al-Zubayr, their eyes red with dust and sleeplessness, their faces creased by sun, wind, and fatigue. My spirit quickened at the sight of my cousin, come to pray, I assumed, or to visit me on the way to his gardens in the Sawad. I handed my bedroll to a helper and stepped into the street to greet Talha with a smile.

  But the grim set of the men’s faces told me they hadn’t raced through the desert for prayer or pleasure. Before Talha’s camel had fully knelt, he flung himself from its back, then marched up to me and laid his hands on my shoulders. His man’s touch, so rare, so forbidden, made my pulse jump, and I drew away from him, not wanting to risk my sister’s honor.

  “Uthman is dead,” he said. “Assassinated.”

  As I stared at Talha in disbelief, a slow chill crept down my spine.

  Uthman assassinated! I found my breath and began to wail. “I killed him. Yaa al-Lah, why? Why did I leave Medina?” I lifted my hands to claw at my face but Talha grabbed my wrists and pulled them gently toward his chest. “He begged me to stay, but I wouldn’t listen. Ai! Talha, I killed him.”

  “A’isha.” My wrists still bound in his hands, Talha gazed into my face. “You couldn’t have stopped them. Do you hear me? They were determined to see him dead.”

  “Who did this terrible deed?” Al-Zubayr walked over to us and, in a sorrowful tone, told how al-Ashtar’s gang had crept in and attacked Uthman, how Naila had thrown herself over him and lost fingers from her right hand, saving his body from mutilation. His story made me wish the earth would quake apart and swallow me. Naila had sacrificed her fingers while I, whom he’d begged to stay in Medina for his sake, had refused to sacrifice my plans.

  I wrenched my hands from Talha’s grasp and placed them over my face, for not even my veil was enough to hide my loathsomeness from my friends’ eyes—or to stem the torrent of tears now gushing from mine.

  “I could have saved him,” I sobbed. “By al-Lah, I could have stopped those murderers. But I was selfish. May God strike me down today! Yaa Muhammad, I failed your sahib Uthman.” I felt my heart empty of the love I had known these past weeks, a glow and a comfort that had come, I knew, from Muhammad. His presence had swirled through me like perfume, as if Mecca were a garden filled with flowers instead of a harsh, rock-strewn desert. But now, my feelings of communion with him fell away.

  “Help me move her indoors,” I heard Talha murmur to al-Zubayr, and with a tug of my sleeve they led me to the house my father had bequeathed to me, past Umm Salama and Hafsa who were busy packing their camels. Hafsa rushed over and pressed her hand against my shoulder. I crumpled against her, grateful for her woman’s arms offering me the comfort and support that Talha and al-Zubayr, as men, weren’t allowed to provide.

  Once we were inside my home, I collapsed on a cushion with Hafsa and returned her embrace, burying my face in her clothing. “It’s my fault,” I kept saying. “Uthman asked me to stay, but I refused. I killed him.”

  “Yaa A’isha.” Talha knelt beside me and would have touched me, but Hafsa hissed, “What are you doing?” and pulled me backward, out of his reach.

  “A’isha, listen to me,” Talha said. “You did not kill Uthman. Al-Ashtar killed him. Do you think he would have listened to you? Do you think Ali would have? They had a plan, and no one could have stopped them. That became clear very quickly. As soon as our khalifa breathed his last breath, al-Ashtar and his friends grabbed me and al-Zubayr and dragged us to Ali’s house. They proclaimed Ali the new khalifa before Uthman’s body was cold. And they forced me and al-Zubayr to our knees, held swords over our heads, and forced us to pledge our allegiance to him.”

  His words pelted me like stones. I leapt to my feet and ran outside. I felt as if a raging torrent of flame had erupted inside me. Grit filled my open mouth. I smelled horse sweat, then roasting meat as I flew from my house and past the market. I didn’t know where I was going, nor did I care. Ali, khalifa! My only desire was to flee from this awful news, from my guilt over Uthman’s death, from the heartache of watching men like al-Walid and al-Ashtar and, soon, Ali, destroy what Muhammad had given his life to create, and from the nightmare that my life would become now that my nemesis had become the khalifa.

  Ali, khalifa! How many times had he promised to confine me to my home as soon as he had the power? I’d thought his threats were empty; I’d been sure he’d never be chosen. What had he done to deserve it? Yes, he’d been a great warrior in the days of Muhammad, but since then he’d done nothing but marry, breed, and get fat. Talha, on the other hand, had increased his wealth by running a successful date plantation and investing in land, and he’d made friends with many prominent men. He also practiced his sword fighting regularly to keep his body and reflexes fit for the battlefield. He was ready for the khalifa in every way. I’d be surprised if Ali could even lift his sword anymore.

  I had been too complacent. I could see that now. But how could I have known that Ali would seize the khalifa while I was away? To think this had all occurred during the holy month of Dhu al-Hijjah, during the hajj!

  If I’d been in Medina, I’d have stood on Uthman’s balcony and given speech after rousing speech condemning those men who’d dared to threaten the life of a man chosen by al-Lah. With me in Uthman’s home, the assassins wouldn’t have dared to enter. No one would approach the Mother of the Believers with an unsheathed blade. Even if Uthman had been killed, I’d have stopped Ali from claiming the khalifa. I would have exposed him for what he truly was: a man interested in helping his family gain prestige, not in following Muhammad’s example, as I and Talha were. In that regard, he was no better than Uthman. In truth, he was worse, for Uthman had never pretended to care about the poor, or about punishing corruption. If only I’d stayed in Medina. If only . . .

  Breathless, I slowed my pace to a walk, wiping my tears with my sleeve, when I heard the call of the muezzin to prayer. The Ka’ba was just ahead. I didn’t have my prayer rug with me, so I went inside and fell to the stone floor. In truth, I relished the sharpness of the pain and the dull ache that spread across my knees afterward. My discomfort prodded me, reminded me to stay alert, for which I was thankful. I’d been asleep, it seemed, for too long.

  Al-Lah, please show me what to do. I bent and knelt and pressed my forehead to the floor. Yaa Muhammad, use me as your tool. And I prayed for my husband to come back to me, to let me feel his love again, but nothing happened. Was it possible that Muhammad wanted Ali to be the khalifa now? But how could that be, if Ali had been complicit in Uthman’s murder?

  No more complicit than yo
u, A’isha. The thought brushed my mind like a crow’s wing. My prayers finished, I sat in place while those around me rolled up their prayer mats and exchanged greetings. How much blame did I bear for Uthman’s death? Had I really wanted so badly to make the hajj, or had I left Medina to absolve myself of responsibility in case anything happened to Uthman?

  I remembered when Uthman had given me his permission to go, how the timing, which coincided with his brother al-Walid’s arrival, had made me think he wanted to get rid of me. But when I’d told my sister-wives we could join the pilgrimage at last, Hafsa’s cry of delight and Umm Salama’s joyous smile inspired me to get excited about the journey. When I’d told myself that Uthman would be safe, I had genuinely believed it.

  Ali was a traitor; there was no doubt in my mind. He and his friends had corrupted islam more thoroughly than Uthman would have done. But knowing all this was useless to me. I was in Mecca. Ali was in Medina. If I returned and tried to challenge him, he’d place me in confinement—a situation that, after six years of purdah as a child, I’d do anything to avoid. But if I stayed here who would dare to oppose him? He’d eventually order me to return to Medina, anyway—and I’d have no choice but to obey. And then my life would end.

  “Yaa A’isha!” Talha rushed up. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

  “Talha!” I turned wild eyes to him. “Why didn’t you protect Uthman?”

  His face reddened as he shook his head, making me sorry I’d asked. Was I so desperate to blame someone besides myself that I’d point the finger at my cousin?

  “I’m only one man, A’isha,” he said.

  I took a deep breath, clearing my head of all questions except one. “What do we do now?”

  “Here.” He held out my sword and shield. “I brought this for you from Medina. I knew you wouldn’t carry it with you on the hajj, but I thought you’d want to have it now.”