The Sword Of Medina (11 page)

“I did,” she said at last. “And I will do as you ask—as soon as Asma has had time to recover from her husband’s death.”

“No.” My mouth grew dry at the idea of waiting, for who knew what might happen to thwart my desires? Another man might make an offer and be accepted. Or A’isha, who had moved temporarily to her father’s home, might influence Asma against me. “Please go today,” I said. “Umar has commanded it.”

She was silent again. “Hearing is obeying,” she said at last. “But I warn you, Ali, I think this is unwise.”

“Why?” I pressed. “What is unwise about it?”

“I cannot reveal more without betraying a confidence,” she said. “But I do not believe this endeavor will go well for you. Al-Lah willing, I am mistaken. At any rate, we shall know very soon.”

♦

I do not mean to suggest that I had been all alone since the death, two years earlier, of my first love, Fatima, may peace be upon her. Following the Prophet’s example, not long after Fatima’s departure I had sought, and obtained, a wife to care for my children.

Umm al-Bunin was stolid and dependable, a loving mother to my boys al-Hassan and al-Hussein and to my girl Zaynab, and dutiful in the bedroom. However, she was also like a field that yields fruit as soon as it is touched by the seed, becoming pregnant on her first night with me and then, after she bore my son Abbas and her waiting period was completed, sprouting another son.

Being a virile man who needs his desires fulfilled, and having obtained
a pension from Abu Bakr in exchange for my work as his advisor, I took a second wife, al-Hanifiyya, a haunting woman with dark eyes and a darker soul, whom I freed from slavery but who failed to show appreciation. Initially I found her sullenness alluring and, as she never resisted me in bed, I enjoyed her fully, but her complaints and demands created such hardship for poor Umm al-Bunin that I had to find a third wife to keep peace in the household.

Habiba was my choice, a capable girl with infinite patience and arms strong enough to carry three children at once. But alas, she worked so hard during the day that she often fell asleep as soon as she lay down at night, resulting in many evenings that lacked in luster for me.

I harbored the highest of hopes for nights of passion with the sultry Asma. And, despite Umm Salama’s apprehensions, I did not worry that she would refuse my offer. Umm Salama, my departed wife’s dear friend, would portray me in the best possible light. In addition to her praise, my graveside speech, which had so obviously moved Asma this morning, could not fail to win her consent. If only I could brag of being a general in Umar’s army. Would she, like Talha, think of me as a eunuch because I could not fight? Like a tonic, the sweet imagined taste of Asma filled my mouth and my sword began to quiver, reminding me that I was still very much a man.

Yet when the general Mothanna appeared in the courtyard later that day in all his military splendor, I felt as ineffectual—and as invisible—as a child. As he strode out from the mosque, his great height and strong bearing made me think of a date-palm tree. Unlike the unruly Khalid, with his filthy Bedouin robes and arrow-stuck turban, Mothanna embodied military order and discipline. He wore a long jacket of leather that fit him as closely as a second skin, encasing his arms and hugging his body nearly to his knees, and sewn with metal plates that flashed in the evening sun to make his chest appear as broad and impenetrable as the Medina cliffs. Metal pieces, bound to his legs with leather straps and tied about his calves, covered his shins. On his feet he wore leather boots, and on his head a leather helmet, also bound with riveted metal pieces, whose long leather strip extended down from his forehead to fit over the top of his prominent nose. Although I stood beside Umar in a position of honor, I felt feeble in Mothanna’s presence, as pale and vulnerable as a woman’s
belly, as invisible as the Prophet’s widows who now emerged like shadows from their mud-and-brick huts at the courtyard’s edge, their wrappers pulled over their faces.

Cheers arose as Mothanna strode up with a long spear in one hand and the green silk flag of
islam
in the other. With a downward thrust he planted both in the ground beside A’isha’s door, to the left of the mosque entrance, then walked over to the date-palm where Umar stood with me, Uthman, and Talha. He lowered one knee to the ground, took Umar’s hand in his own, and kissed Muhammad’s signet ring.

“I praise al-Lah for the privilege of serving Umar, the Prophet’s most trusted military commander,” he said in a ringing voice. Forbidden to fight these last two years, I now realized that my stellar achievements on the battlefield had sunk into ignominy, while Umar, who had barked many commands but clashed swords with far fewer men than I, enjoyed the warrior status that I had earned.

Umar led a prayer, asking al-Lah for the wisdom to lead the
umma
into prosperity, but making no mention of the people’s needs for spiritual guidance. When, I wondered, had the role of
khalifa
ceased to include this important task? Had Abu Bakr provided advice to Believers regarding
islam
? As I recalled, when approached he had deferred many times to A’isha, who could recite the
qur’an,
yes, but no better than I, and who was familiar with Muhammad’s teachings and his beliefs, but again no more so than I. As
khalifa,
I would have needed no assistance in tending to the spiritual needs of Muslims. Nor would I have shunted al-Lah to the side while I focused on military conquests. Umar invited Mothanna to stand, and the crowd followed. Then the general moved over beside me, eclipsing me in his armored shadow.

“Fellow Believers, the
umma
stands at a divided route,” Umar said. “Although we are on the cusp of capturing the holy city of Jerusalem as well as Damascus, we face great danger in Persia, where a mere woman threatens to humiliate us.”

As if he thought his audience had not heard, Umar repeated the warning. “The Persian queen Buran would be no one to fear by herself. Despite her love for fighting on horseback, she is a mere female with weak arms and a weaker brain. But her general is a brilliant strategist. He and his warriors recently defeated our fighters in a crucial battle. They are preparing to
attack again. If they win, we will lose everything we have gained in Persia. We need fighters now. Mothanna is here to lead you. All who would join him, step forward and grasp the standard of
islam.
”

Smiling as if he had not just delivered the most tepid of speeches, Umar surveyed the crowd with his chest thrust confidently forward, and waited—but no one approached.

He cleared his throat. “Great honor awaits those who volunteer, both in this world and the next,” he said. “The Prophet watches, and will reward you well in Paradise.”

Still no one came.

I longed to be the first to seize that standard. I envisioned myself defying Umar and volunteering here, before all of Medina, to join our troops on the Persian front. Yet I also knew these men needed more to inspire them than Umar’s lukewarm invitation. They needed a fiery, impassioned speech, which Umar should be able to deliver, being one of the most eloquent orators in all of Hijaz. But he did nothing, only stood there with a drooping mouth.

Unable to restrain myself any longer, I leaned toward him and murmured into his ear. “
Yaa khalifa,
your formidable skills as a speaker were never needed more than now,” I said. “You can arouse their passions by displaying some of your own.”

He sighed deeply. “My heart is heavy with the loss of Abu Bakr,” he whispered. “How can I inspire my men to action when I want only to retreat from the world?”

Here was an opportunity for me to gain Umar’s trust and, perhaps, a position in his army! Yet I made my offer with trepidation, lest he suspect me of attempting to overshadow him. “Allow me to address your subjects,
yaa khalifa,
” I said. “Perhaps I can win recruits with tales of what awaits them in that fertile land.”

And so, with Umar’s permission and al-Lah’s assistance, I summoned my imagination and my skills, lifted my voice, and beckoned warriors to Umar’s army with poetry and promises. Riches such as they had never seen before awaited in Persia, I said. There, even the outhouses were jewel-encrusted, and the women were as ripe fruits dangling from every bough. “Join the fight against the fire-worshippers, and partake of this glorious plunder,” I urged. In the next moment, Abu Ubayd, a man of about
eighteen whose beard was as fine as the hair on a baby’s head, stepped forward and grasped the standard. Not to be outdone by a youngster from Ta’if, scores of Medina men followed, as well as many Meccans.

Yet when the recruits had clustered around Mothanna, visions of booty swirling in their heads, and seized one another’s beards in excitement, did Umar reward me with an appointment of my own? By al-Lah, he did not. Instead, he embraced Mothanna as though
he
had been the one to give the speech, then stepped over to Abu Ubayd, who had been pushed to the edge of the group. Umar grasped Abu Ubayd’s right hand and held it up.

“The first to volunteer will be the first to lead,” he announced. “I hereby appoint Abu Ubayd as your commander under Mothanna.”

The silence that followed was more pronounced than the jubilation that had preceded it. “By al-Lah, would he appoint a boy from Ta’if to command men of Aws, Khazraj, and Quraysh?” one of the Medinans muttered to me. “Do those who served the Prophet hold supremacy no longer?”

As I struggled for a diplomatic answer I felt a tugging at my sleeve. Umm Salama stood behind me and, although I could see only one of her eyes, it was clear to me that she was agitated.

“
Yaa
Ali, we need to speak,” she murmured.

“I cannot leave now,” I said.

“Please tell me what has happened.”

“I will await you behind my screen,” she said. “When we can talk privately.” She turned to leave.

“No!” I cried. Praise al-Lah, the uproar that now filled the courtyard prevented my outburst from being heard. Umm Salama turned to me with her gaze lowered. “Tell me now,” I said. “We must settle this matter before A’isha . . . before it is too late.”

She lifted her eye to give me a tender look. “It is already too late,” she said. “After hearing A’isha’s tales about you and Abu Bakr, Asma’s heart teems with bitterness. She refuses to marry you. I am sorry, Ali. Nothing I could say would change her mind.”

Three years after he’d sighed his final sigh Muhammad lived on, not only in the beautiful verses he’d left behind, but also, for me, in the memory of his warm copper eyes and how they’d shone when we were together. His eyes were like bronze mirrors that reflected only my loveliness and none of my flaws. With him on this earth, I’d reveled in my strengths, knowing that he relished my bold spirit like the savory taste of
tharid,
his favorite dish, on his tongue.

Now as I stood amid the festive, early-morning bustle of caravaners on the street, I had to bear Ali’s glares without my husband’s smile to sustain me. Yet I wasn’t completely alone. Talha, packing my camel for the pilgrimage to Mecca, gave me adoring looks—which I tried not to notice. Instead, I closed my eyes and savored the excitement of the
hajj
: the bellows and grunts of the camels, the aromas of sandalwood and cardamom, the spontaneous verses shouted by men showing off their oratorical skills. When I opened my eyes again, Talha had turned away, to my relief. Despite already being married to one wife, Talha, being a man, had little to lose by flirting. But for me, everything was at stake. One rumor could rob me of all my freedom—especially now, with Umar in power.

Umar presided in the mosque wielding a whip in one fist and suspicion in the other. He watched me, in particular, waiting for me to behave immodestly—in truth, expecting it. I was one woman he’d never been able
to control. Many suffered under his rolling eye. He strode through the market every day with that whip, terrifying women by cracking it about their heads. One old dear, Umm Alia, had hands that shook so badly she couldn’t hold her wrapper about her head. When it fell to her shoulders, out lashed Umar’s whip, which fell too hard and struck her across one eye.

Abi
had predicted that Umar’s nature would soften when he became
khalifa,
but I wasn’t so sure. By al-Lah, a serpent that sheds its skin is still a serpent! In Umar’s eyes, all women were temptresses, and that included me. Muhammad and my father had protected me from his harsh ways, but they couldn’t help me now. If Umar knew that Talha visited my hut and that we spoke without a
hijab
, or curtain, between us, he’d confine me to the
harim
for the rest of my days, despite the fact that I and Talha had been lifelong friends. In truth, my laughing cousin had become my closest companion, the person whose company I treasured most, in spite of his boldness. Or maybe because of it.

Now, while loading my camel with provisions for the long excursion to Mecca, Talha noticed Ali’s squint-eyed scowl and mimicked him, bunching his face exaggeratedly and causing Ali to redden.

“
Afwan,
Ali, but you don’t look like a just-married man,” Talha said. “I hope you’re not already having troubles with the lovely Asma.”

Ali grunted and hurried away. If Asma was the reason for his ill humor, I’d gladly endure one thousand and one of his frowns. An unhappy home was just what Ali deserved, given how he’d coerced Asma into marrying him.

After Ali had gone, Talha gave me a wink. Then with a grunt he hefted a sack of dates onto my camel’s back.

“By al-Lah, who would believe little A’isha could eat so much?” he teased. “You’re bringing enough food for the entire caravan.”

“These dates will feed the poor,” I said, and stepped forward to help him tie the sack onto the saddle. In a lowered voice, I added, “If Ali can resist stuffing his expanding belly with them.”

“His paunch has grown nearly as large as his head,” Talha agreed.

“He has a reason for his fat stomach, having four women to cook for him,” I said. “But from what I can see, there’s nothing but air between his ears.”