The Sword Of Medina (24 page)

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 which 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.”

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 sad 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.”

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.”