The Sword Of Medina (28 page)

“A’isha, you must forgo this pilgrimage,” he said. “You alone can save me. Do you not recall 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.”

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 saying 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.”

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.”