The Sword Of Medina (8 page)

“
Yaa
Ali, you say Khalid eradicated the danger of invasion, and with few fatalities on our side?”

I stammered my reply, confused by his mild response. “Th-the rebels have all pledged their allegiance to you,” I said. “Except for those he brutally murdered.”

A’isha’s eye dimmed. “Poor Umm Himl,” she breathed.

“She would have done worse to you,
yaa
A’isha, if she had been given the chance,” Abu Bakr said quietly. “Umm Himl was widely renowned as a merciless killer.”

“With respect,
abi,
I’d heard she was a courageous warrior,” A’isha said.

“She is a dead warrior now, and dishonorably killed,” Umar sputtered. “
Yaa
Abu Bakr, it is as I have told you: Khalid ibn al-Walid is like a camel with no rider. You must pull the reins on him now, before he commits more atrocities in the name of
islam.
”

“By saving Medina, he has saved
islam
,” Abu Bakr said. “And I do not recall hearing you protest the use of female captives in the past, Umar, or you, either, Ali. In truth,” he said, giving me a piercing look, “I recall similar stories about you some years ago, Ali.”

A’isha’s eyebrow shot up, and I could sense disapproval rising from her like heat. My skin flushed, betraying my embarrassment. “I was young,” I mumbled. “And although I took pleasure from our captives as did other men, I never humiliated a woman by dishonoring her publicly—or covered myself in her blood as Khalid did.”

“Khalid ibn al-Walid is unstable, Abu Bakr,” Umar said. “He cannot be trusted. See how he has ignored your mandates! Did he offer Umm Himl the opportunity to embrace
islam
before he slit her throat, as the Prophet would have done?”

“Khalid is not the Prophet,” Abu Bakr said. “We do not expect perfection from him.”

“But what about mercy,
yaa abi?
” I was surprised to hear A’isha speak my thoughts.

Uthman fingered his moustache. “You did command Khalid to show mercy, as I recall.”

“Khalid answers to no authority except his own,” I said. “Some of the men pointed out that you had not given permission for this expedition against the Bani Hanifa, yet he insists on attacking. He plans to recruit warriors from among the Bedouin tribes friendly to us.”

Abu Bakr nodded. “That is a good plan. The Bedouins are not only fearless fighters, especially if booty and women are to be gained, but they will be able to advise Khalid on how to defeat the Hanifa. I have heard that they thwart attack by fleeing into a date grove so dense, even the sun does not shine within.”

“But the Hanifa have done nothing to us,” I said, hating the sharp edge of my voice for I did not want my temper to deflect from my message.

“They have chosen to follow Musaylima, the false prophet,” Abu Bakr said. “His devotees have increased daily since Muhammad’s death, until their numbers rival those of the Believers. Musaylima is popular because he does not collect an alms tax. In truth, he does not care for the poor; he cares only for his own glory. He is leading the Arabs into the depths of hellfire. Would al-Lah have us turn our faces from this evil?”

“Muhammad would have won them with his example—” I began, but Abu Bakr cut me off.

“
Yaa
Ali, Muhammad is dead.” He lowered his face, but not before I saw his eyes cloud with sorrow. “Although we are obligated to try, there is no one who can take the Prophet’s place.”

“We can only do our best,” A’isha said. Her one visible green-brown eye, as impenetrable as that of a bird, shifted from Abu Bakr to me, and back again.

“Your best is not good enough,” I said, my voice rising.

The feeble excuses of father and daughter whipped about my ears like a harsh wind, fanning the same outrage that had fueled my frantic ride to Medina. I exploded in such a torrent of criticism that, were I any other man, the
khalifa
might have ordered me whipped.

“Innocent people are being murdered at this very moment, slaughtered in the name of
islam
by a demon-possessed man of your own appointing,” I raged. “The blood of the guiltless flows on the plain at Aqraba in your name, Abu Bakr. It stains this mosque, smearing your name and that of your predecessor.” Shaking all over, I seized my dagger from under my robe and slashed my arm with it, then let the blood pour onto the date-palm stump at Abu Bakr’s feet.

Abu Bakr leapt down from his stump and stood over me, waving his arms. “Enough of your histrionics!” he bellowed. “Leave the mosque at once.”

I ignored his command, having little respect for him now.

“Why did you send me on that expedition with Khalid,
yaa khalifa?
” I asked, not attempting to hide my disgust. “Were you hoping I might be killed, and the lone dissenting voice against you silenced? Or perhaps your precious daughter desired vengeance against me. After all, did I not encourage Muhammad to divorce her, as he would have done if not for his friendship with you?”

Now A’isha leapt to her feet, also. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know more than you will ever discern, with your foolish woman’s mind,” I shot back. “Your father’s fortune was crucial to
islam
. Without Abu Bakr’s purse, the
umma
would have disbanded many years ago, and Muhammad would have endeavored in vain to rescue the Arabs from idol-worship and hellfire.”

“Ali, I command you to cease this instant!” Abu Bakr was so furious, I thought he might jump down from the stump to strike me. I took no heed of him, for my temper had changed its course like an erratic dust-devil to attack A’isha, instead.

“You were a foolish girl with an insolent sword for a tongue and your
abi’s
love as your shield,” I said, using the words I knew would hurt her the most. She listened to me, as her father had not, and her whitening face and pain-brimming eyes gave me great satisfaction.

“I was an idealistic youth, concerned about my cousin’s honor,” I
continued. “When the
umma
called you an adulteress after you disappeared with Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal, I naturally advised Muhammad to divorce you. But he chose to endure an unpleasant wife—in spite of having so many other, more charming ones—in order to retain the favor of her affluent father.”

“You lie!” A’isha’s voice quavered. “Muhammad loved me
and
he loved my father.”

“He loved your father’s purse,” I said. Then, remembering my duty, I untied the serpent-skin pouch weighting my belt. “
Yaa khalifa,
I have just recalled your words upon appointing me to accompany Khalid. Did you want me to report on his loyalty?”

“In truth, that was my order,” Abu Bakr said, resuming his seat. With his eyes on the pouch, he gestured for A’isha to sit, also. She pulled her wrapper more tightly about her face as she did.

“At the time, I supposed you desired me to observe his faithfulness to your commands regarding
islam
and its people,” I said. “But now I perceive the real motive behind your appointment. You knew that I could be trusted to deliver your rightful share of the war spoils.”

I hefted the sack in my hands. Although it had been sewn shut to ensure against pilfering—an insult Khalid had delighted in pointing out to me—I could discern from its weight and the clink of the contents that it held coins, hundreds of them, seized from those who had submitted to Khalid as well as those who had fought him and died.
Tell the khalifa this is only the beginning
, he’d said.

I handed the scaly pouch to Abu Bakr. His face seemed to shed itself of years as he tore it open and watched the dinars and dirhams spill like his victims’ tears across his lap.

“Well done,
yaa
Ali,” Abu Bakr said, and pressed a handful of gold into my palm. I let it drop as I turned away, not letting myself think about the cries of my hungry children as I walked into the street, utterly alone.

After leading us with a straight back into Mecca for the
hajj
, the annual pilgrimage to worship at the Ka’ba, my father left the city as helplessly as a newborn, lying on a camel-skin stretcher as if he were being borne to his bier. His face was ashen and skeletal. Four men carried him across the desert back to Medina. I stumbled beside them, my throat clogged with unshed tears and my feet blistering and bleeding.

“
Yaa
A’isha, our men are already carrying one person. Do you want to be the second?” Hafsa sidled up and tucked an arm around my waist. “Come and sit on your camel for a while. Killing yourself won’t help your father, but taking a rest will benefit you.”

I flung her away and forced myself to walk upright, ignoring the wobbling in my thighs and the sting in my soles. What was the soreness of my feet compared to my father’s pain, or to my grief at the thought of losing him?

“The end could come at any moment,” I said. “I want him to know he’s not alone.” As I spoke, I dried my tears in case he opened his eyes. He would need courage from me, not sniveling.

I’d known
abi
was in trouble before we’d left for Mecca. He’d tried to hide his illness by complaining that indigestion was keeping him awake at night, but I’d noticed how perspiration stained his gown although the cool of evening bathed us in a sweet breeze. His eyes were as lifeless as
coal, reflecting nothing back. His spirit seemed snuffed. I’d told myself it was fatigue sagging his eyes like filled water-skins, that the trials of leading the
umma
tremored his hands. And I watched him grow weaker and more pale every day.

My father was very sick, with the same illness that had taken Muhammad and Fatima. I knew it and he did, also. Neither of us ever said “fever,” as though speaking its name would give it more power—or as though ignoring it would make it go away. But we knew, as Muhammad had known, that the Medina fever lived to kill. It was rarely defeated, and never by a man as old as
abi
.

The journey home was eerily silent. In the glow of the torches that lighted our way I saw sadness on each face, for everyone loved my father, even those who disagreed with him. He could be stern—no one knew that better than I—but he was always honest, living up to his name until the very end. And he had fulfilled the role of
khalifa
with a grace that some found surprising. His tolerance for Khalid’s brutality, so controversial, had strengthened the
umma’s
power and its purse. Because of Khalid’s conquests,
islam
had not only been restored to Hijaz, but it had spread into new territories. Unlike when
abi
had taken the
khalifa
two years ago, we of the
umma
no longer feared invasion or suffered hunger. Now, we feared only my father’s death, and what might come afterward.

“I do not know how longer I will be among you,” he had said to the worshippers only a few days ago, standing atop the Ka’ba’s steps. His words had elicited gasps, including from me. “But I do know that, whatever happens to me,
islam
will yet live. For al-Lah has promised to reveal the name of my successor before I die.”

Then he turned his face to Ali, who widened his eyes in vulgar glee.

“When the time comes, I know you will support him,” my father continued, still boring his gaze into Ali. I knew he was sending Ali this message:
Do not oppose the next khalifa the way you opposed me
. And I could tell from the brightness in Ali’s eyes that he thought my father meant something else altogether. He thought
abi
meant to choose him as his successor.

I marveled that Ali could be so naive. After all his years of competing with
abi
, first for Muhammad’s favor and then for the
khalifa
, did he think my father esteemed him? His behavior in the mosque six months earlier, when he’d returned from his expedition with Khalid, had only proved
him to be as impulsive and temperamental as ever. I’d been stung by Ali’s claim that Muhammad had loved me only for my father’s purse, but then I’d shrugged off his ridiculous accusations. Muhammad had loved me. It was one reason why he had forbidden me to marry again after his death. Muhammad wanted me beside him in Paradise, and had promised me a place of highest honor. Nothing Ali said or did could diminish that fact.

As for naming Ali
khalifa
, my father would never do that. He knew, as I did, that Ali resented our family. If he ever gained power over us, we’d all suffer. We’d lose status, money, freedom, perhaps even our lives.

Now, though, picking my way over lava beds, I wasn’t thinking of anything else except
abi
.
Please, God, don’t take him from me.
Still I refused to cry, for his sake.

When we arrived in Medina that gloomy mid-morning, my father’s young wife Asma showed no such qualms about displaying her grief. She ran to his stretcher with a sharp cry and flung her henna-decorated arms around his neck before his bearers could lay him down.

“Praise al-Lah for sending you home alive,” she said, sobbing. “I would die one thousand and one deaths were you to depart from me without a final kiss.”

Behind her, my mother grasped Asma’s arms and pulled her off my poor father.
Abi
frowned, for he’d clearly been enjoying the attention, but
ummi
pretended not to see his disappointment.

“Did I not warn you to remain at home, you stubborn ass?” she said gently as she wiped his damp face with the sleeve of her robe. “‘If you cannot ride with dignity, it is best not to undertake the journey.’” She stood and turned toward their house, signaling his bearers to follow.

I followed, also, with my arms around the weeping Asma, down the street of red dirt to my father’s home, a simple stone house but, compared to the mud-brick dwellings squatting beside it, as elegant as a mansion. Its modest exterior belied the lovely interior, with its tapestries, stone floor, brass oil-lamps ensconced on the walls, and the large courtyard separating the rooms where my father and brothers lived—their bedrooms and the
majlis,
or men’s sitting room—from the
harim,
where their wives and children lived and worked. The
harim
comprised the wives’ bedrooms, where their husbands might sleep if they desired; a large bedroom and playroom for the children; and a spacious, windowless kitchen, where the women
sat and talked on hot days. Otherwise, they gathered under the shade of the trees in the courtyard or, at night, with their husbands on the rooftop terrace over the
majlis.