The Sword Of Medina (10 page)

“He has been harsh only in response to my mildness,”
abi
was saying. “And when I was harsh, he urged me to be mild. He will make an excellent
khalifa,
and will follow in the steps of Muhammad as I have tried to do. You must all pledge your allegiance to Umar ibn al-Khattab.”

U
MAR

634–644 A.D.

Like a jackal leading a lion to its prey, my uncle al-Abbas persisted in encouraging me to pursue the
khalifa
even as, standing in A’isha’s hut, we witnessed the prayer services over Abu Bakr’s grave.

“Behold the charming goddess with the painted arms,” he murmured, pulling me into the crowd of mourners for a better view of our dead
khalifa’s
young widow. Asma bint Umas, whom I’d always found as delectable as mouthful of honey, wept graciously in the arms of A’isha, for whom I suddenly felt an appreciation. How valiantly she comforted poor Asma, in spite of her own tremors of grief. My eyes grew moist as I watched them cling to each other as though resisting the buffets of a raging
samoom.

I and my uncle and more than one hundred other mourners had crowded into the hut to watch Abu Bakr laid into the floor according to his wishes, with his head at Muhammad’s shoulders. Outside, in the courtyard, thousands of men and women and children pressed against the walls like sea waters lapping at the shore. Inside, the crush of mourners made it difficult for me to view anything except turbans and beards. As I stretched my neck for a glimpse of Asma’s face, I bristled at my uncle’s “goddess” comparison, for it evoked idolatry. Yet when I beheld her, I could not argue against the characterization. Even with tear-swollen eyes and a nose like a fully blown rose, Asma held my gaze with her beauty as though she were an enchantress.

“Marry her, and you will position yourself perfectly for the
khalifa,
” my uncle whispered. “But do it now, while Umar is distracted by mourning. Soon he will discern the advantages and claim her for himself.”

I had no difficulty discerning the advantages of marriage to the delightful Asma, but positioning myself for the
khalifa
was not among them. Unbeknownst to my uncle, I had ceased to covet the position. As I had stood at Abu Bakr’s deathbed and listened to him appoint Umar, I realized that I would never succeed Muhammad until his elder Companions had died. In their eyes, I was too young and inexperienced to lead them, and too controversial, also, for my uncle al-Abbas had created dissension among the Medina tribes by trying to convince them that I was Muhammad’s rightful heir. Of course, Umar, Uthman, and their companions assumed that I supported my uncle’s divisive actions. At times I had, for al-Abbas was a smooth and constant persuader. Now, however, I wanted only to forget any foolish notions of leadership, and strive for the happiness I had once known, before those crushing six months when both Muhammad and Fatima died.

Umar was not nearly as advanced in years as Abu Bakr had been. A vigorous man, he would rule for a long time. When the
khalifa
hearkened again, many of those aged Companions would have departed this life, and I might be granted the opportunity to claim my heritage at last. In the meantime, I saw no reason why I should not enjoy myself to the best of my ability, beginning with the widow Asma’s plump, perfumed body in my bed.

Umar began his sermon. “
Yaa
Abu Bakr, may al-Lah bless you,” he said quietly, with tears wetting his face. “You have made the task of succeeding you most difficult.”

Asma’s weeping increased and so did my desire to comfort her. My heart felt so full that it pushed my emotions out of my chest and into my mouth. In the next moment, although I had not planned it, I was speaking words that I would never have imagined uttering—words of praise for Abu Bakr. The crowd turned around to view me, and I stepped through their midst to utter my own lamentations over this man who, despite our differences, had richly deserved Muhammad’s love.

“May al-Lah have mercy on you, Abu Bakr,” I prayed. “You were an affectionate companion and friend of the Prophet of al-Lah, a source of joy to him, and one who knew his secrets.”

As I spoke, all my dislike for the man seemed to melt away, replaced by memories of his goodness. Lifting my voice as though in song, I told of the time he had saved Muhammad from starvation. Mecca’s merchants, rejecting Muhammad’s religion of one-God, had refused to do business with him, so Abu Bakr had donated food and other provisions to the Believers. I told how he had rescued the Prophet from Quraysh’s swords by hiding with him in a cave while assassins combed the sands for him. When, after three days, the killers abandoned their quest, Abu Bakr and Muhammad slipped away to Medina with a guide paid by Abu Bakr. Their safe arrival was due in part, at least, to Abu Bakr’s intelligence, courage, and willingness to use his wealth to aid his friend. I spoke of his devotion to Muhammad and to
islam,
for although he had made mistakes—of course, I did not allude to these in my speech—he had tried to his utmost to govern the
umma
as Muhammad would have done. He had failed, but I withheld this opinion.

My homage completed, I stepped back into the crowd so that others could pay their tributes. Across the grave, A’isha stared as if I had grown a new head while Asma gazed at me with gratitude—not for the last time, I hoped.

I longed to say to her:
Yaa Asma, I adored you from afar years ago, even while you were married to my brother, Ja’far. Now a yawning grave separates our bodies, but our hearts, I pray, will soon be as one.

But in the following instant A’isha wrapped herself around Asma as if to protect her from dishonor. Hiding her from me, that she-dog led Asma out of the hut, hurling me looks that would have struck me dead had they been daggers.

I restrained myself from leaping over our dead
khalifa
and yanking my prize out of that red-haired vixen’s arms. A’isha had hated me since the day, seven years ago, when I had urged Muhammad to divorce her. Even now I remained convinced of the rightness of my position. She had never repented of setting Muslim against Muslim with her irresponsible, illicit night in the desert with the young warrior Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal. Unable to admit any wrongdoing, she still blamed me for her troubles. Now I tried not to imagine the lies she would tell Asma to poison her against me.

As the crowd dispersed, my uncle and cousin approached with smiles.
“A wonderful speech, very poetic and spontaneous,” my cousin Ibn al-Abbas was saying, embracing me, while my uncle nodded and leered as though I had committed a lascivious act.

“Very shrewd,” he said, clasping an arm about my shoulders as we left the hut. “Now all of Medina will marvel at Ali ibn Abi Talib’s generous spirit as well as his eloquence of speech. None will even remember that you opposed Abu Bakr, only that you praised him at his burial. You have positioned yourself most excellently for the
khalifa,
nephew.”

My face and neck burning, I protested, telling my uncle that my words had been sincere. He laughed and winked. “Of course,” he said. “Ali is the epitome of sincerity, second only to his paternal cousin, the Prophet of al-Lah.”

It had been Abu Bakr’s request that, on the same day that he was buried, the people of Medina should pledge allegiance to Umar.
The umma must not be without leadership for even one day,
he had said. To ensure that the people would support his choice, he had called Asma to help lift him from his bed to the window, where, supported by her remarkable arms, he summoned his remaining strength to ask the crowd outside for their approval.
Have I made the right decision in choosing Umar?
he had croaked, and they replied with a roar so enthusiastic it seemed to tremble the walls.

Now those same supporters poured like a flash flood into the mosque courtyard to profess their support for Umar as their new
khalifa.
I made certain I was the first to make the pledge, so that there would be no more speculation about my wanting the title.

Later that afternoon, with a flavor in my mouth like grape seeds, I approached Umar. I hesitated to do so while the pain of Abu Bakr’s passing lay upon him like a fresh wound, yet my uncle was right that, once Umar’s sorrow diminished, he would covet the exquisite Asma for his own. So as not to appear overly eager for her, I first requested the favor I had the least hope of obtaining: permission to ride into battle with my brethren. The famous general Mothanna, who had already won so many victories in Syria, had arrived in Medina last evening to recruit warriors for our Persia campaign. If Umar allowed it, I would be the first to volunteer.

But my desire to fight was not to be fulfilled at that time.

“I remember well the skills you exhibited at Badr and Uhud,” Umar said, referring to two of the
umma’s
greatest battles under Muhammad’s green
standard. We were seated in the
majlis,
which, despite the
umma’s
new prosperity, was decorated as austerely as it had been during Muhammad’s time, with only a single curtain of coarse linen on the high, small window, and a plain rug, worn but clean, on the floor. In one corner of the room, near the courtyard entry, lay a pile of cushions that had supplied me and Umar with our seats. Between us on a cloth sat a yellow gourd filled with water and two bowls from which we drank.

“Allowing me to fight would ensure the
umma
many victories,” I said. “Awarding me a position of command would gain you even more.”

“You speak truly.” Umar peered at me from beneath brows that shaded his eyes like hedges. “Yet we have already lost too many of the Prophet’s Companions in our battles. You are father to the Prophet’s heirs. How can I risk your life?”

I was prepared for this argument. “I fought alongside Muhammad in all his battles. You would be following his example if you allowed me a command in the Muslim army.”

Umar lifted the gourd, poured water into his bowl, drank it down, poured more water, and drank again. I watched his face for clues to his thoughts, but could discern nothing.

“The situation is different now,” he finally said as he wiped his mustache. “Muhammad’s detractors attacked from
outside
his ranks, while you have attacked the
khalifa
from within.”

I dipped my head to prevent his seeing the angry tic of my jaw. “I protected Muhammad from his enemies. I would do the same for you,
yaa khalifa.
”

“Would you protect me from yourself, then, Ali?”

“By al-Lah, I have pledged allegiance to you. I will not endure these slanders!” My shout erupted like the blast from an oven, shooting me to my feet. He scowled, and I knew he was but an utterance away from denying me all I wanted. Yet the idea of again remaining in Medina while others fought was unbearable. Holding my voice steady, I looked Umar in the eyes and dared him with my thrust chin and set jaw to prove his insinuations. “I am no traitor,” I said.

He arose, also, to stand over me, his height much greater than mine. “Nor are you a loyal follower,” he said. “Except, perhaps, of your uncle al-Abbas.”

“I want to fight. If you will not appoint me to a position of command, then at least allow me to serve as a foot soldier.”

He lifted his right arm and snapped it downward, cracking the whip he infamously carried everywhere now. The sound reverberated like a slap against my ears, causing me to flinch.

“Do not command Umar ibn al-Affan,” he cried. “I will not degrade you by sending you into the field as a foot soldier, nor compromise myself by making you a general. You will remain in Medina to advise me as you did Abu Bakr. Now, if that is all . . .”

His face drooped, revealing his exhaustion. I knew he needed rest, yet as he walked me toward the
majlis
door with shoulders slumped I realized my chance at happiness lay between him and that entryway.

“
Yaa khalifa,
that is not all.”

He exhaled sharply. “I have made my decision, Ali.”

“I hear and obey,” I said. “Yet if I must remain at home, I would like to request marriage to Abu Bakr’s widow.”

Umar’s scowl remained fixed, but a slight smile seemed to unravel its edges. “Umm Ruman? She seems advanced in years for you, well past the age for bearing children. Yet if you insist—”

“I do not refer to her!” I winced hearing the irritation in my voice, and when Umar’s eyes lit up with his jest, I wished for a whip of my own to brandish. I took a calming breath. “I speak of Asma bint Omas.”

“Asma? Hmm.” Umar tugged at his beard. “That is a prize I had desired for myself.”

My hopes, so lofty when I had approached Umar, now faltered like a bird whose wing has been hurt. I pressed my sweating palms into my robe.

“
Afwan
,
khalifa,
I did not intend to feast on a meal you had prepared for your own enjoyment.” I struggled to keep my voice steady. “I erroneously assumed that you would be occupied—”

“Yes, yes, you speak the truth, Ali. The demands of the
khalifa
will prevent me from meeting the demands of a new wife.” His curt nod sent my spirits soaring again. “If Asma consents, then you have my permission to take her.”

And so with light steps I moved across the courtyard to ask the incomparable Umm Salama to act as my emissary in requesting Asma’s hand in marriage. As required of all Muhammad’s wives, she hid behind a screen
as we spoke, shielding her expression from my view. Although she greeted me most warmly, the great lady grew quiet when I presented the reason for my visit.

“I want to marry Asma bint Omas,” I said, smiling, for the act of forming her name seemed to fill my mouth with joy. “Will you honor me by approaching her with my offer? I wish to seal an agreement today.”

The silence between us stretched as long and tight as the leading rope on a stubborn ass. I yearned to jump up and topple the screen to determine if she had fainted.

“Yaa
Umm Salama,” I said. “Did you hear my request?”