The Sword Of Medina (19 page)

I glanced down at him and then at the other faces, all like locked doors. Why should they disagree with Abd al-Rahman’s offer when he would gladly perform this difficult task in their stead? Once again I would be denied the
khalifa
. I turned and I stormed out of the room—and, on the other side of the doorway, collided so violently with someone that I nearly fell.

When I had steadied myself I looked down into the flushed face of A’isha, who lay in an awkward sprawl at my feet. Her wrapper had slipped down, allowing her hair to float like a fine red mist about her face. She looked so vulnerable that I might have offered my hand to help her from the floor—until she reached out a sandaled foot and kicked me in the shin.

“Watch where you’re going, in the name of al-Lah!” she growled as she pushed herself upward.

“
Afwan
,” I said, hiding with a scowl my unbidden—and unwelcome—feelings of compassion. “I should have expected to catch you spying, the same as when you were a child. How foolish of me to think you might have grown out of it.”

“I have an interest in those proceedings, the same as you,” she said. “Unlike you, though, I was forced to leave.”

“Why would I remain? To witness yet another act of treachery by your bosom friend al-Zubayr?”

She laughed. “Al-Zubayr is no friend of mine. He supports Talha and the return of
islam
to its original state, the way Muhammad envisioned it.”

I wanted the same thing, I could have said—but she already knew that. I was the one she hated, not my beliefs. “Supporting that weakling Uthman will do nothing to help
islam
, as you and al-Zubayr should know,” I said.

She pulled her wrapper aside for one instant, to taunt me with her wicked smile. “He’s keeping you out of the
khalifa
, isn’t he? Talha will be here soon. Then, we’ll see—”

A shout from outside the mosque interrupted us. I frowned to see Abu Hurayra with his ever-present cat cradled in one arm and the other arm flailing as if he were trying to fly.

“Murder!” he was crying. “Murder in the streets of Medina!
Yaa
Ali, heir to the Prophet, I beg you, protect us, hide us from the killer of Persians!”

His words were a hand squeezing my throat. Ubayd Allah! In my surprise at seeing the
shura
convened, I had forgotten my concerns about the son of Umar’s vengeful rampage.

I ran to Abu Hurayra and grasped his beard, sending his cat scrambling to the floor. “Tell me of whom you speak and I will have him arrested.”

“Ubayd Allah, son of Umar,” he said in a quaking voice, confirming my worst fears. “He has killed two Persian men, and now he wants my Persian cat.”

Just then Ubayd Allah burst into the mosque gripping his bloody dagger. His eyes blazed as he lunged toward Abu Hurayra.

I possessed little affection for the pest Abu Hurayra, Muhammad’s self-appointed servant, who had annoyed me immensely by following Muhammad everywhere—into the
majlis
, into his wives’ bedrooms, into my home—and, after my cousin died, inventing sayings by Muhammad to suit his every convenience. Yet I did not wish to witness more bloodshed, and I certainly could not condone killing in the mosque. I yanked Zulfikar from its sheath and sliced my trusty blade against the right arm of Ubayd Allah. He dropped his dagger and slumped to his knees.

“
Afwan, yaa
Ubayd Allah,” I said. “I cannot permit any more killings.”

Abdallah and Sa’d rushed into the room—but stopped at the sight of Ubayd Allah bleeding on the floor. “
Yaa
brother, what has happened?” Abdallah said, glaring at me.

“The Persians have murdered our father,” Ubayd Allah groaned, holding his arm. “I have taken revenge.”

“One Persian did the deed, not all of them,” I corrected him. “And your father yet clings to life. Who knows whether he will defeat this wound and return to rule us all?”

“You are mistaken, Ali,” Abdallah Ibn Umar said in a thick voice. Tears spilled over his face. “Our father breathed his final breath today in my mother’s arms—while we of the
shura
fought over the
khalifa
like scavengers over scraps of meat.”

Where is Talha?
In spite of the anticipation and excitement filling the mosque on the day the next
khalifa
was to be chosen, I felt only anxiety as I waited for Talha to magically appear. In the eight years since Muhammad’s death,
islam
had taken some disturbing turns away from its original path. Conquest and booty drove the
umma
now, rather than love for God. Orphans, slaves, and women, the people Muhammad had helped, were forgotten as men strove for wealth and military honors. Talha hated these changes as much as I, and, as
khalifa,
would work with me to restore compassion and generosity to
islam
. But we had to begin now—before it was too late.

Umar had doubled the size of Muhammad’s mosque, but I could see from my hut’s doorway that it wasn’t nearly big enough on this day. The spacious room filled quickly with men and their chatter, hundreds of voices rising in a confused swarm that stung my ears with the name of
Ali
and soothed them with the murmur of
Uthman
. If only it had been Talha’s name soaring to the sky! We could have accomplished so much for
islam
. But alas, he wasn’t here and the
khalifa
was about to be given to someone else—and all I could do was pray that it would be someone other than Ali.

Standing with my sister-wives pressing around me, I watched as Ali and al-Abbas entered to a smattering of cheers. Even from this distance, I could smell al-Abbas’s perfume, an unctuous musk scent that made me
gag. He had been busy, I’d heard, recruiting supporters for Ali, but he widened his eyes at the chanting men as though he’d never seen such an astonishing sight. Ali climbed the steps to the marble platform and faced the crowd, his jaw tight and his hands clenched. He had dressed plainly for the occasion, in a simple white gown and robe the color of sand—clean but a bit tattered, despite his generous pension. Of course, he had a family and a stomach to feed, both of which seemed to be growing all the time.

On the other side of the platform stood Uthman, his mustache slick and curling over his copper-dyed beard and his mouth smiling as though he’d just filled his belly with warm milk, which he probably had done. His rich red robe and saffron gown told me he expected to be appointed today, and why not? Abd al-Rahman, his closest companion, was making the choice.

Uthman’s eyes met mine and his smile widened. I nodded and smiled back to him. Although I had desperately wanted Talha for the
khalifa
, in truth I would have supported a donkey over Ali. If Ali were named, not only would I lose my pension and my freedom—for he’d be certain to tighten the restrictions Umar had imposed, and banish me to my hut—but
islam
would lose its soul to the greed of Ali’s uncle.

“Listen to those men chanting Ali’s name,” Sawdah said from her cushion on my floor, where she busily sewed leather leggings for our warriors. “The Prophet would not have liked this, believe me.”

“You speak truly,” Juwairriyah said from behind me, shaking her head and filling the room with the scent of lavender from her hair. “Muhammad always admonished us to treat one another kindly.”

“There’s nothing kind about that chanting!” Saffiya’s eyes shone and a red dot glowed on each of her cheeks. “Think how poor Uthman must feel.”

“I’m sure he feels anything but poor.” Raihana rolled her eyes.

“He has to expect opposition if he’s going to try for the
khalifa,
” Hafsa pointed out. “A’isha’s father had competition, and Umar had detractors, also.”

“But they had already become the
khalifa,
” I said. “I agree with Saffiya—advocating for Ali like this is rude. Those men should be made to leave the mosque.”

“Who will send them out, A’isha? You?” Ramlah’s laugh was harsh. “Unsheathe your sword and demonstrate, by al-Lah! I, for one, would like to see that feat.”

“We all know whom
you
would like to see named
khalifa, yaa
Ramlah,” Maymunah said. “But your brother Mu’awiyya is not a contender.”

“Not yet,” she said. “He would be a much stronger ruler than either that soft-handed Uthman or that hard-headed Ali.”

“Mu’awiyya’s head is every bit as hard as Ali’s,” Umm Salama said.

“Not to mention his heart,” I chimed in. I’d heard how Mu’awiyya had tricked Khalid ibn al-Walid into declaring himself governor of Syria, then spread rumors that Khalid had stolen from the treasury. Too proud to speak in his own defense, Khalid—who’d conquered Syria—had been stripped of his rank and Mu’awiyya had become Syria’s governor. As much as I disliked Khalid—and feared him, for his steely eyes never looked at me without violence—I couldn’t condone Mu’awiyya’s deceit. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the unctuous Mu’awiyya had murdered his brother Yazid to gain his seat.

Yet I didn’t want to think of Mu’awiyya that day as we waited for Abd al-Rahman to arrive. Visions of Talha racing across the desert, urging his camel onward, filled my thoughts even as the impossibility of his getting back in time made me dig my fingernails into my palms.
Why, al-Lah, did You let him leave Medina?

I must have whispered the prayer, for Hafsa squeezed my arm and gazed at me with eyes as large and sad as a doe’s. “Why did al-Lah let my father die? Why did He allow my brother to become possessed?
Yaa
A’isha, let me know if God answers your questions, because He has ignored mine.”

I realized how selfish I was being. What was I worried about except power, while Hafsa mourned the loss of her father and the possible execution of her brother Ubayd Allah, whom she loved most in all the world? Yet what was more important than the
khalifa
? Our next leader would have the power to do tremendous good, to instill the values of equality and mercy throughout our empire. Or he would increase the divisions, resentments, and greed taking hold of our people as our wealth grew.

“Here comes Abd al-Rahman now,” Saffiya breathed. “Please, al-Lah, let him name Uthman.”

The softness of her eyes and mouth as she spoke Uthman’s name told
me she was in love with him—but, contrary to several years ago when I’d first suspected it, I felt no disapproval now. Loneliness was my companion, and that of my sister-wives. How could I blame Saffiya for wanting to escape our fate?

The room fell silent as Abd al-Rahman made his way slowly from the mosque’s entryway, across the room, to the platform. His step was sluggish and his white robe seemed to droop from his bent frame, which stooped as though he carried the Ka’ba on his shoulders. He ascended the platform on Uthman’s side and walked to the center, to stand between the candidates. His skin, normally as pink and fresh as a newborn lamb’s, sagged in folds the color of ash below his sunken eyes.

“Poor thing, he has not slept since Umar died,” Sawdah said. “Umm Ayman took him some food but he wouldn’t let her in the door. He said he was praying night and day until al-Lah told him who to pick.”

“He was probably hoping he’d die before he had to make this decision,” Raihana said. “Can you imagine the burden?”

“He offered to do it,” I told her. Of course, he’d seemed certain at the time that God would guide him. Judging from the way he looked today, his prayers hadn’t been answered.

He lifted trembling arms. “Men of
islam
,” he began. His voice sounded like he’d eaten sand for his morning meal. “Today marks a momentous occasion.”

And then, despite his exhaustion, Abd al-Rahman spoke for a full hour. Spellbound at first, his listeners soon became restless, murmuring to one another, shifting from foot to foot, tugging at their beards, and rolling their eyes at one another. My legs grew tired and I was tempted to sit down with Sawdah, but I didn’t want to lose my vantage in the front of the group. So I let my mind wander to thoughts of Talha, envisioning his race across the desert, kicking up sands, picturing his laughing eyes and brilliant smile. If he were here now, I’d be grinning at his quips instead of fretting and chewing my fingernails. Unless, of course, he spent the time caressing me with his eyes and murmuring tender words.

My pulse quickened at the memory of our last moments together, how his eyes had shone as he praised my eulogy for Maryam. How, I’d wondered, could he display his desire so wantonly when I was still married to the Prophet of al-Lah? I’d been as irked by his attentions as if he were a stray dog
trotting at my heels. Yet, ever since he’d left for Khaybar, I’d found myself beset by thoughts of Talha. During the day, I tucked away amusing stories to tell him, imagining how he’d laugh. At night he filled my dreams, caressing my hair with his hands. I awoke feeling guilty—could Muhammad discern dreams?—and more determined than ever to turn desire, his and mine, into a love as innocent as that of a sister and brother.

Yet—was I an alchemist, able to transform these forbidden feelings into gold? Loneliness and its salt tears had never been my favorite flavors. Having betrothed Talha to my sister Umm Kulthum, I had no choice but to try.

How I rued, now, my impulsive request! Talha had been reluctant, to say the least. His eyes had dulled when I’d asked him to marry my sister. Since he already had one wife, I’d assumed he would readily agree, to save Umm Kulthum from Umar and his whip. I’d also hoped the engagement would change his feelings for me. Now, though, I despised the thought of his holding my sister close, of the intimacy they would someday share.

If only I had known that Umar would die before my sister came of age. But al-Lah knows best—and, in truth, Talha’s marriage to my sister might be best for us all. My dreams told me that I was in danger of succumbing to temptation. I hadn’t been intimate with a man in eleven years, and Muhammad and the threat of hellfire seemed so far away. But now, Umm Kulthum’s honor was at stake. I’d have to take care not to let my newly discovered feelings for Talha show.