The Sword Of Medina (22 page)

Then he turned to Asma and gestured toward me “Asma, I leave the choice to you. Speak with A’isha if you desire, although it means contradicting my wishes. You may decide for yourself whose love you value more, hers or mine.” He walked stiffly across the grass to join Mohammad and Hud under the date-palm tree.

Face to face with Asma at last, I greeted her with a smile that I hoped showed my love for her.

“I’ve missed you so much all these years.” I stepped toward her for an embrace. To my shock, she backed away from me. Her gaze darted about.

“We were friends once, but that was long ago,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other. “Now my allegiance is to my husband.
Afwan,
A’isha.” And she scurried off like a frightened rabbit to huddle under the palm tree in the protection of Ali’s arms.

I stared after her with a hollow feeling in my stomach. How completely Asma had changed! She was devoted to Ali, it was clear.
It is my desire to follow his example in all respects
, Ali had said without blinking. Ali, following Muhammad’s example? How easily lying came to him. Once again I said a prayer of thanks that Ali had not been given the
khalifa.

As I made my way through the crowd, talking to one opulently dressed person after another, I noticed more keenly than ever how the basic principles of
islam
had been cast aside. Muhammad had taught equality, but the Muslim people had created a hierarchy. At the top were members of the tribe of Quraysh, Meccans who bragged about their blood ties to Muhammad even though they’d tried to assassinate him. Next came the Medinan
ansari,
or Helpers, who’d allowed Muhammad and his followers to flee persecution and live in their city.

Lower down on the ladder were the apostates, Bedouin tribes who had turned away from
islam
after Muhammad’s death, then later returned to the fold. My father had contributed to prejudice against them by forbidding them to fight in his army. Umar had relaxed that prohibition, in part because he’d needed more warriors; but he’d also increased the jealousies and divisions by giving more pay to longer-time Muslims and less to new converts. Umar rewarded men for their faithfulness, but he’d also created a lot of resentment.

Uthman, to his credit, had done away with Umar’s “merit” system and equalized pensions among all, depending on rank, not longevity. Yet he’d awarded the best, highest-paying positions in the government and the army to members of his family. I’d advised against it, warning him that the Bedouins, especially, would grumble.
Does not a wise leader appoint men whom he knows and trusts?
Uthman had said with a smile.

I liked Uthman. He was a generous man who had given large sums of
money to Muhammad, saving him from starvation more than once. Yet, like my brother, I wasn’t sure he was the best man to lead the
umma
. He wasn’t strong enough to refuse favors to his family members, and he never denied himself anything. His knowledge of the
qur’an
seemed thin, and his health always seemed to be failing. During his first year as
khalifa,
he hadn’t been able to lead the pilgrimage to Mecca because of a nosebleed that wouldn’t stop. Now that he was eighty, everyone seemed to be waiting for him to die—and jostling for position in the contest for the
khalifa.

Ali, I could see, still thought the job should be his. But instead of increasing his status with money, he’d focused on building a huge household of wives, concubines, and thirty children.

“By al-Lah, is he trying to rival Solomon?” Hafsa said to me now as, plucking grapes from a bowl outside the cooking tent, we watched Ali place his hand on Asma’s swelling stomach.

“Yes, and not just in wives and children,” I said. “He wants to be a king like Solomon, also.” I told her about my conversation with Mohammad and Hud, and her eyebrows lifted.

“Do your brother’s opinions come from Ali?” she said. “I’ve heard similar talk elsewhere.”

“I’d wager my next month’s pension that these rumors of unrest are coming from Ali,” I said. “Of course, he’s too feeble-hearted to start a rebellion by himself. But his uncle al-Abbas is perfectly capable of doing the job.”

Servants marched past bearing platters of food: loaves of wheat bread as light as air; rice scented with saffron; lamb stewed with figs; tender asparagus braised with leeks and ghee; cheeses of various textures and colors made from the milk of goats, sheep, and cows; and sesame cakes drizzled with
rummaniya,
a syrup made from pomegranate juice. They wafted behind them a scent trail to make our mouths water—cumin, cinnamon, cloves, and lemon—yet I couldn’t help remembering a time, while Muhammad lived, when a feast like this would have made our stomachs flip in delight. Back then, our household subsisted on barley, dates, and water. Most of the rest of the
umma
had fared only slightly better. But Persia was closed to us then, and caravans from Egypt and Syria were rare. Now we owned those lands and imported their foods, and money to buy them was ever at hand. Only the poorest among us ate barley bread these days, or relied on dates to survive.

Behind the servants lumbered Sawdah, nearly seventy now and barely able to walk ten steps without resting. “I see you two hungering after the meal. It is good, the best feast I have ever been in charge of,” she said proudly, mopping sweat from her face with a handkerchief. “But you know you can’t eat, A’isha, until you congratulate the bride and groom.” She narrowed her eyes, giving me a look so pointed it prodded me across the courtyard to Talha and Umm Kulthum, the disturbingly happy couple.

“A’isha!” My sister glowed as if she’d been dipped in starlight as she kissed me. What a difference between her wedding day and mine! She certainly wasn’t the frightened bride I’d been. Of course, I’d been nine, and terrified that Muhammad would want to consummate our marriage that night. If I’d known that my new husband was willing to wait until I was ready—and beyond, as it turned out—would I have collapsed on the floor during the ceremony, crying, while our families and friends looked on? Or would I have smiled as radiantly as my sister was doing now? She loved Talha. She would have married him the day they became engaged, when she was just four, if I’d let her. He, on the other hand, was supposed to love
me.
So why did his eyes sparkle deliriously as he invited me now to the Sawad?

“I’ve built a huge house, big enough to get lost in, with lots of rooms, patios, fountains, and servants,” he said. “Why don’t you join us? Plan to stay a few weeks so you can view every room.”

“Yes, come with us, A’isha.” Umm Kulthum grabbed my hand and squeezed it as she snuggled into Talha’s embrace. “It’ll be a nice change for you, and very restful.”

I shook my head. Watching Talha fondle my sister didn’t sound restful to me. “I don’t feel comfortable in big houses,” I said. “Like Muhammad, I prefer simplicity.”

Umm Kulthum frowned. “I’ve noticed. That gown you’re wearing is older than I am. A’isha, there’s no need to live so austerely anymore. We’re not fighting for survival the way you did in the olden days. The
umma
has money now.”

Talha nodded. “Your sister speaks truly, A’isha,” he said. “People are once again measuring a man by his wealth. With my great house in the Sawad, I’m more respected, and my chances of becoming
khalifa
are increasing. Things are changing—and Umm Kulthum, my fresh young bride, can help prepare us for the future.”

They turned together as one and, arm-in-arm, floated like lovers into the mosque. Beside me, Hafsa tugged at my sleeve.

“
Yaa
A’isha, you’re crying!” she whispered. In truth, I was. I dropped my gaze, hoping no one could see the tears spilling onto my cheeks as my sister-wife led me into the mosque for the wedding feast.

I plopped without grace onto a cushion, as I struggled to control my emotions. How often Talha used to gaze at me the way he now gazed at Umm Kulthum! A dish of lamb was placed before us but I barely noticed it. Umm Kulthum, of course, was a beautiful girl, with skin like dew and a mouth as plump as ripe figs. I, on the other hand, was an old woman of forty. It was obvious why any man would prefer her to me.
My fresh young bride,
Talha had called her. He’d never see me the same way again.

Praise al-Lah for that,
a voice inside me admonished.
Doesn’t Umm Kulthum deserve happiness?
I shook off my self-pity and reached for a piece of bread and a bite of lamb so tender it fell apart on my tongue. My little sister was the closest thing to a child of my own that I would ever know. Her happiness was everything to me—as I’d proven by giving up the man I loved for her sake. Tears filled my mouth, choking out the taste of my food. I was a married woman, promised to Muhammad for eternity. I shouldn’t be having thoughts about men and love that didn’t involve my husband.

Things are changing.
In truth, they were, and not all for the best. What had Talha said—that people were again measuring men by their wealth? He hadn’t seemed to disapprove of that attitude, while Muhammad had adamantly rejected it.
A man’s money means nothing to al-Lah, unless he uses it for the good of others
, he’d said many times. Now, just twenty-one years after his death, people were forgetting the true meaning of
islam
and honoring men for their possessions instead of their hearts. Uthman, who flaunted wealth, was partly to blame. But so, in my opinion, was Ali.

I looked at him now, escorting Asma to a group of women far away from me before joining the men’s side of the banquet. He was wearing his old military uniform, the most modest apparel at this event except, perhaps, for my old gown. But his swagger bespoke arrogance, and his choice of seating—with ‘Amr, the Egyptian governor-conqueror, and the despicable Marwan—told me that power was still on his mind.

When we’d finished our meal, and the dishes and cloths had been gathered up and carried away, Uthman creaked up the steps to the platform,
preparing to lead a prayer for the bride and groom. But when he turned to face the crowd, the heavy doors to the mosque creaked open. In walked the skinny, gray-bearded
shaykh
Ibn Masud, one of Muhammad’s most respected Companions. Until my seclusion at age six, he had dandled me on his knee during many visits to my parents’ home.

Murmurs flurried through the mosque as he stepped up to the platform, as spry as a man half his age, and shook his cane at Uthman. “
Yaa
Uthman, I am told that you have refused my petition for a hearing today,” he shouted. “A man of my status and age should not be refused, especially when he has come all the way from Kufa.”

Uthman frowned. “As you see, Ibn Masud, we are in the midst of a wedding ceremony. I am afraid your complaint will have to wait.”

“There is no waiting when you are as old as I am,” Ibn Masud said. “As you should know.”

Uthman reddened, being a vain man who preferred not to talk about his age. “
Yaa
Ibn Masud, were you invited to this wedding? If not, I must ask that you leave the mosque and come back tomorrow.”

“I may be dead tomorrow,” he said, waving his cane. “Here is what I came to say. Listen to me now. Your brother Walid is the mortification of Kufa. I left that lovely village on the day he led the prayer services drunk on wine. He vomited on the mosque steps.” Gasps punctuated the room.

“Enough!” Uthman cried. “
Yaa
Ibn Masud, I told you I would see you in the morning.”

The old man stomped his foot. “You must correct this now,” he said. “It is blasphemy against al-Lah and an embarrassment for you,
khalifa.
And as keeper of the treasury of Kufa, I have come to tell you in person what my messengers have told you many times: Walid has been stealing dinars and dirhams for his own enrichment. For example, he uses the money to pay dancing girls for private performances. When I complained he suggested I take some gold for myself, which of course I did not do. Uthman, with your brother setting the example, corruption pervades your administration!”

“I said that is enough,” Uthman cried. “If you do not take yourself out of the mosque this instant, I will—I will—”

“He will have you forcibly removed,” Marwan called from his seat on the floor.

Uthman nodded. “Marwan speaks the truth. I will have you forcibly removed.”

“But
khalifa,
there is more. Your attempts to compile the
qur’an
into a single version are tainted.”

“That is enough!”

“I am an old man, but my mind is as sharp as a dagger. I can recite every word of the Prophet’s recitations exactly as they fell from his lips. Your compilers are making changes.”

“I do not want to hear this!” Uthman cried. “I warn you for the last time, Ibn Masud.”

“Changes in God’s word, Uthman! This is the greatest sin of all, and if you do not correct it, you are in danger of hellfire.”

“Where are my men?” Uthman was screaming now, his face wizened with rage. Two of his guards ran up to the platform, wiping pomegranate syrup from their mustaches. Uthman pointed a quavering finger at the
shaykh
. “Throw him out! Now! And I mean
throw
him, as far as he will go!”

I leapt to my feet as the men picked up Muhammad’s old friend. “No! Stop!” I yelled as they ran with him toward the open door. I raced toward them, stepping on platters, kicking over cups, calling out to the guards to be careful, that he was the Prophet’s Companion—but I was too late. Just before I reached them, the guards tossed the poor old man high into the air, his arms and legs flailing, to land hard on his stomach, wheezing and bleeding from his nose and mouth.

How I yearned to run my sword through the gut of the rat-faced guard who stood chuckling at Ibn Masud! The poor old man lay in a heap. “That should teach you to obey our
khalifa,
” the other guard said with a sneer. I ran to Ibn Masud and knelt by his side.

“I am unharmed, Mother of the Believers,” he said. I blushed with pleasure at the honor of hearing him use my
kunya.
He tried to stand and found that he could not. “My ribs,” he said, sitting on the ground, doubled over in pain. I ran my hands along his ribcage and found two jagged breaks trying to tear through his skin. By al-Lah! He would need treatment, and soon.