The Sword Of Medina (23 page)

The guards had gone back inside the mosque, slapping each other’s backs in congratulation. No one had followed me. Did no one care about this important
shaykh
, a reciter of the
qur’an
and one of the last honest men in the Muslim empire?

As if in answer to my question, the two Mohammads—my brother and his friend Mohammad ibn Hudheifa—burst forth from the mosque. “We would have come sooner,” my brother murmured, “but Uthman insisted on leading the prayer.”

“While the most pious one lay in the dust, mistreated at his behest?” Heat rose from my belly. Leaving the Mohammads to help Ibn Masud, I snatched up my sword and stomped back into the mosque—just in time to confront Uthman before he began his descent from the
minbar
.

“What has happened to you,
yaa
Uthman?” I snapped, forgoing the praise and ring-kissing he enjoyed before being addressed. “Have you forgotten your promise to follow Muhammad’s path? Or have you decided the Prophet’s vision for
islam
is now out of date?”

“A’isha, please seat yourself,” Uthman said—gently, for he knew that having
me
thrown out would start a mutiny. “Honor your sister Umm Kulthum and your cousin Talha with your silence. I and you can speak of this later.”

“I am not the one who has dishonored this ceremony, and I will not be silent.” I raised my sword—Muhammad’s sword—high into the air. “I’m disgusted by what I saw here today. What kind of man beats up a wizened old
shaykh
? Not much of a man at all!”

Cheers arose from the men’s side of the mosque, emboldening me even more.

“For years I’ve defended you against every criticism, against every accusation, but I’m finished with that now. In my opinion, you deserve every damning word that comes your way.”

With that, I turned and walked to the front door of the mosque, ceremoniously shook the dust from my sandals, and, with my head high and my heart broken, stepped out the door.

I should not have gone to Kufa. My stepson Mohammad ibn Abi Bakr, reclining in my new, spacious home after a delicious meal, invited me to accompany him to that city on the Euphrates. He planned to enlist in the battle against the rebellious Persians resisting our rule. As he told me about it, a foreboding fell upon me like the cold of a desert night.

“You must come,
yaa abi
,” he’d said. “Every important man in Medina is moving his home to Kufa. It’s said that Paradise is the only place more beautiful.”

After much coaxing, I set aside my reservations and agreed to the journey, for I longed to escape the increasing unrest in Medina over Uthman’s rule.

But I also desired to see Kufa, the new garrison city Umar had built that, I had heard, outshone the sun in splendor. My son told me of a river engorged with water year-round, of trees bejeweled with the sweetest of fruits, and of a mosque so dazzling that to pray under its shining dome seemed to lift the soul to the lap of al-Lah. To view delights such as these would certainly divert my thoughts from the irksome urgings of my uncle to join the agitation against Uthman and position myself for the
khalifa
.

“The
ansari
have already pledged their support to you,” al-Abbas had said the day before as we walked home after the Friday services. I held my tongue, not pointing out that the
ansari
had always supported me. “The Bedouins are more receptive to you, also,” he’d added, as if hearing my
thoughts. “They had feared a monarchy if you succeeded Muhammad, but many are saying now that Uthman’s nepotism is more deplorable.”

I found this talk of mutiny thoroughly disgusting. I wanted only to distance myself from it as quickly as possible. So, despite my apprehensions, I told my son that I would accompany him to Kufa—and regretted my decision before we even set out. For, at the front of the caravan, next to Mohammad, rode his bosom companion Hud, Uthman’s foster son and relentless detractor. I would not escape complaints about Uthman, after all.

“It is an honor to have our
khalifa
accompany us,” Hud said, his face alight with pleasure.

“Your eyesight must be deteriorating,
yaa
Hud, and at such a young age,” I said to him. “It is not the
khalifa
who sits before you, but only Ali.”

His eyes shone. “I am too eager for this change. In my view, you already are the
khalifa
.”

“But without a whip, or evil advisors,” my son added, coming up behind me on the camel I had given him.

At that point, I should have changed my mind and stayed at home. But before I could retreat, the
muezzin
sounded the call to prayer. Then, after we had rolled up our mats, Mohammad gave me his first embrace in years. What father would turn back after that happy event?

We rode during the night, as was our custom, with blazing torches lighting our way across a land bereft of oases or water. In the so-called sand desert, we had to place blankets as stepping stones under our camels’ hooves so they could walk without sinking. The dunes were impossibly soft and deep, blown into great, sea-like billows by the most violent of
samoom
winds. We labored for six nights to cross that treacherous land, fearing a storm might swoop down like the hand of a
djinni
and smother us with its whirling, devilish
zauba’ah,
pillars of stinging sand.

By the grace of al-Lah we were able to avoid that gruesome fate and cross the sand desert in safety. Yet by the time we reached the other side, I had begun to fear a different foe—one equally out of my control. Each time we camped, the bitterness of Mohammad ibn Hudheifa toward his foster father poured forth from his mouth to taint our food, disgruntle our camels, and disturb my sleep with visions of our blessed
qur’an
impaled on the tip of a sword and spurting blood.

“People think Uthman is generous, but he only gives when he knows he’ll get something back,” Hud would say. “That’s why the numbers of poor are growing while our treasuries overflow with gold. Uthman’s relatives benefit, because they help keep him in power.” He poked our cook-fire with a stick, causing sparks to fly. “Let me correct myself.
Some
of his relatives benefit.”

On and on he went, complaining about how Uthman would not appoint him to a governorship until he had proven himself a worthy warrior on the battlefield, snarling over his difficulty obtaining a position in the Egyptian navy, and vowing to wreak revenge on Uthman for treating him poorly.

I had held my tongue many times through this diatribe until, one night, my agitation overcame my sensible nature and I answered Hud with sparks of my own.

“By al-Lah, if you knew how you sounded with these complaints you would never speak another word against Uthman,” I said to him. “You only prove your lack of maturity by focusing on yourself.”

I did not point out to him that I, who had been denied the
khalifa
three times, had never complained about my lack of status. Of course, Hud had been a young child, no more than seven or eight years old, when Abd al-Rahman had granted the
khalifa
to his friend Uthman on the strength of a single, disingenuous “yes.” In contrast to his promise, Uthman had not followed the examples of his predecessors, not even in the smallest of ways.

Hud raised his stick and pointed it at me across the fire—disrespectful behavior, but better cannot be expected of a man who, as a child, enjoyed the fulfillment of every whim. “Focusing on myself?” he said with a scowl. “I spoke of the poor, didn’t I? That’s more than I’ve heard from
you
tonight.”

“
Yaa
Hud,” my estimable son Mohammad said. “Ali is like a father to me, remember?”

“Father?” His laugh clattered about our heads. “You speak the word as if it were hallowed, as if I should prostrate myself with respect. I do respect you, Ali,” he said, lowering his stick, “but not because you are a father.”

“Raising another man’s child is no simple task,” I said, able to defend
Uthman on this point, at least. “It requires time, attention, and money. From what I have seen, Uthman has met his obligations to you exceedingly well.”

“He had to,” Hud said. “He owed money to my
abi
. That’s the one obligation Uthman ibn ‘Affan can understand.”

I said nothing more, for it was clear that Hud was not interested in truth, but only in revenge. The more he spoke, the more I understood Uthman’s refusal to grant this hot-headed young man a leadership position. At the same time, I sympathized with Hud’s frustration. Had I not been denied the
khalifa
because of my impulsivity, quick temper, and youth?

Of course, I had also faced A’isha’s opposition. She seemed to follow me like a shadow, appearing in the mosque, in the market, everywhere but in my house, from which I had wisely banished her. Her challenges to me seemed relentless and without reason. Did she nurture a grudge for my words and deeds of more than twenty years ago? We had been scarcely more than children. Yet now, as then, she could not admit to wrongdoing of any kind.

When she railed at Uthman about harming the old
shaykh
Ibn Masud, I had wondered if she regretted supporting that weakling Uthman’s appointment—but her refusal to tend to Ibn Masud at my home, where my son had brought him to convalesce, told me she still clung to her erroneous choice. Impressed by her speech on the
shaykh’s
behalf—a speech I should have made, instead of merely sitting and watching Ibn Masud’s mistreatment—I had decided to lift my ban and allow A’isha into my house. But A’isha had sent a surgeon to set Ibn Masud’s broken bones and her servant girl to check on his progress. As always, she held herself above me and made certain that I was aware of it. And so my grudge against her returned.

The farther away from Medina I traveled, the smaller my concerns over the
khalifa,
A’isha, and Uthman seemed to become, as if they diminished on the horizon. Even Hud grew tired of grumbling. Instead, he played the
tanbur
around the fire while we drank coffee.

After one month, we arrived in Kufa, and soon I felt as much at home as if I had never lived anywhere else. Kufa was a remarkable city, with its houses laid out around the central mosque in a most orderly fashion. The mosque was an imposing building of stone, each side the length of two spear throws, with a row of marble columns across the front. A deep, wide
trench—similar to the one that had protected Medina from invasion in the Battle of the Ditch—surrounded the city, whose eastern border was traversed by the green-shaded Euphrates River.

As soon as I had entered the splendid city, my chest expanded with affection and with the fresh, scented air. The weather was cooler than in Medina, and the gentle breeze blowing from the Euphrates reduced the number of flies. Although the climate was dry, grasses of every texture and hue blanketed the ground, and fragrances of thyme, sage, and fennel enveloped us like a perfumed cloud.

Within an hour of entering, I was transformed. Gone was the listlessness into which I had sunk in recent years. Losing the
khalifa
to Uthman had weighted my spirit as if a wet woolen cloak had been thrown across my shoulders. But now, as the citizens rushed into the street with faces of joy and shouts of
yaa Ali!
on their lips, I perched myself on my camel with a straight back and a light heart.

Even meeting the besotted governor, al-Walid ibn ‘Uqba, did not quell my enthusiasm for the city. Standing in the spacious, sunlit mosque, I hid my shock at the sight of Uthman’s scandal-ridden brother. His skin was as red as if gossip had placed him in perpetual embarrassment, and his nose had spread and softened into a fleshy blob. He seized my beard in an show of friendship as he greeted me in a blurred voice. I smelled wine and spiced mutton on his breath.

“I trust you have not come to spy on me,” he said, wearing a large grin that revealed lips stained a red darker than blood. “You would find the employment very dull.”

“My visit to Kufa is for pleasure only.”

“Ah.” He winked and slapped my back. “So I have heard. Like me, you have embraced pleasure for its own sake, eh?” He lowered his voice. “I have recently obtained from Syria a lovely singing girl with hair as red as A’isha bint Abi Bakr’s. I know she would entertain you.”

I felt the hair prickle on the back of my neck. Could this woman be the same performer I had rescued from Umar’s whip in Damascus? How tenderly I had regarded her huddled on the ground, her hair spilling like rusty tears over her damp cheeks, and how churlishly she had responded to my admonition for modesty. In spite of A’isha’s many faults, I could not accuse her of immodesty, not since the day twenty-five years ago when
she’d ridden into Medina with her arms around Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal and her neighbors’ shouts punching her like fists.

A beardless man wearing a tall, narrow cap appeared before al-Walid. “I bring an urgent message for you,
yaa
governor,” he said. “That group to whom we have been referring is scheduled to meet tonight.”

Al-Walid lifted his eyebrows at me as if apologizing for the interruption. “Why are you telling me this?” he barked. “Of course you will have them all arrested.”

“Some of them are prominent men,” the messenger said. “Others are sons of prominent men.”

“Arrest them all and bring them to me.” Al-Walid excused himself and escorted his visitor from the room. The two Mohammads pulled me out the mosque door, saying hot food and soft beds awaited us. After a month of chewing on dried meat and dates I was eager for a meal. I was not disappointed at the repast laid out for us in the
majlis
of al-Ashtar, the legendary Bedouin warrior.

“I approached ‘Amr for a position in his navy, but before he could appoint me, Uthman had deposed him,” Hud said over olives, lemony hummus, skewers of lamb, golden wheat bread, saffron-scented rice, and plump figs. “He did it only in order to appoint his foster brother, whom everyone hates. Uthman doesn’t listen to anyone except his relatives, and all they want is power, status, and money.”