The Sword Of Medina (27 page)

♦

As we soon discovered, we were
all
mistaken, every one of us: me, A’isha, Talha, al-Zubayr, ‘Amr, al-Ashtar, Mohammad, Hud, and one thousand dissidents. Even Uthman was mistaken, for he apparently thought his decisions would be honored. But as the rebels crossed the desert on their way home, one of their scouts overtook and captured an Abyssinian messenger whose black skin had attracted their notice but whose errand, they discovered, was even darker.

He had in his possession a letter addressed to the Egyptian governor Abdullah and sealed by Uthman’s ring.
‘Amr is coming with a letter proclaiming that the khalifa has appointed him the new governor. Pay no attention to it. This is a ruse designed to place him in your hands. Dispose of him as you wish.
The treacherous order bore Uthman’s signature.

This time, the men did not pitch tents outside Medina’s gates. This time, one thousand men crashed into the city like a raging, tumultuous, flooding river, trampling Abu Hurayra’s cherished cat, scattering screaming children from the streets and running roughshod over their toys, and summoning me from my home, where I had dandled my delightful baby girl on my knee and amused her with a song. (In truth, this child was the only member of my family able to endure my pitiful, discordant voice.) The clamor of their invasion was so sudden and so heart stopping that I thought Mount Layla had erupted. I jumped to my feet, heedless of the baby’s startled cries, placed her in her mother’s arms, and ran to the door. A blur of horses’ hooves and flowing gowns and snarling men went scudding and tumbling toward the mosque. I turned and ran out the back door of my home to take a more expedient path to the mosque. Inside, I found a white-lipped al-Ashtar, backed by dozens of his followers, screaming at poor Abu Hurayra, who cowered and sniveled and insisted he had only come in search of his cat, Queen of Sheba.

“Why do your eyes dart about as we question you?” Al-Ashtar pointed his dagger at the little man’s throat. “You know where the
khalifa
is hidden. Tell us!”

“
Yaa
Ashtar, Uthman has probably retired to his home to escape the afternoon heat, as he does every day,” I said. “He will not return until the evening.”

“By al-Lah, he will never return!” al-Ashtar cried, and in the next instant he had sprung to his horse’s saddle and was leading his men to the palace, where the unsuspecting Uthman lay in the shade beside his fountain enjoying the cool drinks, moist cloths, and breezes from the date-palm fan waved by his lovely young wife Naila.

Sweat poured into my eyes as I hurried to the stable for my horse then rode at full speed to Uthman’s palace. As always, I rankled at the ostentatious display of wealth this grand edifice presented. Fashioned not of mud-and-straw bricks as were most homes in Medina, Uthman’s palace
was built of stones carried in from the cliffs outside the city, large rocks of gray and rose, held in place by thick stripes of white mortar. Instead of the single story or, at most, two, that characterized the ordinary Medina home, Uthman’s palace had three floors. Outside, around the ornate fence of stone and its gleaming copper gate, carefully tended roses and pomegranate trees stunned the senses with beauty and fragrance. A whitewashed balcony jutted out over enormous first-floor double doors of polished teak that had been transported on elephants from India. A garden spanned the entire flat roof, its foliage spilling green and flowers over the outside walls. Muhammad would not have liked this house. My cousin had not frowned on wealth that was used for others’ good, but he disapproved of any man’s flaunting his riches, just as he frowned on women’s publicly displaying their beauty. Nevertheless, when I arrived I stopped a group of men from battering down Uthman’s gate. As much as I would have enjoyed destroying the shameful structure, so contrary to the teachings of
islam
, I could not condone such violence against our
khalifa
.

Gaining entry to the palace was difficult, for Uthman’s servants were allowing no one indoors. Having prepared for this possibility, I attached my ring to an arrow and shot it onto the roof. In moments, Uthman’s wife Naila stepped out to the gate and beckoned me inside. The throng of attackers moved aside as I stepped through their midst and into Uthman’s home.

To my disgust, the palace’s interior was even more opulent than the exterior. The entryway, whose ceiling seemed to reach the heavens, could have held several rooms of my new house. Red and blue carpets from Persia lined the white marble floor, and bejeweled tapestries sparkled from the walls like stars on a clear night. Lamps of ornately worked gold lined the marble stairway, and the mahogany rail gleamed so pristinely that I hesitated to touch it.

Naila climbed the stairs. I followed her into a spacious bedroom containing more rugs, tapestries, and furniture including a bed nearly as large as the mosque’s
minbar
. Closets filled with gowns and robes lined the room, their doors gaping like stuffed mouths, their contents spilling onto the floor. Uthman stood before a mirror, donning a rich blue robe embroidered with flowers of gold thread. His fingers were trembling. His wife retrieved the indigo turban she had been winding and placed it on his head.

“I see you are preparing to greet your visitors,” I said. “Take care, Uthman, for they aim to seek revenge.”

“Revenge?” His voice sounded high and reedy, like the whine of a gnat. “For what, by al-Lah? I gave them everything they asked for.”

I showed him the intercepted letter, and his florid skin drained of color. He seized my beard and stared into my eyes. For the second time that day I beheld that desperate, horrified look I had seen on the battlefield so many times.

“B-by al-Lah!” he gasped. “This is not my d-doing.”

His shocked response told me he spoke the truth. “You will have to convince al-Ashtar,” I said. He started for the door, but I seized his arm. “Not out there,” I said, “unless you have ceased to value your life. Uthman, these men want to kill you. Do not place yourself within reach of their sword points. Greet them from your balcony overhead—and wear your chain mail in case someone shoots an arrow at you.”

Bewilderment crossed his face, and I realized that he probably did not possess a chain-mail suit or any other battle accoutrements. Uthman had never fought in a battle: not at Badr, for he had remained at the bedside of his dying wife Ruqayya, Muhammad’s daughter; nor at Uhud, for he had been among those who fled back to Medina at the first glimpse of the enemy streaming like a silver tide over the sand. Muhammad forgave him for that defection, for he admired the gentleness of his friend’s heart despite its timid beat.

I stepped outdoors to inform al-Ashtar that the
khalifa
was preparing to greet them, but then Uthman appeared on the balcony, the letter in his hand. “I did not write this, al-Ashtar,” he said in a stronger, more resonant voice than I had ever heard him use. “I demand to know why you forged it. Do you hate me so much that you would invent reasons to kill me?”

“Was that a forgery?” Mohammad yelled. He pushed the Abyssinian captive to the front of the crowd for Uthman to see. “Here is your messenger. If you don’t recognize him, say so, and I’ll behead him where he stands.”

“Rahman,” Uthman said. “Of course I know him. He is from my household. You may release him, for he was only obeying a command. Not
my
command, however.”

“He lies!” Hud cried.

“Ask the messenger, then,” I suggested. I turned to the poor, shivering man and asked who’d given him the letter, but he only shrugged.

“He is mute,” Uthman said. “His tongue was cut off when he was younger, as punishment for telling a false tale.”

“
Yaa
Uthman,” I called, “who can verify that the handwriting in that letter is not yours?”

He frowned. “A’isha has helped me with spelling on some documents. She knows my writing very well. Unfortunately, she may have left on the
hajj
by now.”

I had seen her caravan, packed and waiting for the cool of evening, as I had raced my horse down the street to the palace. I turned to Mohammad. “Go and fetch your sister,” I said. “She is likely in her hut, resting for tonight’s ride.”

An excruciating hour passed. Al-Ashtar delegated a group to collect water for the horses, and others opened barley sacks to feed them. Another contingent went out to establish camps before nightfall. Hud complained about the delay, but al-Ashtar gave him a sensible reply. “We must be certain of the
khalifa
’s guilt before we take further action,” he said.

To my irritation, he then walked over to stand beside me under the shade of a ghaza’a tree, as though we were colluders in this siege. Yet I did desire to know what the rebels would choose to do. If they decided on violence, I would stop them.

Before I could decide my next course of action, Mohammad appeared with A’isha beside him, attired in a fine linen gown of pink and a robe of dark red, her hair hidden by a white wrapper, her face veiled. She was attired as I had long believed she should be, with the modest demeanor befitting the widow of the Prophet Muhammad. As I looked upon her, I felt a surprising impatience for her to look up into my eyes as she passed.

“Mother of the Believers!” Al-Ashtar bowed before her; she barely inclined her head toward him, I noticed. He noticed it too, and scowled as she swept past him to enter Uthman’s house. After many excruciating moments, Uthman, who had disappeared from his perch on the balcony, re-emerged with A’isha at his side.

“
Yaa
Mother of the Believers!” someone shouted. “May al-Lah heap blessings upon you.” Soon the air resonated with cries of her name and praise for the Mother of the Believers. Looking up at her, I felt a rush of
emotion. How erect was her bearing, how proud and honorable. She cleared her throat. She held up the letter. She glanced down at al-Ashtar—and then at me. Yet in a flicker of her lashes—dismissive? indifferent?—she was lost to me. She turned her gaze upon the shouting, leaping crowd.

“Uthman did not write this letter,” she said.

Grumbles rolled across the crowd. “Then who did write it?” Hud shouted. “A
djinni
?”

“I don’t know,” she said, retaining her calm in spite of the shouts and hisses spluttering through the men. “It was sealed with Uthman’s ring, which he has been missing. Perhaps a servant in his household wrote it, or maybe one of his advisors. Whoever it is wanted nothing good for any of you—or for Uthman.”

Marwan
was the thought that blossomed in my mind at the same time al-Ashtar shouted it. “For the answer, you need look no farther,” he said. “Let us confront Marwan. Where is he now,
yaa
Uthman?”

Uthman’s scowl seemed directed inward. “I do not know Marwan’s whereabouts,” he said. “I have not seen him since yesterday, when you all left Medina.”

“
Yaa abi,
do not try to protect him,” Hud said. “For your own sake, hand him over to us.”

A’isha gave the young upstart a pointed look. “
Yaa
Mohammad ibn al-Hudheifa, the
khalifa
said he doesn’t know Marwan’s whereabouts. Aren’t your ears working? Or are you shouting too much to hear what’s going on?”

“Uthman is a liar!” someone yelled. I winced at this accusation, knowing it could lead to no good.

“Ignorant old
shaykh
!” another man cried. “His mind is so feeble he doesn’t know what is happening in his own household.”

Al-Ashtar raised his sword. I hurried away from him, then, not wanting to be associated with this treacherous behavior

“You hear your constituents, Uthman,” al-Ashtar said. “They have lost faith in you. It makes no difference who wrote that letter or who used your seal. Either you did it yourself, which makes you a liar and not worthy to rule, or you lack control over your own household, which also renders you unworthy. It is time you stepped down from your position and gave it to another, someone who is ruled by
islam
and not by corrupt family members.”

He nodded his head toward the place where I’d stood. Then, when he realized I had moved from my spot under the tree, he glanced around, searching for me. I uttered a prayer of thanks to al-Lah for prompting me to move when I did.

But then the swarm of men beside me parted to a cry of, “Make way for the Companions of Muhammad!” Talha and al-Zubayr hastened with drawn swords and puffed chests to Uthman’s front door.

“We have come to offer our protection,
yaa khalifa,
” Talha announced. A wave of revulsion crested in the pit of my stomach. For as he stood beneath the balcony flexing his heroic muscles, A’isha gazed upon him with tender admiration. Given our conflicted past, our mistaken present, and our irredeemable future, she would never look at me that way.

Uthman begged me not to go.

I would be haunted by the memory for the rest of my life.

He pleaded with me, his eyes red and rheumy, his face drooping, his voice shivering.

“Do not leave me, A’isha. You are a powerful orator. You can change their minds with one speech.”

I stared at him. Hadn’t he practically pushed me out the city gates, urging me to make this
hajj
? He didn’t want me waving around Muhammad’s relics again and stirring up trouble. He’d wanted me gone.

Now, after I’d rushed around to find camels, buy food, pack, bathe, and help my sister-wives get ready for the trip, Uthman looked at me with the eyes of a whipped puppy and begged me not to make the
hajj.

Standing on his balcony after Talha and al-Zubayr had gone and after that traitor Ali had disappeared with his
djinni-
possessed friend al-Ashtar, Uthman pleaded with me to change my plans and stay in Medina.

“You can change their minds,
yaa A’isha,
” he said. “Your words would be as charms placed upon their ears.”

“Their hearts are what need changing,” I said. “Only you can do that.”

I turned toward the door, intending to leave, for I had planned to meet in secret with Talha, al-Zubayr, and ‘Amr. I felt a tug at my sleeve, and looked down to see Uthman’s hand. I yanked my robe out of his grasp and
he grabbed my wrist. I was so astonished that he would touch me that I didn’t even try to pull away.