The Sword Of Medina (32 page)

“I’m afraid I don’t.” I turned away from him, not wanting him to see the truth on my face. In the next instant I felt his arms around me, holding me tight against him, and his hot breath on my ear, making me shiver.

“You hate Ali, but not for the sake of
islam,
or the Believers, or the memory of Muhammad,” Talha murmured, his voice like silk. “You’re still nursing a young girl’s grudge. That’s why you’re here now, with your sword and your self-righteousness and your demands for justice. You came for revenge, A’isha. Revenge, and nothing more.”

This much was apparent to me: My foes were divided.

I entered A’isha’s tent with a quivering in my chest like a plucked
tanbur
string—a plaintive note. I knew this tent well, having conferred with Muhammad many times inside its walls. But with my first glimpse of Talha and al-Zubayr’s faces, I had to restrain my mouth from smiling.

Talha, whose rust-colored beard had sprung filaments of gray, stood with his arms folded and his eyes shooting arrows at al-Zubayr. Al-Zubayr puffed out his chest in a comic fashion and held his body as stiff as if a date-palm trunk had been inserted along his spine. He focused his sights on some distant prize, most likely that of the
khalifa,
which, I knew, he had been told he might soon possess. I gave silent thanks to al-Lah for preparing my path to victory by creating dissension among my enemies.

Yet my task was neither complete nor my victory assured, for between these petulant men stood A’isha with the bearing of a queen. Her level gaze, which never left me as I greeted her companions, told me she regarded the quarrel between Talha and al-Zubayr as inconsequential, a rift easily mended. I had come amply supplied to change that situation.

A’isha’s intensity made me feel as if we were alone in the tent, and that our conflict, mine and hers, was what truly mattered. In truth, if we had been alone, events would have transpired differently. For her demeanor,
always before as closed and tight as a date seed, had opened today like a rose in the first stages of bloom.

For the first time in all the years we had known each other, I felt possibility in her presence. I felt hope. Perhaps we could, after all, avoid spilling our brethren’s blood onto this foreign land. We might be able to reach an agreement that would satisfy us both. Perhaps—my pulse leapt at the thought—perhaps we could find a way to work together, side by side, I as
khalifa
and she as my adviser. For I had begun to suspect even then, before our initial talks, that we both held close to our hearts the same dream for the future of
islam
.

“
Assalaamu aleikum,
” I said, wishing her peace. Muhammad had instructed us to do in greeting fellow Muslims, but in that moment I sincerely meant the words.

“
Wa aleikum assalaam,
” she responded, and the lift in her voice and the brightness in her dark green eyes told me she, too, desired peace. She dipped her head in deference, but Talha and al-Zubayr made no show of respect.

A’isha turned to the cushions arranged around a pale linen cloth on which platters of food had been placed. My stomach rumbled loudly at the sight—dates, figs, rice, dried meat, honey—for I had barely eaten since leaving Kufa a few days earlier. My stomach had been twisting and turning, filled with apprehension over the coming fight. Now, with hope in the air, I felt relaxed enough for water to flood my mouth.

We sat before the repast, which I was somehow able to restrain myself from falling upon too eagerly. Long moments of silence followed as I and A’isha partook of the meal, while her companions only nibbled as they glared at each other. Then, when we had satisfied our bodies’ needs and were able to focus on the confrontation at hand, A’isha spoke—but not, to my relief, to demand al-Ashtar’s head.

“
Yaa
Ali, your seizing of the
khalifa
inspired this uprising against you,” she said in a quiet voice. “Muhammad would not have wanted it, as I’m sure you know. He always told me that leadership must be earned.”

“Mother of the Believers,
you
must know that the Prophet would not have wanted me to be denied the
khalifa
again and again. He and I were like two seeds in the same pod. Only you were closer to him than I. As for my seizing the position, you did not witness the events in Medina after Uthman’s death. You must rely on the reports of witnesses—which
may not be as accurate as you believe.” I shifted my glance to Talha, who glowered at me, and al-Zubayr, who cleaned his fingernails and avoided my gaze.

“You forced us to pledge our allegiance by holding swords to our throats,” Talha gruffed.

“
Yaa
Talha, I forced nothing.” I looked at A’isha, which was a pleasure that seemed only to increase with each glance. “Others called for my appointment until the streets of Medina filled with a river of supporters. They swept me into their current with affection and clamoring joy. Those who tried to swim against them were turned about by the sword. I witnessed this sad distortion of
islam
, but my protests were lost in the city’s cries.”

“You stood helpless, flapping your arms and squawking like a hen, in the presence of tyranny,” al-Zubayr said quietly, looking up at me. “That was excellent leadership.”

I frowned. Given what I knew about al-Zubayr—thanks to the sleuthing of al-Ashtar—he would be wise to hold his tongue against me. But I kept my secrets for a while longer, wanting more time with A’isha, still hoping an agreement could be forged. To reveal my discoveries now would be like crashing a frightened horse into the tent, distracting us all from the business of avoiding war.

Given the number of men supporting me and the obvious rift in my opponents’ unity, I knew that I would prevail in a battle between us. Yet the cost of that war—Muslim lives lost,
islam
further steeped in blood, my own chances destroyed of gaining A’isha’s support and that of her followers—was prohibitively high. Also, I knew the Bedouin mind. A single erroneous rumor could send half my army scurrying to my opponents’ side. The defection of al-Ashtar would certainly have that effect.

Now, as I had expected, A’isha uttered her dreaded ultimatum: al-Ashtar’s head and those of Uthman’s assassins—or war. “We can never support you until the blood-price is paid,” she said. “And without my allegiance, you hold no power in Mecca and little in Medina.”

She spoke the truth, but her implication was not as dire as she imagined. Clearly, she did not know that I had moved the
khalifa
to Kufa, a city more centrally located in our expanded territory, where support for my rule was nearly unanimous. Yet I desired A’isha’s endorsement, for I coveted her advice and her companionship in my new position. Working
together, we could not fail to restore
islam
to its original purpose: that of glorifying al-Lah, not men, and of caring for all God’s children, not just a privileged few.

Yet how could I meet her demands? If she knew what she asked of me, she would not make such a request. To execute or even punish al-Ashtar would mean the loss of half my supporters, but that was only one reason I could not offer him to the vengeance-seekers. Mohammad, my beloved stepson and A’isha’s brother, was another. As the one who had thrust the dagger into Uthman’s forehead, Mohammad would certainly have to die. My eyes burned at the thought. He was Abu Bakr’s son, but he belonged to me in a way that al-Hassan and al-Hussein never had. They possessed the Prophet’s sweetness and his gentleness of manner, while my foster son Mohammad had somehow acquired my uncompromising idealism and the bold spirit that I had once possessed, but that had seemed to slip away during my years of banishment from the battlefield.

In my stepson I saw myself as I had once been, and as I longed to be again. How could I sentence him to death for taking action according to his principles? Uthman had been weak; his appointees, corrupt. Mohammad had suffered the results of that failed
khalifa
first-hand, in the Egyptian prison where he, Hud, al-Ashtar, and their companions had been sent for conspiring against Uthman. Had they not escaped, both would be dead now, or tortured so severely that they would be praying to die.

I had taken great pains to hide my son’s role in the assassination, sending Naila with my wife Asma, to Ta’if for recovery from her wounds and, I had told her, for protection from further harm. Except for al-Ashtar—who would tell all if I persecuted him—and the men who had accompanied Mohammad into Uthman’s home, no one else knew the truth. As for A’isha, I wanted to tell her—but how, with those two in the tent with us?

I lowered my head. “I am sorry. I cannot do as you wish. Al-Ashtar swears he is not the man you seek, and I will not punish him or anyone without proof of guilt.” It was a defense that limped on a broken leg—and, when I glanced up at A’isha’s disappointed face, I knew she was making the same assessment.

“Then we have nothing to discuss.” She stood, then walked to the tent flap and held it open for me. I stood slowly, ignoring the murderous glares of Talha and al-Zubayr. A’isha did not realize what she was asking for—the
execution of her brother. And she did not know how tenuous was her position. Behold her lifted chin, her calm demeanor! She fancied that her side was strong. Now was the time to disabuse her of that notion.

I ducked as if to leave the tent, then turned toward al-Zubayr and Talha, who now stood together as if bound by their common dislike for me.

“
Yaa
cousin, I almost forgot.” I drew out a piece of parchment, whose seal I had broken, and handed it to al-Zubayr. “We intercepted a messenger from Mu’awiyya and took this note from him. It is addressed to you.”

Al-Zubayr took the packet from me. Talha eyed the exchange with lifted eyebrows.

“You will find it interesting,” I continued. I turned to A’isha. “
Yaa
A’isha, I advise you to read it, also, for it contains a promise from Mu’awiyya.”

I left after stating my desire for another meeting—but my words were lost in the confusion and curiosity now whirling like a
zauba’ah
through the tent. Once outside, I let myself smile—and my cousin Ibn Abbas, who had listened from the flap, seized my beard in congratulation.

“By al-Lah, there will be no unity in their ranks from this day forward,” he said as we began walking back to our camp, across the scrubby field where the battle, if there were one, would take place.

“Yes, by offering his support to al-Zubayr as
khalifa
, Mu’awiyya has secured our victory,” I said. But my words sounded flat, saddened as I was by the thought of fighting A’isha.

Ibn Abbas shook his head. “I am confused. Mu’awiyya is known for his shrewdness—yet by dividing our enemy, he has assisted you, whom he professes to hate.”

I nodded. “I, also, wondered at Mu’awiyya’s sudden incompetence—at first. But now, I realize that he wants us to win.”

“He delivers speeches against you every day, but he desires you as
khalifa
?”

As we neared our camp, I stopped so that we would not be overheard. “Mu’awiyya is known for his shrewdness, as you say,” I said. “But he is also known for his ambition. If I remain
khalifa,
then he can continue his campaign against me. Eventually, if I cannot depose Mu’awiyya as governor, he might cause me to be overthrown and win the
khalifa
for himself. But if Talha wins the
khalifa,
with A’isha by his side—”

“Then Mu’awiyya remains governor of Syria.” Abd Allah’s frown deepened. “But isn’t that what he desires?”

“So he says.” I pulled my cousin close and murmured low, so that only he could hear my words. “By al-Lah, cousin, it has become clear to me whom Mu’awiyya really supports. As you have guessed, it is not me. Nor is it al-Zubayr, and it is certainly not Talha. Mu’awiyya’s choice for the
khalifa
is none other than Mu’awiyya. And, as he has shown, he will resort to the most devious tactics to obtain it.”

For the first time in many weeks, I slept the deep sleep of the satisfied. I’d fallen into slumber with a prayer of thanks on my lips for the compromise we’d finally been able to strike—an agreement that would save countless lives and rescue
islam
from a future steeped in blood. In my dream, reliving the events of the night before, I clasped Ali’s elbow and he mine, sealing the agreement that would avoid war between us. Then mayhem jolted me awake, and the day began that would change my life forever.

But before that happened, what an alliance—A’isha and Ali! It had been an exasperating four weeks of negotiations, partly because of Talha and al-Zubayr. Each seemed intent on doing battle with Ali, and on establishing himself as the man to take his place. Talha offered little more than smirking comments—
A man with thirty children should have no difficulty punishing a few unruly Bedouins
—while al-Zubayr challenged Ali directly, thrusting his face close enough to spray him with spittle as he accused Ali of being
a weak-livered embarrassment to the Hashim clan
. The remark made Ali’s skin pale but he turned his attention back to me, where it remained for the rest of our talks.

As for me, I continued pressing Ali to bring the assassins to justice, but he continued to refuse. In return, he offered the weakest of proposals, including a promise to make the three of us top advisors in his
khalifa.

I’d wanted to laugh out loud. Would Ali listen to us later, when he ignored our advice now? Punishing Uthman’s killers might cost him some Bedouin supporters, but it would gain him my allegiance and that of Quraysh, and it would take away that jackal Mu’awiyya’s excuse for seizing the
khalifa
. Why, then, did Ali stand so firmly against us? Try as I might, I couldn’t understand, and, try as he might, he couldn’t make me see.

Until, at last, we spoke in private.

Here’s how it happened: Our “negotiations” were proceeding as usual, meaning they weren’t proceeding at all. At one point, Talha took the last piece of bread just as al-Zubayr was reaching for it; al-Zubayr muttered that Talha’s selfishness knew no boundaries, and Talha leapt to his feet with his sword unsheathed. “Arise and fight, you hypocrite, or I will cut the insult from your tongue!” Al-Zubayr jumped up, but I stood between them and demanded they settle their argument elsewhere.