The Sword Of Medina (6 page)

Secretly, I also questioned my father’s sending Osama. Muhammad had originally appointed him, trying to assuage the boy’s grief over his father’s
death, but things were different when Muhammad was alive: We’d been collecting taxes from outlying tribes and weren’t desperate for the trade. Now that our tax money had dried up like a
wadi
in the summertime, I wondered if the critics were right, if my father hadn’t sent a boy to do a man’s job. But
abi
had been adamant: Muhammad, not Abu Bakr, had assigned Osama the task.
How can I fold up this flag which was unfurled by the Prophet of God, yet profess to follow his example?
he’d asked his advisors. None of us could argue.

Yet when it came to following Muhammad’s example, my opinions sometimes differed from my father’s. For instance, I couldn’t imagine Muhammad’s naming the vicious Khalid ibn al-Walid as commander of his army—and I worried that my father’s doing so would lead to disaster.

And so things stood until, about a week after Fatima’s funeral, Osama brought his troops back to Medina amid cheers from hundreds who lined our main street, a wide swath of dirt so dry it seemed to exhale dust whenever a donkey-cart rolled down it. Watching from the mosque, I could barely make out Osama ibn Zayd leading an army bedraggled by the long journey to Syria and back. I smelled them before I could see them, their pungent, sour stench telling me they hadn’t bathed in many weeks. Emaciated and pale, they looked more like skeletons than mighty warriors, and jubilant greetings turned to shocked gasps as they passed. As for me, the sight of Khalid ibn al-Walid riding beside Osama stilled my tongue and sent chills down my spine.

The murderous warrior, once our enemy, was infamous for his cruelty. His eyes were pale and cold. A scar like a long, thick worm ran across one cheek, and his nose, broken many times, jutted like a knife blade. His hair sprung wildly about his face. Arrows stuck in every direction from his loosely wound turban. His filthy Bedouin robes hung in shreds from his broad shoulders. From the saddle of his snorting war-horse, he looked down at the crowd as dispassionately as if they were a pack of yapping pups. His glance fell on me as he passed, and recognition twitched at his lips.

A short while later, when Khalid strode into the mosque by Osama’s side, the taste of ashes filled my mouth. After glancing carelessly at Talha, Umar, and Uthman, all of whom sat with me behind my father, he stared at my single uncovered eye—Muhammad had required his wives to pull our wrappers about our faces so that only one eye showed—with such intensity
that I had to fight the urge to cover my face completely. Did he recall that morning long ago when Muhammad led him into the cooking-tent and assigned me to watch over him? Khalid’s gaze had raked my twelve-year-old body as brazenly as if I’d been performing a dance, and his lewd remarks had made my skin burn with shame.

Osama’s guileless face, as open as an angel’s, seemed childish in contrast to Khalid’s brooding one. As Osama stepped forward to kiss my father’s signet ring, I couldn’t help thinking how young, in truth, he’d been to lead an army to Constantinople.

“Our expedition to Byzantium was unsuccessful,
khalifa,
” Osama said. His ears, sticking out from his head like gourd handles, glowed a bright red. “The emperor has no interest in resuming the trade route past Medina. Life is too unstable here, he said.”

“By al-Lah, the situation is grave for us, then.” My father’s voice betrayed his fear. “We must find a way to entice the Syrian caravans back to Medina. Does anyone have suggestions?”

“Trade is the least of your worries,
yaa khalifa.
” Khalid ibn al-Walid broke in without asking permission to speak. Yet
abi
leaned forward in his seat and stared at Khalid as if he were the angel Gabriel bringing a message from God.

“On our journey home, we saw Bedouin travelers crossing the desert in great numbers,” Khalid said. “Five or ten thousand, at least. Our scouts informed us that they were gathering at the Wadi al-Hamd oasis, preparing to invade Medina.”

“We cannot possibly defend ourselves against such an army.” My father’s voice shook.

“That’s what we thought the last time we were invaded, remember?” I pointed out. “Then we dug a trench that kept the army out. They had ten thousand, as I recall—including Khalid ibn al-Walid, the famous fierce warrior.” I tossed a haughty glance at Khalid.

“Your trench was unique in the history of Arab warfare,” Khalid said to my father. “Our army was thwarted by the element of surprise. But such a device would not stop the Bedouins now. Our attackers would be prepared to overcome it.”

“We’ll have to devise something equally surprising, then, won’t we?” I retorted.

Talha smiled at me in appreciation. “As I recall, that trench was your idea, A’isha,” he said. “Of course, you’ve always been full of surprises.” His compliment made the heat rise to my face as he turned to my father. “
Yaa khalifa,
I propose that we convene a council to discuss the matter—”

“The time for discussion is past,” Khalid snapped, cutting Talha off as effectively as if he’d sliced off his tongue. “We must act now.”

I opened my mouth to protest Khalid’s abrupt behavior toward my cousin, but a shout from outside stole my chance. The door to the mosque crashed open. In stormed Ali, his stride long and sure, his turban wound about his head like a tightly coiled serpent.

“Forgive me,
khalifa,
” he said, brushing past Khalid to kneel at my father’s feet. He seized
abi’s
hand and kissed his ring as fervently as if Muhammad still wore it.

“I have come to offer my allegiance to you,” Ali said. His voice was hoarse with emotion and his lips trembled. “Forgive me for taking so long to do so.”

My father’s smile was as thin as barley mush. “If you had pledged to me earlier, would your words have been sincere?” he said. “‘A truth that displeases is better than a lie that pleases.’”

I wondered if Ali’s pledge
was
true, but I held my tongue. What did it matter? In those days, an Arab’s word was binding, no matter what lurked in his heart. With Ali’s allegiance secured, my father could at last turn his full attention to governing the
umma.

“There is much work to be done, Ali,” he said. “Khalid is telling us now of a Bedouin expedition amassing to destroy us. Some desert tribes have stopped paying their tax, and now they want to increase their insult by raiding our city.”

“Then we must attack first!” Ali stood and drew his sword, Zulfikar, with its twin points at the end of a double blade. “Allow me to lead an expedition for you, and I will gouge the eyes of any apostate who refuses to pledge his allegiance.”

“How quickly the wolf dons the wool of a sheep,” I said to Talha, who had taken a seat beside me.

Ali glared, but my father nodded. “A’isha speaks the truth,” he said. “How can any man fight on my behalf when he has recently sown dissension against me?”

Ali’s features froze. “I was not free to bind myself to you while my wife lived,” he said. “I am certain you can understand why.”

“And I suppose your uncle and cousins forced you to oppose our
khalifa
in the first place,” Talha said, smirking.

My father’s glance at Talha was benign, but there was no mistaking its meaning: Talha had said enough.

“
Yaa
Ali, let me ask you something,”
abi
said. “Would you appoint a man to lead your army who had no legs?”

“I would not,
yaa khalifa,
” Ali said, pushing out his chest. “Such a man could not help our cause, and might even harm it.”

“You have spoken truly.” My father stroked his beard with one hand. “A man who cannot stand on his own principles, but who allows others’ desires to direct him, has no legs of his own.”

Ali’s face turned as white as a fish’s belly. He looked like a man on the verge of sickness.

“I have tolerated your disloyalty for the sake of the Prophet, whose love made him blind to your faults,” my father said. “But, by al-Lah, I will not appoint you to fight for me.”

I sucked in my breath, waiting for Ali’s famous temper to strike. Did my father realize what he was doing? By chastising Ali in front of Osama and, worse, Khalid, he’d humiliated him in the worst way. Now that the army was back, Ali had only to say a few words and he’d find himself in command of half those men—many of them the fiercest warriors in Medina. Overthrowing my father would be as easy for him as pulling the wings off a fly.

But Ali said nothing, to my relief. He stepped to the side and glowered at the wall, his hands behind his back as if tied. My father turned to Khalid with the eagerness of a man seeking the face of his beloved. Beside me, Umar and Uthman frowned at each other, sharing my concerns over
abi’s
enthusiasm for this
majnun.

“How do you propose that we deal with these apostates,
yaa
Khalid? You’ve had many successes as a general against Muhammad’s army. In truth,” his grin was wry, “you were the reason we lost so pitifully at the Battle of Uhud all those years ago.”

“I suggest we leave tonight,” Khalid declared. “I will subdue the apostates in three days.” I almost snorted at this boast.

“But—our troops are exhausted,” Umar protested. “We cannot send them out again so soon.”

“They begged to fight three days ago, when we saw the Bedouin curs amassing,” Khalid said. “Your general, however, refused to act without orders from you.” He shot an accusing glance at Osama. “We must confront the apostates now. Every moment of hesitation strengthens our enemies’ resolve.”

Khalid’s eyes shone and I winced. He spoke as if he were already in command of my father’s troops. Would
abi
reward his aggressive attitude by making him general of the
umma’s
army? I stared at my father—trying to catch his attention. Yet he couldn’t see anyone but Khalid. It was as if that man’s battle scars held the answers to all
abi’s
troubles.

“Attack, then, with my blessing,”
abi
said. “But do not harm any Muslims, or shed the blood of anyone who offers to return to
islam
and pay the tax.”

Khalid lifted his arms as if in joy at my father’s words. The flourish of his hands, I thought, was an unnecessary gesture.

“Hearing is obeying,
khalifa,
” he said. And then I noticed something that made my heart skip: Khalid’s eyes were so shot with red they seemed to float in rivers of blood.

♦

Moments later, I stepped into the courtyard with Talha by my side. “Can anything good come from Khalid ibn al-Walid?” I said.

“New turban fashions,” Talha quipped. “Or were those arrows sticking out from his head?”

“He’s showing off,” I said. “He wants everyone to know what a fierce warrior he is.”

“He is fearsome. And perhaps Abu Bakr needs a show of strength. Criticism has besieged him these past months.”

“By demonstrating a strength that he does not possess, our
khalifa
creates the illusion of leadership qualities that he does not possess.” Ali’s voice slithered into our midst.

I whirled around to face him, my hand lifted. How I would have loved to slap his face, to feel the satisfaction of his skin against my palm, to see his face recoil from the sting! He stopped with his feet wide apart, his arms folded against me, daring me to attack.

“You could be whipped for those words, especially after you’ve just
pledged your allegiance to my father,” I said. “Apparently, your pledge was just another lie.”

“There is nothing false about my allegiance to Abu Bakr. Yet, as he himself would readily admit, he is human, with flaws which he has shown in abundance today.”

I snorted. “Refusing to appoint a traitor to his army indicates an abundance of leadership ability, if you ask me.”

“Allowing a
djinni
-possessed murderer to lead his troops indicates a complete lack of judgment,” Ali countered. “As does letting his daughter interject herself into men’s affairs.”

Again he made my blood rise, but Talha’s eyes glinted. “
Yaa
Ali, is it worse than heeding the counsel of a eunuch?”

Ali gripped his sword. “Are you calling me a eunuch?”

Talha shrugged. “What else do you call a warrior who can’t do battle?”

“Ali,” I said, trying to avoid a fight, “Muhammad had no qualms about letting me ‘interject.’ He came to me often for political advice.”

Now Ali was the smirking one. “He may have come to you often, but not for your insights.”

Talha drew his sword and, in a flash, had pressed the tip of the blade against Ali’s throat. “How dare you dishonor the Mother of the Believers with your filthy insinuations?” he growled.

“Talha, no,” I warned, not so much for Ali’s sake as to shield us all from more gossip. Our fighting would only further prevent the
umma
from joining together. If we fell apart, then
islam
would be lost.

“
Afwan,
A’isha,” Talha said. “But if I were
khalifa,
I would have ordered this traitor whipped to his final breath. I have no qualms about killing you now, Ali, for the disrespect you’ve just shown to my cousin. Apologize, if you would save your throat.”

I placed a hand on Talha’s lifted arm. “Talha, I don’t care. Let him go, please.”

“Al-Lah forgives all,” Ali said, looking Talha in the eyes. “And, as I ask Him now to forgive my insult, so has He granted my request.”

Slowly, Talha withdrew his sword. “A’isha saved your life today,” he said.

Then Ali did something rare: He laughed. With his mouth lifted at the corners and his cheeks plumped out like dates, he looked almost handsome. But his eyes held malice, not mirth.

“You are wrong, Talha,” he said. “She has only deprived me of the pleasure of fighting, and killing. In this, she resembles her father. But my loss is only temporary, even as Abu Bakr’s
khalifa
is temporary. He is an old man and will soon die.”

His smile disappeared as he turned to me. “Beware of me then, A’isha, for I will be ready to claim the
khalifa
that Muhammad intended for me. On that day, you will in turn claim the legacy he intended for you: a life spent at home with your sister-wives, tending to the business of housekeeping and gossiping, and forsaking the world that God created for men.” This was a strange comment, since Ali was telling everyone that he didn’t want to be
khalifa
. What was the truth? I wondered if he knew.