The Sword Of Medina (15 page)

But Umar had more punishments in store. “I also command you all to partake only of the rations provided you at the beginning of our journey,” he thundered. “I alone will dine with the governor of Syria tonight.”

I continued staring at the ground, trying to swallow my disappointment with a closed throat. By disciplining all for my sin—the sin of compassion, by al-Lah!—Umar had meted to me a most undesirable punishment: the resentment of my fellow travelers and, with my humiliation, the loss of their respect.

“
Yaa khalifa,
how long must we endure these painful conditions?” Abdallah ibn al-Zubayr, my cousin’s son, dared to ask. The whip was Umar’s answer, lashing at the youth’s cheek and leaving a welt there.

“There is your pain!” Umar roared. He placed his hands on his hips. “Does anyone else have a complaint?” No one responded. He narrowed his eyes at me. “
Yaa
Ali, are you waiting for Ramadan to distribute those goods?” As I did so, he continued to rant. “By al-Lah, I am astounded at the frowns I see on the faces of my men, Muslim men. Should we enjoy these rich fruits while so many hunger? Barley and dates satisfied the Prophet. They will satisfy us, also.”

How could I argue? I agreed with Umar in principle, for I knew Muhammad would not have allowed a single fig or a grape to pass his lips while the streets of Damascus held even one malnourished child. I distributed the delicacies among the eager Damascenes: a girl with a face like a skull and hair that fell in clumps about her shoulders; a
shaykh
with a back bent in two and hands that shook as he accepted my gifts; a woman,
clutching an infant to her breast, whose large, expressive eyes spilled tears as she chewed a fig and placed the paste into her baby’s mouth.

When I had finished, my stomach continued to feel empty but my heart, by al-Lah, brimmed like that mother’s eyes. Others in the caravan grumbled about giving away what was rightfully ours—and as I passed Talha on his horse, I heard him tell ‘Amr that
the khalifa has repaid us well today for Ali’s interference.

I knew that he had wished for me to hear it. I stopped and turned toward the grinning men with an exaggerated bow.

“No, Talha, he has done the opposite,” I said. “By assigning to me the task of feeding the poor, Umar made me the Prophet’s surrogate. With this honor, Umar demonstrates that, although he is the political
khalifa
, I am my cousin’s spiritual successor.”

I groaned to myself as soon as I had spoken these words, knowing that they would reach Umar’s ears and increase his suspicions of me. Yet they served my purpose. Talha narrowed his eyes—allowing me, for once, to be the grinning one.

“Do not worry, Talha,” ‘Amr called as I stepped away. “Someday, while Ali is distributing alms to the poor, you will sit in the
khalifa
’s seat, commanding the world.”

I laughed at this remark, for it revealed the true nature of Talha’s ambitions. As I glanced at the men around us, however, I did not see anyone else who appeared discomfited. In truth, I could see no indication that anyone had even heard ‘Amr’s comment, for the entire caravan was slumping to the ground as the camels knelt to allow their riders to dismount. We would not sleep or eat here, but we would all enter the mosque to greet Syria’s governor, Yazid ibn Abi Sufyan.

As I directed my servant to feed and water my camel, I heard Umar’s sharp cry from the front of the caravan. I raced to his side. He was shouting and waving Khalid’s scepter as though he might strike Khalid with it.

“How dare you appear before me dressed in such finery!” Umar yelled. “By al-Lah, I do not know what has happened here. The rumors of decadence in Syria appear to be true, and I appear to be a fool! In truth, I see no warriors, but only soft, vain women in perfume and jewels.”

Khalid lifted his hands to his embroidered garment and ripped it open to reveal his trousers, leather jerkin, and fitted shirt—his battle uniform.

“We attired ourselves to honor you,
yaa khalifa,
” he said in a low, even tone that sent chills rippling along my arms and neck. “As you can see, I remain a warrior.”

Umar narrowed his eyes. “And beneath the battle gear? Only al-Lah can view your heart.” He brought the scepter down on a large rock, breaking it in two, and handed the pieces to Khalid. “When I have prayed, perhaps He will reveal your heart to me, also.”

As Umar swept past Khalid, leaving us all in his wake, I could only stare at the man who had once been the
umma’s
fiercest general. With his beautiful robe rent open and hanging like mourner’s rags and the pieces of his scepter in his hands, Khalid appeared broken also, a pitiful contrast to the haughty figure he had once presented. The scar on his cheek writhed like a worm as he tensed his jaw against these humiliations. As I passed him, I glanced down at his feet and saw a pair of golden sandals glittering with jewels. I could have sworn that I detected the aroma of wine rising from his body.

In contrast to the chaos outside the mosque, I expected to find order within. Yazid was heralded not only as a shrewd commander on the battlefield but also as an effective governor, popular with his Syrian subjects. Despite my reservations when Umar had appointed him—he was, after all, the son of Abu Sufyan, who had once been Muhammad’s mortal enemy—I had to admit that the choice had been a wise one. The congenial Yazid had charmed the Damascenes into forgetting that they had been conquered.

Yet it was not he who greeted us but his brother Mu’awiyya, a tall man with fair hair, like mine, and piercing eyes the color of sand. Unlike the fat, red-bearded Yazid, Mu’awiyya had inherited his features from his mother, Hind. And, unlike Khalid and his courtiers, Mu’awiyya wore a simple gown and turban of the deepest blue—the color of mourning.

His eyes gazed warmly into Umar’s, as if they were long-time friends, and he clasped Umar’s elbow as boldly as if he were the governor instead of his brother. Mu’awiyya was but a mere warrior under Umar’s command. Like his father, who had tried many times to kill Muhammad, Mu’awiyya appeared to hold an inflated opinion of himself. But Umar, preoccupied with other matters, apparently did not notice the insult.

“I am pleased to see you, Mu’awiyya, but where is Yazid?” Umar said. “I am anxious to speak with him.”

Mu’awiyya’s eyes filled with tears—conjured tears, I was certain, for he had never shown any love for his brother, and had once threatened to kill him in the market at Mecca until their father intervened. “Yazid died yesterday,” he said. “We have suffered a terrible plague in our city—”

“By al-Lah, you are infested with a plague and we are only learning this now?” I cried. “Why did you not send messengers to alert us? By allowing the
khalifa
to enter the city, you have endangered his life.”

Umar placed his hand on my arm. Mu’awiyya turned his disturbing eyes upon me. I had seen that cold expression before, when he was but a youth, as I had pressed my sword against his father’s neck and demanded he convert to
islam.
Mu’awiyya watched Abu Sufyan grovel before me and heard him beg, and he had hated me ever since.

“Excuse me for being preoccupied with my brother’s demise as well as that of his two sons,” Mu’awiyya spat. “Family is extremely close to the hearts of Abu Sufyan’s sons and daughters.”

“But surely you knew we were approaching,” I said—but again, Umar silenced me with a touch.

“My deepest condolences, Mu’awiyya,” Umar said. “Your brother was a superior general and a great statesman. He will be difficult to replace. Who has assumed the leadership here?”

Mu’awiyya’s expression became as stone. How clever he was, such an expert at concealing his true emotions. “Your general Khalid ibn al-Walid has graciously taken on this difficult task,” he said.

Umar’s frown deepened. “And you?” he said. “Why did you not take your brother’s place?”

Mu’awiyya wiped a false tear from the corner of one eye. “I did not wish to presume,” he said. “Such an honor is only the
khalifa
’s to confer.”

“Khalid had no such qualms,” Umar muttered to me and my uncle a few moments later, as Mu’awiyya led us down a long, dim hallway to the
khalifa
’s sleeping quarters. I could have spoken for hours about Khalid ibn al-Walid’s arrogance, his cruelty—so antithetical to
islam
—and his ruthlessly ambitious nature, but I said nothing, loath to reveal my inner thoughts before the cunning Mu’awiyya. When Umar entered his rooms, beckoning me and al-Abbas to join him, I knew he would be seeking our advice. “Send Mughira to me, also,” he said as he dismissed Mu’awiyya.

Inside, I gazed around the spacious rooms, my mouth hanging open like a child’s. These quarters were more luxurious than any I had seen, with ceilings so high even ten men standing on one another’s shoulders would not be able to reach them, large arched windows, plush carpets and tapestries, and a bed whose plump stuffed mattress could accommodate four men. I tried not to think about my own sleeping quarters that night, a thin pallet on the hard-packed earth in a tent that smelled like camel sweat, torch smoke, and body odor.

Umar walked to a window and beheld the view, but it did not calm him. He drummed the fingers of one hand on the sill and, with the other, picked a thread hanging from his robe.

“Khalid is guided by his impulses,” al-Abbas said. “Behold his behavior today.”

“He is obsessed with power and wealth,” Umar said. “I am certain that he has been stealing from me. How else could he afford such extravagances as embroidered silk robes and golden incense burners?”

“And jewel-encrusted gold sandals,” I added. “The price of his shoes alone could feed Medina for a month.”

“Damn him.” Umar slammed his fist on the windowsill, scattering the birds that had gathered outside. “I have heard that the men in his command were not paid last month, although I sent Khalid a sack full of silver for them. By al-Lah, where is Mughira?”

“You must punish Khalid for this treachery.” I began to pace the smooth stone floor. “If you do not have him whipped, you will appear weak.”

“Khalid is popular with his men,” al-Abbas said. “
Yaa
Ali, do you wish to cause a mutiny?”

“If he has that much power, Umar must strip him of it,” I said.

“Your advice is sound,” Umar said. “I need to question him about these newly acquired riches. If he does not answer satisfactorily, I will deprive him of everything he owns.”

Umar sent me back to the mosque in search of Khalid, whom he desired to interrogate immediately. Before I entered, a familiar, annoying laugh stung my ears, stopping me in place.

“Did you behold the anger on Umar’s face when he heard that Khalid had taken the governorship?” Mughira said. “Soon you will be in a better position.”

“It was a move that I knew Umar would dislike,” Mu’awiyya said. “That is why I encouraged Khalid to make it.”

I remembered the task for which I had been sent, and turned away to seek Khalid. But then the men began to talk again.

“
Yaa
Talha, like the Bedouins, I try always to support the winning side,” Mu’awiyya said. “Who has pledged support for you as
khalifa
? Someone powerful, I hope.”

“He has the love of A’isha bint Abi Bakr,” Mughira said. “As the Mother of the Believers, she holds more influence than any man.”

“She thinks she will rule if I am appointed,” Talha said.

I heard footsteps behind me, and saw Khalid ibn al-Walid walking down the hall, clutching his rent garment. I hurried to him, not daring to call his name lest I be discovered by Mu’awiyya and his cohorts.

“
Afwan
, Khalid. Umar sent me to look for you. He desires to speak with you now, in his quarters.”

Khalid regarded me as though I were a piece of dung on his shoe. “Tell Umar that I will be there,” he said, “as soon as I have changed my clothes.”

By al-Lah! Was the whole world so filled with disregard for the
khalifa
? These men would never have treated Muhammad so lightly.

I said nothing as he disappeared down the hall, for I was eager to return to my eavesdropping. When I peeked into the mosque again Talha was gone. Mu’awiyya had taken a seat on the governor’s throne as though he had been born in it, and Mughira was kneeling before him and kissing his ring. Both men were laughing.

“With a single stroke, I have conquered all of Syria today,” Mu’awiyya said. “Next, with the help of the ambitious Talha and his naive whore A’isha, I will hold the
khalifa
in my hand.”

“You must be the most clever man in the world,” Mughira said. “And the most under-appreciated.” Now I was the one wanting to laugh. The evening before, the fawning Mughira had spoken the same words to me.

“Do not fear,” Mu’awiyya said. “Soon all the world will praise the name of Mu’awiyya ibn Abi Sufyan—even as they kneel before me.”

During the months when Umar and his Companions were in Syria, I and Maryam began taking morning walks together. In spite of our tempestuous start years ago, when I’d been jealous of Maryam’s exotic blond curls and eyes the color of sky, I now loved her as though she were my own sister instead of merely a sister-wife—or, to be exact, a sister-concubine. She had declined to marry Muhammad so she could remain a Christian, and so she wouldn’t have to veil herself.

Our first morning walk came about when, the morning after Umar, Ali, Talha, and the rest had departed, I went to her house in tears. If only I were a man so I could go along on the expedition. I knew Maryam, who cherished her freedom, would be sympathetic. And so we started spending time together. When the group returned with tales of a plague killing thousands in the north, I felt better about staying in Medina.

“Thank the Lord our men did not bring the plague home to us,” she said a week after Umar’s triumphant return, as we climbed to the crest of the hill behind her house. “I lived through a plague in Egypt. I saw my mother’s body swell and ooze and her skin turn black. I could not imagine the extent of her suffering! God willing, we will not be stricken here.”

We unfurled our prayer mats on the cracked ground and called our greetings to al-Lah, I in the Muslim fashion and she in the Christian way.
Our spirits alive and our toes tingling with the chill, we sat and watched the sheep nibble at the weeds poking up from the parched earth and reminisced about life with Muhammad, commiserating over the loneliness that haunted us both.