The Sword Of Medina (20 page)

Dwelling on these thoughts, I missed most of Abd al-Rahman’s speech. But then he said “Ali,” and my thoughts jerked back to the mosque. I listened and prayed he would not appoint the wrong man.

“We of the
umma
are privileged to have as a candidate the beloved cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet,” he said. “Many believe that, as father to Muhammad’s heirs, Ali ibn Abi Talib is best qualified to follow in the Prophet’s footsteps.” The roar of the Bedouins and
ansari
in the crowd—neither group being known for its manners—made Abd al-Rahman pause. “And in truth, Ali has proved himself impeccable in all aspects: in piety, in intelligence, in his knowledge of the
qur’an
, and on the battlefield as the Prophet’s most distinguished swordsman.”

Each word he spoke made the wings of my heart flap harder. Abd al-Rahman was about to name Ali to the
khalifa
.

“For these reasons,” Abd al-Rahman went on, “it might be my desire to name Ali our next
khalifa.
” A great roar like a burst of thunder shook the walls as men shouted Ali’s name and waved their swords. Ali’s eyes grew bigger as Abd al-Rahman spoke—but Uthman didn’t move a hair. His smile stayed on his face as if he’d painted it there, and he nodded his head and twisted his mustache as though he’d written Abd al-Rahman’s speech and it were now being delivered just the way he’d intended.

Abd al-Rahman held up his hands to quell the noise. “Unfortunately, it is not that simple,” he said when Ali’s supporters had settled again. “I promised al-Lah that I would allow Him to choose the next
khalifa
. And although I know that both candidates are excellent, He has not indicated which man, Ali or Uthman, I should appoint.”

“Uthman belongs to the prestigious clan of Abd Shams,” a hook-nosed man in a silk robe called out. “His credentials are
adab
. Gold! Ali, on the other hand, is only a Hashimite.”

“As was the Prophet,” al-Abbas cried out. “And Muhammad raised Ali as a son. There are no better credentials.”

“Ali is young. Inexperienced!” the first man cried. “Uthman is a respected
shaykh
.”

At this last remark, Abd al-Rahman gave a slow nod of his head. He pressed his lips together. His eyes, whose gaze had been bouncing about the room, fixed themselves on Uthman. My pulse pounded like frantic fists on a locked door.

“
Yaa
aunt, are you well?” The words pulled my attention from the floor. My nephew Abdallah stood in front of me.

“I’m well, by al-Lah, but far from calm!” I said. “Umar has banished women from the mosque, and I need to participate in these proceedings.”

“Let me help,” he said. “I’ll be your messenger.”

“Yes. Go tell Abd al-Rahman that I have thought of this test for the candidates.” I leaned down and murmured into his ear.

A smile leapt onto his face. “By al-Lah, aunt, you’re the most intelligent person in this room!”

“And
you
need to be the speediest,” I said. “Hurry, Abdallah, and whisper my suggestion to Abd al-Rahman. Tell him the Mother of the Believers wants to know the candidates’ answers.”

I prayed as Abdallah pressed through the crowd, calling Abd al-Rahman’s name. Al-Zubayr, standing on the platform with the others in the
shura
, tapped Abd al-Rahman’s shoulder and pointed to him. While everyone else in the mosque squabbled over the
khalifa,
I breathed a great sigh of relief.
Thank you, God, for giving me a voice in these proceedings.

Hafsa nudged me with her elbow. “By al-Lah, I should have known you’d find a way to get involved!”

I shrugged, pretending none of it mattered. “Umar knew Ali’s weaknesses. He wouldn’t have wanted him to be the
khalifa.
”

Hafsa slanted her eyes at me. “He wouldn’t have wanted
you
to help with that choice, either.”

“I only made a suggestion.” She spoke truly: Umar would decry any woman involved in choosing a
khalifa.
But I knew Umar’s distrust of women was misguided, and Hafsa knew it, also. His distrust of Ali, on the other hand, was both accurate and wise.

I held my breath as I watched Abdallah climb the steps to the platform and huddle with Abd al-Rahman. When had my nephew become a young man, and so handsome? The
shaykh
nodded, to my relief, and a smile washed like cool rain over his face. He straightened his stooped back. He squeezed Abdallah’s shoulder and sent him down the steps, then turned to address the crowd.

“Al-Lah has answered my prayers at last,” he announced. “He has sent me a question for the contenders, the answer of which will guide me to His will.” The shouts and murmurs among the onlookers faded to the hush of one thousand and one breaths.

Abd al-Rahman turned to Ali. “
Yaa
Ali ibn Abi Talib, I will pose the question first to you,” he said. I felt a cry in my throat. Let Ali answer first? Would his response overshadow anything Uthman might say?

Abd al-Rahman gestured toward Ali, who stepped forward. “If you are appointed to the
khalifa,
will you rule according to the precedent set by Abu Bakr and Umar?” he asked.

My heart beat wildly.
Say no say no say no
—for, although I considered “no” to be the proper answer, since Muhammad, not my father or Umar, was the man to emulate, I knew Abd al-Rahman had revered both and that he would appoint the man who promised yes, to follow in their paths. Ali knew this, also, as I could see in the emotions roiling across his face.

For twelve years now, ever since Muhammad’s death, Ali had been grumbling over the decisions that my father, then Umar, had made for the
umma.
My father’s support for the cruel Khalid ibn al-Walid as general had made Ali argue and fume. When Umar had assumed the
khalifa
with his whip in hand, Ali complained of his harshness. They were strange objections from a man who drew his double-bladed sword whenever he was provoked.

I, also, had disagreed with these stern measures because I knew Muhammad would never have condoned them. But Ali’s hatred of me took him far from Muhammad’s path. He had complained about my father’s consulting me for advice—which Muhammad had also done—and about Umar’s paying me a larger pension than my sister-wives received, an act which my husband would have encouraged. Ali, follow in their footsteps? The idea made me want to laugh.

For a long time, Ali didn’t answer Abd al-Rahman’s question. He stood and gazed at the eager faces of his supporters, men nodding and, no doubt, mouthing to him to
say yes.
He searched the eyes of Abd al-Rahman, certainly hoping to see the correct response there. He looked down at his clasped hands and closed his eyes, probably praying for the right words.

At last he lifted his face to Abd al-Rahman’s, and his look of calm filled me with dread. Whether with al-Lah’s guidance or with Satan’s, he had arrived at an answer. If Abd al-Rahman chose him,
islam
would be lost to the dishonesty and greed of Ali and his relatives, and I’d have to watch from the confines of my hut the ruin of everything that Muhammad had worked for.

“Thank you for the opportunity to address this very important matter.” Ali bowed first to Abd al-Rahman and then to the crowd. “Of course I am aware of the many virtues possessed by Abu Bakr and Umar, not the least of which was their love for my cousin Muhammad, the Prophet of al-Lah.”

Cheers rose from the crowd again. “If I were appointed
khalifa,
I would try very hard to follow the example of my predecessors. I would certainly do so to the best of my ability. I might decide on a different direction than these men might have chosen, but only after consulting al-Lah. And if I should fail in any matter, I would be forgiven and my errors rectified by God. For I have no doubt that He would prefer the man closest to His Prophet’s heart to lead His people.”

Ali’s supporters burst into cheers and Abd al-Rahman’s face took on creases and folds like shifting dunes. As for me, I had to lean against the wall to keep from slumping to the floor. How wily was Ali! He had managed to answer my question without commitment or denial—in truth, without saying anything except to remind us of his ties to Muhammad.

Ali returned to his place and Uthman stepped forward. His smile was bigger than ever, so that it seemed to surround his face instead of just covering it. Abd al-Rahman turned sad eyes to his friend as though he already knew his answer would be inadequate, as though he were apologizing for having to appoint Ali.

“Uthman ibn ‘Affan, I ask you the same question,” he said. “If appointed, do you vow to rule according to the example set by first Abu Bakr and then Umar?”

Uthman began to nod. He looked out at the expectant crowd as though he had already rehearsed this moment with them. Yet, like Ali, he said nothing at first. Ali’s answer had impressed this group, and Uthman, who had never been known for his skills as a speaker, now had to outperform him. Even as I knew he couldn’t do it, and as his smile started to look foolish and his mustache, ridiculous, I prayed that God would give him the words, just this once.

“What is your answer?” Abd al-Rahman asked. “If appointed, do you promise to follow the example of your predecessors?

Uthman was still nodding. “Yes, I do,” he said. And he folded his arms over his belly and stood like a ben-tree in a storm, proud and strong.

“Oh, no!” My cry was lost in the clamor of men shouting Uthman’s name. A simple “yes” was his answer? Around me, the sister-wives who supported Ali hugged and kissed one another, while those who wanted Uthman slumped in place, our eyes blank as we contemplated life under Ali. I gazed around my hut, at the colored glass hung by threads from the ceiling, at the paintings on my mud-brick walls, at the colorful cushions I had sewn, at Muhammad’s grave and that of my father, and I sighed. It was a good thing I loved my home, because, with Ali as
khalifa
, I wouldn’t be leaving it.

Maymunah was beaming. “
Yaa
A’isha, a most excellent question you asked. Now we Hashimites will have the respect we deserve.”

“Yes, thank you, A’isha,” Ramlah said dryly. “Your meddling has destroyed
islam
. I’m sure my brother Mu’awiyya will be very grateful.”

To think of Mu’awiyya’s suffering made Ali’s appointment almost bearable. I was about to say so when Hafsa shushed us all. “By al-Lah, the contest isn’t over.”

Abd al-Rahman lifted his hands raised toward the ceiling and shouted like a man struck by lightning, “
Yaa
al-Lah, which is the answer You sought?” Buffeted by indecision, Abd al-Rahman leaned first toward Ali and then toward Uthman.

Then he began to nod, his eyes closed, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Yes. No equivocating, no faltering, no excuses. Only a simple ‘yes.’ God is pleased with you,
yaa
Uthman. You have given the best answer.”

He opened his eyes and beamed at the crowd. “It is my pleasure to announce that Uthman will be the new
khalifa
,” he said. “
Yaa
Uthman, please stretch forth your hand so that I may pledge my allegiance to you.”

Now I was the one cheering, and Hafsa, while Saffiya wiped the tears from her cheeks and gave a hug to Ramlah, who pulled back with a wince. Uthman held out his hand, and as Abd al-Rahman kissed him, his supporters chanted and cheered while Ali’s supporters yanked off their sandals and used them to smack the heads of the others. Abdallah took a blow to his face as he made his way back toward me. I broke free of my sister-wives to go to him.

And then three miraculous and unexpected things happened. The crowd of men parted when they saw me approach, and many of them bowed to me. “Make way for the Mother of the Believers!” someone cried. I blushed to realize that, in my haste, I had forgotten my wrapper, but the eyes of these men were not gazing upon me with desire or disrespect. I saw reverence, as though I were the angel Gabriel appearing in their midst. And I saw something else in these men’s eyes: love. Not the love of a man for his bride, but, rather, of a man for his mother.

“Please,” I said, feeling a new power, a mother’s power, “respect our new
khalifa
with your good wishes and your allegiance. Think how Muhammad must feel, watching Muslims fighting Muslims.”

Then the second miracle occurred. On the platform, Ali dropped to his knees and kissed Uthman’s hand, which now wore Muhammad’s signet ring. Standing beside my nephew Abdallah—who was unharmed, he assured me—I watched, stunned, as Ali professed his allegiance to Uthman
with a graciousness that he’d never shown either to my father or to Umar. When he’d risen, he asked everyone in the room to profess his allegiance, also. All around me, men lifted their hands and spoke Uthman’s name, and I lifted my hands also, at one with these men, the only sons I would ever know. I bowed my head for a brief prayer of thanks. When I looked at the platform again, I felt Ali’s eyes on me and I returned his gaze. And I wondered: Had Ali pledged his allegiance with a sincere desire to unify the
umma
, or had he done it to draw the crowd’s attention away from me and back to himself?

Then came the third miracle. While the room full of men shouted and slapped one another’s backs, and as Ali and I stared at each other, a mighty crash assaulted our ears. And we heard a hissing like that of a giant serpent. Abu Hurayra, the cat-lover, rushed out into the courtyard and ran back into the mosque—dripping wet.

“Praise al-Lah, the drought is ended!” he cried. “God has sent us rain to signify His pleasure with the day’s events.”

From my hut I heard my sister-wives squeal before they disappeared from my doorway. I found them all in the courtyard, barefoot and bareheaded, and dancing like children in the blessed downpour. For five years we had waited for rain, had prayed for it, had licked our cracked lips in memory of the feeling of water on our skin. So many springs had dried up that the public baths had closed and we had to chew dry barley for want of water to cook it in. Many had died of dehydration, including my mother and Abu Sufyan, Ramlah’s father. Today, as the rain fell in cool, misted sheets about our bodies, we forgot the dust that our skin had become and the thickness of our parched tongues in mouths that felt lined with linen. Today we danced. We tossed aside our robes made heavy by the rain and squished our toes in mud and threw it at one another. What man would dare to enter the courtyard, knowing we were here? Our gowns clung to our bodies and our mouths opened like baby birds’ to the wonderful, drenching, cleansing rain and we didn’t care at all about the outlines of our bodies or the glisten of water like diamonds on our skin. We danced until our gowns dragged at our feet. We cared only about soaking it in, all of it, filling ourselves from the outside in with this elixir as precious as life.