The Sword Of Medina (14 page)

“We have taken Jerusalem, the holy city,” Said announced that evening, as he sat in the
majlis
with me, Umar, Uthman, and Talha. “That prize was not easily won. We besieged the city for weeks until its patriarch, Sophronius, offered to surrender. But he says he will only submit to the
khalifa
Umar.”

And so Jerusalem was added to our expedition, and with a sinking heart I contemplated additional months away from Asma’s bed.

In his winter robe, mended countless times, Umar set out that night with his advisors and supporters. My cheeks still wet with my darling Asma’s tears—for my kindnesses had at last, after two years, won her heart—we made the arduous trek to witness our warriors’ behavior in Damascus and to claim Jerusalem, the city Muhammad had once deemed most holy in the world.

Besides Asma’s absence, the journey held another disappointment: Umar had invited Talha, whose provocations would certainly irritate me like a blister that refused to heal. I endeavored to remain as far from that mocker as possible.

Avoiding contact while we traveled was not difficult, since the majority of our journey occurred after dark. Nighttime in the desert is frigid, requiring a man to swaddle himself in blankets as though he were a newborn. And so with little effort I was able to avoid his dancing eyes.

Undistracted by Talha’s unpleasant jokes, I focused on the pleasures of travel: the contours of the sand dunes, like the curves of a woman; the glassy moon; the sweet, sharp exhilaration brought about by the richness of the desert air in my lungs; the pungent earthen aromas arising from the camels; the acrid smell of burning oil on the torches our men carried to light our way; the
yip
of jackals and the song of men’s voices reciting verses invented in the moment. The latter was a skill at which I excelled, having been reared in the household of Muhammad, the Greatest Poet of all.

Only occasionally during our weeks-long march did I happen upon Talha. My uncle al-Abbas was another matter. He had ingratiated himself
so thoroughly with Umar as to become one of his chief advisors along with Mughira, a leader of the Quraysh tribe. Mughira was a big, ugly, one-eyed man on whose breath I had smelled both women and wine, but who professed the utmost piety. He prescribed the severest of punishments for those accused of those same transgressions. My uncle cared little for Mughira, knowing him to be the most odious of hypocrites. Yet he visited the man’s tent, and urged me to do the same, for power’s sake.
Mughira holds the
khalifa
in his palm. He could be a valuable ally for you.

I said nothing, fearing that I might burst into laughter and reveal the disrespect for my uncle that had planted itself in my heart. The time was not right for these ambitions. I burned in shame at the memory of the deeds I had committed in the interest of my advancement. In truth, I had never approved of al-Abbas’ tactics for pursuing the
khalifa
—not Muhammad’s secret burial; not the defiance I was encouraged to display once Abu Bakr had been chosen; and not my uncle’s recruitment of spies and rebels from the
umma
’s army, men who pledged they would support me as
khalifa
although I was not a contender.

I tried demurring, but my uncle refused to listen.

“In the eyes of Quraysh, I am too young to lead,” I insisted.

He frowned. “You are less young than you were before, and you will be older tomorrow than you are today.”

“But the Bedouins will not support a relative of Muhammad’s.”

My uncle
tsked
. “Ali, these are not your obstacles. They exist only in others’ minds.”

Perhaps, but they were no less real to me. I might never be the
khalifa
. I had accepted this. I felt no urgency to press for the position while Umar held it. Severe though he might be at times, Umar strove to uphold Muhammad’s vision for
islam.
Nothing else mattered, in my view.

And when Umar needed guidance in administering
islam
according to Muhammad’s ideals, to whom did he turn? I possessed the most intimate knowledge of the Prophet’s heart, and I most advised the
khalifa
on these matters. I only regretted that he did not seek my opinions regarding his treatment of women. I would have made life easier for those gentle creatures. This, I knew, would have been my cousin’s desire.

As Umar’s Companion, I was able to make nearly as great an impact on the future of
islam
and the
umma
as if I had held the
khalifa.
And after
giving my advice, I returned home to my delightful wives and growing brood of children. Would I be more content if I held Umar’s position? I could not imagine it.

When we reached Damascus, we found that beautiful city in disarray. Women dressed in dark blue huddled at the ornate arched gate and screeched like crows as we entered. In the city, men and women scurried about like ants when they beheld our approach, as though we had come to invade their city a second time. As we entered the heart of the city I could only wonder whether we Muslims controlled anything within its sand-colored walls. True to rumor, we spied men wearing warriors’ clothing hunched in the narrow streets and casting dice of carved stone. Pieces of gold lay scattered at their feet. The rattling of tambourines greeted our ears along with the lilt of women’s voices, and as we rounded the corner we beheld the form of a fleshy dancer in a dress the color of the sea, whose bare arms and throat dripped with jewels and who gyrated her body more sinuously than any serpent’s for the pleasure of a growing crowd of men. Heat spread across my lap as if my robes had caught fire, and I averted my eyes for the dancer’s sake, for al-Lah’s, and for that of my own soul.
Yaa al-Lah, allow us to reach this poor woman with Your message
.

Instinctively I sought Umar, who rode at the front of the caravan and whom I followed at a distance so that I might avoid Talha’s distasteful company. Yet as I spurred my camel forward along the line, I saw that mocker gazing at the woman’s body with every swing of her hips. Talha’s mouth twitched at the corners, as it seemed always to do. He inclined his head toward that of his young friend Abdallah—my cousin al-Zubayr’s son, A’isha’s nephew—and said, “By al-Lah! Behold the woman’s spasmodic twitching! Has she swallowed a honeybee, or an entire hive?”

With skin the translucent hue of milk and the graceful upward sweep of her hair—red hair, reminding me unpleasantly of A’isha, whom I had sought to escape on this journey—the dancer’s feminine delicacy was apparent, even if her morality was not. With equal measures of approval and worry I watched Umar stomp up to the unsuspecting woman, his whip in his right hand. How imposing was his figure! Certainly she would cease her flagrancy as soon as he commanded her to cover herself.

He lifted the whip and brought it down with a crack upon her tender, exposed bosom. The dancer screamed and crouched, covering herself
with her arms, but his next strike fell on her back, leaving a welt so angry it oozed droplets of blood. No one rushed forth to protect her, and when her admirers realized her admonisher’s identity, they scurried away like startled rats.

My pulse pounded like a fist against my throat as I watched Umar strike the woman, his pocked face as livid as a bruise; as I heard her shrieks of pain, which rose and echoed off the stone buildings; and as I saw the blood rise upon her pale skin. How could I end this punishment? Muhammad would not have condoned this.

The poor, sobbing dancer fell to the street while I watched. Indecision paralyzed me. Should I interfere? Muhammad would certainly have done so, but he was the Prophet of God. Yet as Umar raised his whip again I was commanding my camel to drop to its knees, and then running toward the fallen woman as if pushed by some hand other than my own. When I reached her I yanked off my woolen robe and flung it over her shuddering body, protecting her from Umar’s sting and hiding her from his unforgiving eyes.

I half expected to feel the lash of Umar’s fury on my shoulders and head, but my interruption had halted his assault. He stood with his hand suspended, the whip dangling against his wrist, his eyes narrowed.

“I have ended her offense,
yaa khalifa,
” I said. “She is now covered. Al-Lah willing, she will remain so, now that you have pointed out her error.”

He did not reply. Instead, he turned and stomped back to where his camel awaited. My face burned: Surely he suspected more than ever that I would usurp his authority. An act of retribution would be necessary, I knew, to place me again into my proper position.

As I turned to the woman at my feet, I could not regret my actions. I reached down to help her with my sleeve over my hand, showing my respect for her by placing a barrier between my skin and hers. From the moment Umar’s whip had welted her, she had ceased to be a sinner in my eyes and had become, instead, a human being deserving of compassion. When I touched her, however, the robe slipped away from her hair and I noticed again its color, the orange-red of a cactus flower. The memory of A’isha cast its long shadow across my mind.

But I helped this fire-haired woman more gently than I had ever even
thought to touch A’isha. As a young girl, A’isha had aroused my ire many times with her pranks and her tart mouth; as a young woman, she had inspired my dislike with her petty jealousies over Muhammad, her disrespectful treatment of my beloved Fatima, and her relentless ambition to become queen of the
harim.
I had fantasized many times about seeing her punished, but now, beholding this woman who reminded me of her, I recognized A’isha as woman who could be hurt and humiliated, just as this dancer had been.

“I owe you my life,” she murmured in a voice like the breeze. Her egg-blue eyes gazed through a veil of tears as she offered up my robe, but I waved it away.

“Please keep it so that you may hide yourself from the eyes of men,” I said to her. “The Prophet admonished us to clothe ourselves in modesty so as not to incite sinful desires.”

Her tears disappeared. “Am I to be ashamed of that which God has given me?” she said, tossing her head and spilling red hair across her bared arms. “No, and not ashamed of the stripes your leader has marked me with, either. I will display them so that my fellow Syrians can see the pain this new
islam
inflicts. Our Christian God—” she lifted her chin “—is a God of love.”

As she handed my robe to me, I thought again of the arrogant A’isha. I hastened to my camel, donning my robe and glaring at all I passed, daring any man to comment while hoping someone might. I hungered for a fight.

I noted the eyes of Talha in the crowd, eyes that danced with laughter under his ridiculous yellow turban. Young Abdallah, A’isha’s nephew, had disappeared and had been replaced by the warrior ‘Amr, who was seated beside Talha on his horse. As I passed the pair, Talha bowed to me as if in deference, although I knew he meant to mock.

“The red hair of a woman is to Ali as a flickering flame to a moth,” Talha said. “Attracting and scorching at once. Do I speak truly,
yaa
Ali?”

The lilting tone he used was like a bellows to my smoldering rage. In the flash of a blade I held Zulfikar, my double-pointed sword, mere inches from Talha’s face. He laughed no more.

A single thrust and I could have pierced both his eyes at once. I imagined Talha’s howl, his smirk lost in rivers of blood. ‘Amr’s sword clashed against mine, calling me back to the moment.

“
Yaa
Ali, is that dancer so important that you would fight over her?” ‘Amr asked. “If you attack Umar’s Companion Talha, our
khalifa
will deprive you of every advantage you now enjoy. And, despite your closeness to the Prophet, he would certainly have you whipped.”

‘Amr’s warning deflated my passion, leaving me cold. He spoke truly: Umar enjoyed Talha’s wit. I sheathed my sword without deigning to respond and walked away to my camel.

As we neared the former Byzantine church—now a mosque—I felt my spirits lift in anticipation of a good meal and a soft bed. The journey had been long, comprising several weeks of straddling camels and chewing on dried barley. Even the sturdy Umar must be in need of rest and a proper meal.

But my spirits sank when I beheld a retinue of men in gold-embroidered robes and bejeweled turbans stepping forth to greet us. Their long beards were sleek and trimmed, delicately curling about the edges and oiled with perfumes that made them glisten as if dipped in starlight. Their hands, which carried colorful pillows laden with plump figs and purple grapes, were smooth and free of calluses, and their fingers flashed with gold rings. Umar’s camel knelt at their approach. I could not see Umar’s face, but I knew he would not appreciate such finery.

The tapping of tambourine bells, pleasing to all ears except Umar’s, kept time with the rhythmic stepping of the servants. Behind them walked an elaborately manicured and extravagantly clothed man at whom I had to stare for many moments before recognizing the savage warrior Khalid ibn al-Walid. Gone was his crude turban stuck with arrows; in its place, a snow white hat perched like a dove atop his head. In his right hand he held a scepter wafting incense, which he waved before his flaring nostrils. His robe, in contrast to those worn by his servants, was a deep, lustrous indigo, embroidered in a rainbow of colors to depict the feathers of a peacock in full plumage.

“By al-Lah! How dare you parade before me in this way.” Umar dismounted his camel in a spry leap to tower over the men who greeted him. He was so tall that he appeared to be on a horse even as he stood with his feet on the ground. His height rarely failed to intimidate.

The servants halted at his shout and folded their bodies around their goods as if to guard them from being scattered to the ground. But Umar
was a frugal man. He grabbed an empty sack from his camel, pulled it open, and scooped the pillowed fruits into the bag. He did the same with all the food, and then, while we in his caravan watched with watering mouths, he motioned for me to descend and come forward.

“Take this bag and distribute its contents among the poor,” he said. “Take nothing for yourself.” He raised his voice so all our men could hear. “Because Ali has challenged my authority today, you will all feel the effects. I alone will sleep in the room prepared for me tonight, while the rest of you will spend the night in your tents.” No one dared complain, but several of our men glared at me as if they might slit my throat while I slept. I dropped my gaze to the bag in my hand, contemplating with dread another night on the hard ground, with no bath to refresh me.