The Sword Of Medina (17 page)

“He has gone to join his beloved,” old Umm Ayman said with a knowing nod to Sawdah.

“He loved her, everybody knew that,” Sawdah said. “But Maryam was faithful to Muhammad.”

“That is not what people are saying about her,” Umm Ayman said. “Or about your sister-wives, either. Behold A’isha and Talha, for instance. How closely they stand to each other. Does he not visit her hut from time to time?” I took a step backward, and pulled my wrapper closer to hide the flush of heat spreading across my face and neck.

“Get that blackamoor out of Maryam’s grave,” Umar gruffed, then walked away shaking his head. As he passed me, he added, “
Yaa
A’isha, I want to talk with you in the mosque. Immediately.”

My stomach pulled tight. I turned to follow Umar, feeling Talha’s gaze as I walked away. What did Umar want? Would he chastise me for speaking at Maryam’s grave? Or had he, also, heard rumors about me and Talha? That would hurt Talha’s chance of being named the next
khalifa
. Umar would never name a successor who had been tainted by scandal.

As I followed Umar, Mughira, and Ali to the mosque, a small, dark man stepped into Umar’s path. “
Afwan, yaa khalifa,
forgive me for intruding,” he said. “I am Abu Lulu’a, a former slave. I earned my freedom two years ago but your Companion Mughira still enslaves me. He takes two
pieces of silver per day from my earnings as a carpenter. I beg you to lift this unfair tax.”

Umar turned Mughira beside him, who shrugged. “He learned his craft under my sponsorship,” he said. “It is only fair that I should benefit.”

“You have so much wealth, while I have nothing,” Abu Lulu’a screeched. “This is not fair.”

Umar drew back as if Abu Lulu’a had spit at him, and gave the little man a stern frown. “Would you have me insult Mughira, one of my most valuable advisors, for the sake of a slave such as you?”

Abu Lulu’a bowed again. “According to the Prophet, we are all one in the eyes of al-Lah.”

Umar nodded. “You speak truly. But Mughira is important not only to me, but to
islam.
When you have demonstrated that you are equally important, than I will admonish him.” He started to walk away, but the little man stepped backwards and blocked his path again.

“What can I do to prove my worthiness to you?”

“Hmm.” Umar tugged at his beard. “That is a very good question,
yaa
Abu Lulu’a. What can you do? Hmm.” He tugged at his beard as if deep in thought, but his wink at Mughira told us he was far from serious.

“By al-Lah, my answer has revealed itself,” Umar said with a snap of his fingers. “Abu Lulu’a, as you know, our wells in Medina are so depleted that we cannot retrieve their water. Can you build a windmill for pumping the water? If you can do that, then I will speak to Mughira on your behalf.” He grinned at his advisor, who grinned back.

“A windmill!” A whine edged Abu Lulu’a’s voice. “I am skilled, but I am not a
djinni
.”

Umar shrugged. “That is unfortunate for you. But at least I gave you a chance.”

He began to walk again, motioning for us all to follow, leaving Abu Lulu’a standing with his arms akimbo.

“You will be sorry for this,” he cried. “Al-Lah will punish you!”

Umar inclined his head toward Mughira. “
Yaa
Mughira, I think a tax of two
dirhams
is not enough in this case,” he said. “I suggest you charge him three.” Mughira grinned, showing his ugly yellow teeth.

At the mosque entrance, Umar ordered his Companions to take their leave, then beckoned me to follow him inside. At his behest, I sat across
from him. He poured us each a bowl of water and we drank, but my gaze never left his face as I tried to figure out why he’d brought me into his
majlis,
Umar’s male sanctum.

Finally, he put down his bowl, wiped his beard with his sleeve, and looked at me.

“A’isha, I am sure you have heard the rumors,” he said. My intuition had been correct. Angry over the lies swirling through the
umma
, Umar was going to banish me from Talha. I cast about for arguments.
Yaa al-Lah, give me the words to change his mind.

But, as it turned out, Umar hadn’t brought me here to discuss Talha.

“As you know, I can offer her an excellent home,” he was saying. “And my other wives will treat her kindly. If you will give your consent, of course.”

I shook my head. “What about Talha?” I said frowning.

He shook his head. “It seems grief over Maryam has settled like a fog on your ability to reason,” he said. “No one has mentioned Talha.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless there is something you wish to reveal.”

“No.” I took a sip of water. “You speak truly about my mind being confused. Did you say something about a marriage?”

He let out a short, impatient sigh. “Yes. I want to marry Abu Bakr’s youngest daughter,” he said. “Your sister Umm Kulthum. If you will give your consent, of course.”

Suddenly I felt as if I had plunged headlong into the Sea of Hijaz. My thoughts flailed. Umar’s eyes watched me steadily, waiting—and again I felt grateful for my
hijab
. With it, Umar couldn’t see the turmoil I felt. Send my little sister to live with a man who beat his wives for speaking above a whisper?

“Umm Kulthum?” He nodded. “But she is only four years old. Why would you choose her?”

“Betrothal to a daughter of our esteemed
khalifa
Abu Bakr would enhance my status,” he said. He gave me a thin smile. “And Muhammad has forbidden you to remarry.”

Praise al-Lah for that.
I cleared my throat. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Why not say ‘yes’? The match would be advantageous for your family, also.”

“Yes, but—” Needing more time, I forced a cough. Umar poured the last drops of precious water for me and I sipped them slowly.

Umar folded his arms over his shrunken belly and smiled, his eyes
gleaming as he anticipated my assent. His eagerness sweetened the taste of my lie.

“She—she is spoken for,” I said. “Talha asked my father before he died.” I shook my head. “By al-Lah, I can’t believe
abi
never told you. You two were so close.”

I don’t know which delighted me most—Umar’s disappointed frown or his obvious embarrassment. “I and your father did not often discuss family matters,” he said. “But it makes no difference. What is done is done.”

“I hope your heart won’t suffer from losing my sister’s hand,” I said sweetly, goading him.

He reddened even more. “Of course not. What kind of man would I be, to lust after a four-year-old? I told you, the marriage would have been political, and nothing more.”

I bowed to him. “It will be the same for Talha. He hopes to be
khalifa
some day. If al-Lah wills it.”

“Yes, yes.” Umar stood, and I followed. “I am sure he would be an excellent candidate.” He stepped toward the
majlis
entryway and, with my head meekly lowered, I followed him. Then he stopped and turned around to peer at me, his eyes glinting.

“In truth, marrying your sister will enhance Talha’s chances at the title,” he said. “Much more so than the
other
route he has been pursuing.”

The accusatory lift of his eyebrows told all, and I thought I should defend myself against his insinuations.

“What route is that,
khalifa
?” I said.

“A route that leads directly to Hell,” he said. “Dangerous to all concerned, especially you.”

I lowered my head to hide my guilt. “I didn’t know you cared,” I said wryly.

“I do not,” he said. “Not in the way you are thinking. I do, however, care about the reputation of the Prophet’s widows, and the deleterious effects of gossip. If Talha’s engagement to Umm Kulthum will restore some peace among the tongue-waggers, then I will give the couple my full support.”

I lifted my head to offer him a smile and say something truthful, at last. “I couldn’t agree more. This marriage will be good for everyone concerned.” Now, all I had to do was convince Talha—and hope that being married to my sister would, someday, turn his thoughts away from me.

When Umar insulted Abu Lulu’a with his offer of freedom in exchange for a windmill, I thought little of the incident. Slaves approached the
khalifa
daily with complaints, and Abu Lulu’a should have known that Umar would display little sympathy. Although Muhammad had encouraged Muslims to free their slaves, Umar lacked my cousin’s tenderness of heart.

So when my cousin Abd Allah ibn al-Abbas came to my home to announce that Umar had been stabbed, the news struck me like a fist to my chest. Abd Allah’s face shone as brightly and excitedly as if he were announcing a birth instead of an impending death.

“Praise al-Lah, the path for you is cleared at last!” my cousin said. I led him into my
majlis,
where he seized my beard with such vehemence that my eyes began to water.

“Umar lies dying in the mosque, may al-Lah be with him. His Companions are gathering to hear his instructions.
Yaa
Ali, you must come and let him know that you are a contender for the
khalifa.
The future of
islam
depends on your appointment.”

I wanted to tell him that
islam
had survived very well without me as its leader, but in truth I did not believe that it had. Grandiose mosque expansions, a pension system that pitted Qurayshi against Bedouins and early converts against new ones, the appointment of that deceiver Mu’awiyya
to govern Syria—so many of Umar’s initiatives had, in my view, served to corrupt the
islam
revealed by Muhammad. I wanted to return the faith to its origin—to restore equality among men, respect for women, and honesty and humility in government. Could my time be at hand?

We stepped outside into mayhem. Everyone in Medina, it appeared, had surged into the street: men with bared teeth and fire in their eyes, veiled women crying their children’s names, and children re-enacting with sticks the terrible attack that had befallen Umar as he had walked from his home to the mosque that morning.

We wove our way through the swirl and crash of children, men,
shaykhs
, women, dogs, horses, camels, goats, and ubiquitous flies to hurry into the mosque, where Umar lay on a mattress, holding his side to stem the flow of blood that the reddening bandage wrapped around his waist could not. His face had turned an unpleasant ashen color. Beside him sat his first-wife, Zaynab bint Maz’un, patting the hand of her weeping daughter Hafsa, who had remained inexplicably attached to Umar despite his harsh treatment. A’isha knelt beside Umar’s bed and mixed a poultice to apply to a clean bandage, which she laid across the terrible gushing wound.

Umar paid little attention to the ministrations of the women but clung, instead, to the robe of his friend Abd al-Rahman. In spite of the drought and famine, the wealthy Qurayshi merchant had somehow managed to cultivate three chins under his dyed black beard.

“There is no better man,” Umar was saying between gasps. “Please accept, so that I can die in peace.”

I murmured a greeting, hiding the alarm that I knew must be flashing across my face. Umar was attempting to appoint Abd al-Rahman to the
khalifa.
Such an action would only increase the corruption of
islam
, for Abd al-Rahman loved only one thing more than money, and that was status. I had heard him speak disparagingly about Bedouins, Persians, Yemeni, and Egyptians, whose members now made up most of the Muslim populace. I knew he had donated generously to Umar’s mosque expansion in exchange for coveted positions for his sons, brothers, and cousins. As
khalifa
, he would place a relative into every governorship throughout our territory, which would heighten complaints that
islam
had become a religion of, and for, Quraysh.

Abd al-Rahman’s reply alleviated my concerns. “I am honored,
yaa
Umar, but I cannot accept this appointment. Have you not said many times that the
khalifa
should be chosen by the people? I beseech you to convene a
shura
. If its members elect me, I would gladly, and humbly, serve.”

Although I knew there was nothing humble about Abd al-Rahman, I could not dispute the wisdom of his words. After Abu Bakr had appointed Umar, many had muttered, wondering why I, the father of the Prophet’s heirs, had not been considered. My supporters among the
ansari
and the Bedouins stemmed partly from my blood relationship to Muhammad and partly from my respect for them. Under Umar’s harsh reign, the complaints about my being overlooked for the
khalifa
had lately increased. For Umar to appoint his successor would surely cause a rift in the
umma
. That in turn could leave our vast empire vulnerable to conquest by that power-monger Mu’awiyya.

But my hopes plummeted as Umar named the men who would serve on the electing council: Abd al-Rahman; the esteemed general Sa’d, who had served under my command as a foot soldier at Badr and Uhud; Umar’s oldest son, Abdallah; Uthman, and al-Zubayr, my cousin, who had supported me in the beginning, refusing to pledge allegiance to Abu Bakr, but had then turned against me. My name was not mentioned.

“And what about Talha?” A’isha said, although she had not been asked to offer her opinion. “You’ve relied on him often enough for advice.”

“You speak truly,” Umar wheezed.

“
Yaa khalifa,
I request your permission to speak.” My cousin Abd Allah stepped forward and bowed. He suggested that I be included, also.

“There are rumors of Talha’s ambition for the
khalifa
,” Abd Allah said. “Also, many Believers support Ali for the position. To avoid dissent, why not appoint them both to your council? Then no one could say that Umar had unfairly cheated Ali of his birthright.”

“People are going to talk no matter what you do,” A’isha began, but Abd al-Rahman cut her off, earning from me a measure of respect that would, alas, be short-lived.

“I agree with the son of al-Abbas,” he said. “Our highest hope for the continuation of the
umma
and of
islam
depends on having an impartial, balanced council choose your successor.”