The Sword Of Medina (31 page)

I had my army, or its beginnings. My spirits soared, but falteringly. If my leadership stood on the shoulders of assassins, how stable would it be? If I displeased al-Ashtar in some way, might he kill me next?

“Death to A’isha, Talha, and al-Zubayr!” al-Ashtar called, and the men’s roar like crashing sea waves filled the room. My eyes stung at the thought of that brave woman slain, and of the death of my childhood friend al-Zubayr, whom I had loved. I stood above these frenzied men, waving my sword, mindful of the hands grasping at my feet. If I lost my vigilance, even for one moment, they would pull me down.

The night was as still as a stopped heart. Outside the city of Basra, I, Talha, and al-Zubayr waited in dread for Ali’s army to arrive.

“Seven thousand men,” Talha’s voice trembled as he paced the dirt floor of the same spacious tent of red camel’s hair that Muhammad had used during battles. “How, by al-Lah, did Ali conjure such a force?”

“Not Ali, but his son al-Hassan.” Al-Zubayr smirked, looking every bit the general in his gleaming chain mail. “It seems that someone in the family, at least, possesses charm.”

Both men turned to me, awaiting my response. I was shocked to hear of such a mighty army under Ali’s command. Seven thousand men could stamp out our small gathering, just a few thousand strong, like a sandal over an anthill. A shiver swept over my bones as I remembered again the strange barking and howling we’d heard a few nights earlier when we’d stopped to water our camels. The cacophony had made the hair on my neck stand up and my palms perspire as I remembered Zaynab’s cryptic warning before she died:
Beware the dogs at Hawab.

“What is this place?” I’d asked, but my driver didn’t know. The noise continued as I asked first one man, then another, for the name of the well from which we drank. Then Talha came over and stared at me—and what a sight I must have made, frenzy-eyed, my voice rising with each query.

“
Yaa
A’isha, this is Hawab.”

“We have to turn back,” I’d told Talha. “Muhammad sent a warning.”

I’d been adamant, despite Talha’s coaxing and, finally, his teasing. “You don’t believe in deathbed predictions, do you, A’isha?” I retreated to my tent and remained there for the rest of the night and the next day, praying for guidance. I waited and listened, but no guidance came—only a deep calm, as I realized that, barking dogs or not, I had come too far to turn back now. Three thousand men had heeded my call to arms. Then Al-Zubayr warned that Ali was on the verge of overtaking us, and I agreed to move on to Basra.

Now I felt that sense of calm return. This battle had been foretold. It was destined to happen. I straightened my shoulders, ignoring the tiny voice of fear tugging at my ear. What we were doing was just and honorable—and, I was convinced, it was the will of al-Lah.

“Ali couldn’t talk a flea into jumping on a hound,” I said. “But his sons resemble Muhammad, and they’re both as gentle as lambs. It was brilliant of Ali to send al-Hassan to recruit the warriors of Kufa. Unfortunately for him, though, his honey-tongued son won’t be helping him on the battlefield. Al-Hassan is not a fighter.”

“You speak truly, A’isha.” The twinkle returned to Talha’s eyes. “Ali has the charisma of a stick.”

I imagined Ali on the battlefield, waving his double-bladed sword, his belly swelling like a shifting dune. Instead of the hatred that usually knotted my stomach at the thought of him, though, I felt something else. I closed my eyes against the idea of spilling his blood. I reached out a hand, longing for a wall to support me, for Muhammad’s shoulder to lean against. How had this happened? Was this what my husband would have wanted?

“Let Hassan’s admirers come to the battlefield,” al-Zubayr was saying. “What concern is it of ours? We have the Mother of the Believers. With one glimpse of A’isha, Ali’s army will abandon him and rush to our side.”

I pictured myself on the hillside behind us, waving al-Ma’thur, challenging Ali as I’d dreamt of doing since I was fourteen. I was still haunted by that awful day when I’d ridden into Medina with another man and endured the jeers of my neighbors.
Al-zaniya!
they had called me—adulteress. And
fahisha,
whore. Worst of all, though, was hearing Ali urge Muhammad to divorce me.

You will easily find another child bride,
he’d said. As if that were all I meant to Muhammad. As if my young girl’s body had drawn him to me in the first place. As if he had not loved me above all others. As if the allegations against me were true.

From that moment, my hatred of Ali had been bound up with my love for Muhammad. Yet I had never envisioned myself killing Ali or declaring war against him. He was my husband’s kin, as beloved to him as a son. How could I fight him in battle?

Yet how could I
not
fight against him? First, Ali had let Uthman’s assassination occur. Now he refused to prosecute the men who had broken into our
khalifa’s
bedroom and pierced his head and throat with their knives. I’d sent him letters, as had Talha and even Mu’awiyya, but he’d ignored us. Of course, we all knew his reasons: The Bedouin al-Ashtar, who had planned the assassination, was Ali’s biggest supporter. He was the reason so many Bedouins marched against us today. If Ali punished him, he would lose more than half his army—and also the
khalifa
. But by not bringing al-Ashtar and the rest of the assassins to justice, Ali was committing a grave sin against
islam
. How could the religion of Muhammad survive under a blood-stained
khalifa
?

It was for this, the future of
islam
, that I was willing to fight. Yet I dreaded such a battle, for, as in the old days, we’d pit brother against brother, father against son. On our side we had the Quraysh of Mecca and the men of Basra, plus their Bedouin allies. Most had relatives in the approaching army. And so did I—my youngest brother, Mohammad ibn Abi Bakr.

I shuddered to think of his death at our hands—but the alternative, the death of
islam
, was much worse. I moved my fingers to the hilt of my sword—Muhammad’s sword.
Use it well in the
jihad
to come.
With his bequest, Muhammad had established my destiny—and now I was about to fulfill it.

So why did I feel so empty?

A boy of about fifteen—the minimum age on the battlefield—stepped into the tent, his long hair spilling over his shoulders. I caught my breath: He reminded me of Safwan, the youth I’d loved, or thought I loved, and for whom I’d almost risked Muhammad’s honor all those years ago. Ali’s hiss filled my mind again:
Divorce her.
Looking at this boy, with his high cheekbones and almond eyes, made me remember how, at fourteen, I’d
dreamt of Safwan while the Prophet of God lay next to me. What a foolish girl I’d been, planning to run away with that boy! Willing to risk
islam
for him. Muhammad would have been wise to divorce me—if al-Lah hadn’t given him another way out. And, with this realization, my hatred for Ali flew out the window.

I gasped, drawing the stares of Talha, al-Zubayr, and the messenger. I kept my gaze on the boy, not wanting my friends to misread the alarm in my eyes. My heart pounding, I listened to him deliver his message. “
Imam
Ali approaches and requests a meeting,” he said.

“A meeting,” Talha sneered. “As I suspected, the brave Ali possesses more courage on the
minbar
than he does on the battlefield.”

I was stung by Talha’s swaggering manner. Was this my lifelong friend, the man who shared my opinions? Apparently, his feelings differedfrom mine in, at least this regard: I wanted to avoid killing our kin, while he seemed eager to fight.

“If Ali wants to talk, why not indulge him?” I said. “It may be a sign of weakness on his part, but if he gives us what we want, you’ll have the
khalifa
in your hands.”

Al-Zubayr cleared his throat. “
Afwan,
A’isha, but please consider: I, also, would make an excellent choice.”

I frowned at him. “Choice? For what?”

He cleared his throat again. “For the
khalifa.
”

By al-Lah, I could have toppled over! I’d had no idea al-Zubayr was interested in the position. And, although he spoke truly—a famous general, a loyal Muslim, and a wise man, he would make an excellent
khalifa
—I felt my stomach sink at his words. Of all the times to make this announcement, now was the very worst. On the cusp of battle, we needed to pull together for one common cause, not split into factions.

But the damage had been done. Talha’s face looked as though a thundercloud had settled on it, and his pressed-together lips told me he was biting back a response. Not wanting Ali’s messenger to report that we were fighting amongst ourselves, I sent him to his
imam
with an invitation to join us. When the boy had gone, I turned to my fuming cousin and my defiant brother-in-law, wanting to smooth over the tension between them.

“By al-Lah, what a perfect team we make!” I said with a laugh. “We all
want the same things: a return of
islam
to its origins, justice for the killers of Uthman, and, now, the
khalifa
.”

My remark served its purpose, bringing a smile to the lips of both men. The idea of my being
khalifa
was ludicrous. How could I, a woman, be a leader of men, my superiors in every way?

“But this isn’t the time to argue over the
khalifa
,” I said. “We’ve got to focus on defeating Ali. We can’t do that if we’re bickering.”

“You speak truly, A’isha, as usual,” al-Zubayr said. “It is a pity that you cannot rule.” He swept out of the tent to his own next door, to rest and wash up.

As soon as he’d left us, Talha exploded. “By al-Lah, we should have known better than to trust that backstabber.” He paced the floor of my tent. “Do you remember how he urged Ali to rebel against your father when he was appointed? Then he turned against Ali and pledged to your father. He’s like a Bedouin, shifting his allegiance to whomever he thinks will help him the most.” He spat into the sand. “In this case, his allegiance is to himself.”

Given Talha’s eagerness to fight Ali, I was tempted to argue that he, also, served his own interests. Why would he balk at a meeting unless he worried that Ali would agree to our demands? If that happened, Talha might lose his chance at the
khalifa
, but more good than bad would come of it. Muslim lives would be spared, and if Uthman’s murder were avenged, the blood that now stained
islam
would be washed away.

“The last thing we need is a weak, vacillating
khalifa
,” Talha was saying. “After Uthman, we need a man of strength. Not al-Zubayr, who acts on impulse and changes his mind every day, and not Ali, who forces allegiance with his sword. We must prevail, or the spirit of
islam
will die.”

I agreed with Talha—to a point. I, also, wanted Ali to resign from the
khalifa
. Yet, judging from the size of his army, he had something that we didn’t: power. He had the support of seven thousand men, while our army numbered less than half that. His blood ties to Muhammad made him, to many, nearly as sacred as the Prophet. And his being the father of al-Hassan and al-Hussein, Muhammad’s sole male heirs, increased his status. I could only marvel at the contradiction: Bedouins hated the idea of dynasty, yet they supported Ali, whose sons would certainly inherit the
khalifa
.

“Those Bedouins will race one another to join our ranks once we have
defeated their
imam
in battle,” Talha said. “But to hold their allegiance, we’ll have to kill Ali.” He walked to the tent entrance, gazed across the grass and scrub, then turned and looked as deeply as a lover into my eyes. But the look I saw was urgent, not romantic.

“Think about it, A’isha,” he said. “With Ali gone, so many of our problems would be resolved. But if he lives, we’ll always have to worry about his trying to retake the
khalifa
. He would never accept my rule and I couldn’t force him to.” He turned and faced outside again, then smacked his fist into his hand. “As for his keeping the position, I would rather die than allow that to happen.”

Only a few hours earlier, I might have agreed with Talha. Now, though, I wondered: Was the
khalifa
worth killing for? Or were there more important considerations—such as justice?

Listening to Talha rant, I realized we should accept Ali as our ruler if he agreed to our other terms. If Ali gave us al-Ashtar’s head, I would have to pledge my support to him. Without it, as he knew, he’d never have the people’s loyalty, which he needed if he was going to hold onto his position. Ambitious men—predators—such as Mu’awiyya were already sensing his weakness and preparing to pounce.

“
Yaa
A’isha, do you have nothing to say?” Talha turned toward me again. “Or have you, like al-Zubayr, shifted your allegiance away from me?”

I tried to meet his gaze, but my own slid away. “My allegiance is yours, of course.” I cleared my throat. “But—”

“But! But what?” My cousin’s face bunched up like a fist he might use to hit me. “But you don’t want to fight?”

“I don’t want to fight our own kinsmen,” I said. “I don’t want to kill Muhammad’s foster-son. Muhammad loved Ali! It doesn’t feel . . . right.”

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.” Talha’s laugh was sharp. “Is that A’isha I hear sniveling like Abu Hurayra?”

Heat flooded my face. “Is it Talha I hear hurling insults at me?” I drew myself up and looked him directly in the eyes. “By al-Lah, you won’t get far with that kind of attitude toward A’isha bint Abi Bakr. If you don’t respect the Mother of the Believers—”

“Now who is insulting whom? You pretend to oppose Ali for the sake of all your ‘children,’ and for the sake of
islam.
Perhaps you’ve convinced yourself. But I know better.”

He placed his hands on my shoulders, but I slapped them away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snapped. “And you know it’s not proper to touch Muhammad’s wives.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is A’isha so proper now, after years of meeting me in private? You know exactly what I’m talking about.”