The Sword Of Medina (36 page)

Yaa Muhammad, I will be with you very soon.
I closed my eyes to imagine my beloved’s handsome face, his beautiful eyes like copper coins gazing with love at me. In an instant, though, my vision changed—and I saw myself standing on my camel’s back and fighting, holding on to my
hawdaj
with one hand and slashing my blade with the other. I pulled the curtain aside again to meet death courageously, face-to-face, as Muhammad would have done.

I threw myself over the back of my camel and grabbed my sword, ignoring the arrow that pierced my arm and the pain shooting through my shoulder. I stood shakily, preparing to fight as I had in my vision. Arrows fell all around me, but I never heeded them. Instead, I stared into the coal-black eyes of Ali, whose mouth opened at the sight of me, then pressed shut in determination. I watched as he urged his black steed forward to race toward me like a whirling
zauba’ah
.

Ali was coming. Here was the contest I had longed for all my life, and now dreaded as if it were my brother I faced. Yet even as I watched him, I knew my time on Earth was ended. After all that had passed between us, I could not harm Ali.

The battlefield is not the place for fear. If fear makes its residence in a warrior’s heart, his enemy can smell it, for it is an aroma most sweet, portending victory for the man who detects its subtle mingling of sweat, sex, and milk fresh from the udders of a goat.

For this reason, more than any other, accomplished warriors learn to banish fear on the battlefield. I, who had participated in many bloody and gruesome fights in my youth, had never allowed myself to become afraid during a fight, and so I had invariably defeated my foes. But during that terrible slaughter that would come to be known as the Battle of the Camel, when I beheld A’isha crouching atop her camel with her sword in hand while arrows flew about her head, fear seized my throat like the teeth of a hungry jackal.

I had never seen a sight as awe-inspiring—or terrifying—as A’isha bint Abi Bakr astride that lurching beast, her mouth a rictus of fury, her left hand gripping the bar of her
hawdaj
and her right hand holding high Muhammad’s jewel-encrusted sword. Blood smeared her white gown and pale arms, and from her shoulder protruded an arrow that she seemed not to feel. My heart swelled as I watched her among my best and bravest men—men who would not hesitate to kill her if they could, for many of them were new converts to
islam
and therefore unhindered by the reverence for the Mother of the Believers that those who had known Muhammad still felt.

Death seemed at hand for one of the most exemplary women al-Lah had ever fashioned and the most infuriating, also. In that moment I forgot the mayhem and stood admiring this woman whom I had previously hated.

Al-Lah only knows how long I might have watched A’isha challenge me with her eyes and raised sword. But then my son Mohammad rode up and urged me to save his sister’s life. “If you don’t, then, by al-Lah, I will!” he shouted. “If it means giving my life for hers, then let God’s will be done. I would rather die than see my sister dishonored by Bedouins.”

And then I recalled another warrior-woman, one as fierce, if not as beautiful: Umm Himl, the apostate warrior whom Khalid ibn al-Walid had brutally raped and murdered in battle. Perspiration broke out on my face and hands as I realized how imminent was a similar fate for A’isha.

I knew that there would be no halting this battle, not by command, for this was the moment for which I had prepared these men with my rousing speeches condemning the actions of the Mother of the Believers. I had labeled her an “affront to
islam
” and a “flaunter of the wishes of Muhammad, who ordered his wives to remain in their homes, hidden from the lustful eyes and hearts of men.” After stirring their passions, could I now rush in and forbid them the very prize with which I had lured them? No. If I tried to stop them, they would ignore me, or, worse, turn against me.

I remembered how Khalid had felled Umm Himl, and I saw the answer to my dilemma. “We must slice the hamstrings of A’isha’s camel,” I said. “The beast will fall to its knees, and the fight will be ended.”

Mohammad frowned. “What if she falls to the ground? She’ll break her neck.”

“That is a possibility,” I said. “But if we do nothing, she will certainly die.”

A scream pulled our attention back to the fight. One of my warriors had grabbed A’isha’s blade and, in spite of his bleeding hands, yanked and tugged in attempt to pull her to the ground. She wrested the sword away from him, but it was clear that she was tiring. Now was the time to save her. She looked up and our gazes locked, and, for the first time, I saw terror in her eyes. Holding my breath, I kicked my horse into action and raced toward her, not thinking about what I had to do, but relying solely on God’s guidance.

Such a feat as I had to perform would be difficult, for it would require maneuvering a horse around the crowd and back in, like thread through a weaver’s loom, then reaching out with a blade and slicing the backs of her camel’s legs even while the animal shifted and lurched—and doing all without getting kicked, stepped on, or killed by the enemy. Then I would have to leap to the ground and into the fray, to land by A’isha’s side. The task would be incredibly complicated; impossibly difficult for most. But not for Ali ibn Abi Bakr, the greatest warrior who ever fought by Muhammad’s side.

I glanced at her as I approached, my sword lifted, hoping to convey my intention so that she might hold on tightly to her
hawdaj
, to prevent a deadly, headlong tumble. I beheld her luminous eyes, brimming like bowls of tears as she lowered her sword. She had determined not to fight me!

I ululated a blood-chilling trill and bore down upon the group surrounding her so that they dispersed. I pulled back on my horse’s reins in an attempt to slow down, then reined him to the side to avoid the flurry of panic-stricken men. My steed skidded, nearly throwing me from his back.

In an instant, however, my horse had regained its footing and had skirted around the camel’s side, then behind its back legs. I eyed my target, the backs of its knees. As I neared its far flank I leaned out as far as I could go and thrust my double-bladed sword toward its knees.

I felt my blade sink into the camel’s tendon and slice through; then I cut the second hamstring even more quickly, and lowered my head to my horse’s neck as we passed on its lee side. My eyes watered from the stench of the dung the poor beast had dropped in its terror. The camel’s shrill scream, so human-like, brought chills to my body. I wheeled my horse around as the camel fell to its knees, its hind legs buckling first, then its forelegs—howling and rolling its eyes as its body crashed to the ground. I never heard A’isha make a sound, but I did see her topple backward, thank al-Lah, into her
hawdaj
.

No one spoke. The cacophony of battle had ceased as all, followers of both A’isha and Ali, beheld the fallen beast and listened to its agonized groans. Mohammad rode up and pierced its neck with his blade, ending its misery. I leapt from my horse and ran to the
hawdaj,
which somehow had remained upright. I wanted to hurl myself to the ground in prostrations of thanks when I saw the torn green curtain ripple and heard the chain mail clink like a woman’s bracelets.

“Are you harmed,
yaa
Mother of the Believers?” I called, every muscle tensed against a “yes” answer, or, al-Lah forbid, no answer at all.

“No, I am uninjured,” she said, and my relieved sigh was audible, I was certain, to all. “Only this arrow in my shoulder,” she added feebly.

I leaned in to help her, and our gazes met again—but only for a moment, until she covered her face with her wrapper. In that brief encounter, however, I beheld a mingling of sadness and grief that would haunt my dreams until my dying day. Tears welled in my eyes as, working slowly and gently, I extricated the arrow’s head from her flesh and blood spurted anew from the wound. I tore a strip from my bandage belt and wound it around her arm. Then I extended my hands to help her emerge from the
hawdaj
, but she refused my assistance. As soon as she emerged, the men around her began to shout her
kunya
.

“Mother of the Believers!” they cried, including those who had just fought against her. “The hearts of Muslims weep with love for you,
yaa
Mother.”

Mohammad approached to lift her into his arms, but she shook her head and murmured something. Then she stood leaning against him and narrowed her eyes at me. I think she took note of my foolish smile. It was unmanly and might have appeared gloating to her, but I could not suppress it, for I was relieved. In spite of the tears making their slow roll through the grime and blood on her face, A’isha appeared to be in good condition.

“May al-Lah protect you,
yaa
Mother,” one of my men called.

I almost laughed to see her famous smirk. “I can protect myself well enough from the likes of
you
,” she said in a curt tone. “As you’ve just witnessed.”

She nodded to Mohammad. He lifted her and walked, cradling her in his arms, to her camp. I stood in place to watch their retreat, whispering thanks to al-Lah for preserving her, before turning to my men.

“This battle is ended,” I said, surprised at the weariness of my voice, as though it had traveled far to be here. “Congratulations, men. We are victorious.”

Their cheers sounded forced to my ears as I mounted my steed and rode slowly away, guiding my horse with care around the bodies, and body parts, of men I had known and respected. I moaned to see Tarif, the lighthearted eldest son of my faithful warrior Adi “The Generous,” whose wounds in this
battle left him only one eye with which to cry for his loss. I shook my head at the dismembered bodies of al-Saq’ab and Abdallah ibn Sulaym, brothers of Muhammad’s Companion Mikhnaf, killed along with so many members of their clan while holding the reins of A’isha’s camel. I wept over the broken body of Abd al-Rahman ibn ‘Attab, a friend of my cousin al-Zubayr’s, a quiet man who had been like a father to al-Zubayr’s son Abdallah.

My eyes swam in tears at the sight of these good men slain, and for what? For the
khalifa
to remain in my possession? The fact that I had resigned myself to giving it up, had even embraced the notion of a
shura
to choose a leader, and had gone to sleep the night before with a heart lightened by A’isha’s respect, made this bloodshed even more sickening. Sitting on my horse, my heart swelling with admiration and constricting with fear as I’d watched A’isha in the midst of the battle, I’d had to struggle to keep my face impassive when an arrow stuck in Abdallah’s neck. Yet when Marwan’s spear had pinned Talha’s knee to his horse, making him faint, I had, with equal difficulty, suppressed my glee.

As if conjured by my reminiscences, Talha appeared before me, lurching toward his camp. His hands gripped his thigh, where the blood spurted out whenever his fingers slipped, and his parchment-pale face shimmered in rivulets of sweat. A taste like hot metal filled my mouth and a voice like a lion’s roar urged me to finish the job Marwan had begun. One blow of the sword, and I would be rid of him at last.

But I could see that I would not need to deal that blow. Death had locked its talons around Talha’s neck and was rapidly squeezing the life from him. I dismounted and pulled another strip from my bandage belt, then bound Talha’s wound in effort to stop the bleeding. It was to no avail. Marwan’s spear had struck an artery.

Alas, Talha was unable to assist me as I tried to place him on my horse, intending to transport him to his tent. So I propped him against a thorn tree in the sparse, mottled shade and gave him water from the skin on my belt. He drank deeply until every drop had been relinquished.

“My son . . . ” he said, gasping.

“He is fine,” I lied. “His wounds were superficial.” I had seen the young man’s severed head on the field just moments ago.

“A’isha,” he said. His eyes stared into the distance, as though the far horizon held the answers to his questions.

“She is well,” I said. “She will be glad to hear that you are alive.”

“Alive!” He gave to me, then, the first grin of his that I had ever appreciated. “You must learn to lie better,” he rasped.

I returned his smile. “I have never been good at lying. Haven’t you heard? The truth is ever inscribed on my face for all to read.”

He closed his eyes. “You and A’isha,” he said. “Just alike.” And then he exhaled, and his head drooped, and the candle that had been Talha’s life flickered, then snuffed, leaving only darkness behind.

I said a prayer over him.
Forgive him for his misdeed. He succumbed to avarice and the lust for power, as many have before him. But he loved your Prophet,
yaa
al-Lah, and he loved A’isha above all others, as Muhammad did, also.

Riding to my tent, I thought of A’isha, her blazing eyes, her furious wielding of the sword from the back of that camel. She’d tried to defend the men who had held her animal’s reins, men who had vied to give their lives for her sake. How grief-stricken she must feel now, with the blood of her loved ones staining her hands!

I bathed in the Euphrates that night, inviting the cool waters to awaken me from the horrific dream I had been living all day. The battle was finished. I was the
khalifa
. I had won the title at last, and no one, not even Mu’awiyya, could take it from me. By granting me victory, al-Lah had demonstrated His will. Yet—why did I feel so dissatisfied? The prize I had coveted for so long was mine at last. But the winning of it was tainted by the knowledge that A’isha had betrayed our pact.

I yanked on my clothes with increasing fury as I relived the events of the night before and of this morning. How could A’isha have sealed an agreement with me in which I would have given up everything in exchange for her support—which, in truth, meant more to me than the
khalifa
—and then summoned her troops to attack? I had always known her to be a manipulator, but I never would have imagined outright treachery from her. Had she lied in order to gain the advantage of surprise? Or had her cohorts Talha and al-Zubayr convinced her to break her oaths?