7

I was in Mecca when I first heard the news of the siege of Uthman’s home. I had just finished the Pilgrimage, along with my sister-wife Umm Salama, who had joined me. We were planning to return after completing the rituals at the House of God, when envoys sent by Zubayr advised us to remain in Mecca until the rebellion was over. My heart had sunk when I heard word of my brother’s actions, and I desperately sought to return so I could calm him and arrange some kind of reconciliation. But Umm Salama begged me to stay away from the chaos and our guards pointedly refused to permit me to leave until peace had been restored to the capital.

The weeks dragged on without word and I began to have a terrible feeling in my heart that things had gone wildly wrong. And then two men rode in from the desert, bearing news that horrified me and brought my blood to a boil. They were not envoys-the matter was too urgent for messengers. They were my closest friends, my beloved cousin Talha and my brother-in-law Zubayr. One look on their ashen faces and my worst fears were confirmed.

We gathered in the old Hall of Assembly, where I had spied on Hind and the council of Mecca a lifetime before. The stone walls looked as they had almost forty years before, cold and proud, untroubled by the vagaries of time. As we sat inside the chamber that had once been the throne room of our enemies, Zubayr revealed all that had happened. His once handsome face was now heavily lined, and a mighty scar ran down his right cheek. Your father had fought in so many battles that I could not even remember where he had earned this mark of heroism.

Talha, for his part, had been unable to fight in the later wars of conquest because of his shattered hand. Instead, he had spent his years working as a merchant. His brilliant negotiating skills and his talent for learning the languages of our conquered subjects had allowed him to build a vast business empire, and he had been transformed over the years from an impoverished cripple into one of the richest men in the empire. And he had spent much of his vast wealth on spoiling his beautiful daughter, whom he had named, perhaps not surprisingly, Aisha. She was a vivacious young woman who had captured the hearts of many of the young men of Medina but had a shocking reputation as a flirt who enjoyed leading boys on. I had often sternly lectured the girl about social proprieties, and she had simply laughed and said I would have done the same had I not been married as a child and hidden away behind a veil. I would always give her a tongue-lashing for her impudence, but in my heart I loved her like a daughter, and I knew there was more than a little truth to what she said.

It was to Aisha bint Talha that my thoughts turned now as my friends revealed the shocking news of Uthman’s murder. I grieved for the old man who was a victim of his own kindness, and I feared for the people of Medina now that the blood of the Caliph had been spilled. According to Zubayr, Uthman’s cousin Muawiya was dispatching a mighty contingent from Syria to avenge the Caliph’s death. Apparently Marwan had been able to get word of the siege to the Umayyad leader, and when Uthman was killed, his blood-soaked shirt had been sent to Damascus, along with the remains of poor Naila’s severed fingers. The outraged Muawiya had held aloft these grisly relics in the newly constructed Grand Masjid of Damascus, built next to the church where the prophet John the Baptist was buried. With his brilliant oratory, he had riled up the passions of the crowd, and the cry for vengeance was rapidly spreading through the empire, especially after news of how the rebels had treated Uthman’s corpse

“What happened to Uthman’s body?” I asked and then saw Zubayr’s face grimace with pain.

“They threw his body in the trash heap and refused to let him be buried,” Zubayr said, horror welling in his eyes. “Safiya finally intervened and convinced them to let us bury him. But they would not allow us to inter Uthman with the Prophet or with the other believers in Jannat al-Baqi. So Safiya arranged for the Caliph to be buried in the Jewish cemetery near her ancestors.”

I hung my head in grief. I had one more question, but I was afraid to ask it. And then Umm Salama spoke up, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

“Who is in charge?”

It was a simple question, but the fate of an empire that ruled half the earth turned on the answer.

There was a moment of long silence, and then finally Talha spoke, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“After the Caliph’s murder, there was chaos in the streets,” he said. “Ali, Zubayr, and I gathered in the marketplace and called for calm. It was then that the rebels arrived, their swords drawn, and your brother said that he would recognize no man as master except his stepfather, Ali.”

I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. Seeing the look of shock on my face, Talha nodded in understanding.

“We had arrived there, the three of us, with the understanding that we would call for an election by the elders of Mecca,” he said, his voice rising. “But the rebels surrounded the crowd, their weapons in view, and it was no surprise that the vote went unanimously for Ali. Even Zubayr and I pledged our loyalty to him. We had no choice.”

I could tell that the brutal way in which my brother’s men had secured Ali’s election haunted Talha and Zubayr. The three of them had been close friends for years, but this incident had clearly created deep ill will. They, like Ali, were two of the most revered leaders of Islam, men who had fought beside the Prophet and had been serious candidates for the position of Caliph after Umar’s assassination. They had accepted Uthman’s election and had supported him loyally. But now, in the face of Uthman’s murder, they had been denied the opportunity to assert their claim to the throne of Islam by the murderers themselves. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and I could sense their anger at Ali for going along with the tainted election.

And then I felt something grow inside me, something cold and ugly. The old wounds were opened all at once, and I could feel the poison of the past flowing through my veins. I remembered how Ali had nonchalantly convinced the Messenger to marry Zaynab bint Khuzayma in order to secure a political alliance, offering up my husband’s hand to another woman in my presence as if my feelings were worthless. I remembered how he had led that tragic girl of the Bani Qurayza who looked just like me to her execution and how the young woman’s mad laughter still haunted my dreams. And then I remembered most vividly how he had tried to get Muhammad to divorce me when I was falsely accused of a shameful crime.

“Now that he has finally received his lifelong wish and crowned himself Caliph, what has Ali done to punish the assassins?” I asked through gritted teeth.

My friends looked at each other and hesitated.

“Nothing,” Talha said coldly.

The world around me seemed to change colors, and suddenly I saw everything through a veil of red.

“Then Ali has failed in his first task as Caliph. To enforce justice.”

I saw the men look at me, and there were uncertainty and fear in their eyes.

“What are you saying?” Zubayr asked slowly.

“I am saying that Ali cannot be put on the throne of the Muslims by the murderers of the Caliph!” I felt my bones tremble with fury as I convinced myself of the justice of my position. “And even if his election were legitimate, he cannot lay claim to authority until he punishes those who have committed this vile crime. Otherwise the Caliph is complicit in the murder of his righteous predecessor, and God help the Muslims if we should fall that low to accept such a man as our master!”

The words came out of my mouth with such ferocity that both Talha and Zubayr sat back as if I had slapped them. And then my sister-wife Umm Salama rose, her eyes wide with anger.