Flames of Fitna (Book 4 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 2

"Aisha?" Mu'awiyah let out a guttural chuckle, reclined on a couch in his palace. "Aisha wants justice for 'Uthman? Did she not incite the people against him? Did she not call for his blood?"

"It's a right mess, m'lord," Mundhir confessed, returning from his assignment of espionage from the holy cities. He was chewing on a plant while speaking, earning a few sniffs of disdain around the chamber. "Some say 'Aisha had nothing to do with the sorry affair. Others say she only called for 'Uthman's removal, but none of the stabby stab. Others weave a different tale still. Stay away from it all, if you ask me, m'lord. Board the nearest ship with the fairest maiden you can find and live off your days on an isolated island with naught but dates, grapes and uh..."

Mundhir finished off his unsolicited advice with a suggestive wink.

Mu'awiyah only studied him for a moment as though he were a juvenile adolescent before shooing him away.

'Aisha mounts rebellion, I mused. Muhammad's wives were given clear instruction in their holy scripture to stay at home. They were supposed to be given such an elevated status that they ought not even be seen by men not of their kin.

I had never thought much of these so-called Mothers of the Believers, nor had I ever paid heed to this 'Aisha in particular. I do remember one scandal many years back involving her. Rumor had it she had taken another lover.

It seemed she would always be the runt of the pack. Now, she abandoned trailing hems at home in favor for playing at warlord. A clever ploy, I thought, how she used her image to garner sympathy to her cause while placing the two men Talha and Zubayr at the forefront to bear the brunt should anything go awry.

"Do you think it has something to do with her scandal?" I asked Mu'awiyah. "All those years back, when the army marched without her and she was left with one man. When the rumors spread, 'Ali advised the Prophet, prayers and peace be upon him, to divorce her and find another."

"There is enmity between 'Aisha and 'Ali that finds its roots in that incident," Mu'awiyah nodded, stroking a hairy chin. "You suggest this...movement of hers is some petty vengeance linked to a grudge?"

I nodded hesitantly, realizing how ridiculous it sounded now that someone else said it.

"I think it's a power play," Mu'awiyah rested on an elbow.

"Power?" I asked.

"It's all anyone wants," he elaborated. "Now is the perfect time to make a grab for it. She may not favor 'Ali, but her sights are likely set on the future. Who to take the mantle 'Ali has taken for himself."

'Aisha wanted to enthrone her own puppet Khalifa, I thought, opting not to muse aloud.

"Who?" I asked genuinely.

"Her nephew," Mu'awiyah answered immediately. "Zubayr was her sister's husband before they divorced. Zubayr and 'Aisha's sister had a boy, now a man grown and within their ranks. He bears the name 'Abdullah."

I hoped she would fail with every fiber in my body. I hoped 'Ali would fail or even march around back to Madinah, abandoning this war. Gods, if it came to it, I dared hope Mu'awiyah would fail. I no longer harbored any energy for warfare. This conflict was brewing when I was reeling, about to collapse. I had no taste for a fight. I would be unable to give it my all once it came to the battlefield.

I sullied myself with unrestrained fear. I was a child again, uncertain and without fortitude.

Yet, I knew war was unavoidable. Inevitable. It was here, in fact, if the reports of 'Aisha's march to Basra were true. The city was loyal to 'Ali, and it would not fall without a fight.

And then there was the issue of Syria. 'Ali had dispatched a governor to Damascus some days earlier. Needless to say, he was immediately evicted from the city. Mu'awiyah had not given the new pretender, 'Ali, any oath nor did he recognize him in any capacity.

The Levant had effectively broken off from the Caliphate.

Once the issue of Basra was resolved, the victor between 'Ali and 'Aisha would set their sights on us, and potentially Egypt.

Mu'awiyah would not back down from his seat, I knew. Already, he was readying his provisions, delivering his sermons, selecting his generals.

"The Father of Dust," he spat when sent word of the arrival of 'Ali's governor, referring to the Khalifa himself with a derogatory nickname.

And that was when the war truly started. Mu'awiyah's sermons became more inflammatory in their blame of 'Ali. Mu'awiyah's urging of the Syrians to rally under his banner in support for justice for 'Uthman never ceasing.

I was caught in the middle of it all, I realized with foreboding dread.

What sort of man am I? I wondered that day in the palace. What man, what Arab, shies away from battle?

But I truly did not know who I was any longer. When the time came, I would stand my ground with sword and shield all the same, but would the man behind the blade truly be Hanthalah ibn Ka'b?

No.

He would be but a pale ghost in comparison to the brutal warrior that had once been.

Perhaps I will find myself on the wrong end of a spear, I thought. And that would be that.

It was then at the thought of death that the fate of my children crossed my mind. Perhaps that was the sole motivation stirring within me, deep down in my gut, to actively push through, to reject the notion of death on the field of battle.

The thought of reconciliation. I knew not where any of them were. Ruqayya, who had been born to me by my favorite wife Sumayya, would probably be in Egypt. Perhaps Alexandria, since she had been raised by my good friend Andronicus all her life.

'Abdullah and Umaymah, though...

I was clueless. I was lost. Torn. How anti-climactic and senseless would life be if I were to meet my end in this empty war of discord and disunity, fighting for the blood of a man I cared not for, against people I did not know, in the name of a god I harbored no belief in.

All without an achievement to my name. A life without true glory. A man shunned by his own kith and kin. A man doomed to die forever, his name with him, for no reputation would render him immortal.

I would die on my knees, a shaken man uncertain of his true purpose in life.

"Let them fight," I concluded. "Let's hope they kill each other."