Flames of Fitna (Book 4 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

Umaymah brandished her blade, steadying herself in place with a crouch. The foe stood numerous and unrelenting before them, blocking their way to the city beyond.

The outskirts of Basra in 'Iraq stood abandoned but for the two armies facing off in what would become a decisive showdown. Lady 'Aisha's army had their left flank protected by a tanner's shop, and the right with the cavalry force.

Umaymah held out her blade and shield as part of the central infantry unit.

The defenders of the city had their backs to the city's grand mosque. Beyond that would be the main fort and the circular shape of the city proper itself.

Umaymah flinched as the cavalry on the enemy's left flank bristled, rousing as the standoff slowly detached itself from the eerie silence that engulfed both armies.

***

Days earlier

Umaymah let out a breath in relief as the column lurched to a stop by a watering spot. The sun was a barely visible sliver eclipsed by distant peaks that sent its yellow rays scattering all over the vast desert plains. In only minutes from then, Umaymah knew, darkness would reign supreme over the now reddening sky after the sun settled itself in shelter – as Lady 'Aisha's army would now.

She did not own a mount, so the trek was all the more strenuous on foot.

It's all worth redemption, she reminded herself. Her forsaking venerated family ties would be a heavy transgression in the eyes of Allah, she had no doubt. In order to tap into His boundless mercy, she ought to carry out the will of 'Aisha the Mother of the Believers – the wife of the late Prophet.

Umaymah was about to walk over to the nearby spring in order to fill her water skin when a deep voice rasped in inquiry behind her.

"Before you summon us to prayers, who will be our imam?" demanded an incredulous man. "We have Zubayr and we have Talha. Both are respected men in our company. But who will lead the prayers?"

Umaymah walked away from the spring toward the source of the voice. A stout man stood there with cascading brown curls, middle-aged and beefy. He had his hands spread out before him in a shrug, demanding an answer still.

An immediate plethora of agitated murmurs erupted before escalating into deep-throated arguments as individuals rallied under one man while others with the other, still more joining in on the fledgling chaos.

Umaymah could not help but notice the twinkle in the inquiring man's eyes. There was the hint of a smirk tugging against the corner of his mouth.

He wanted to do this, she realized. The issue of who would lead the prayers may ostensibly seem unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but one needed remind themselves the purpose of this army and the motives of its members.

People here rejected Madinah's election of 'Ali as the new Khalifa because they blamed him for the death of 'Uthman. They were going to Basra in order to exact justice on the assassins there.

But a thought that had not yet occurred to Umaymah until that moment was...

What next?

After Basra. Who would this army pledge allegiance to? Who would they elect in 'Ali's stead?

The rising tensions were cut short by a cry sharp as a whip, drowning out all others. Swift and brisk.

All eyes turned to the source of the voice. To the rear of the column was a splendid looking camel with a sealed canvas on its hump, concealing the rider beyond from the lusting eyes of men.

"Marwan!" Lady 'Aisha scolded the middle-aged man with the spark in his eye. "Is this an attempt to divide my camp? I will not let it be. Until the killers of 'Uthman are brought to justice, neither man you suggested will lead the prayers."

And so it was. The enraged crowd dissipated as did their flaring dispute.

Marwan ibn al-Hakam, she recognized the man now left smirking on his own. Rumored to be the power behind 'Uthman's throne – an Umayyad himself.

What were his motives in Basra?

***

"Stand your ground!" the Lady 'Aisha, Mother of the Believers, had bellowed at the top of her surprisingly powerful and vibrant voice. "Stand your ground! Do not engage."

A poor tactic, Umaymah remembering when the left flank of the Basrans crashed into 'Aisha's right. The Mother of the Believers did not wish to initiate hostilities, and so it was. But the Basrans should have instead used their infantry to pin down 'Aisha's own, and then employ their cavalry.

Instead, the Basran cavalry were being overwhelmed with the counter-attack, and their infantry were losing ground after long, grueling hours of fighting spent sweltering beneath the baking sun.

The fighting was fierce and the air humid. But one thing was for certain. Class is permanent.

And that was what Umaymah showcased on full display in the outskirts of Basra.

She absorbed the increasingly feeble strikes of her foe, restraining herself bit by bit, and pouncing forward with all her ferocity when the time was fit. With all the venom within her, fueled by all the degrading words of Father, pushed forward by the agitation and regret at sins past, she was an outlet for a flurry of blows, one after the other, sending splinters of wood flying into the air as her opponent gave way handily.

She swung and she parried, she lunged, hopped, kicked, shoved with all her might, a steady rhythm meticulously crafted through years of experience as well as raw talent.

The faces of 'Abdullah and Father floated before her as she skewered another of the Basrans, another step closer to redemption. Family ties were holy, sacred and venerated. And she had soiled that special link. Not once. Twice.

She would need a great deal more to cleanse her soiled slate, to even the scales on the Day of Judgement.

"Allahu Akbar!" she bellowed, hacking at a corpse again and again, bathing her face in the gushing red liquid.

She was only roused from her trance at the squeeze of her shoulder.

A comrade was pulling her away from her ravaged corpse, making way for her to scan the battlefield now littered with discarded equipment by the bodies of the fallen. Still more were on their knees, forsaking their cause in favor of life.

"Kill him!" she heard Talha.

"Imprison him until 'Ali comes," Zubayr, the other senior candidate in the army, suggested.

They were roaming around the defeated figure of a man, a green turban perched atop his head with a grey beard flowing to his chest.

"No," rumbled the feminine voice from atop her camel. "We will let this governor of Basra be on his way."

Murmurs of protest began to gain fuel at the command, before 'Aisha continued, speaking over the dissent.

"But not before he is reprimanded," she ordered. "Cut off his beard."

They had no qualms over that. As they kicked and sheared, carrying out their Mother's will, Umaymah enjoyed the demonstration of who was truly in charge.