bed, piling all their weight on top of him until he
suʃocated—an ignominious death that would give great
pleasure to many in the telling.
Under Othman, however, Marwan was in the
ascendant. Every approach to the aging Caliph, every
ɹnancial decision, every piece of information, had to
come through him. Nobody said so much as a word to
Othman without his say-so. People had the impression
of an increasingly frail leader so overwhelmed by the
demands of empire that he preferred to retreat into the
solitary work of scholarship. Othman spent most of his
time compiling the authorized version of the Quran,
they’d say, and so was unaware of the degree to which
his ambitious kinsman was subverting his authority.
Whether this was really so, or whether it was politically
wiser to blame Marwan instead of Othman himself, is
another question.
Meanwhile, with the rebels camped outside the city, it
was Marwan who argued most forcefully against any
concession to their demands. That would only encourage
further mutiny in the provinces, he insisted. With almost
deliciously hypocritical righteousness, he urged Othman
to stay the course and not be intimidated, however
wrong he might be. “To persist in wrongdoing for which
you can ask God’s forgiveness,” he said piously, “is
better than penitence compelled by fear.” And in
demonstration of his point, he went out to the rebel
encampment and let loose with a tirade that seemed