“The shirt was placed each day on the pulpit,” said a
Syrian historian. “Sometimes it was draped over it,
sometimes it covered it, and Naila’s ɹngers were
attached to its cuʃs—two ɹngers with the knuckles and
part of the palm, two cut oʃ at the base, and half a
thumb. The people kept coming and crying at the sight,
and the Syrian soldiers swore an oath that they would
not have relations with women or sleep on beds until
they had killed the killers of Othman and anyone who
might try to stop them.”
In Medina, Othman was buried quickly and quietly—
not by Muhammad’s side in Aisha’s former chamber, as
his predecessors had been, but in the main cemetery. If
there was any mourning, it was done privately. In
public, the whole of Medina was jubilant. Led by the
rebels, they turned to Ali as their new leader. They would
have nobody else. The man who so many insisted should
always have been the heir to Muhammad had ɹnally
come into his inheritance, his ascendance surely all the
sweeter for the length of the wait.
On June 16 in that year 656, they crowded into the
mosque and spilled out into the courtyard to pledge
allegiance to him. The years of dust and thorns seemed
finally over—not just for him but for them all.
How were they to know that dust and thorns are not
shaken oʃ so easily? They had no idea that Ali would
rule for only ɹve years. They rejoiced, applauding the