the ɹrst time in months, doubt crept into her mind, and
once there, it settled in, paralyzing her.
She had still been in Mecca when the news arrived of
Othman’s assassination—of her own half brother’s role
in it and, worse still, Medina’s acclamation of Ali. Never
mind that she had taunted Othman as “that dotard,” or
that she had brandished Muhammad’s sandal at him and
openly accused him of betraying the sunna. Never mind
that her own letters had helped fuel the rebellion against
him or even that her most earnest wish had been to toss
him into the sea with a millstone around his feet.
Whatever she had intended, it was not this. Not
assassination, and certainly not Ali as the new Caliph.
A mix of shock and fury carried her straight to the
center of the great mosque—to the sanctuary itself, the
Kaaba—and there she stood by the sacred black stone set
into its corner and raised her voice loud and clear for all
to hear, a firebrand speaking in the name of justice.
“People of Mecca,” she proclaimed. “The mob of men,
the riʃraʃ from the garrison cities, together with
boorish Beduin and foreign slaves, have conspired
together. They have spilled forbidden blood and violated
the sanctity of the sacred city of Medina. This is a
heinous crime! A forbidden thing!” And ɹred up by the
Meccans’ roars of approval, she went further still. “By
God,” she declared, “a single ɹngertip of Othman’s is