better than a whole world full of such people. Seek
revenge for the blood of Othman, and you will
strengthen Islam!”
In response, a fervent rallying cry surged up from the
crowd: “Revenge for Othman!” If the Mother of the
Faithful could call for her own half brother to be put to
death for his crime, by God they would support her! If
she could place justice above kinship, righteousness
above blood ties, by God so could they! In the name of
Muhammad, in the name of Islam, they would take
revenge for this son of Mecca struck down by the rebels
of Medina.
Aisha never paused to question her motives. Carried
along on the crest of her own rhetoric, she didn’t ask if it
was guilt that impelled her—guilt at having left Medina
and abandoned Othman to his fate—or outrage that of
all people, it was Ali, the man she most loathed, who had
been acclaimed as the fourth Caliph. These questions
would rise only by the muddy pool of Hawab, and by
then it would be too late to turn back. For the moment,
the crowd’s acclaim was a heady thing, an intoxicating
rush that made her feel all the more righteous.
In death, Othman had achieved the grandeur and
nobility that so many had accused him of lacking in life.
His murder lay at Ali’s door, the Meccans said. Ali knew
who was responsible—everyone knew—yet word was
that he refused to hand over the culprits for punishment.