from the Hijaz mountains. The air was dense and moist
instead of bracingly dry, the blue of the sky pale with
humidity. They had followed Aisha only to ɹnd
themselves out of place, disoriented.
Even Talha had doubts. He sat alone and “ɻicked his
beard against his chest,” the gesture of a troubled man.
“We were all united against others,” he said, “but now
we’ve become like two mountains of iron, each seeking
to finish the other.”
Others resisted the pressure to take sides. An elderly
companion of Muhammad’s complained that “there’s
never before been a situation where I didn’t know my
next step, but now I don’t know whether I’m coming or
going.” One tribal leader simply left, riding oʃ into the
mountains of Persia, saying that if the two armies
wanted to kill each other, they could do so without him
and his men. His parting words left no doubt what he
thought: “I would rather be a castrated slave herding
nanny goats with lopsided udders, than shoot a single
arrow at either of these two sides.”
Many of the Basrans vacillated, unsure which side to
support. “No person who has embraced this ɹtna will be
able to extricate himself from it,” warned one.
“This will lead to worse than what you most hate,”
said another. “It is a tear that won’t get mended, a
fracture that will never be repaired.”
And a third simply mourned. “The millstone of Islam