Zubayr, at the head of the foot soldiers.
As the red silk ɻuttered over her armored canopy, her
high voice pierced through the early-morning air, all the
more chilling for being disembodied, its source hidden
from sight. “You are heroes, by God. You are like
mountains!” she urged her warriors. “Show your valor,
sons of mine! Show these murderers what you can do!
May they rue the day they were born! May their mothers
be bereaved of them!”
And again and again, the urgent refrain: “Death to the
killers of Othman! Death to all who support them!
Revenge for Othman!”
This was the traditional role of women in battle,
though never before from the center. Usually they stayed
at the rear, where they urged on their side, mocking the
virility of their enemies and daring their own ɹghters to
feats of valor. Their shrill ululations were designed to
strike fear in the hearts of the other side, much as the
eerie sound of bagpipes in a very diʃerent part of the
world. They cut through the funk of fear and overrode
the sounds of bodies colliding, of steel clashing, of men
panting in each other’s grip, gasping as steel entered
flesh, moaning as they lay injured and dying.
It was women who called for blood, and if any doubted
what they were capable of, people still talked with awe of
the aristocratic Hind, whose husband had led the
Meccan opposition to Muhammad and his followers. Her