of the way of his own ambitions, but there was never
any proof. It would take Zubayr’s son many years to
redeem his name.
With both Talha and Zubayr dead, Aisha’s battle was
lost. All that was left for her to do was give the order to
retreat. Yet still she urged her men on, still she uttered
her war cries—the high-pitched curses, the chanted
taunts—rallying her men around her red camel. It was
as though she could not acknowledge even the idea of
defeat, or was so carried away by her own rhetoric that
she was blinded to the bloodshed all around her. Or
perhaps she thought she would show them all that she
was not afraid, that she was as courageous as they, that
she had what it took. She would never surrender. She
would fight to the bitter end.
The battle was reduced to an intense huddle of a few
hundred of her men around the camel. One by one,
warrior after warrior stepped up to take hold of the
camel’s nose rein, holding the animal steady to prevent
it from bolting from the tumult. One by one, they stood
defenseless, with the rein in one hand and her banner in
the other, and one by one, they were cut down.
Each time one was killed, another came to take his
place. Each time another came, Aisha asked who he was,
and he announced himself: his given name, his family,
his clan, his tribe. Each time she acknowledged his
lineage, called him noble, praised his courage, and