“Ali son of Abu Talib,” she said, “you have gained
victory. You have put your forces to the test well today,
so now pardon with goodness.”
“Oh Mother, may God forgive you,” he said.
“And you,” was her ambiguous reply, but Ali let it
pass.
Goodness there would be. Ali ordered his stepson to
escort Aisha back to Basra; her wound was to be treated,
and she was to be accorded full respect. Only then, as she
was mounted on a horse and led away from the ɹeld, did
she seem to register the full extent of what had
happened. “Oh God,” she kept saying, “had I but died
two decades before this day!” Yet it would never be clear
if she said this in shame at her defeat, or in regret for
her actions, or in sorrow for the thousands of warriors
slain at her command.
Ali stayed behind. As the light faded, he walked the
corpse-strewn battlefield, and as he went, he repeated the
same phrase Aisha had used: “Oh God, had I but died
two decades before this day!” Deep in dismay and
sorrow, he patrolled the ɹeld far into the night. His men
watched as he stopped at every dead body and prayed
over it, both those of his own side and those of Aisha’s.
Many of them he recognized. He paid tribute to their
bravery and grieved for their lives, but above all, he
spoke of his horror at the sight of so many Muslims