duel. “It is not ɹtting that you refuse such a challenge,”
he said with the military man’s code of honor. “Ali has
made you a fair offer.”
But Muawiya was more than content to leave honor
and valor to Ali. His concern was far more practical. “It
is not a fair oʃer,” he retorted. “Ali has killed everyone
he has ever challenged to single combat.” And with this
refusal, the only option left was battle.
Ali turned back and addressed his troops. “The Syrians
are ɹghting only for this world, that they may be tyrants
and kings in it,” he said. “If they are victorious, they will
pervert your lives and your faith. Fight them now, or
God will take the rule of Islam away from you and never
bring it back!” As his men cheered him on, he called on
them to display all the ferocity of those who had been
grievously wronged. “Fight the enemy,” he said, “until
their foreheads are split by shafts of iron and their
eyebrows are dispersed over their chins and their
chests.”
This time there would be no breaks for prayer and no
riding into each other’s camp to talk things over. The
Battle of Siɽn lasted three days, and the ɹghting was so
intense that it continued right through the second night.
The Night of Shrieking, they were to call it, for the
unearthly howls of men in mortal agony, a sound more
fortunate people now know only as that of an animal hit
by a car, dragging itself to the side of the road to die.