orders for each horseman to spear a single parchment
sheet on the tip of his lance and then ride into the enemy
lines. Instead of waving the white ɻag of surrender,
Muawiya would wave the Quran.
No white ɻag could have been more eʃective than the
sight of those parchment leaves ɻuttering atop the
enemy lances. Stop ɹghting, in the name of God, was the
message. Do not shed blood on the leaves of the Holy
Book. As Muslim men, put up your arms. And in case
any missed the message, the Syrian cavalrymen cried
out the words Muawiya had ordered them to use: “Let
the Book of God be the judge between us!”
Ali was stunned by such gall. Even to think of placing
the Quran on lances was blasphemy. Surely his own
soldiers could see this for what it was, a ruse, pure and
simple. “They have raised up the Holy Book only to
deceive you,” he yelled at his troops. “All they want is to
outwit you and trick you.”
But if half the men could see that, the other half could
not. “When we are called to the Book of God,” they said,
“we must answer the call. We cannot ɹght against the
Quran itself.” And despite orders to the contrary from
their commanders, they laid down their weapons. On the
verge of victory, Ali could only watch as it was snatched
away.
“By God,” he fumed at his men, “I tell you that you
have been cheated!” But reason was no weapon against