ɻew upward from his hands in deɹance of gravity and
never returned to earth.
Then came the eve of the ɹnal day—ashura, the tenth
of Muharram—the setting for the Shia equivalent of the
Last Supper. Hussein begged those of his men who still
survived to leave him to his fate. “All of you, I hereby
absolve you from your oath of allegiance to me, and
place no obligation upon you. Go home now, under
cover of darkness. Use the night as a camel to ride away
upon. These men of Yazid’s want only me. If they have
me, they will stop searching for anyone else. I beg you,
leave for your homes and your families.”
They stayed. Their mouths parched, lips swollen,
voices harsh and rasping with thirst, they swore never to
leave him. “We will ɹght with you until you reach your
destination,” one of them proclaimed. And another: “By
God, if I knew that I was to be burned alive and my
ashes scattered, and then revived to have it done to me
again a thousand times, I still would never leave you.
How then could I leave when what I now face is a matter
of dying only once?”
“Then call upon God and seek his forgiveness,” said
Hussein, “for our ɹnal day will come tomorrow.” And
then he used the Islamic phrase uttered in the face of
death: “We belong to God, and to God we shall return.”
It was a long night, that last night. A night of prayer
and preparation. Hussein took oʃ his chain mail and put