course. He would appoint his successor, but appoint him
on the basis of merit, not kinship. He would choose the
man he saw as best suited to the task, and if that was the
same man he had proposed at the shura just two years
before, then this merely demonstrated how right he had
been. In a move destined to be seen by the Shia as
further evidence of collusion, the dying Abu Bakr
appointed Omar the second Caliph.
Again, Ali had been outmaneuvered. Again, he had
been passed over, and this time in favor of the man who
had injured his wife and threatened to burn down his
house. Yet even as Abu Bakr was buried alongside the
Prophet—the second body to lie under what had once
been Aisha’s bed—Ali insisted that his supporters keep
their peace. Instead of challenging Omar, he took the
high road a second time. He had sworn allegiance to Abu
Bakr and been a man of his word, and now that same
word applied to Abu Bakr’s appointed successor, no
matter the history between them. And if anyone doubted
his absolute commitment to Islamic unity, he laid such
doubts to rest with a remarkable move. As Omar’s rule
began, Ali married Abu Bakr’s youngest widow, Asma.
To the modern mind, marrying a former rival’s widow
might seem an act of revenge. In seventh-century
Arabia, it was quite the opposite: a major gesture of
reconciliation. Ali’s marriage to Asma was a way of