Wahb’s reply: “All of us are their killers. And all of us
say: Your blood, Ali, is now halal—permitted—for us.”
It was an outright declaration of war, in words that
still chill the blood of anyone who hears them in the
Muslim world. They are the words of implacable
righteousness, of those who kill without compulsion, in
the name of God. For the third time, Ali was left no
choice but to do the one thing he most abhorred: lead a
Muslim army against other Muslims.
When they reached Nahrawan, it was quick and
bloody. The Rejectionists hurled themselves against Ali’s
vastly superior forces, seemingly regardless of any
concern for their own survival. “The truth has shone
forth for us!” they cried to one another. “Prepare to meet
God!”
And an ominous precursor to the cry of modern
suicide bombers: “Hasten to Paradise! To Paradise!”
Only four hundred Rejectionists survived, though it
might have been better for Ali if there had been no
survivors at all. More than two thousand martyrs were
created that day, and as is the way with martyrs, their
memory would inspire yet more.
The man who had sacriɹced so much to avoid fitna
had now fought three civil war battles. In all three, he
had been victorious—or would have been if his men had