banner.
At ɹrst, that conɹdence had seemed justiɹed. Letter
after letter had been carried across the eight hundred
miles between Kufa and Mecca in the weeks since
Muawiya had died and his son Yazid had succeeded to
the throne in Damascus—so many letters that they ɹlled
two large saddlebags, and all of them from the Shiat Ali,
the followers of Ali.
“Speed to us, Hussein,” they urged. “The people are
waiting for you, and think of none but you. Claim your
rightful place as the true heir of the Prophet, his
grandson, his ɻesh and blood through Fatima, your
mother. Bring power back where it belongs, to Iraq. We
will drive out the Syrians under your banner. We will
reclaim the soul of Islam.”
The pivotal message was the one that came from
Hussein’s cousin Muslim, whom he had sent to Kufa to
conɹrm that the Iraqis were indeed committed to his
leadership. “I have twelve thousand men ready to rise up
under you,” Muslim wrote. “Come now. Come to an
army that has gathered for you!”
It was the call Hussein had waited nineteen years to
hear, ever since his father’s death.
Ali had not been the only target the morning he was
attacked, or so it was said. Word was that the khariji