Rejectionists had also planned to kill Amr in Egypt and
Muawiya in Syria. But Amr had been sick that day—a
stomach ailment, they said—and the cloaked ɹgure
struck from behind was only a subordinate. And though
the would-be Syrian assassin found the right man, he
merely slashed Muawiya in the buttocks, and the newly
uncontested ruler of the empire suʃered only temporary
discomfort.
Few were so rash as to point out how convenient it
was that only Ali had been killed, and by Muawiya’s
favorite weapon, poison. Those few were quickly and
irrevocably silenced.
There was even a story that Ali’s assassin had carried
out the deed for love: to win the hand of a woman whose
father and brothers had been among the Rejectionist
martyrs killed at Nahrawan. “I will not marry you until
you give me what I want,” the story has her saying.
“Three thousand dirhams, a slave, a singing girl, and the
death of Ali the son of Abu Talib.” The presence of that
singing girl on her list of conditions spoke clearly of a
romantic ɹction, and no such romance was ever
concocted about the men who purportedly attacked
Muawiya and Amr. But that was no matter; it was far
safer for most Muslims to blame the fanatic
Rejectionists, and them alone.
Assassination creates an instant hero of its target. Any
past sins are not just forgiven but utterly forgotten.