Negotiations proved to be essentially fruitless.
'Abdullah did not venture into the mosque himself to speak with 'Uthman. That was mainly left to the more senior protestors from the cities of Kufa and Basra. But it seemed that 'Uthman refused to add substance to their concerns, preferring rather to defend his policies rather than retract.
Their movement was losing momentum. It was time to call it and return whence they came.
Another day, perhaps, 'Abdullah thought, turning from the foreboding gate of the Khalifa's home.
To find the Egyptians racing down the street with a vengeance to their step.
Attempting to suppress the sense of elation rising within him at the sight of the returning protestors that threatened to reveal a beaming ear-to-ear grin on his face, 'Abdullah stepped toward them.
"My brothers," he greeted them. "What is the matter, by God?"
He raised the Book higher for them to see. As to exacerbate their zeal.
It seemed to ignite them further. Their increasingly red faces threatened to consume 'Abdullah with delight, even though they ignored his inquiry.
They marched straight for the gate.
"Marwan!" boomed the man 'Abdullah identified as the son of Abu Bakr. He held up a piece of parchment. "What is this?"
Marwan ibn al-Hakam, a senior member of the administration and a member of the Umayyad clan rumored to be the true power behind the Khalifa, bristled at the gate. The grandsons of the Prophet stiffened as well, placing their hands on their hilts again, ready to defend their corrupt suzerain.
"It is a piece of parchment," Marwan replied.
"It is a letter from the Khalifa addressing the governor of Egypt, the son of Abu Sarh," the large man corrected him. He traced a hand to the clay seal at the bottom of the letter. "Is this not 'Uthman's ring?"
Official documents were usually legitimized by the seal at the bottom of the piece. Each official had his own distinct ring that he would press against the clay, marking his own unique signature.
"It is," Marwan admitted.
Another burst from the crowd, furious as the rest, a young man held out by the cuff of his collar.
"And is this 'Uthman's slave?" Abu Bakr demanded again.
"He is," Marwan answered after a long pause.
"Then, the order comes from the Khalifa?" the enraged protestors further interrogated him.
"We sent no such letter to the son of Abu Sarh," Marwan answered. "What does the letter say?"
"The contents of the letter instruct the governor to slaughter us once we return to Egypt!" the son of Abu Bakr bellowed, sending waves of returning Egyptians as well as the once-disheartened troops of Kufa and Basra into uproar.
'Abdullah's heart heaved in his chest as he stepped forward, capitalizing on his sweet fortune. He raised the Book high overhead.
"My Muslims brothers," he roared, attracting the attention of the reuniting protestors. He shook the Book. "If you believe in this. If you believe in its author. Besiege the house of 'Uthman!"
***
Ruqayya toyed with the replica ring with her fingers as she lounged on her couch.
She mused how remarkably easy it was to exploit men's underestimation of her on account of her sex. All she needed was the sale of precisely one slave, who admittedly owed loyalty to her, to the right buyer.
The Umayyads, no doubt, had forgotten all about her once the transaction was complete. Why would they pay heed to a woman merchant?
But a well-placed forged letter would serve to contribute to their downfall, all the same. All from the comfort of her couch.
Ruqayya tossed the fake ring aside, remembering that there were yet other letters. Other loyal servants entrusted with carrying out the task of forgery. She would exploit the limitations men imposed on her kind.
Women could not venture out of the household and deliver a speech to rile up the masses?
Ruqayya would speak for them. On parchment, much like the letter supposedly signed by 'Uthman that she knew was intercepted by the troops of Egypt.
Men wanted to rally behind figures they could trust. They wanted to receive clear instructions, simple creatures that they are, from those that they know well. And who better to trust than the Prophet's wives?
The first wave of letters from the so-called Mothers of the Believers must be in circulation now, she surmised.
Drenching with sweat in the sun? She would happily leave that to the men.
The tiny slave girl Ruqayya had taken a liking to – she was named Sofia, a Roman girl – squirmed on her lap, mirroring the priest's very different sort of squirming in the corner. Ruqayya fondled her dark curls.
Ruqayya ignored him.
"How did the Nubians treat you today?" she asked of Sofia, tracing a finger down her spine.
The Roman girl smirked. "They wouldn't buy the linen. Otherwise, it proved quite a profitable evening. For you."
Ruqayya clicked her tongue.
"For us," she corrected her second in command, now in charge of all matters on ground.
For a moment, Ruqayya's mood soured as she remembered Andronicus' final moments. Withering and bone-thin. A husk of the father she knew. Wasting away into nothing as a result of the avarice of these people. Filling their insatiable thirst for coin while the likes of Andronicus paid the price.
Ruqayya wondered what chaos her machinations in Madinah would bring forth. How the people responsible for her father's death would end up.
How she would rise from the ashes of one empire to forge the next.
***
17 June 656 AD - 18 Dhul Hijjah 35 AH
"Is such a blockade necessary?" inquired a genuinely concerned man from the crowd. Not all of them had been riled to the point of enmity toward 'Uthman.
"I swear by Allah, I will not allow the passage of water into the house so long as Banu Umayya do not pay us what is due to us," answered one of the senior protestors – one Talha. A notorious companion of the Prophet and one of the key figures of this strike.
Tensions had been flaring since the letter the administration disowned circulated itself amongst the protestors. Such an act of cowardice and deceit. How un-Islamic, thought 'Abdullah.
One more reason to be done with this damn clan that thought to make themselves kings over the believers rather than just shepherds of their flock.
Firelit sconces on either side of the barred gate offered scarce lighting for the protestors' eyes under the star-spangled night sky. It illuminated the two robust young men flanking either side of the gate – the grandsons of the Prophet, the two guardian angels of the Khalifa, at the behest of their father 'Ali.
The latter was yet acting as an intermediary between them and the Umayyads. A noble deed, 'Abdullah noted. A lesser man would have exploited the confusion to claim power for himself, especially one who enjoyed such popularity and had been a candidate for the Caliphate in the past. It was not uncommon to hear suggestions among the protestors for 'Ali to succeed the doomed 'Uthman.
But now was not the time for honor or individual loyalties, 'Abdullah thought as he was raised on the shoulders of one of the protestors. He held a letter high in one hand as he raised his voice in a strenuous effort to be heard over the crowd.
"My brothers in Allah!" 'Abdullah screeched, straining to be heard. "No doubt you have received word of this new wave of letters. These are instructions from the Mothers of the Believers!"
Murmurs of conversation erupted in ripples among the throngs of gathered men. Some of them were unlettered, yet to decipher the contents of the newly circulated letters, supposedly from the wives of the Prophet, prayers and peace be upon him, himself.
"The Lady Safiyya herself!" 'Abdullah exclaimed, sifting through an array of other letters. "The Lady 'Aisha, beloved of Allah's messenger! They all aid us in our struggle against the tyranny that has plagued us all. Their words differ and their names we know by heart. Their elevated status is bare for you to discover in the Holy Book – the word of God himself! Is that not proof enough to you that if you dare disobey the Mothers of the Believers, you risk the disobedience of Allah?"
'Abdullah basked in the collective groan, the shifting of restless feet, that accompanied his revelation. There was more.
"I will share with you the contents of these noble letters, my friends. These commandments from those we respect so and hold dear besides."
'Abdullah straightened his back, adding a theatrical silence to his speech to garner more attention, to further emphasize the weight of the words to come.
"Kill the old fool, for he has reverted from the faith!"
The words struck them harder than any thunderbolt. The scene erupted into chaos as the larger chunk of the protestors spoke red-faced over one another, rousing as though from a deep slumber. Their words were incomprehensible, yet their demeanor clear all the same.
Some yet maintained a level head. Their attempts to calm their comrades, reminding them of their peaceful endeavor, seemed to fall on deaf ears.
The western section of the camped protestors lurched into motion, bursting the edge of 'Abdullah's vision, headed for the gate and the few men guarding it.
A single arrow fired from the defenders beyond the wall provoked a resounding cry of pain from one of them.
The man fell back-first to the ground, clutching his wounded throat as his life's blood gushed out of his body. 'Abdullah identified him as one of the major instigators of the protest-turned-rebellion. One of the more extreme ones, advocating for violence.
His cry echoed across the complex, a final scream that affected both their hearing and their emotions alike.
Seeing the corpse of their fallen comrade topple, motionless and lifeless, other sections of the protestors rushed forward in a display of solidarity, enraged to the point of no return.
The man beneath 'Abdullah gently removed him from his shoulders. The latter landed on his feet, letting the flow of rebels carry him effortlessly forward.
And they stormed the house.
***
The grandsons of the Prophet and the few other loyalists reinforcing them were quickly overwhelmed, left licking their wounds as rebels rushed by.
A distant part of 'Abdullah's head hoped they had not caused too much bodily harm to the noble grandsons. But that was a matter for the future.
Not all the protestors had stormed the complex. There were yet others who preferred to opt for the peaceful way, urging their brothers in faith to exercise restraint.
But they were well past that point.
The rebels dispersed, scouring the complex for 'Uthman ibn 'Affan, the doomed leader of the Muslim community. Some forced their way into the house. Others skirted the building, 'Abdullah included, finding themselves in a field at the back.
And there he was.
'Abdullah was surprised to see how old he truly was. Almost as frail as 'Abdullah himself, if not more so. Balding and shriveled, with a milk-white beard that offered no respite in the way of red that had once characterized his hair.
How could a man so unassuming in build cause so much hate?
'Uthman sat cross-legged on the ground, a Holy Book in his hands. He did not even look up at the newcomers; not disturbed in the slightest.
A woman covered in black shrieked, throwing herself between her husband and the beasts in human form. She held up her hands to shield him from their monstrosity.
'Abdullah winced as the blades sheared past layers of skin, meat and bone, slicing her fingers clean off her hand. They advanced like demons past the haunting screams of a wounded wife, making for the kindly old man moving his mouth in rhythm with the words before him.
'Abdullah thought he would feel any sense of pleasure as the fruit of his efforts blossomed before him. The work of months. Any sort of elation, at all.
But when the swords fell and rose, when the Holy Book found itself tainted with the blood of elders, heralding a new era in the age of Islam...
'Abdullah felt nothing at all.