The name of Abū Bakr is usually paired in Sunnī Islamic doctrine with that of the second caliph, ‘Umar, and together the two are well known as “al-shaykhān” (the two sages) in ḥadīth collections. Their practices and sayings are generally viewed as setting standards of religious behavior, and as second in authority only to Muḥammad’s. No other companion, including ‘Alī, is viewed as more excellent in merit than these two, and Sunnī jurists level harsh criticisms against those who detract from the tafḍīl (high ranking) of the two caliphs.1 Ḥadīths that praise Abū Bakr and ‘Umar are considered an article of faith and can be found in the same legal texts that prescribe the rules on ritual purity, prayer, pilgrimage, and other religious rites. Whether Muḥammad made all of the praiseful comments about Abū Bakr and ‘Umar that are attributed to him is doubtful, as is the case for many ḥadīths.The historical context of ninth-century Baghdad, Basra, and Kufa, with their social and religious environments divided between Sunnīs (especially Ḥanbalīs) and Shī‘īs, was no doubt crucial in shaping polarized Muslim perceptions of the early caliphate and its key personages.
THE LAW
The images of the first two caliphs formed important and central points of orthodox reference in later Islamic tradition, although they seem to have diverged considerably in role and function. Whereas Abū Bakr represented the experience of belief as a leap of faith and trust in the call of the word and inspiration, ‘Umar represented the experience of belief as an observation of the law and organizing norms. Unlike the case of Abū Bakr’s dreamy profile, tradition paints ‘Umar as a companion who is more involved in concrete reality and the day-to-day affairs of the community. To ‘Umar, religion is a concrete social experience existing within boundaries defined by the law, where the rights (ḥuqūq) and limits (ḥudūd) are divinely ordained, and it is the observance of the law (fulfillment of the covenant, ‘ahd, mithāq), rather than a mere acceptance of the message, that determines the success or downfall of the community. The political and the legal are therefore closely related according to this definition, and the task falls on the caliph (“al-sulṭān al-‘ādil”) to ensure that the community, as his flock, does not go astray (the qualities of tabdīl and taghyīr).
In describing ‘Umar’s reign, the medieval chronicles attribute an extensive list of innovations to him, all of which carry a structural, organizing character. Along with the administrative dimension of ‘Umar’s reign there is an attribution of a legalistic emphasis. ‘Umar’s attention to a wide range of organizing rules (prohibitions, the penal code, social interaction) are illustrated in various stories set in his reign that illustrate examples and applications of these regulations. However, ‘Umar is also shown as having been concerned with these issues since Muḥammad’s time. Throughout the Sīra, exegetical narratives portray ‘Umar as the touchstone of curiosity who elicited divine revelations dealing with the law or elaborations of religious accounts. The mix of these issues varies in the sources, but they almost always include the injunctions that prohibited the drinking of wine, the veiling of women, the demarcation of strong lines between believers and nonbelievers (as relating to the munāfiqūn), and strict observance of punishments (especially for adultery and wine drinking). The classic format of how such rules purportedly originated portrays ‘Umar expressing extra religiosity and wondering, for example, whether wine is completely prohibited or hoping that women would be sheltered away from men, and that, in response, relevant Qur’ānic verses emerged. This process, which happened on a wide range of instances, and tends to touch several verses with a socially organizing character (particularly in sūrat al-aḥzāb), is known as the “muwāfaqāt,” or concurrence between divine guidance and ‘Umar’s opinion.2 The phenomenon on the whole raises the question of why these ideas (which are not all legalistic) were attributed to ‘Umar rather than to another companion.
It is tempting to read in the cases of muwāfaqāt positive historical evidence of a second layering of Muḥammad’s message with actual additions by ‘Umar dealing with social norms. Stories about ‘Umar’s familiarity with biblical texts could impel the historian to hypothesize an early date for the incorporation of Judaic material that became staples of the Sharī‘a.3 However, in all likelihood the connection of ‘Umar’s name with these juristic innovations is a later attribution dating to early ‘Abbāsid times. In an exercise that mirrors the anecdotal elaboration that explains the occasions of revelation of considerable material in the Qur’ān, later traditionists used the name of ‘Umar in a similar manner to set the context of issues that occasioned the emergence of some verses. With ‘Umar’s name probably already associated with strong asceticism, egalitarianism, and zealousness as well as the politically useful feature of anti-‘Alid attitude (evident in the passing over of ‘Alī for succession), historical narrators in the eighth and ninth centuries worked under a lucky confluence of features that gave ‘Umar’s life the potential for what amounted in ḥadīth terms to a second Sīra. The exact circumstances in which this religious image of ‘Umar was shaped are murky. But it is reasonable to assume that the exercise was heavily linked to the name of Ibn ‘Abbās and most likely occurred in Iraq in the early ninth century, where various religious additions (Jewish, Christian, and Manichean) were incorporated into Islam and played a role in shaping Islamic law, exegesis, and historical narratives.
Whatever the origin of the Islamic legalistic rules in general and ‘Umar’s cases of muwāfaqāt in particular, the historical texts project an image of ‘Umar as the keeper of the law, and this image appears woven in literary ways and with various intentions into the saga of ‘Umar. A modern reading of ‘Umar’s biography must therefore begin with an appreciation of this orthodox emphasis in the various accounts. ‘Umar’s image as arbiter of the law is best exemplified in the tradition that describes his opinion as “al-ḥaqq” (the righteous position). Muḥammad is frequently reported as saying, “God placed righteousness in the mouth of ‘Umar [waḍa‘a al- ḥaqqa ‘alā lisāni ‘U mar],”4 and “righteousness after me will lie with ‘Umar, whatever he says [al-ḥaqqu ba‘dī ma ‘ ‘Umar aynamākān).”5 Whereas the Prophet had turned to Abū Bakr for his skill in ta’ wīl (interpretation), in the case of ‘Umar, the Prophet emphasized ‘Umar’s ‘ ilm and fiqh (jurisprudential knowledge): “If the knowledge of the Arabs was placed in one scale, and ‘Umar’s in another, the ‘ilm of ‘Umar would prove the more weighty,” the Prophet is reported as saying6 in a ḥadīth that is a sure variation on a similar one regarding the faith (imān) of Abū Bakr.7 Another companion would add that ‘Umar’s knowledge seemed as if it equaled nine-tenths of religious knowledge.8 Muḥammad is said to have commented, “Were there to be a prophet after me, it would be ‘Umar,”9 but a less daring ḥadīth stresses inspiration by saying, “Every [religious] community had its inspired men in the past, and if any were to be in my nation it would be ‘Umar.”10
‘Umar’s mental world appears to be circumscribed by the law. Religious action for him was defined by boundaries of law that reflected either principles of equity and restraint (as was his ascetic bent) or the unquestioned code received from previous prophets. Questioning or interpreting the law was as dangerous as ignoring it, not least because it emboldened personal ambition, and the duty of authority was to ensure abidance within the community. ‘Umar held a low view of human nature, somewhat akin to a Hobbesian view, and considered authority and the law to be necessary tools for keeping individual rights protected and on a straight path.
Closely related to this image of ‘Umar as a guardian of the law is his frequent representation in the sources as an authoritarian, somewhat angry character. The depiction of ‘Umar’s heavy-handed style generally goes back to anecdotes about him during the Sīra of the Prophet, when ‘Umar is portrayed as having started out as a sworn enemy of the new faith, like Paul in Christianity, who showed unrelenting hostility to new converts.11 Evidence is scarce about ‘Umar in this period, however, and such a tempestuous depiction was mainly intended to bolster his role as caliph (and in legal matters in general), when his strictness in applying the law, meting out punishments, and deprecating officials served edifying religious themes. Thus, from the start, “haybat” ‘Umar (a quality roughly to be defined as presence) is cast as having an awe-inspiring quality,12 and this caliph’s anger with unruly officials and transgressors becomes the apotheosis for divine wrath—as Muḥammad would say, “The anger of ‘Umar is something grave [ghaḍabu ‘Umar shay’un kabīr].” The angel Gabriel reportedly declared to Muḥammad that ‘Umar’s satisfaction is a decree and his anger is glory (“riḍāhu ḥukm wa ghaḍabuhuizz”).13 The expression of severe authority was one extremity in the depiction of ‘Umar as he gets characterized as “shadīdun fī ’l-ḥaqq” (strict in pursuing truth and applying the law). Thus, the caliph would be depicted scolding important governors and commanders for their ambition and wealth with blows from his famous darra (whip), as he would family members and servants in his household. But at the same time, there was another extremity in his behavior, which was his compassion toward the weak and disenfranchised in the community.14
Moving between these two extremes of severity and compassion, later Muslim narrators constructed a fully human representation of ‘Umar’s character in every aspect of his life. The realism in depictions of ‘Umar’s inquisitive character, his turns of mood, his skepticism about people’s motives, and his attitudes that show him at times confident and threatening but at others regretful and contrite, content, or simply gazing in reflection, all put his personality in a class by itself. ‘Umar is a complete dramatic personality, fully existing within the parameters of reality and yet aiming to hold life at bay. This is certainly a far cry from ‘Alī, whose image of one-dimensional piety and unchanging tone make his biography lack a real-life quality. ‘Alī’s straight-faced appearance, sober reflection on the world, and high-flying wisdom was fine for philosophers and mystics, but it made him little relevant to the everyday life of an average Muslim in ninth-century Baghdad or Damascus. The character of ‘Umar, in contrast, spoke with a human relevance.
The caliph’s religiosity and strict moral example are cast as the core model that kept the community faithful to principles and turned his reign into a divinely guided era. The many stories about his behavior and statements defy a historian’s attempts to place them in a historical context, and can only show how this literature was meant to illustrate timeless messages of moral, social, and religious significance. That all the significant Arab battles against the Byzantines and the Sasanids are packed into the decade-long reign of ‘Umar is also not to be viewed in strict historical terms. Conquest and ordinary behavior in Medina and various locales are not isolated subjects in the Islamic chronicles, but rather closely entwined and interdependent. These pivotal achievements, taking place after the erasure of the Ridda and the reuniting of Arab tribal solidarity, are shown as singularly symbolic of the miraculous in ‘Umar’s life and rule. And to this frame of embellished legend one can add the extensive attribution to ‘Umar of various innovations that carry a structural, organizing character. Among these are the invention of the Hijrī calendar; the establishment of dīwans, taxation (kharāj) laws, and stipend levels of the conquerors; and the creation of new garrison cities in Basra, Kufa, Fusṭāṭ, and other locations.15 While some of these innovations, such as building the new cities, were rooted in his reign, it is unlikely that all the administrative innovations depicted by such ninth-century writers as Abū Yūsuf in Kitāb al-Kharāj were created during the reign of ‘Umar. It is more likely that ninth-century Sunnī jurists answered contemporary economic questions about the taxation of the agricultural lands of the Sawād in Irāq by attributing certain principles to the Rāshidūn caliphs, especially ‘Umar. Like the name of Khusraw Anushirwan, ‘Umar’s name became an all-purpose touchstone for imagined idealized practices.16 Both caliphs and jurists in later ‘Abbāsid times shaped memories of the second caliph to provide a reference for the negotiating of legitimate political practice.
This memory of ‘Umar from later times interacted with other idealizing perceptions of ‘Umar by Christians and Jews from early times, who saw in him an unusual ruler guided by a mysterious force of destiny. ‘Umar’s conquest of Jerusalem was viewed by Christians in Syria opposed to the Church of Constantinople, and Jews—previously forbidden by the Byzantines from entering the city—as a political if not a religious redeemer. In a world constantly living on edge with the cataclysmic struggle between the Byzantines and the Sasanids in the early seventh century, expectations of a messianic figure were rife in Jewish and splinter Christian communities. ‘Umar’s extraordinary victories, combined with his ascetic reputation, must have sufficiently attracted the sympathy of outsiders to Islam, who viewed him in chiliastic terms as a redeemer, giving him the title “al-fārūq.” His reign was viewed as the end of times, and it was believed that its end would bring about the apocalypse.17 It was of little import that ‘Umar came from Arabia or that the origin of Islam was tied to an Arabian prophet. To Jews of the time, what was good for Arabs at that hour was good for all Semites.18 Islamic sources are not averse to divulging that it was “ahl al-kitāb” (the People of the Book) who first called the second caliph “al-fārūq .”19 However, where ambiguity arises in the sources is over what ‘Umar’s end signified. For, just as Christians and Jews saw the death of ‘Umar as signifying the end of time, to the Arabs, especially when viewed after decades of civil strife of the mid seventh-century, the end of ‘Umar’s reign would mark the last moment of tranquility before the flood gates of civil war would open. ‘Umar, therefore, has figured in history as a point of intersection of political and religious expectations, historical memory, and polemic.
‘UMAR’S BIOGRAPHY AND ITS THEMES
The extant biography of ‘Umar comprises a collection of akhbār and ḥadīth reports that appear carefully selected in the works of Ibn Sa‘d, Balādhurī, and Ṭabarī. In spite of their commonalities, these sources do show some divergences in form if not in substance. Ibn Sa‘d and Balādhurī, for example, essentially provide the same biographical entry on ‘Umar, focusing less on historical topics than on religious themes (by recounting episodes of ascetic and legally pious behavior). The biographical format they provide consists of clearly distinct segments of akhbār in the following sequence: the story of ‘Umar’s conversion, an intermittent and carefully narrow phase of ‘Umar’s advice to the Prophet, the story of ‘Umar’s role in the succession of Abū Bakr, some stories about dealing with the effects of conquests (rather than the conquests themselves), stories about the caliph’s asceticism, interaction with different officials and the arrangement of the shūrā, and finally a long and very carefully planned scene of the caliph’s assassination. All later biographies derive their biographies of ‘Umar from this essential framework, which provided a point of reference for jurists and ḥadīth scholars as much as for historians.20
Ṭabarī’s biographical scheme stands in a class by itself, if only because his annalistic approach forced him to place anecdotes about the caliph under a specific year, whether dealing with ‘Umar’s conversion, the subject of the conquests, the organization of government, or the disputes over succession and tensions among the companions. This contextualized approach makes Ṭabarī seem more credible than other writers. However, a repeated reading of Ṭabarī shows the skeletal remains of a literary structure in ‘Umar’s biography that tied together the words and actions of carefully placed characters over a period of time with a beginning and an end. The historical length of ‘Umar’s reign and the memory of its momentous events allowed considerable space to build a drama of interaction among personalities, with plots both on the grand political/ military level and the personal, mundane level. Despite minor differences in the various accounts, in the end all the different stories about ‘Umar’s reign come together to form a cohesive tale that can be appropriately termed the ‘Umar saga or romance. Like other medieval romance tales, it chronicles a dialogue between the personal and universal (both political and religious), a clash of moral and religious imperatives; it wrestles with lingering flaws from a previous age and produces new ones. How Ṭabarī constructed a range of narratives to convey a process of clash and synthesis in history is a question that lies at the center of his interest in both Rāshidūn and Persian history. With the ideals of community, conviction, and equality present in one camp, and those of statecraft, strategy, and social organization present in the other, Ṭabarī was going to build up the story of ‘Umar as the central drama for this epic struggle between two cultures.
On its surface, the organization of Ṭabarī’s chronicle of this era may appear straightforward and mainly concerned with a set of obvious themes, such as futūḥ (conquests), siyar (lore), and fitan (civil strife within the community).21A distinction, however, needs to be made between the obvious level of recounting tales and the more indirect and allusive process of historical commentary. Medieval readers with an eye for inference and the seemingly unlikely correlation of accounts from different eras and with an awareness of a range of issues lying beneath the surface of any account would have approached the biography of ‘Umar as a text that is unified with other accounts given by Ṭabarī for other periods. Characters and their actions during the conquest phase would be viewed by such readers as related to similar actions by the same characters or others during Ṭabarī’s accounts of the later civil wars. The two phases would have been tied together by a set of religious, political, or moral issues that generated historical debate. Thus the biography of ‘Umar provides a key example of Ṭabarī’s approach, where the themes that are addressed indirectly shape his whole historical purpose behind the gathering of all these accounts into one book. We will explore here a set of themes that formed the foundation stones for an ironic and allusive debate in Ṭabarī’s biography of ‘Umar
The Arab Body Politic
One of the most easily overlooked themes in ‘Umar’s biography is the emphasis on “Arabism” as the defining feature of the Islamic state. This Arabism is not to be perceived as a real ideological or nationalist affinity that existed in ‘Umar’s time, but rather as a social and cultural label that narrators used in describing a cycle of historical change that will be explained shortly. Throughout the descriptions of key Islamic battles on the Persian front (the Bridge, al-Qādisiya, and others), Ṭabarī provides vivid evocations of Arab imagery and literary expressions that are unmatched in similar situations on the Byzantine front. Images of the simple bedouin discovering in awe the riches of the world through the luxuries of Persian food, fine garments, and a new lifestyle are replete in the conquest narratives. Equally prevalent is the romanticized memory of the intrepid Arab horseman, who with a heroic spirit characteristic of the Jahiliyya days displays a musing poetic mind that is ever sensitive to the shadow of mortality and ready to deliver a spontaneous war song (irtijāz) to proudly reminisce about the deeds of his family and clan and hence immortalize their name through his final exploits. As such, conquest serves a historian’s enterprise of literary and heroic nostalgia for an Arab culture long lost after the establishment of the ‘Abbāsid empire, as much as it allows a basic recounting of reports of important battles.
At first this Arabo-centered depiction may not seem misplaced, given that the early Muslim conquerors were Arabs. Descriptions of how the various Arab tribes that had fought each other in the Ridda wars only a few years earlier rejoined forces later and waged a successful war against the Sasanids can seem the inevitable reflection of the historical record. However, a closer look at the sources shows that the focus on the Arabs in ‘Umar’s reign is more contrived than a mere reporting of events. A range of statements made by ‘Umar in various anecdotes about his reign show a distinct bias in favor of the Arab element (as opposed to a broad category of outsiders—mawālī, ‘ajam, furs), and the caliph’s vision of the ideal Islamic state casts it as an Arab entity.22
The most glaring evidence of this bias surfaces during the scene of ‘Umar’s assassination, when the caliph, upon learning from his companions that his assassin was not an Arab, reportedly declared, “Thanks be to God that He did not make my killer someone who prayed to God even once,” and added, “I knew the Arabs would not kill me [mā kānat al-‘arab li-taqtulanī].”23 He then berated Ibn ‘Abbās for having enticed the mawālī to enter the peninsula and told him, “I used to caution you and your father about the danger of attracting these to Medina.”24 He said this at a time when al-‘Abbās was said to be the biggest owner of slaves in Medina. When Ibn ‘Abbās offered to stop this trend, ‘Umar told him in clear frustration, and possibly with a promise of things to come, “Now that they have prayed to the same qibla and learned your language!”25 (i.e., now that they have converted to Islam).
These odd remarks, along with the unsual story of ‘Umar’s death, which will be examined below, are especially striking for using the terms “Arabs” and “Islam” interchangeably, even at a time when Christian Arabs were participants in the campaigns of conquest.26 It is also noteworthy that, in spite of his pious depiction in the sources, ‘Umar is never portrayed as having an interest in converting foreigners to Islam, even though he frequently issues guidelines on how to accept the surrender of towns and the submission of individual subjects.27 To ‘Umar, the association of Arabs and Islam is so central that the very fate of Islam in response to temptation and change is tied to the effect of change on the Arab lifestyle and behavior.
The Arabs are viewed by ‘Umar not as a class of rulers at an early stage in history but as the very society of Islam. Their pre-Islamic geopolitical affinity continues to define their bond under Islam, and their ancient enmity toward the Sasanid empire continues to animate their struggle, as does their zeal for the faith. These old parameters also explain ‘Umar’s hesitance to expand the conquests beyond the culturally Arab lands of the Fertile Crescent (hence the initial aversion to conquering Egypt, venturing across the sea, and pushing into the Iranian heartland in the movement known as “al-insiyāḥ”). Guarding the Arab community, therefore, represents to ‘Umar guarding the security of the faith. In ‘Umar’s view, any drastic change in the Arab mode of life threatens to influence the outlook of the religious community.
And here the reader is treated to an unusual extension to ‘Umar’s view of his community of subjects when he writes to his commanders and governors cautioning that they preserve the traditional lifestyle of the desert-bound Arabs (making the term “Arab” synonymous with “bedouin”) and goes as far as creating a simile between the ecological conditions that affect the well being of the Arab and those that affect the camel. When ‘Umar received word from Iraq that the Arabs had fallen ill and changed their color after settling there, he reportedly wrote to the governor, Sa‘d, inquiring about what caused this change. “It must be the swamps of the area,” Sa‘d wrote back. ‘Umar responded by saying: “The Arabs can only feel at home in a land that makes good grazing for the camel and the sheep”28 and ordered him to send out Salmān to scout a location for a settlement close to sea and the hinterland.29 This is to this day the apocryphal background that supposedly led to the establishment of the towns of Kufa and Basra. And elsewhere ‘Umar extended the simile from biological to psychological when he made the camel symbolism cover issues of temperament and manner: “The Arabs are like a haughty camel following a leader, so let its leader be careful how to guide it. By God, I shall keep it on the straight path.”30 A long and complex history, therefore, links the fortunes of Islam and the circumstances of the Arab conquerors together. Social and economic influences on the Arab community are therefore viewed as capable of altering its cultural outlook and thus presage trends of moral temptation and change. The Arabs here become just another community in history that has presided over a perfect age and is about, like its predecessors, to experience a phase of sedition.
Not only the community is depicted in wholly Arab terms; even more, ‘Umar is richly represented throughout his life as personifying in word and deed patterns of behavior that are quintessentially Arab, or even bedouin. In the way he leads a simple lifestyle in dress and diet, the way he speaks roughly with people in general and transgressors in particular, one finds in him a personification of a certain style and temperament that is exclusively bedouin and that will be romanticized later by the ‘Abbāsid caliphs, not only for being straightforward but also for harkening back to the Arab ancestors, after the age of Persian domination and social integration set in. No other companion among the Rāshidūn caliphs shows a style that remotely resembles ‘Umar’s, even though they all grew out of the same social milieu in Mecca. There is more than a standard stress in the sources on ‘Umar’s alertness and vigor as a charismatic leader. There are rough edges, short spans of tolerance, and an overkill of reaction that is meant to stereotype ‘Umar in a rustic bedouin way.31 This would come to serve not only as a key to the wider scheme of the Arab nature of his rule, but would also shed light on the mentality and misguided use of these qualities later by the Khārijites, who are repeatedly represented as originating from a milieu of uncouth a ‘rāb, (bedouins usually associated with the loosely organized region of central Arabia) and of looking back on ‘Umar with nostalgia as their model during their arguments with ‘Alī.32
All this stress on the Arab theme leads one to ask: Why was ‘Umar portrayed in this particular way, and what segment of narrators or current of thought would have benefited from or sought to craft this imagery? The answer has more to do with the Persian social and cultural milieu of Islamic society in the ninth century than it does with the seventh century. The romanticized and limiting parameters on the Arabism of ‘Umar’s reign reflect the view from Baghdad in later times, when the reign of ‘Umar would come to be viewed as a moment of critical flux for the Islamic state, a moment when the rigid hierarchy of the Persian state was replaced by an egalitarian and cohesive new society. Reports of ‘Umar’s Arab ways of behavior were meant to function as extensions to the memory of the Sīra and to illustrate a new social sunna that debated monarchical and cultural values of the Sasanid state. ‘Umar’s Arabocentered style was also tied to a dialogue that narrators tried to establish between his symbolic role and that of ‘Alī, as we shall examine below.
The Persian Theme: Sasanid Persia as an Errant State
In equal measure to his focus on Arabian tribal themes, Ṭabarī’s chronicle shows a heavy preoccupation with Iranian affairs. Ṭabarī’s recounting of events in the Sasanid period follows the same rich storytelling mode that he uses in writing about Islamic history. He includes details on Sasanid rulers, providing texts of imperial proclamations, speeches, and edicts laden with a moralizing language that would have been culturally accessible to a medieval Islamic society. The story of Sasanid political history was probably also viewed as interacting closely with the history of divine revelations. Political history examined secular themes relating to government, hierarchy, and wise strategy, while religious stories explored the periodic voice of revelation that stood in dialogue with the fortunes of the Iranian state, always transforming the latter yet never destroying it. Just before the arrival of Islam, Ṭabarī and Dīnawarī describe at length prosperous and tumultuous phases in the Sasanid polity under the beleaguered ruler Khusraw Parviz, who could be considered a counterpart to the caliph ‘Uthmān. From a phase of stability, we see the accidental transition in Parviz’s jealous rivalry with a virtuous yet misunderstood governor of Khurāsān, Bahram Chubin; then follows treachery, rebellion by kinsmen, reconquest, and eventual regicide, which set the Iranian state on a downward course of chaos, incompetent leadership, and vanity.
One senses from the drift of Ṭabarī’s narratives that the Arab conquest of Iran not only represented the fulfillment of a religious promise for the Arabs, but also an inevitable judgment of history for the Sasanid state. With the coming of Islam, the Iranian state was on the verge of a correcting turn that would pave the way for its eventual revival. The standoff between the powerful and overconfident Sasanid army and a weak coalition of Arabian tribes recasts the confrontation between Pharaoh and the Israelite tribes—and the result is meant to be seen as just as miraculous as the earlier event even if the reporting sounds realistic. Narrators of the conquests were fond of describing the wealth and exotic booty acquired from victories on the Persian front in a way that finds no parallel in accounts of victories on the Byzantine front. The narrative of the conquest builds to its peak when we see the Arab army performing prayer in the White Palace of Khusraw and reciting the verse, “How many gardens and fountains they left, and a bountiful, noble station. And what prosperity they rejoiced in! Even so; and We bequeathed them upon another people.”33 Suddenly the promise of the afterlife and the promise in this world seem to converge at that hour. And when the caliph ‘Umar in Medina soon afterward informs the community of this victory and begins to show apprehension of how wealth and victory can provide a source of temptation and sedition for the community, we get the impression that the story of Iran’s conquest is finished long before Yazdajird meets his final fall, which would actually come about in the reign of ‘Uthmān. The notion of a full Sasanid surrender was probably assigned to ‘Umar’s reign in the sources because he represented the ideal ruler whose justice and equity earned him the image of “al-sulṭān al-‘ādil” in later Islamic memory. The second caliph’s appeal was thus anchored not only in his pious behavior, but also in his reviving of sound government practice, political hierarchy, and the bonds of community loyalty. As such, this caliph synthesized the ranks of emperor and religious leader and thus conflated the cosmic mysteries of both characters under a new state.34
However, even ‘Umar was not immune to the early Islamic conception of history as cyclical, punctuated by turning points of temptation and fall. Success contained within it the seeds of sedition, and the wealth of conquests would soon lead the new conquerors down a path of jealousy and rivalry that ‘Umar warned would lead to division in the community and the turning away of divine favor.35 On various occasions he repeated this, most notably when news of the conquest of Khurāsān and the fall of Yazdajird came. At that juncture he declared, in a tone not unlike the Prophet’s at ḥijjatal-wadā‘, “Do not change your ways, lest God replace you with other people [lā tubbaddilū fa-yastabdil ghayrakum].” These words were no doubt crafted by narrators to be in dialogue with the Qur’ānic verse that reads, “If you turn away, He will substitute another people instead of you, then they will not be your likes [yastabdil qawman ghayrakum thumma lā yakūnū amthālakum].”36 Later, Sunnī thinkers would go a step farther in interpreting this Qur’ānic verse, saying that the reference to “another people” meant the Persian nation, which would become the new guardian of the Islamic mission.37
The theme of Iranian revival in the Islamic historical narratives was not only tied to the corrupting influence of wealth on the Arab conquerors. It was also tied to the growth of the Hāshimite cause in Iran and the growth of the ḥadīth spirit in Iranian society. The region of Khurāsān would serve as the regional nucleus for these two diverse currents (one Shī‘ī, another Sunnī) that sometimes overlapped and on the whole gave Khurāsān a mythical image as the new base of the Islamic message. Khurāsānī support for the Hāshimite revolt against the Umayyads is usually the main claim to fame of this region, but it should not be forgotten that all four ḥadīth scholars who resisted al-Ma’mūn’s Miḥna program came from Marw, including the eminent Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal, and that all the arbiters of the ḥadīth canon in the later ninth-century came from that region as well. The centrality of the Iranian converts in the shaping of Islam’s fortunes was therefore not lost on historical narrators, who wove political, religious, and shu‘ūbī (nationalist) factors in telling the story of the Rāshidūn caliphate and conquests.
The Succession Theme: The Silent Rivalry with ‘Alī
The choice of ‘Umar as the prime leader to whom Persia submitted, as we have said, was partly connected to the orthodox image of this caliph in later times, but the heavy association of Persia’s conquest with ‘Umar’s name is probably tied to an issue that may seem an altogether different topic, namely the controversy over succession to the caliphate and over whether the Hāshimites (i.e., Alī) ought to have been selected for the caliphate rather than another companion (Abū Bakr, ‘Umar, and ‘Uthmān) who was viewed as more excellent in Sunnī Islam. The dispute takes on special significance when the image of ‘Umar is considered, since he played the critical role at the Saqīfa of Banū Sā‘ida, as we saw earlier, by pushing Abū Bakr forward for leadership and stamping out dissent. Although the main clash of that incident lay between the Muhājirūn and the Anṣār—and in particular between ‘Umar and Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda—the shadow of ‘Alī’s victimization there is hard to miss, even without his active involvement. Throughout those first years of succession, Persia was still Sasanid, while any Islamic preoccupation with a war outside Ḥijāz lay with the Ridda wars. Yet, insofar as Persia in general (and Khurāsān in particular) will later rise as the chief patron of the ‘Alid and Hāshimite cause and will be remembered as acting in a historical role parallel to that of the Anṣār in early times, those early events in the succession dispute were not, in the long term, marginal to Persia’s political involvement on the ‘Alid side, nor to its eventual resurgence during the ‘Abbāsid revolution. An ‘Alid-Persian tie in the narratives and an ‘Umar-Arab one formed a division that permeates throughout the early history.38
‘Umar and ‘Alī each appear as a patron of one camp and as apprehensive about anything associated with the other side, as if in wary anticipation of how the a‘rāb (Khārijites) would undermine the ‘Alid caliphate and of how Khurāsānīs would torpedo the ‘Umarī structure that gave rise to the Arabo-Umayyad state. ‘Umar, for example, speaks of “al-a‘rāb” as the source of the Arabs and the lifeline of Islam (“aṣl al-‘Arab wa māddat al-Islām”), and he strongly advises proper treatment of the Arab constituency.39 ‘Alī, by contrast, shows a greater affinity to issues that deal with Persia. This duality of positions surfaced when news of the conquest of Khurāsān reportedly reached ‘Umar. When al-Aḥnaf b. Qays, a future ally of ‘Alī during the civil war, wrote to ‘Umar about this conquest, the caliph was described as becoming unhappy with the news and saying, “Would that I had not sent an army to that region. Would that there was between us and them a sea of fire.” This reaction prompted ‘Alī to comment, “And why is that, O Commander of the Faithful? This is indeed an occasion for celebration (inna dhalika la-mawḍi‘ surūr).” ‘Umar then said, “The People [of Khurāsān] will burst forth [from that region] on three occasions, and they will be destroyed on the third. I prefer that this should happen to its own people rather than to the Muslims.”40 On a previous occasion, ‘Alī is also made to link ‘Umar with the Arabs. When ‘Umar consulted the companions on whether he should lead the Islamic army at Qādisiyya, ‘Alī cautioned against this, saying, “Were the Persians (al-a‘ājim) to see you in the battlefield, they would then say to each other, ‘This is the king of the Arabs and the lifeline of the Arabs (‘ hādhā amīr al-‘Arab wa aṣl al-‘Arab ’).’ And then they would be more persistent and ferocious in the fight to reach you.”41 Had the Islamic chronicles been written more as factual recordings than as storytelling, the reference to ‘Umar as “amīr al-‘Arab” could have been interpreted as historically real, but in the thick of an allusive discourse, ‘Alī’s words imagining what the Persians would say really reflects how a pro-Persian view from later times sought to limit ‘Umar’s actual leadership with a touch of irony. ‘Alī on that occasion may have been offering sound advice, but this advice was also made to imply that ‘Umar was commander of the “Arabs” (“amīr al-‘Arab”), but not truly of the “non-Arabs,” who were being anticipated as the future community of Islam (or of ‘Alī).
Once we recognize the symbolic association of ‘Umar with the Arabs and ‘Alī with the Persian converts, then the whole relation of ‘Alī with ‘Umar and the early caliphate has to be reexamined and stretched beyond the boundaries of ‘Umar’s reign. The two personalities maintained their national associations long before the conquest of Persia or the support of the mawālī for the ‘Alid cause at Ṣiffin and beyond. ‘Umar and ‘Alī represented different political programs tied to the question of how the caliph’s office was to be defined—whether in religious terms, as a successor to the Prophet, hence making the caliph (a descendant within the Prophet’s family) the religious guide of the community without any particular attachment to one group over another, or in political terms, as the senior representative of a community that prophecy had left behind, thus explaining the focus on the Muhājirūn and Arabia’s Arab community (which dealt with Muḥammad in his lifetime) as the holders of political authority. Only when we bind the religious controversy over caliphal succession with the national anticipation of the expansion of Islam beyond Arabia into Persia does the entire reported debate about succession to the Prophet become intelligible.
On the surface, relations between ‘Umar and ‘Alī are portrayed as cooperative. ‘Alī, as is well known, acts out the role of counselor to ‘Umar, giving occasional sound advice, as he did just before Qādisiyya. However, even with this alleged closeness, ‘Alī appears on the whole throughout this period as a coerced or silenced figure. His absence in the reigns of Abū Bakr and ‘Umar (except in the dispute with Abū Bakr over the early succession and the advice to ‘Umar on whether to lead the conquests in person) is glaring in the narratives,42 and one can only interpret this as a deliberate literary strategy meant to silence his claims to the caliphate in the years of the first two Rāshidūn and thus to avoid a head-on clash between ‘Alī and the two leading companions. Still, evidence can be pieced together to show that narrators did intend to communicate, beyond the surface Sunnī reading, a certain degree of tension and conflict between ‘Umar and ‘Alī.
To discern this subtext, one must read ‘Umar’s actions indirectly. At the Saqīfa of Banū Sā‘ida, for example, ‘Umar’s main fight was with Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda and the Anṣār, who according to one version supported the ‘Alid claim for succession. Whether the Anṣār-‘Alid link is true or not, there is no doubt that in suppressing the dissent of Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda, ‘Umar was indirectly rebuking ‘Alī for refusing to partake in the bay‘a .43 ‘Umar’s exaggerated reaction also reflects the militancy of the later ninth-century Sunnī attitude toward dissent from the jamā‘a, specifically Shī‘ism, and is meant to undermine any notion of a Shī‘ī messianic view of the caliphal office. Shūrā had had its hour, but in the end the unanimity of the jamā‘a had to rule.
For his part, ‘Alī is not shown explicitly endorsing the Anṣār or any other specific candidate at the Saqīfa. He seems like an unwitting participant in a predestined plan that was constantly pushing him away from his right to test his religious resolve and pose a trial for the community. However, when ‘Uthmān is selected as caliph by another shūrā after ‘Umar’s death, the deliberate drive to push ‘Alī aside becomes very obvious. ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. ‘Awf had reenacted at that shūrā a role similar to ‘Umar’s earlier role at the Saqīfa, and there was no more doubt that a succession story was being cooked to serve Sunnī aims and beliefs. At that juncture we finally hear ‘Alī commenting in exasperation, “khida‘tun wa ayyu khid‘a” (what a deception this has been), in reference to how the succession had been lost.
Open enmity between ‘Umar and ‘Alī is absent in the sources, but one finds it in the margins, whether through the symbolic national affiliation we spoke of or through statements and unusual attitudes expressed toward secondary actors and well-known protégés on opposite sides of the Sunnī-Shī‘ī fence. When later in his life ‘Alī challenges ‘Ubaydallāh b. ‘Umar to a duel at the Battle of Ṣiffin, ‘Ubaydallāh, after having sought out a champion for the duel, refuses to confront ‘Alī. When ‘Alī returned to his camp, his son Muḥammad then commented, “Father, you put yourself in the face of that sinner [al-fāsiq]? Why, even if his father were in his place, I would have guarded you from deigning to fight him.” To this ‘Alī replies, “My son, let us not say but what is good about his father.”44 The message here is that ‘Alī, who has suppressed negative feelings toward ‘Umar, is now disclosing these feelings in a way that is supposedly only corrective of his son’s manners rather than being political in substance.
For his part, ‘Umar is made to vent his anti-‘Alid hostility on historical actors who became some of the most ardent supporters of ‘Alī later on, such as ‘Ammār b. Yāsir and ‘Abdallāh b. Budayl, long before these two showed signs of turning to one side or the other. In a dispute between a delegation of the people from Kufa and their disputed governor ‘Ammār, ‘Umar sides strongly with the Kufans, accusing ‘Ammār of lying, and takes their word as grounds for dismissing him from the governorship.45 Although ‘Umar’s appeasement of the Kufans was not new, as he did something similar for Sa‘d b. Abī Waqqāṣ a year earlier,46 ‘Umar’s rough treatment of ‘Ammār is noticeably harsh and is meant no doubt to show the lack of affinity between supporters of ‘Alī and ‘Umar in general. ‘Umar’s treatment of ‘Abdallāh b. Budayl also reflects the deliberate deprecation of a future ‘Alid supporter.47 These instances stand in stark contrast to ‘Umar’s gentle treatment of individuals who later became ‘Alī’s enemies, such as Ziyād b. Abīhi, al-Mughīra b. Shu‘ba, and even Mu‘āwiya.48
Other elliptical swipes between ‘Umar and ‘Alī are worked into representations that date much farther back than the Rāshidūn era. During the time of the Prophet, we know for instance that ‘Alī appears in much greater proximity and favor to the Prophet than ‘Umar. At the Battle of Uḥud, we read the unflattering note that ‘Umar was one of those who retreated in battle (“wa kāna min man inkashafa yawma uḥud min man ghufira lahu”).49And at the Battle of Khaybar, Ṭabarī relates how, on the day before the battle, the Prophet announced that he would give his banner the next day to someone beloved to God and His prophet. The narrator says: “When that day came, Abū Bakr and ‘Umar each hoped it [the banner] would be his,” with the narrator using an Arabic phrasing that is significantly unflattering to the first two caliphs: “fa-taṭāwala lahā Abū Bakr wa ‘Umar .” But then the banner was given to ‘Alī.50
The Theme of Wise Political Strategy (al-Ra’y)
In spite of his pious preoccupation and his disinterest in the material world, ‘Umar is represented in the sources as having an appreciation for sound judgment. This quality of “al-ra’y” (sound rational opinion) was applied, mostly in Ṭabarī’s chronicle, to political and military matters. There are numerous instances when ‘Umar consulted his commanders about the soundest course of action by asking, “aḥdirū al-ra’y” or “ashīrū ‘alayy.” The most notable of these instances comes when ‘Umar discussed whether he should lead the Islamic armies to Qādisiyya in person.51 After much deliberation, the caliph opted to stay behind, but only after wise counsel showed that the enemy might be emboldened if they knew of his presence. In a similar vein, ‘Umar later advised Sa‘d b. Abī Waqqāṣ to send a delegation from the people of “al-ra’y” to debate Rustam.52 The caliph encouraged the selection of a team from “ahl al-najda wa’l-ra’y wa’l-quwwa wa’l-‘idda”53 to help Sa‘d make decisions.
As the record shows, most of those who offered ‘Umar the seasoned opinions he needed to extend the conquests, safeguard the community, and stamp out opposition were primarily political figures: al-Mughīra b. Shu‘ba, ‘Amr b. al-‘Āṣ, Mu‘āwiya b. Abī Sufyān, and Ziyād b. Abīhi. These individuals all had a reputation for being crafty leaders—long before Is-lam, in the case of some—who knew not only the right decisions at difficult junctures, but also what to say to ‘Umar and when to say it. ‘Umar’s reliance on such religiously dubious figures stressed a theme that underlay Sunnī political philosophy in the ninth century, namely that political office (whether military, gubernatorial, or caliphal) required not the most pious person, but the one most experienced in strategy and politics. ‘Umar asked al-Mughīra b. Shu‘ba who he thought should hold the governorship of Kufa after the dismissal of ‘Ammār b. Yāsir, “Do you think a weak Muslim or a strong man is suitable? [mā taqūlūn fī tawliyat rajulin ḍa‘īfin Muslimin aw rajulin qawiyyin mushaddad ?].” Al-Mughīra answered, “A weak Muslim will have his faith for himself [islāmuhu li-nafsihi] and his weakness shall fall upon you, but the strong man, his strength is for himself and the Muslims.” “Then we shall send you, O Mughīra,” ‘Umar replied.54
Never again would ‘Umar commit the blunder he did in A.H. 14/ A.D. 636, when he removed the competent chief of the Bakr b. Wā’il, al-Muthannā b. Ḥāritha, a veteran of years of fighting the Sasanids in southern Iraq, from the Islamic command to which Abū Bakr had assigned him, and replaced him with the obscure Abū ‘Ubayd al-Thaqafī, an untested soldier who came from the town of Ṭā’if, hundreds of miles away. Abū ‘Ubayd may have impressed the caliph with his zeal, being the first to volunteer for an unpopular and slow-going campaign of mobilization in Medina against the Sasanids. However, the many elaborate accounts that follow about the Battle of the Bridge and the defeat that ensued under Abū ‘Ubayd’s command describe less history than an incident of folly, showing the poor judgment of that commander. Against all advice from al-Muthannā that the Arab army should wait for the Persians to cross to the southern side of the Euphrates river, Abū ‘Ubayd refused, saying, “We shall not let them be more daring to fight than we are!” Soon after, these words proved to be the new commander’s last, as the Arab army crossed the river piecemeal to face the Persian army in its perfect defensive position. Abū ‘Ubayd would enter history as someone who abandoned the use of “al-ra’y” (sound strategy) and brought about a defeat as embarrassing as the Battle of Uḥud during the Sīra. With considerable effort, al-Muthannā was able to save the remnants of the troops, but he would later comment about Abū ‘Ubayd, as would other commanders, “We told him so,” and ‘Umar would shed tears for the loss of so many of his troops as the result of his decision. He became careful not to seek out brash zealots over experienced men as commanders, and he would defer to the wisdom of the first caliph, who had relied on al-Muthannā, when he said, “May God’s mercy be upon Abū Bakr, he knew men better than I do.” This lesson, however, would never register fully with ‘Alī.
The theme of ra’y appeared widely in the narratives of early Islam in spheres of morality and politics. In the biography of ‘Umar, this theme was used to stress a main difference between this caliph and ‘Alī. ‘Alī, as we shall see in chapter 6, refused to appoint the aforementioned officials of ‘Umar, even if that meant the disintegration of his rule in the provinces. To ‘Alī, political war was a crusade of virtue, and he stigmatized any attempt at compromise (in other words, sound strategy) as something bordering on hypocrisy (idhān). Thus, ‘Alī would be haunted by political setbacks.
All these themes converged in shaping the key structure of ‘Umar’s biography in the chronicles. We shall examine next how widely different narratives set in ‘Umar’s reign indirectly revolved around these aforementioned themes. While admired for structuring the Islamic state and enforcing religious law, ‘Umar would also be viewed as being indirectly responsible for generating the Hāshimite tragedy by thwarting ‘Alī’s chances for succession and appointing Mu‘āwiya to the governorship of Syria, where future tragedies against the Hāshimites would be born. Discerning this perspective in the early texts—is at once submissive and subversive of ‘Umar, and looks on Persia’s conversion to Islam as a stepping stone for reviving the Hāshimite cause is an elusive task in the midst of different voices that advocate Jamā‘ī-Sunnī, ‘Alid, and Sasanid views within the same narrative. In the next section we shall examine how these themes unfold in the story of the conquests and the legends about ‘Umar.
MORALITY AS THE GROUNDS OF THE ARAB-SASANID CONTEST
The religious coloring of the early Islamic conquests often leads readers into conceiving of these campaigns as a crusade anchored in a conflict over religion. Their representation in the chronicles, however, can point to a different understanding. True, the Islamic message is constantly repeated in the Arab embassies to the Sasanid officials prior to war, and the memory of the Prophet Muḥammad is glorified. A close look, however, shows that the dispute is based not on religious doctrine so much as on certain facets of morality that were seen to have died in the Sasanid lands (although these moral codes are portrayed as having once flourished there) and come to life again in Arabia with Islam. The clash is between two systems of values rather than a dispute over the prophecy of Muḥammad, and the rivalry is between camps with opposite social characters and ethical views of historical change. The Sasanid leaders are portrayed as a class of landed elite, overconfident in their power and condescending toward lower classes and outsiders, while the Arabs are represented as unified and willing to follow leaders of different affiliations.
Intensely frustrated with the arrogance of his subordinate commanders, Rustam, the supreme Sasanid commander at Qādisiyya, confirms this message when he rebukes his lieutenants after the visit of an Arab envoy, telling them that their own behavior created the conditions that made them the target of conquest:
By God, O people of Persia, the Arab [ambassador] was right. It was our evil deeds that brought this to us…. There was certainly a time when God made you victorious over your enemies and gave you firm control of the land because of your proper behavior, opposition to oppression, fulfillment of covenants, and generosity to others. But now that you have abandoned this conduct and turned yourselves to such [evil] deeds, I can just see how God will turn you over, and I fear he will discharge you of authority.55
The problem, therefore, lies in a leadership turned vain and abusive toward its subjects. Understanding Rustam’s character and role in the story of the conquests is pivotal to gauging the medieval view of the Islamic conquests and their historical significance. Although some accounts make Rustam a skilled astrologer and depict him as having feared ominous astral changes,56 more often his anxiety is depicted as deriving from wisdom and deference to the Islamic principles. In various other statements, such as the one quoted above, he appears frustrated with his commanders more because of their vanity and arrogance than because of their military failure. Rustam is a lone voice of Persian wisdom, acting out the role of victim and historical commentator. Combining an understanding of signs with a sense of coming social change, Rustam recognizes, for instance, that when Yazdajird ordered the leader of the Arab delegation, ‘Āṣim b. ‘Amr, to carry a sack of Persian soil on his back and ride back to Arabia, this did more than level a humiliation on a delegation member who claimed to be “ashraf al-qawm” (the most noble of the delegation members): it also served as an omen of the loss of Persian land.57 If foreign heads of states or social elite were kinsmen in destiny (“ashrāfu al-nās ṭabaqa ka-mā anna awḍā‘āhum ṭabaqa”), as the caliph al-Ma’mūn used to say, then Yazdajird had just symbolically yielded his inheritance to another counterpart in this class of leaders. Later we are told that Rustam had premonitions of the conquests when, on the eve of the battle with the Arabs, he saw in a dream an angel descend from the heavens, seal the weapon of Persia, and hand it over to the caliph ‘Umar.58
The contrast on the Persian side is most stark between the portraits of Rustam and of Yazdajird. The Persian emperor is depicted consistently as conceited, vain, temperamental, and hasty to the extent that he accelerates the coming of defeat. His negative reaction to the Arab embassies, diversely portrayed by various narrators before Qādisiyya and Nihāwand, becomes a favorite theme in the stories leading up to battle. When a certain al-Mughīra b. Zurāra leads an Arab embassy to Yazdajird just before the Battle of Qādisiyya, the emperor strongly chides him for coming to him with a message, telling him that his race had long been viewed by Persians as “the weakest, most wretched, and most miserable of people.” Here al-Mughīra is shown first as agreeing that this is “indeed the way we were,” but then he sets out to describe how things have changed since the appearance of Muḥammad, who introduced the Arabs to the worship of the One God and eliminated injustice, internal rivalries, and social inequities.59
This entire scene is built up as a parallel to the Qur’ānic standoff between Moses and Pharaoh, Muḥammad and Abū Jahl, reflecting the contrast between the humility of the faithful and the hubris of the powerful and concluding with the emperor’s yielding a sign of the promised land with the aforementioned loss of Persian soil.60 The attitude of Yazdajird toward these embassies is negative, without exception (unlike the case of Heraclius, who on more than one occasion is shown as having been inclined sympathetically to Islam); in this way the narrators carefully intended to rob him of any flattering behavior, strengthen the juxtaposition with Rustam, and explain the total conquest of Persia prophesied by Muḥammad. Yazdajird’s pride is also built up to make his eventual tragic death in Marw redemptive for his political life-cycle.61
Throughout the war with the Arabs, Rustam stands out as the only leader with a chance of saving the Persian nation. The fact that he was the defender of the “thaghr” of Khurāsān (being the son of the Ispahbadh of Khurāsān)62 prior to being summoned by Būrān, who was briefly a caretaker of the crown before Yazdajird’s accession, was something that no doubt resonated with symbolic importance to a medieval Muslim audience that saw Khurāsān eventually rising to become the gateway to revolution and Islamic revival under the ‘Abbāsids. In the end, however, whatever advantages Rustam had gained as strategist and wise counselor, first to Būrān and later to Yazdajird, were taken from him by the very situation in which he found himself trapped. His predicament lies in the fact that he is called on to lead a campaign that he knows is doomed to failure, and so he finds himself caught between his loyalty toward his suzerain and his sense that it is his duty to reform the Sasanid realm and return it to its founding moral principles.63
‘Umar and Hurmuzān
Yazdajird and Rustam represent polar opposites in Ṭabarī’s representation of their view of the Arabs. However, it is really Rustam whose opinion is meant to be seen as representing the true soul of the Persian state. As long as he is not defeated in battle, Rustam tells Yazdajird, “the people of Persia will keep their hopes on me.” Then he asks that another commander, perhaps Jalinus, be sent instead, until it becomes absolutely necessary that he join the war.64 Rustam’s trepidation here mirrors ‘Umar’s reluctance to lead the Arab armies in person in the mobilization for Qādisiyya, and the argument cited by Rustam (that the enemy will fight more boldly in order to capture the enemy leader) is the same argument used by the ṣaḥāba to dissuade the caliph from leading the campaign in person.65 The elements of ra’y and makīda that Rustam fails to attain because of Yazdajird’s overruling him become aspects that lead to the success of the Islamic strategy when ‘Umar stays behind in Medina. ‘Umar and Rustam are therefore the true counterparts in opposition, despite Yazdajird’s nominal leadership. Still, the two opponents never come face to face and are only related in a surreal outcry of frustration that Rustam utters just before the armies clash at Qādisiyya: “‘Umar has eaten my liver!”66
The task of a real personal standoff with the caliph is shifted instead to Hurmuzān, another member of the Persian political leadership, who engages the caliph in dialogue about the historical significance of their confrontation. This occurs in a debate that provides a symbolic portrait of the rivalry between the two powers, set in the context of the story of Hurmuzān’s surrender to ‘Umar in Medina. Hurmuzān, the uncle of the former monarch Qubadh II (known as Shiruy) and governor of the region of Ahwāz,67 played a pivotal role in regrouping the Persian defenses after the Battle of Qādisiyya, scoring some significant success in holding back the conquests. With the gradual fall of Khuzistān, however, we are told that Hurmuzān fortified himself in Tustar and put up a tenacious fight there. The account of the siege of Tustar, led by Abū Mūsā al-Ash‘arī, includes some very vivid descriptions of individual heroism, especially that of al-Barā’ b. Mālik, who is credited with breaching the defenses of the city in a brave manner not unlike the one he displayed when he took the lead in breaking through the fortified enclosure of Musaylima at Yamāma in the Ridda war. Al-Barā’’s military achievement was critical in pushing Hurmuzān to consider surrender. Still, Hurmuzān reportedly showed that he had the ability to resist. Having fortified himself in the town’s citadel, he engaged in combat at a leisurely pace, coming out occasionally to engage in individual duels, two of which brought about the deaths of a pair of well-known companions, al-Barā’ b. Mālik and Majza’a b. Thawr. The Persian governor declared that he would stop fighting only if he were allowed to surrender to the caliph in Medina. Otherwise, he said, “My quiver holds a hundred arrows, and I would not leave before I kill as many of you as these arrows can take.” So in his first brush with political compromise, Abū Mūsā accepted the terms, and Hurmuzān, accompanied by Anas b. Mālik and al-Aḥnaf b. Qays (and twelve Iranian chiefs, according to one version),68 was sent to Medina, where the crucial story begins.
The narrative of Hurmuzān’s arrival in Medina and meeting with ‘Umar is described in great detail by Ṭabarī. A reader can virtually sense the pulse of daily life in Medina in that account. Ṭabarī describes how, when the conquest embassy arrived with Hurmuzān (who was dressed in his official regalia and crown to impress the caliph), they initially had trouble finding the caliph. Having not found him at his residence, the group reportedly started wandering about the area of the mosque, looking for him, until they were spotted by a group of children playing in that area. When the children saw the new arrivals, they asked who they were looking for and directed the group to the caliph, said to have been sleeping in the right wing of the mosque with his cloak folded under his head for a pillow (“mutawassidun burnusahu”).69 All the details in this account, minor and unnecessary by the standards of a conventional chronicle, are indispensable here in casting the image of a utopian world thriving under ‘Umar in Medina at the time. The children are a metaphor for the subjects of the caliph, and their precocious inquisitiveness represents the vigilance of the community as a whole. In one sense, the children in this story may be seen to provide a parallel to or evolution of another group of children that ‘Umar famously protects by saving them from the brink of starvation on one of his night journeys in Medina.70 ‘Umar himself is shown to be withdrawn from active political life by virtue of the success of a new system of values and the victory of belief.
The Islamic historical commentary about the scene so far is then given to Hurmuzān, who is described as incredulous at how the Arab ruler could live so ascetically, without any guards or associates, after the Islamic victories. “He must be a prophet,” Hurmuzān tells his guards, but those in Hurmuzān’s company tell him, “He is not a prophet, but he lives up to the prophetic model.” Amid the commotion of a growing crowd, ‘Umar is shown awakening from his sleep. He then reportedly looked at the prisoner at length and said, as if in anticipation, “Are you Hurmuzān?” “Yes,” the latter replied. ‘Umar then declared, “Praise be to God, who has humbled this man and his followers through Islam.” He then stated that he would have nothing to say to him until the latter was stripped of his ornaments and dressed in simple garb.71 When this was duly done, Hurmuzān sat down before the caliph, and a remarkable conversation then took place. ‘Umar began by saying, “Hey, Hurmuzān, how do you look now upon the evil consequences of your perfidy and the outcome of God’s command [kayfa ra ’yta wabāl al-ghadr wa ‘āqibata amri allāh]?” Hurmuzān replied, “In the days before Islam, ‘Umar, God left things between us and you as they were, so we had the upper hand over you, since He was neither with us nor with you. But when he took your side, you gained the upper hand over us.” To this ‘Umar replied, “You only succeeded in defeating us in the days before Islam because you were united, whereas we were divided. But [what now] is your excuse … for going to war against us time after time?” Hurmuzān here said, “I fear that you will kill me before I have told you.” “No, do not be afraid,” ‘Umar assured him. Then, when Hurmuzān asked for something to drink and was brought water in a primitive cup, he said, “Even if I were to die of thirst, I could not possibly drink from a cup like this.” So he was brought some water in a vessel he approved of. But then his hand began to tremble and he said, “I am afraid that I will be killed while I am drinking.” ‘Umar then said, “No harm will come to you until you have drunk it.” Hereupon Hurmuzān spilled the water by turning the vessel upside down. “Give him some more,” ‘Umar ordered, “[and don’t push on him thirst and death at once.]”
Then Hurmuzān spoke, “I do not need water; what I wanted was that you grant me immunity.” ‘Umar then said, “I shall certainly kill you,” but Hurmuzān interrupted and said, “But you have already granted me immunity.” “I shall certainly kill you,” shouted ‘Umar, but Hurmuzān again asserted, “But you have already granted me immunity.” “You lie,” roared ‘Umar. Anas (b. Mālik) here intervened and said, “He is right, Commander of the Faithful, you have indeed granted him safety.” “Woe unto you, Anas,” said ‘Umar to him. “Should I grant immunity to the killer of Majza’a and al-Barā’? By God, think of a subterfuge or I shall surely chastise you!”
Anas then explained, “You did tell him that no harm would come to him before he had told you what you asked him, and you also told him that no harm would come to him until he had drunk the water.” Then all those who were standing around ‘Umar joined in, telling him the same thing. ‘Umar approached Hurmuzān and said, “You have [deceived] me [laqad khada‘tanī] and, by God, I shall not be hoodwinked by anyone who is not a Muslim.” So Hurmuzān embraced Islam.72
The description of Hurmuzān’s surrender in this account does more than describe a limited event of personal surrender or a defiant exchange. This narrative was essentially symbolic of the standoff between two worlds, the Perso-Sasanid and the Arab-Islamic, and was meant to raise key moral questions concerning the historical meaning of the Islamic conquest and the character and role of the Persian nation before and after Islam. Hurmuzān speaks on behalf of a fallen kingdom, articulating the voice of its vanquished elite.73 He is shown appreciating the turn in Persia’s fortunes and explaining defeat in light of revelation. Curiously, ‘Umar does not confirm Hurmuzān’s invocation of a religious argument but rather casts the explanation of change in strictly moral terms. To ‘Umar, the Persian state was successful when it acted in unity while the Arabs were divided, and on the whole the caliph shows a greater interest in the ideal functioning of politics—why the Sasanid state worked as a political system—than in how that empire reacted toward Islam. Unity, loyalty, and conviction in one’s beliefs represent for ‘Umar the key reasons governing the rise and fall of states.
Still, one should be aware that Hurmuzān is not entirely a broken figure. Rather, he acts more like an adopted political ally. A major intention of this story was basically to elucidate the terms on which the Persian state established its entry into the political fold of Islam, and Hurmuzān’s surrender personified this accommodation. It was this act of debate and conversion by Hurmuzān at the hands of ‘Umar, more than Qādisiyya and Nihāwand, that narrators probably saw as establishing the submission of Persia. Hurmuzān’s refusal to surrender to anyone but the caliph gives a sign from the outset of the Tustar agreement that Persian political loyalty and official submission can be enacted only at the highest level of the political hierarchy. Religious conversion and political allegiance were closely interconnected acts in the event of surrender; and hence Hurmuzān could not give in to any commander in the field (as, for instance, the Byzantine Jarja did at the Battle of Yarmūk). When, where, and to whom he submitted/converted were crucial factors because they determined his new identity under the caliphate—as a partner or follower in the new state—and highlighted the voluntary nature of Persia’s recognition of Prophetic truth.74 The whole digression over the act of drinking water and the game to entrap ‘Umar into uttering the grant of safety were devised by Hurmuzān to drive home the unique terms of his surrender. The request for water represented a request for political life. Appropriately enough, Hurmuzān still wanted to drink in his classical Sasanid style, a clear signal of his intent to retain cultural and social continuity within the world of Islam. When ‘Umar granted Hurmuzān the right to drink water, he was essentially sanctioning the future political rebirth of Persia.
Once the symbolic conversion happens, Hurmuzān is incorporated into the circle of ‘Umar as a companion who offers him advice on how to better plan further Persian conquests. When, at a later point, ‘Umar reportedly consults Hurmuzān on how to proceed with the conquest campaign in Iran, Hurmuzān advises him, “Iṣbahān is the head, while Fars and Azerbayjān are like the wings. If you cut off one of the wings, then the head will sway with the other. Therefore begin with Iṣbahān.”75 Hurmuzān’s advice rings with echoes of Salmān al-Fārisī’s advice to the Prophet just before the Battle of al-Khandaq.
Stylistically, the story of Hurmuzān’s conversion exhibits certain features that can be positioned against an older, diverse background of images. In the way in which Hurmuzān is brought to the caliph flanked by al-Aḥnaf and Anas, one sees a replay of the story of ‘Umar’s own conversion to Islam, when he was brought into the Prophet’s presence with Ḥamza standing guard alongside other companions. ‘Umar speaks to Hurmuzān in the same forceful way the Prophet spoke to ‘Umar earlier (and to Abū Sufyān at a similar moment of surrender),76 which creates a continuity between the two stories that makes Hurmuzān’s conversion, indirectly, a conversion at the hands of Muḥammad. Another literary formula reapplied in Hurmuzān’s story can be seen in the section in which ‘Umar appears incredulous that he could have given Hurmuzān a grant of amnesty. When ‘Umar asks Anas b. Mālik, “Woe to you, Anas, should I grant immunity to the killer of Majza’a and Barā’?” we see a parallelism with a statement ‘Umar directed toward Ṭulayḥa b. Khuwaylid after his surrender at the end of the Ridda wars. When asked if he would pardon Ṭulayḥa, the caliph, furious at the battle deeds of the latter, said, “You are the one who killed ‘Ukāsha and Thābit? By God, I shall never develop a liking for you.”77 The double naming of victims in ‘Umar’s statements points to parallels in style and identical origins in the historical composition at that juncture.
Khid‘a and Succession
A far more important feature that operates both stylistically and thematically in the story is the method by which Hurmuzān obtained his immunity—through the process of “khid‘a” (guile). When the caliph granted Hurmuzān the right to drink water, as mentioned above, he was in effect recognizing the political survival of Persia in Islamic history. The technique by which Hurmuzān gained this right was not meant to be merely playful or witty, but also to reflect political strategy. Craftiness and calculation were features that ‘Umar was known to have admired in his lieutenants, particularly in ‘Amr, Mu‘āwiya, and al-Mughīra. As tools for achieving conquest and effective government, these techniques were viewed as critical to safeguarding the community. Yet while these methods were recognized as necessary in wars with non-Muslims,78 the degree to which a Muslim ruler could apply them in governing the community was a controversial religious issue, one indirectly debated throughout the history of the first century of Islam, most notably in the narratives about the conflict between ‘Alī and Mu‘āwiya.
Throughout his reign, ‘Umar is never directly portrayed as applying khid‘a to achieve his goals. His charisma and strict moral example are shown to be sufficient deterrents in all political affairs.79 This said, the image of ‘Umar’s forthrightness depends largely on how strictly one interprets his actions. A significant case in point is the episode of the Saqīfa of Banū Sā‘ida, which brought about the election of Abū Bakr for the caliphate. We have seen how ‘Umar played a critical role on that occasion in cajoling different groups to accept Abū Bakr as the first caliph, while ‘Alī, who was said to be absent due to his preoccupation with preparing the Prophet’s body for burial, was effectively pushed aside. The victory of the Muhājirūn over the Anṣār (and ‘Alī) in securing Abū Bakr’s caliphate can hardly be viewed as the result of mere force, but rather of shrewd diplomacy (or khid‘a). And although Ṭabarī throws a blackout on any negative assessment of that decision and, more importantly, denies ‘Alī any direct criticism of these events, it seems clear that those who do express their anger (mainly Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda and al-Ḥubāb b. al-Mundhir, leaders of the Anṣār) speak as if on behalf of ‘Alī and view the event as a deception engineered by ‘Umar.80
While the events of the Saqīfa are tightly controlled in description and the reaction of ‘Alī is minimized, in later times ‘Alī could not be kept silent any longer. The first of these occasions came at the shūrā for the succession to ‘Umar’s position. When ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. ‘Awf screened the candidates suggested by ‘Umar in a way that ultimately favored ‘Uthmān over ‘Alī, the latter, although conceding again to the other ṣaḥāba, was quick to comment as he rose to give the bay‘a to ‘Uthmān, “Verily this has been a deception. What a deception! [khid‘atun wa ayyu khid‘a!].”81 To maintain a logical chain between the characters and statements, it should here be remembered that ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. ‘Awf did not act as he did at the shūrā because of his own thinking, but only in light of procedures and priorities that ‘Umar had established among the six members of the shūrā council just before he died. For it was ‘Umar who had restricted the slate of candidates, fixed their number, empowered Ibn ‘Awf as arbiter, and deprived ‘Alī of any primacy for succession.
‘Alī’s reaction about the “khid‘a”, therefore, no matter how strongly he is portrayed as being cooperative with ‘Umar from a Jamā‘ī-Sunnī perspective, was ultimately an outburst against ‘Umar as much as against ‘Uthmān and Ibn ‘Awf. Similarly, the deceptions that ‘Alī was to suffer later at the Taḥkīm (the Arbitration) at the hands of ‘Amr and Mu‘āwiya were not the fault just of these two men, but also of the caliph who had once empowered them by appointing them to posts of administrative leadership in Syria and Egypt respectively. It is well known that, in his vehement arguments with ‘Alī just before Ṣiffin, Mu‘āwiya repeatedly invoked the fact that his own legitimacy derived from the fact that ‘Umar had appointed him for the Syrian command and had never dismissed him (see debates in chapter 5). If such memories were relevant forward in time, looking backward may have also contained a foreshadowing relevance. One wonders, for example, whether ‘Umar’s cheering of ‘Amr’s famous deception of the Byzantine governor “Arṭabūn” at Ajnādayn targeted simply the machinations of that conquest or disclosed an ironic comment foreshadowing—and endorsing—‘Amr’s later deception at Ṣiffin.82
‘Umar’s involvement in shaping the conditions that led to ‘Alī’s political loss over time provides a central theme in the story that demands a remedy, and this answer emerges very slowly under the cover of a theme we mentioned above, namely Persia’s accommodation of Islam and political reemergence. Simultaneously, while ‘Umar’s relations with the ṣaḥāba were contributing to ‘Alī’s disadvantage, ‘Umar’s relation to Persian personalities were cast as seeding the ground for a Perso-Hāshimite affinity and revenge. For his part, therefore, Hurmuzān speaks in his dialogue with ‘Umar not only on behalf of a fallen Persian empire, but also on behalf of ‘Alī. The Persian leader is oblivious to the role that he indirectly plays by deceiving ‘Umar and addressing what seems to be the separate issue of succession to rule. Hurmuzān’s behavior and speech in that meeting are meant to show the latter reworking the earlier skills of ‘Umar and settling an old score on behalf of ‘Alī and the Anṣār. The irony of his role is strengthened by the fact that the interpreter at his meeting with ‘Umar is said to be none other than al-Mughīra b. Shu‘ba, whose slave Abū Lu’lu’a later assassinated ‘Umar. Al-Mughīra, we should recall, was the Arab ambassador to the Sasanids before Qādisiyya and was known for even greater political guile than ‘Amr. During the conflict between ‘Alī and Mu‘āwiya, al-Mughīra took a key part in subverting ‘Alī’s political strategy and thus is shown as having acted throughout on the ‘Umar-Mu‘āwiya side of the political fence.
A further confirmation of the fact that Hurmuzān’s role shows the birth of a Perso-‘Alid affinity in the form of a new Anṣār camp supporting the ‘Alid cause can be seen later, at the Battle of Ṣiffīn, when ‘Alī zealously pursues and attempts to punish ‘Ubaydallāh b. ‘Umar for killing Hurmuzān soon after the murder of ‘Umar. ‘Ubaydallāh’s attack, it will be remembered here, grew out of suspicion that Hurmuzān was involved in a premeditated assassination plot against the second caliph. This suspicion was based on statements from ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. Abī Bakr that he had seen a dubious gathering on the night before the murder between Hurmuzān, Abū Lu’lu’a, and Jufayna (a Christian of Medina). Ibn Abī Bakr reported that Hurmuzān was examining the double-edged dagger that later was used in the attack on ‘Umar and that he dropped the weapon clumsily when he realized he was being observed.83 Ultimately, these rumors fostered suspicions of a wider Persian-led conspiracy in Medina and created a rift between the old Meccan elite and later Arab and non-Arab converts.
Like ‘Umar’s, Hurmuzān’s role in the story is allusive and shaped in a way that pronounces a historian’s commentary on events. Hurmuzān weaves together different issues of political and moral commentary through the exercise of irony. He accomplishes his goal of surrendering to a leader, thus confirming the primacy of hierarchy while indirectly affirming ‘Alī’s succession rights. Still working within the framework of the jamā‘a, Hurmuzān recognizes ‘Umar’s unique religious importance and concedes to the primacy of jamā‘ī cohesion emphasized by Sunnīs.However, this is also the moment when ‘Alī’s lost leadership becomes the new religious cause of a new phase in history, to be realized with the community of eastern (mainly Persian) converts to Islam. Outsiders to the traditional community of Medinan rule from then on will fight on behalf of a political issue with a similar situation of exclusion: ‘Alī’s loss of the caliphal role. The issue pertaining to leadership and the one relating to the community of believers interact to shape a new phase in a cyclical history.
THE ASSASSINATION OF ‘UMAR
Hurmuzān’s debate with ‘Umar evokes the twin themes of the Iranian defeat and the ‘Alid loss of the caliphate. It honors ‘Umar simultaneously as a guide of the jamā‘a and as a moral-religious exemplar, but it subverts him on the succession front. All the characters we have examined so far in various scenes from the chronicles—Rustam, Hurmuzān, and al-Mughīra—finally converge and clash in an allusive climax in the scene of ‘Umar’s assassination. This is mediated through the construction of the image of Abū Lu’lu’a, who carries out the murder in Medina. And now, just as we saw Hurmuzān acting unwittingly on behalf of the ‘Alids, we will see Abū Lu’lu’a acting on behalf of Rustam and the ‘Alids in another elliptical and suggestive way. To appreciate this, we must first digress to examine briefly what the sources tell us about this assassin’s unusual profile and associations with the above-mentioned figures.
Prior to coming to Medina, Abū Lu’lu’a was said to have been either a former captive from Qādisiyya or Nihāwand84 or a former slave of Hurmuzān.85 He reportedly later became the slave of al-Mughīra b. Shu‘ba, who settled down after the conquests as governor of Basra. Some sources call Abū Lu’lu’a a Christian,86 while others leave his beliefs vague, calling him “majūsī” (Magian).87 The story is famous in the sources, where Abū Lu’lu’a one day had his only chance encounter with the caliph a few days before the murder. ‘Umar, on one of his typical tours of the city, was reportedly stopped by Abū Lu’lu’a, who complained to the caliph about his tax burden and asked for a reduction. When ‘Umar inquired about Abū Lu’lu’a’s vocation, the latter said that he was a stone mason, blacksmith, and carpenter.88 Upon learning of this, ‘Umar refused to adjust Abū Lu’lu’a’s taxes because, we are told, ‘Umar found him too skilled to be taxed lightly. The caliph then asked Abū Lu’lu’a, “I have heard that you claim you can make a mill that grinds by wind power if you wish. [Is this true?]”89 to which Abū Lu’lu’a replied in the affirmative, saying, “If you survive, I shall certainly make you a mill that will be the talk of everyone in both East and West!” We are told that the caliph quickly recognized a veiled threat in the statement and departed, perturbed.90
The next meeting between ‘Umar and Abū Lu’lu’a was to be the fateful one when Abū Lu’lu’a, three days after this marketplace encounter, came to the mosque of Medina and attacked ‘Umar while he was leading the congregation in the dawn prayer. There are two versions of the event, which differ only on the number of times ‘Umar was stabbed and how many people were killed. Wielding a unique dagger that had two pointed sharp edges, with a handle in the middle, Abū Lu’lu’a set on the caliph, stabbing him six times along with attacking another man (according to Ṭabarī). Balādhurī and Ibn Sa‘d rely on another version that says Abū Lu’lu’a stabbed the caliph three times, and that in a frenzy the assassin then attacked those who came to restrain him, wounding thirteen people, before he finally killed himself. The account is greatly sensitive to details of fact and drama. Ṭabarī’s version states that of the six stabs one hit the caliph beneath his navel—and that this was the lethal wound. Balādhurī’s and Ibn Sa‘d’s versions record the caliph’s shout when he was attacked, “The dog has bitten me!” Then the accounts converge to show the caliph falling and, somewhat uncertain about who was close to him of the companions, calling out, “Is ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b.‘Awf amongst you?” “Yes,” the answer came, “there he is.” ‘Umar then said: “Come forward then and lead the prayer.” While the wounded caliph still lay there, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān led the congregation and completed the prayer. Then ‘Umar was carried home. Soon after he set about discussing the issue of succession, indicating that he wanted to “make a covenant to [‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. ‘Awf] [urīdu an a‘hada ilayka],” but before he could clarify what this covenant was, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān refused any attempt to make him a successor. “Then hold your peace until I make the pact with those whom the Prophet died pleased with,” ‘Umar said, referring to the six members he had designated for the shūrā: ‘Alī, ‘Uthmān, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān, Sa‘d, al-Zubayr, and Ṭalḥa.
Ṭabarī’s scene of ‘Umar’s assassination in Medina seems to have been handed down from storytellers with little variation, unlike the accounts of the death of the Prophet, and it does not seem to lack a credible context, as in Abū Bakr’s death. For the first time, Islamic history is firm that this death resulted from assassination, identifies the assassin, and gives the caliph some interesting few hours in which to discuss the succession issue. Death in the mosque, for ‘Umar, was like death befalling Julius Caesar on the steps of the Roman forum, and in almost a similar dramatic enactment, the caliph falls uncertain who of the companions was around, as if he beheld his companions with a measure of uncertainty or astonishment—astonishment highlighted further by the silence, and no doubt unlikely absence, of ‘Alī b. Abī Ṭālib, the caliph’s Brutus. Finally, the caliph had to yield his forceful persona and give up the fight for the law and for an obedient community. His only plea, according to several versions, was that the community finish performing the prayer before the sun rose, even at such an hour of distress (lā ḥaẓẓa li-man taraka al-ṣalāt). The narrative of ‘Umar’s death and beginning moves toward charting the succession wove together the Prophet’s designation of a leader for prayer with Abū Bakr’s sparse discussion of succession at the hour of death. Ibn ‘Awf, in the hour of ‘Umar’s death, now assumed the role that Abū Bakr had assumed in Muḥammad’s last days, along with the authority (however ambiguous) that Sunnī belief derived from that action. All the while, pro-‘Alid sympathies were once again concealed in silent reaction to the scene of assassination.
The only additional detail we know about Abū Lu’lu’a’s plot to assassinate ‘Umar comes via a story already described about a so-called conspiracy in Medina among three characters, Abū Lu’lu’a, Hurmuzān, and Jufayna (a Christian), when ‘Abd al-Raḥmān b. Abī Bakr spotted Hurmuzān wielding the dagger. In one account, an additional detail is given of how Hurmuzān explained that the dagger was a tool for eating meat, since according to Persian custom meat was impure and needed to be handled with a utensil. As unconvincing a character as al-Afshīn later would be when he defended himself during the treason trial at the court of the caliph al-Mu‘taṣim, Hurmuzān is somehow accommodated to a greater degree by the Islamic tradition, which ultimately does not dwell much on his possible complicity in a murder conspiracy.91 Ubaydallāh b. ‘Umar, however, bought none of these excuses and set out to avenge his father, killing Abū Lu’lu’a, Hurmuzān, and Abū Lu’lu’a’s daughter. From then on, another train of events was set in motion against the new assassin, ‘Ubaydallāh, to which we will return later as a new crisis of justice is hurled upon the accession of the third caliph.
In spite of the murder scene’s importance in the story of ‘Umar’s assassination, it is really the marketplace encounter between caliph and assassin that deserves closer scrutiny. For here the role Abū Lu’lu’a appears to play draws important ironic connections to the topic of the Arab conquest of the Sasanid empire, the controversy over caliphal succession, and another rarely discussed issue. On its surface, the story of the marketplace encounter seems straightforward. Abū Lu’lu’a’s response is usually read as an ominous sign of his coming plot against the caliph’s life. The moment is meant to show the lingering hostility of the subjected Sasanid unbeliever and to demonstrate a contrast with the unsuspecting, pious behavior of ‘Umar. In the end, ‘Umar gains the death of a martyr, and the story seems to end there. Yet by closely reading the details of Abū Lu’lu’a’s character and role in the story as well as the motifs and language used, we can uncover various strata of implication intended in the text. We can begin by raising some puzzling questions, such as: why did narrators attribute the above-listed professions (mason, carpenter, and blacksmith) and not others to Abū Lu’lu’a? What was this man doing in Medina, if his master was governor in Basra? And why did a caliph exceedingly famous for having the last word and parsing words and gestures to their punishing ends take Abū Lu’lu’a’s comment in stride?
To appreciate these and other questions, we need to discern at least two tracks of associations that generate the significations of the story. The first centers on a triangle involving ‘Umar–Rustam–Abū Lu’lu’a. Rustam’s role, as we saw, had ended with his defeat and death at Qādisiyya. On the surface, Rustam may seem irrelevant to the story of Abū Lu’lu’a’s confrontation with ‘Umar, unless we believe that the two Persian men shared certain feelings that crossed the barriers of geography and social rank. And there is evidence for this. The cry that we heard Rustam utter just before Qādisiyya, for example, is later repeated by Abū Lu’lu’a: When the Persian captive children (of the Nihāwand campaign) were brought to Medina, Abū Lu’lu’a was reportedly so distressed by the scene of Persian humiliation that he was seen filing past the captives, stroking them on the head and saying, weeping, “‘Umar has eaten my liver.”92 This direct parallel in the speech of actors of different social, political, and moral profiles was meant to link them in a way that served the theme of sympathy with the fallen Iranian state. By depicting Abū Lu’lu’a and Rustam as equidistant from ‘Umar in their expressions of national frustration, narrators intended to show a vindication of Sasanid political pride and Rustam’s final failure. Thus, while Rustam was unable to overcome his dilemma of reconciling his conflicting obligations to Yazdajird and to the Persian state, not to mention his tacit awareness of the righteousness of the Islamic mission, Abū Lu’lu’a emerged as a character unencumbered by historical and moral restraints. A man of unknown origins, Abū Lu’lu’a fit the archetypal mold of the monarchs’ assassin who could ultimately be expendable on both Sasanid and Islamic grounds. His identity as blacksmith also adhered to a universal folkloric perception of such an artisan playing a pseudo-magical role in bringing about pivotal historical change.93
The second layer of connections in the assassination scene centers on the triangle of ‘Umar–Mughīra–Abū Lu’lu’a, and this relates more closely to the ‘Alid issue. In exploring this layer we can hypothesize that the attribution of Abū Lu’lu’a to al-Mughīra was meant to be read less as historical fact than as ironic touch. This interpretation builds on other subtle references about the interactions of al-Mughīra and ‘Umar and relates in particular to what can be termed the “Mughīra problem.” Here yet a further digression on al-Mughīra and what he represented to a medieval audience is necessary. Al-Mughīra, the sources agree, had the personality of a rogue trickster before Islam,94 one who, after conversion, became a loyal follower, first of the Prophet and then of ‘Umar. Later, as we saw, he headed the key Arab embassy that debated Rustam/ Yazdajird before the Battle of Qādisiyya and was generally remembered for his foxy political acumen and an instinct for outmaneuvering opponents that could be unscrupulous. ‘Umar, narrators indirectly imply, knew this about this man, who was a kindred spirit to ‘Amr b. al-‘Āṣ and Mu‘āwiya, and knew how to ignore his peccadilloes to keep the services of a capable military command. But toward the end of his reign, ‘Umar’s patience was tested when rumors flew to Medina of an adulterous affair involving Mughīra. ‘Umar, ever the champion of draconian judgments, especially on such extremities of the law, summoned his governor to Medina and held a small investigation. Three witnesses condemned Mughīra, but a fourth (Ziyād b. Abīhi, the well-known alleged half-brother of Mu‘āwiya) equivocated.95 In the end, and with such division, the charge could not be proven, and the caliph found himself forced to bring punishment on the man who originally put forward the accusation, a companion of good repute named Abū Bakra. Al-Mughīra survived the day but was dismissed as governor of Basra to allay further public doubts. And thus the case was closed.
This romantic scandal may strike the reader as odd for the considerable attention it receives in the sources, as well as for how narrators place it amid other, more important narratives that deal with the topics of conquest, succession, and government in general. Perhaps the legal aspects of the case were important in that they tested the procedures of the law, especially on issues of ḥudūd(penalties). However, the more far-reaching nuances of the tale lay in its conflicting moralizing messages, which narrators seem to have admired and considered as the key, perhaps only, link between narratives on totally different topics. Here narrators could discuss freely through anecdotes what no later legal or ḥadīth mind could dare to broach: a rare moment of a miscarriage of justice under ‘Umar, the very architect of a penalty for adultery. Irony now descended on this caliph who had once ceaselessly pestered Abū Bakr about the latter’s letting Khālid b. al-Walīd get away with big and small offenses without punishment, only to find himself (i.e., ‘Umar) now showing leniency under similar vulnerable circumstances.96 The sources leave no doubt that the caliph knew where the real truth of this case lay and that reputation mattered more than numbers of witnesses, but a tradeoff of priorities was unavoidable.97
Why the caliph let al-Mughīra off the hook that day is left ambiguous. He may have wanted to preserve a key statesman of the jamā‘a, or perhaps he wanted to preserve confidence in the companions of the Prophet or simply to maintain the procedure of the law by stressing the dimension of evidence demanded by the Sharī‘a. But, like a biblical tale or the Arthurian legend involving Lancelot and Guinevere, this Islamic legend was meant to illustrate the sour vignette that still demanded poetic justice, even if religious justice had been satisfied. Thereafter it would set in motion a train of events that pushed the episode’s key actors toward a redemptive close, but not before bringing about tragedy and affecting the fortunes of the community and the state. Tragedy here lay on more than one level. The punishment of Abū Bakra was clearly the obvious error, but in more political and perhaps futuristic terms, the bigger tragedy lay in ‘Umar’s letting al-Mughīra survive to fight another day. For when the day of conflict between ‘Alī and Mu‘āwiya came, al-Mughīra would incline heavily toward supporting Mu‘āwiya and through this he undermined ‘Alī’s chances for consolidating power.
All of this may seem far removed from our story about ‘Umar’s interaction with Abū Lu’lu’a, unless we appreciate the unity of action at play here, along with the affinity we spoke of between ‘Alī and the Hāshimite cause in general and a Perso-Khurāsānī role in history in particular. Viewed within this frame, Sasanid figures were operating unwittingly in word and deed in support of the ‘Alid position. Abū Lu’lu’a acted here not only on behalf of Rustam, but on behalf of the ‘Alid cause as well, a cause that, we must remember, rested not only on family merit but also on the symbolic loyalty of non-Arab converts to the Hāshimite family as a messianic symbol that links them to the Prophet Muḥammad.
In broad historical terms therefore the story of ‘Umar’s assassination not only vindicated Persian political pride and signaled Persia’s comeback as the future focus of the Islamic state after the success of the ‘Abbāsid revolution but also offered a subtle rebuttal from ‘Alī to ‘Umar. The theme of silent rivalry between the two figures is carefully preserved till the moment of ‘Umar’s death. And just as ‘Umar vented his anger indirectly at ‘Alī by admonishing Sa‘d b. ‘Ubāda for challenging Abū Bakr’s succession, ‘Alī speaks up after ‘Umar’s death by zealously leading the cause of having ‘Ubaydallāh b. ‘Umar punished for his cathartic revenge against Hurmuzān and Abū Lu’lu’a’s daughter. ‘Alī would continue talking about this issue and seek to punish ‘Ubaydallāh b. ‘Umar even twelve years later at the Battle of Ṣiffīn.98
The Persian emphasis in the story of ‘Umar’s assassination may make it seem connected only to a tradition of Persian historical lore, were it not for a key element that shows that it is ultimately rooted in a biblical frame as well. This relates to the role that Ka‘b al-Aḥbār, the controversial Jewish convert, occupies in the story, which reveals a process of bending in representation from one fiction to another. To examine Ka‘b’s biographical information would be a significant digression in the present context, but it is worth remembering that he was present with ‘Umar during the conquest of Jerusalem in A.H. 17/ A.D. 638 when the caliph sought the companions’ advice on how to direct the qibla of a mosque he sought to build in that area. Ka‘b’s advice on that occasion, as is well known, was to direct the new mosque toward the former Jewish Temple; this prompted the caliph’s chiding comment that Ka‘b has still not abandoned his faith in Judaism after converting to Islam. The incident was meant to set the standard of rivalry between the Islamic leader and the leading representative of another culture.99
A similar incident of claim and rebuttal that is more relevant to the present story happened a few days before ‘Umar’s death. Three days before the event, Ka‘b suddenly makes an unexpected appearance at the caliph’s residence, telling him in ominous terms, “Appoint your successor [i‘had], Commander of the Faithful, for you are going to die in three days!” When ‘Umar asked how Ka‘b knew this, the latter replied, “I find it in the Torah.” Then a brief comical expression from ‘Umar follows, as he declares, “ā-llāh”—lengthening the phrase—perhaps to express a satire (in the sense of the more popular expression of marvel, “mā shā’ allāh”) against the spiritual bravado of a Jew. “Can you actually find ‘Umar b. al-Khaṭṭāb in the Torah?” ‘Umar asked. “Indeed no, but I do find a complete description of you and also that your allotted time span has come to an end,”100 Ka‘b said. A day later, Ka‘b stops by and tells the incredulous ‘Umar that two days are left, then does the same the day after, warning that now only one day is left, through the next morning. Ibn Sa‘d’s version of the events adds a crucial elaboration in the dialogue, which prefaces Ka‘b’s comment to ‘Umar that he is destined to die within three days by saying, “There is a king of Israelites who reminds us (i.e., the Jews) of ‘Umar, and whenever we mentioned ‘Umar we thought of that king. He used to have a prophet beside him who was inspired by God. God inspired that prophet to tell [that king], ‘Make your succession covenant, and write and entrust to me your testament of succession [i‘had ‘ahdak wa uktub ilayya waṣiyyataka], for you shall die within three days.’ When the third day came, he [i.e., the king] collapsed between the wall and the throne [bayna al-jadri wa’l-sarīr]. [The king] then pleaded with his Lord, ‘God, if you judge me to have been a just arbiter in rulings, and that when matters became confusing I sought your purpose, then extend my life until my offspring grows up and my community becomes more numerous.’ God inspired the prophet to tell [the king] that he was truthful in saying this, and that I have extended his life by fifteen years until his child grows up, and his community grow in number.” The narrator concludes, “When ‘Umar was stabbed, Ka‘b declared, ‘If he asks his Lord, God will certainly preserve him.’ When ‘Umar was told of this, he said, ‘O God, whenever your will be done [i.e., death], do it without my being in a position of weakness or blame.’”101
Ka‘b’s remarks can be read at face value as literary tools used by narrators to anticipate ‘Umar’s assassination with foreboding and tragic fulfillment. However, both the content and the manner of the statement warrant some commentary. Islamic sources may have attributed the comment to Ka‘b to show an example of extra Jewish knowledge that was being used with some gloating (especially if the caliph was to heed the warning). But ‘Umar’s reaction was to dismiss the warning in a sign that he places his trust in God and that he would not give in to unorthodox prophecies, which required no response. These layers of polemic that surround the warning and ‘Umar’s response may distract the reader from the real foundation frame of the anecdote, which was in essence none other than the biblical frame of casting the relation between a prophet and a king. Ka‘b to ‘Umar was in essence being represented in the manner that Nathan was to Solomon, but with the latter relation (indeed the existence of Nathan) rejected in Islam, the Islamic historical narrative applied the issue in a mostly political context to the second caliph and gave the latter the chance to dismiss any lingering attachment to that Israelite frame of religious-historical composition.
Were it not for Ibn Sa‘d’s inclusion of the story of Ka‘b and the king, Ṭabarī’s version of the narrative would have never by itself revealed how biblical narration interacted with a moralizing Persian political narrative. This is as close a proof as Islamic sources afford that the frame of the stories of the prophets was adapted to the lives of the caliphs.
‘UMAR AND YAZDAJIRD: THE LINK OF FATE
We have thus far examined the theme of Iran’s transformation by looking at ‘Umar’s association with different Iranian actors (Hurmuzān, Abū Lu’lu’a, and Rustam). Yazdajird has been marginalized as the character who brought on defeat with his poor strategy and lack of wisdom. However, we cannot understand the closing segments of ‘Umar’s life until we account for what Ṭabarī and others also say about Yazdajird’s end. In the story of the Islamic conquest of Iran there is no trace of any direct contact between Yazdajird and ‘Umar. They do not officially write to one another, nor do they refer to one another through envoys or commanders. This distance between the two is not accidental but calculated; it detaches them from the particularities of their places of rule, allowing them to connect on a higher plane as symbolic heads of state caught in a turning universal struggle. Still, the extant stories about Yazdajird connect him far more heavily with narratives about ‘Umar than anything that has to do with ‘Uthmān, in whose reign Yazdajird’s final fall from power and death actually occurred.
One report even forces a reference to Yazdajird’s end into a speech made by ‘Umar. We are told that after ‘Umar received news of al-Aḥnaf b. Qays’ conquest of Khurāsān in the year A.H. 22/ A.D. 643, he assembled the community, then showed gratitude to God for fulfilling His promise and declared,
[Know that] the king of the Magians has perished [qad halak], and they [the Magians] do not own one foot of land [shibran] that can bring danger to a Muslim. [Know that] God has bestowed their land onto you and their wealth, domiciles, and progeny [qad awrathakum arḍahum wa diyārahum wa amwālahum wa abnā’ahum] to see how you will conduct yourselves… . Do not change your ways lest God replace you with another people [lā tubaddilū wa lā tughayyirū fa-yastabdil allāhu bi-kum ghayrakum]. I fear nothing for this umma except that it may become vulnerable because of you [fa-innī lā akhāfu ‘alā hādhihi al-umma illā an tu’tā min qibalikum].102
Although historically impossible, given that Yazdajird’s fall happened after ‘Umar’s death, this speech highlights the fact that narrators cared less about accurate chronology than compatibility of themes and completion of a dramatic storyline, which in this case centered on the growing fight between the emperor and the pivotal second caliph. In this context, it was ‘Umar who was viewed as having everything to do with bringing about the accommodation with Persia. ‘Umar’s speech is placed by Ṭabarī after an extensive account of a last-minute exchange of embassies between the Persian monarch and the Chinese emperor in which the latter was asked to help roll back the Arab conquerors. In a story that reiterates the predestined fall of Persia, this time through the voice of a leader with a more neutral opinion, the Chinese emperor echoes Rustam’s earlier reaction after the Arab embassies at the outset of the conflict. The emperor recognizes the moral superiority of the new challenge, which is again not cast as a function of a divine message but rather as a set of virtues that govern the Arab camp, namely a loyalty to covenants, deprecation of greed, and an austere outlook on life. The Chinese emperor asks the Persian emissary who came seeking help,
“I know that in truth rulers must give aid to [other] rulers against those who overcome them. So describe these people who drove you out of your land to me. I notice that you mention they are few and you are many. Such a small number will not affect you in this way with your great numbers. They can do this only if they are good and you are evil.” [The messenger] suggested that he ask him whatever he wanted. So he asked him if they kept to their agreement and he replied that they did. [The ruler] asked what they said to them before they made war on them. [The messenger] replied, “They called upon us to choose one of three things: [to accept] their faith—and if we do they treat us as themselves—or [to pay] tribute and [enter] their protection or to be subjected to open warfare.” [The ruler] asked about how obedient they were to their leaders. [The messenger] replied that no one was more obedient to him leading them. [The ruler] asked what they permitted and what they forbade, and [the messenger] told him. He asked if they ever forbade what was permitted to them or permitted what was forbidden them. [When] [the messenger] replied that they did not, [the ruler] remarked that they would never perish until they permitted what was forbidden and forbade what was permitted to them. He then asked about their clothes, and [the messenger] told him. [He asked] about their riding animals, and [the messenger] mentioned their pure Arabian horses and described them [to him]. “What fine horses they are!” exclaimed [the ruler]. [The messenger then] described camels to him, how they kneel down and go forth to carry [loads]. The ruler’s response was that this was the description of long-necked beasts!
[The ruler of China] sent a letter to Yazdajird with (the messenger) as follows: “I am not prevented from dispatching an army to you stretching from Marw to China by my not knowing what is proper for me. But if these people described to me by your messenger were to try, they could demolish mountains; if nothing were to stand in their way, they would wipe me out, as long as they are as described! Make your peace with them therefore and accept some modus vivendi with them. Do not stir them up, as long as they do not stir you up.”
Yazdajird and the royal family remained in Ferghana in [formal] agreement with the ruler of the Turks.103
As a secular leader, the Chinese emperor serves to confirm or appreciate all the themes we discussed at the outset—sound political judgment, the coming turn in Persia’s fortune, and even the romanticized attention to the rustic lifestyle of the Arab nomad. It probably did not escape a medieval reader’s notice in the greater picture of things that China was left undisturbed by the conquerors because it was being ruled by such a wise infidel. Secular wisdom was clearly as much of a religion to Ṭabarī and the moralizing storytellers of the ninth century as the biblical or ḥadīth traditions. And foreign monarchs, having risen to the height of the social hierarchy by some measure of divine selection, were viewed as worthy men capable of recognizing divine intervention when it occurred. Such was the role assigned to al-Najāshī of Abyssinia when he received the mission of the Prophet, and similar was the reaction of Heraclius, who is portrayed as having verged on accepting the new faith but then being dissuaded by the influence of the Christian clergy. Even Yazdajird is carefully portrayed at times as someone who was susceptible to divine awakenings, albeit only in the realm of the unconscious.104
Yazdajird’s situation after the defeat at Nihāwand is quite hazy in the sources. The story of his end does not follow quickly after the famous defeats of the Sasanian armies at Qādisiyya and Nihāwand; it takes some years. After the defeats, narrators describe an emperor on a slow retreat, moving around the country from town to town—Rayy, Iṣfahān, Iṣṭakhr, Kirmān, and Sistān—trying in vain to drum up support among the provincial governors for another counterattack, with the sacred fire all the while carried before him. Failing to gain support, he gradually fled toward Khurāsān and sought out the marzubān of Marw, Māhawayh, who promised to help reconquer the lost kingdom but in reality began plotting simultaneously with his neighboring Turkic monarch to finish off Yazdajird.
Alerted to the new menace, the Turks soon invaded the Iranian border region to capture Yazdajird, and the latter attempted to fight them, leading a force with Māhawayh that engaged in a confrontation on the river Murghab. But all this was doomed to fail because of the treachery of Māhawayh, who switched to the side of the Turks during the course of battle. This finally made Yazdajird lose all hope and led him to flee the scene of battle in search of personal safety. Hence we get the famous scene of how he crossed the river and entered the countryside in search of safety while his enemies came after him. From the chronicles we get the impression of a disillusioned monarch, exhausted and traumatized, aimlessly escaping from his people and his enemies alike. When finally he thought he had found shelter in a miller’s cabin it was to prove his undoing.
Arabic and Persian sources agree on the closing anecdote to Yazdajird’s life, where they describe the emperor pleading with the peasant miller for shelter. The latter, not knowing Yazdajird’s identity, reportedly asked him to pay the daily fee of 4 dirhams for food and shelter. Yazdajird had no money but offered to give up a sache, or cape, he was wearing, which he said was worth fifty thousand dirhams. Incredulous at this and suspicious about the identity of Yazdajird, the peasant then left him behind in the cabin to sleep while he went into town to spread the word about his unusual guest. It was then only a matter of time before Yazdajird’s opponents came to the mill, put him to death, and threw his corpse into the river.105 A significant detail in Ṭabarī adds that after this happened, the bishop of Marw salvaged the body out of the river and held a funeral mass for the deceased king because he was reputed to have treated Christians well and was descended from a Christian mother.106
The story of this final standoff between the emperor and the peasant in the mill cabin is heavily imbued with folkloric motifs and thereby historically doubtful. The tale of an emperor reduced to nothing but his clothes and put at the mercy of an average member of his former subjects no doubt touched on a universal theme about the ephemeral nature of power and its turning fortunes. The scene of the king choosing to hide in a mill cabin (ṭāḥūna) was meant to evoke the staple foods (grain and barley) generally associated with royal control over subjects,107 and the Sasanid king’s interaction with the peasant underscored the traditional bond between the monarchy and the peasantry, who sustain the prosperity of the state.108 However, this time, instead of ruling over the granary of his subjects, Yazdajird is placed at the mercy of the peasant. The 4 dirhams the miller demanded as a fee may have been chosen because four is the numerical symbol of justice (thereby referring to the main task of the ruler), or it may have symbolized the cardinal points in the universal empire he used to rule over and which was now collapsing on him.109 Finally, that all of these events were set in Marw—a town that in later Islamic times would come to be viewed as playing a role parallel to Medina’s during the Prophet’s time—no doubt triggered awareness of the irony of Yazdajird’s death in Khurāsān, given the subsequent rebirth of the Iranian state in that province during the ‘Abbāsid revolution.
But what made this anecdote central, probably more than any other factor, was its connection with the story of ‘Umar’s assassination. This can be established through the motif of the mill, which connotes the turning wheel of fortune. This motif, as we saw, also occurred in the narrative that describes Abū Lu’lu’a’s threat to ‘Umar. And Abū Lu’lu’a’s statement, “If you survive, I shall make you a mill that will be the talk of people East and West,” was heavily allusive to the context of Yazdajird’s story. Just as we saw Abū Lu’lu’a uttering words that connected with Rustam’s discourse without the two ever having met, Abū Lu’lu’a is shown as being unwittingly privy to what will later happen to the Persian emperor, with Yazdajird’s death context as a metaphor for the coming assassination of ‘Umar.110 The motif of the mill in the two stories tied the fates of the two leaders as actors caught in the turning cycle of Persia’s fortune. This motif, it should also be noted, is repeatedly used in Ṭabarī’s narratives to connote the life cycle of an event or person,111or to describe the motion of battle.112
The mill as a motif of the tragic turns of life on earth was connected to a wider cosmological perception among medieval authors, who compared the astrological turn of the zodiac to the image of a mill. Astronomical observations on how the world (al-falak) rotates on an axis, like a mill rotates on its millstone (ka-ḥajar al-raḥā),113 were expressions closely tied to the figurative language that historical narrators and authors such as Ṭabarī used to describe events on the ground, denoting the rotating fortunes of states (duwal), communities and leaders.114 Tragedy was woven with morality in the metaphor of the mill, with its motion that could be viewed both as a source of life, in grinding grain and providing sustenance, and as an instrument that, at times of war, separated those who won from those who lost.115