Mu‘áwiya's chief henchman was Ziyád, the son of Sumayya (Sumayya being the name of his mother), or, as he is generally called, Ziyád ibn Abíhi, _i.e._, 'Ziyád his father's son,' for none knew who was his sire, though rumour pointed to Abú Sufyán; in which case Ziyád would have been Mu‘áwiya's half-brother. Mu‘áwiya, instead of disavowing the scandalous imputation, acknowledged him as such, and made him governor of Baṣra, where he ruled the Eastern provinces with a rod of iron.
Mu‘áwiya was a crafty diplomatist--he has been well compared to Richelieu--whose profound knowledge of human nature enabled him to gain over men of moderate opinions in all the parties opposed to him. Events were soon to prove the hollowness of this outward reconciliation. Yazíd, who succeeded his father, was the son of Maysún, a Bedouin woman whom Mu‘áwiya married before he rose to be Caliph. The luxury of Damascus had no charm for her wild spirit, and she gave utterance to her feeling of homesickness in melancholy verse:--
"A tent with rustling breezes cool Delights me more than palace high, And more the cloak of simple wool Than robes in which I learned to sigh.
The crust I ate beside my tent Was more than this fine bread to me; The wind's voice where the hill-path went Was more than tambourine can be.
And more than purr of friendly cat I love the watch-dog's bark to hear; And more than any lubbard fat I love a Bedouin cavalier."[366]
[Sidenote: Massacre of Ḥusayn and his followers at Karbalá (10th Muḥarram, 61 A.H. = 10th October, 680 A.D.).]
Mu‘áwiya, annoyed by the contemptuous allusion to himself, took the dame at her word. She returned to her own family, and Yazíd grew up as a Bedouin, with the instincts and tastes which belong to the Bedouins--love of pleasure, hatred of piety, and reckless disregard for the laws of religion. The beginning of his reign was marked by an event of which even now few Moslems can speak without a thrill of horror and dismay. The facts are briefly these: In the autumn of the year 680 Ḥusayn, the son of ‘Alí, claiming to be the rightful Caliph in virtue of his descent from the Prophet, quitted Mecca with his whole family and a number of devoted friends, and set out for Kúfa, where he expected the population, which was almost entirely Shí‘ite, to rally to his cause. It was a foolhardy adventure. The poet Farazdaq, who knew the fickle temper of his fellow-townsmen, told Ḥusayn that although their hearts were with him, their swords would be with the Umayyads; but his warning was given in vain. Meanwhile ‘Ubaydulláh b. Ziyád, the governor of Kúfa, having overawed the insurgents in the city and beheaded their leader, Muslim b. ‘Aqíl, who was a cousin of Ḥusayn, sent a force of cavalry with orders to bring the arch-rebel to a stand. Retreat was still open to him. But his followers cried out that the blood of Muslim must be avenged, and Ḥusayn could not hesitate. Turning northward along the Euphrates, he encamped at Karbalá with his little band, which, including the women and children, amounted to some two hundred souls. In this hopeless situation he offered terms which might have been accepted if Shamir b. Dhi ’l-Jawshan, a name for ever infamous and accursed, had not persuaded ‘Ubaydulláh to insist on unconditional surrender. The demand was refused, and Ḥusayn drew up his comrades--a handful of men and boys--for battle against the host which surrounded them. All the harrowing details invented by grief and passion can scarcely heighten the tragedy of the closing scene. It would appear that the Umayyad officers themselves shrank from the odium of a general massacre, and hoped to take the Prophet's grandson alive. Shamir, however, had no such scruples. Chafing at delay, he urged his soldiers to the assault. The unequal struggle was soon over. Ḥusayn fell, pierced by an arrow, and his brave followers were cut down beside him to the last man.