The Jewel Of Medina (39 page)

“I have never seen a man so worshipped by his people,” Suhayl said. “When a hair falls from your head, they vie to catch it. When you utter a sound, their talk ceases. Whom do they really worship, al-Lah or Muhammad?”

“As you said, Muhammad is a man. He is not God,” my father said. “A man makes mistakes. Al-Lah does not.”

“
Yaa
Prophet, you are making a very big error here, it seems,” Uthman said. “Agreeing to halt our raids on Qurayshi caravans? The
umma
will starve.”

“Al-Lah will provide for us,” Muhammad said. “Losing the proceeds from our raids is a small price to pay in exchange for peace with our brothers.”

“Abu Sufyan is no brother of mine,” my father said. “Do you forget how he wanted to slaughter us all?”

How I wanted to cry out in my father’s favor! Remembering the scene from my bedroom window that night, how Abu Sufyan had treated Raha so roughly. All these years later, his cruelty had only increased, along with his girth.

Curses and oaths careened through the crowd. Muhammad smiled at Suhayl, who was signing the sheepskin. Muhammad took the date-palm stem, dipped it in ink, and drew a crescent moon next to Suhayl’s name. “That will suffice as my signature,” he said. He turned to his Companions. “The pact is official. At dawn we will thank al-Lah with our sacrifices.”

“Here or at the Ka’ba?” Ali said. He held his arms rigidly at his sides.

“At our camp, of course.” Muhammad’s voice was as calm as if he discussed the weather. “We have just agreed not to enter Mecca until next year.”

My spirits sank. Not enter Mecca? After traveling all this way, eleven days of heat and dust and lurching camels? We’d all tended visions of the sacred Ka’ba as we’d journeyed, and yearned for repose in the bosom of our motherland. Now Muhammad was saying we had to leave. A cry of outrage rose in me, but I held it back. My task was to support him—but what if he was making a terrible mistake?

“I have agreed to nothing!” Ali shouted, and stalked away. I jumped back into the shadows moments before he passed. My heart pounded as I ran back to our tent. Inside, Zaynab combed her hair by candlelight.

“What a long time you spent relieving yourself,” she said. “Just like the night you lost the caravan, hmm, A’isha?”

I was too upset to respond. I slumped in my bed and tried to sleep, but I could only toss about as I puzzled over what I’d seen and heard. Did Muhammad understand what he’d done? Suhayl had spoken truly: Ever since the Battle of the Trench, the people of the
umma
practically worshipped Muhammad. He possessed as much power as a king.

Any other man would be satisfied—but not Muhammad. “How can I rest knowing my own people are destined for Hell?” he would say. But I knew their salvation was only one of his concerns. He wouldn’t be happy until he had the respect of Quraysh again.

Was their acceptance worth losing the
umma
? By signing this pact against the wishes of his Companions, Muhammad had taken a great risk. If his closest Companions protested it, how would the rest of the men
respond? As for Abu Sufyan, I could imagine the smile on his face when he read the treaty. I’d heard how he’d been boasting since the trench disaster:
Not even the Prophet of al-Lah could amass an army of ten thousand
. The obvious retort was that one hundred thousand men were nothing when God was on your side, but alas, Muhammad wasn’t the bragging sort.

Now, it seemed, he wasn’t the fighting sort, either. But why? And this treaty included a promise to stop raiding Qurayshi caravans. Without the loot from those raids, how would we in the
umma
buy food and clothing? Those riches would fill Abu Sufyan’s purse, instead—and buy Bedouin friends for his next attack on Medina.

In spite of my dislike for Umm Salama, I dreaded giving her the bad news the next morning. She awoke early full of excitement, which drained away like milk from a broken bowl when I told her we wouldn’t be entering Mecca this year.

Zaynab smirked at me. “How do you know, A’isha? Did Gabriel visit you while you were relieving yourself?”

“What does it matter?” I snapped at her. “Muhammad has submitted to Quraysh, and for no good reason. Abu Sufyan wouldn’t dare attack us now, not after the Battle of the Trench. He thinks we used magic to cause that terrible storm.”

Umm Salama toppled her cup, spilling water onto the sand. “We cannot always understand the ways of al-Lah. We must believe in Muhammad.”

She spoke the truth, I knew. Yet I also understood the anger of the men. From our tent door that morning we watched Muhammad call for the sacrificial ritual to begin—and watched every man in the camp turn his back on him. Muhammad cried out again, but they stood mute as if they heard only the wind.

His face darkened. His worried gaze flew around the camp and landed on me. His troubled eyes seemed to grope like the hands of a blind man as they locked with mine. The scuff of sand under his heavy steps sounded like ripping cloth. I pulled the tent flap aside, and we sister-wives made room for him to enter.

“I do not know what to do,” Muhammad said when he was inside, his voice hoarse from shouting. “
Yaa
A’isha, my helpmate. I need your advice more than ever.”

“The solution is obvious.” I’d devised a strategy for him in the night, while I’d tossed and turned in my bed. “You have to renounce that pact and lead us into Mecca as you promised.”

Muhammad’s jaw dropped. “So you take their side against me?” He tore at his beard. “By al-Lah, has everyone abandoned me?”

I looked to Umm Salama for support. She’d been so disappointed by this agreement. But she moved to Muhammad’s side and clasped his hands in hers.

“A leader does not renounce his pacts, A’isha,” Zaynab said. I scowled at her, my face flooded with heat.

“Please, husband, allow me to speak,” Umm Salama said. “I have advice that may serve you.”

Muhammad nodded, and she continued. “The solution is simple. As Zaynab has said, a leader is one who leads. If you want your men to shave their heads, you must shave yours first. If you want them to make their sacrifices, you must sacrifice your own camel first.”

“And if they do not follow?” Muhammad said.

“Pray,” Umm Salama said. “Perform the ritual. Then, if you have pleased no one else, you will have pleased al-Lah. Is He not the reason we have come here?”

The wrinkles of worry in Muhammad’s face smoothed as if caressed by a hand. “Your wisdom is my comfort,” he said with a weary smile. “I will do as you say. As for the rest, I will trust al-Lah.”

He stepped outside and pulled out his dagger. “
Labaykh al-Lahumah labaykh
!” he cried. He stretched his long curls out from his head with one hand, and sliced the hair from his scalp with his dagger. “God is great!” he called.

“This is ridiculous,” I snapped. “Muhammad is going to look more foolish than ever. He has made a mistake, and he needs to admit it. The men want to go into Mecca. I thought you wanted it, too.”

“I did want it,” Umm Salama said. “But mostly I desire the best for Muhammad, always. That is the pact I signed when I married him.”

I lowered my gaze, contrite. Umm Salama spoke truly: Unflinching support was a wife’s duty to her husband. Again, I’d let my emotions control me.

My father looked over his shoulder and saw Muhammad’s shorn head,
his bright excited face, his arms thrust toward the sky gripping the dagger and his tufts of hair. “
Al-Lahu akbar!”
Muhammad cried. “God is great!” My father gave a shout and ran over to him, pulled out his dagger—I gasped—and sliced off his silver hair.

“God is great!” my father called.

In another instant Talha had joined them, and Uthman, and Umar. And, yes, Ali. Soon the entire camp roiled in a haircutting frenzy as everyone shouted and praised al-Lah. Tears slid in rivulets down Umm Salama’s face, making her beauty shimmer. Zaynab watched proudly, her hands lifted as Muhammad stepped upon a large rock and led a prayer of thanks to al-Lah for His goodness and mercy. One thousand men fell to their knees around him and pressed their foreheads into the ground, facing Muhammad and Mecca. Meanwhile, I hid my face and cried, but mine were not tears of joy.

I had failed Muhammad, and I had failed al-Lah.
Think only, and cast aside your feelings.
When would I learn to apply this lesson not only to sword fighting, but to life? Until I learned to control myself I’d never be able to control my destiny.

L
IARS AND
S
PIES

M
EDINA
, A
UGUST
627
AND
628
F
OURTEEN, THEN FIFTEEN YEARS OLD

Peace. It slipped through the
umma
like a cooling breeze. Filling our mouths, our chests, our bellies. Soothing our fears.

We Believers had faced attack for as long as I could remember: from Quraysh, from Ibn Ubayy and his Hypocrites, from the Mustaliq, from our Jewish neighbors, from an ever-changing mix of Bedouin tribes. We’d stood up to them all, vanquishing some enemies and making friends with others, except for Quraysh. Now, with this peace treaty, we’d struck an uneasy coexistence with them.

Once the furor had died over the pact, I had to admit it was a good idea. The
umma
needed time to heal its battle scars, to settle down and to strengthen. Our army took advantage of the lull to train and recruit new warriors. My life, on the other hand, was anything but peaceful.

Since our aborted pilgrimage to Mecca, Muhammad’s demeanor toward me had cooled. He’d accepted my tearful apologies without a smile, making me realize I’d have to work hard to gain his trust yet again. At night I wept into my empty hands and prayed for al-Lah’s guidance—and also for a son. Bearing Muhammad’s heir would soften
his heart toward me. It might also help me reclaim the status I’d lost in the
harim
.

Zaynab had assumed the role of
hatun
before we’d started back to Medina, giving orders to the camel-drivers and overseeing the packing of our tent. When I protested, she shot me a cold stare.

“You’ve betrayed Muhammad—twice,” she said. “That disqualifies you from leading his
harim
.” Umm Salama stood beside her, regal and long-necked, lifting her eyebrows at me. Rage crashed through me, and I would have hurled myself atop them both, fists flailing, but a quiet voice that could only have been al-Lah’s whispered in my mind’s ear.
Think only, and cast aside your feelings.

“Instead of standing there with your mouth open, why don’t you make yourself useful?” Zaynab said. “Roll up our bedding, and carry it to the caravan for loading.”

My very bones tensed, but I could see that I had no choice. Zaynab spoke the truth: I had betrayed Muhammad, and didn’t deserve to be his Great Lady. Shame filled the pit of my stomach as I rolled up our beds—a job for servants—and then, holding my wrapper over my burning face, walked to my
hawdaj
. There I hid for what seemed like hours, crying over my wrong-headed advice to Muhammad and the loss of my status that would result. When I’d exhausted my tears, the swaying of my camel jolted me to my senses. Was I going to let one mistake make a servant of me? Zaynab might have the upper hand now, but that wouldn’t last. Somehow I would prove myself worthy of my sister-wives’ trust as well as Muhammad’s. Unlike Zaynab, I wouldn’t have to seize the
hatun
position. My sister-wives would give it to me. Then no one, not even Zaynab, would be able to take it away again.

One year later I was hauling water from the well for Zaynab’s hair, cursing. By telling everyone about my disloyalty to Muhammad, Zaynab had coaxed Raihana and even Sawdah to support her as
hatun
. And I? I wasn’t even the parrot. I was at the bottom of the heap, running to the market when she ran out of
kohl
and having to apologize if I didn’t return quickly enough; serving her the bread I’d baked and hearing her criticize it; washing her clothing; emptying her chamber pot. My only relief came during her afternoon naps when, shaking off my own need for sleep, I’d sling a bag of barley or dates over Scimitar’s back and ride off to the tent city.

By nightfall, I was exhausted—too tired to give much pleasure to Muhammad, but not daring to complain to him about my plight. The one time I’d mentioned Zaynab’s tyranny, he’d told me he was too occupied with his own affairs to concern himself with
harim
squabbles.

“If you want to be a leader, A’isha, you must learn to master those who would master you,” he said.

In truth, Muhammad did have more pressing worries. Our peace treaty with Quraysh included their allies, but not everyone respected it. Incensed by our killing of his Qurayzah cousins, Huyayy, the leader of the Nadr, had boasted of plans to “cleanse the excrement of
islam
from Medina.” Something had to be done, or Muhammad would lose the respect of the other desert tribes.

Muhammad’s face looked haggard, and his eyes held no spark as he led his army out of Medina to confront the Nadr. He was tired of fighting. We were all tired. Worry dragged the corners of my mouth down as I watched the caravan march away. How could he defeat anyone when he looked so defeated?