The Jewel Of Medina (40 page)

Tension spread through the
umma
, straining the already-tight
harim
almost to breaking. Raihana’s snide comments, once so amusing, became as irritating as sand in a bed. Zaynab had missed a monthly bleeding, and made a point of measuring her waist with a rope every day, making me want to strangle her with it. In a few weeks, to my relief, her blood flow returned. Fatima’s crooning over her baby, and her pride in her own thickening stomach, carrying another child, grated on everyone’s nerves until, one day, Hafsa hurled a dish at the wall behind her head.

“Get out!” she shouted. “Can’t you see you’re crowding us with your baby and your expanding belly and your smug fertility? Go home and gloat to your doting husband!”

Something had to change. While Sawdah rushed over to beg Fatima not to leave and Zaynab berated Hafsa for being rude to the Prophet’s daughter, I thought again about the dangers of idle time. Boredom, not babies, was the reason for our bickering. Yes, I had my trips to the tent city and Zaynab to serve, and Umm Salama had four children to care for, but Hafsa, Juwairriyah, Zaynab, and Raihana had little to do. The only one among them who kept busy—and who never complained—was Sawdah, who filled her hours tooling leather and making items to sell at the market.

I had an idea that would solve the problem—and, perhaps, enhance me as a leader in my sister-wives’ eyes. But I would need to present it at the right time, in the right way. Otherwise, Zaynab and her clan would reject it.

When I walked into the cooking tent and saw Umm Salama displaying a threadbare garment—“Behold, my only gown!”—I saw my chance. But for my plan to succeed, I’d have to make my sister-wives think it was their idea.

“How can Muhammad walk with pride through Medina when his wives wear rags?” Zaynab said.

“Being impoverished doesn’t mean having no pride,” I said. “Many of the tent people are very proud.”

“Yes, but they did not choose their poverty,” Umm Salama said. “Our husband forces ours upon us.”

“Sawdah doesn’t wear rags,” I said.

“And why not, I wonder?” Zaynab gave a snort at my stupidity. “She has a trade, while we have none.”

“How sad,” I said with a sigh. “A
harim
full of women, and only Sawdah has a skill.”

Hafsa gave me a puzzled frown. “
Yaa
A’isha, you know I’m a henna artist.”

“The best in Medina,” I said. “But would someone pay for that?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “Many brides hire artists to adorn their hands and feet for their wedding night.”

“They have hair stylists, too, but I could do a better job,” Juwairriyah said.

“And the makeup! By al-Lah, it’s a wonder their husbands don’t faint with fright when they remove their veils,” Zaynab scoffed “I, on the other hand, could transform a camel into a vision of beauty. Isn’t that a skill worth paying for?”

It was like leading sheep to the shearing pen. In moments my sister-wives had hatched my plan: They would hire themselves out as tire women to prepare brides for their wedding ceremonies. Umm Salama would make lace for their veils, and Raihana would embroider their gowns. I even agreed to make cloth with my spindle and loom, thinking to earn a few
dirhams
for the tent-dwellers. Aside from hunger, I had few
problems that money could solve. And with drought still sucking the life from Medina’s date-palms and grasslands and drying up our springs, there was little food to buy.

“I already know who our first customer will be,” Hafsa said to me later, as we cleaned the dishes from the evening meal. “I heard Umm Ayman say today that Muhammad is going to marry again. You’ll never guess who. The daughter of that traitor Huyayy!”

“Don’t believe everything that old gossip says,” I told Hafsa with a laugh. “Muhammad went to Khaybar to teach Huyayy a lesson, not make him an ally by marrying his daughter.”

But I was wrong. When Muhammad arrived in Medina, he not only brought Saffiya bint Huyayy with him, he was already married to her.

Breaking every tradition, he’d unwrapped his pert-chinned, slant-eyed gift the night he’d acquired her—and, according to rumor, every night since. Watching them together, I could easily see why Muhammad lusted for her: As they rode into Medina on one camel, she stroked his arms winding around her wisp of a waist. Her eyes laughed even when her lips didn’t, and when Muhammad helped her down from the saddle she winked at him.

“She’s only a child,” Hafsa said as we sister-wives watched the caravan’s return.

“She’s not much older than you, A’isha,” Zaynab said. “Now you’ll have someone your own age to play with.”

“I’m not impressed,” I said to Hafsa, ignoring Zaynab and Raihana’s snickers. “This new wife is not the kind of woman to hold a man’s interest for long.”

“She certainly holds the Prophet’s interest now,” Juwairriyah said. “He did not look at me like that on our wedding day.”

“He has never looked at anyone like that,” Zaynab said. “Except me.”

“As I said,” I retorted, “she won’t hold his interest for long.”

Secretly, though, I seethed to see this new wife’s dainty hand in Muhammad’s large one and her flirtatious gazes commanding his attention. But I shook off my jealousy, knowing this marriage would force the Nadr and their relatives, the Kaynuqah, to fight on our side in the future. Besides, being nearly my age, as Zaynab had said, she might be an ally for me. Then, when Muhammad brought her into the courtyard to meet us, I
noticed a fading yellow bruise under her right eye, and my heart softened toward her.

Or it did until Raihana, her cousin, asked her how she’d acquired it. “Was that the work of Muhammad’s holy henchmen?” she quipped, arching an eyebrow.

Saffiya giggled and blushed ever so delicately. “Oh, no,” she said in a voice that warbled like a songbird’s. “My husband gave it to me.” She glanced up at Muhammad and giggled again. “Not you, honey hive, my other husband.”

Muhammad traced the bruise lightly with a finger. She gazed into his eyes so knowingly, I felt my face burn.

“Before you came to me, Prophet, I dreamt that I would be yours. In my dream, the moon lowered itself down from Medina to make love to me. When I awoke, I told my husband Kinana about it, and he struck me with his fist.” Her voice wobbled as if she were drunk. “He said, ‘Whore! You want to marry that Muslim prophet?’ I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t understand the dream.” She smiled at Muhammad through limpid eyes. “Now I do.”

“By al-Lah, what a show,” Zaynab said in the courtyard, when they had gone to “rest,” in Muhammad’s words.

“What a performance, you mean,” Raihana said. “Saffiya bint Huyayy is a born manipulator.”

“Did she call him ‘honey hive’?” Hafsa said.

I thought again of how this new wife might help me. “I thought she seemed nice,” I said feebly—drawing a gasp from Hafsa, who stared at me as if I’d grown another head.

Sawdah approached then, wiping her forehead with her sleeve. A tall, masculine woman with large hips and prominent cheekbones—where had I seen that face before?—walked regally behind her.

“Where is the Prophet? Is he here yet?” Sawdah said.

“He went to bed with his new child-bride.” Zaynab smirked at me. She and the rest of the sister-wives strolled to the cooking tent, leaving me and Hafsa in the courtyard with Sawdah and the stranger.

“A new bride? By al-Lah, what a mess!” Sawdah came over to us, wringing her hands. She glanced nervously at her charge, who’d seated herself under the date-palm tree. “This is awful,” she said in a low voice.
“If I disturb the Prophet, he will get mad, but if I do not disturb him, then
she
will get mad.”

“Who? That man in woman’s clothing over there?” Hafsa whispered.

“Who is she, Sawdah? Not another wife, I hope.” I was joking, but the worry on Sawdah’s face told me this was no occasion for humor.

She gestured for me and Hafsa to step closer. “She says her name is Umm Habiba bint Abu Sufyan.”

Drawing in my breath, I scrutinized the woman, who stared stonily back at me. The daughter of Abu Sufyan and that shrewish Hind? What was she doing here?

Sawdah lowered her voice further: “She says she is the Prophet’s wife.”

Alarms clanged in my head like a thousand jarring bells. What trickery was this? I couldn’t imagine what Abu Sufyan was scheming, but I knew it was nothing good.

“By al-Lah, does Abu Sufyan think Muhammad is a fool?” I said loudly, drawing Umm Habiba’s disdainful gaze. “
Yaa
Umm Habiba, tell your father his latest plot against the Prophet of God is his most pathetic one yet.”

Muhammad’s voice rang from above. “It is no plot, A’isha.” He smiled down at our visitor from his apartment over the mosque, then climbed down the date-palm tree growing beside it. On the ground, he extended his hands toward Umm Habiba, who returned his gaze boldly.

“
Ahlan wa sahlan
, Ramlah,” he said, using her given name. “I did not expect your arrival until a month from now.”

“I was so eager to leave Abyssinia, I rode ahead of the caravan.” Her voice sounded as shrill as her mother’s, but Muhammad didn’t seem to notice. He bestowed her with the heavy-lidded love looks I now realized wouldn’t last. Each new wife enthralled Muhammad at first, but when the newness wore off, he’d turn his attention back to me. Or so I hoped.

I counted the number of nights until he would lie with me again. With nine of us in the
harim
, would I now have to wait eight nights between visits to my room?

“Excuse me, Muhammad, but how can this marriage be?” Hafsa asked. “Have you traveled on a magic carpet while the rest of us slept?”

“The king of Abyssinia has married us by proxy,” Muhammad said. “With my permission.” He turned to Sawdah to discuss sleeping arrangements for his new wife, and Hafsa and I began walking to our huts.

“Why would Muhammad marry the daughter of his most dangerous enemy?” I said. Hafsa shook her head, as mystified as I.

My old suspicions began to nag me again. After the trench disaster, Abu Sufyan’s Bedouin allies had deserted him for Muhammad. Meccans were flocking to Medina to convert to
islam
. Muhammad could have crushed Abu Sufyan if he’d so desired. But he’d signed a peace treaty, instead, giving our enemy time to build new alliances. Now that our raids on his caravans had stopped, Abu Sufyan would be able to collect more wealth. Soon he’d be able to buy the allies he needed to mount another attack on the
umma
.

Positioning his daughter inside Muhammad’s
harim
was a brilliant ploy.

“By al-Lah, this marriage is no coincidence,” I said as Hafsa opened the door of her hut.

“I hope you’re wrong,” she said, “but I fear you speak the truth. If Umm Habiba is a spy, al-Lah help us.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m going to watch her more closely than Ali watches me. If she’s a spy, we’ll find out before even al-Lah knows it.”

T
HE
B
LACKAMOOR’S
B
LADE

M
EDINA
, A
PRIL
629
S
IXTEEN YEARS OLD

For many months I kept my eye on Umm Habiba, convinced her marriage to Muhammad was no coincidence. She was a spy for her father, I was certain. Abu Sufyan would stop at nothing to destroy Muhammad, peace treaty or not, because he needed false gods to bring worshippers and their loot to Mecca. He’d sent his daughter here to help him, and I’d be the one to expose her.

Yet I didn’t have much time for spying, not with Zaynab’s demands filling most of my days. I waited on her like a slave, scrubbing her clothes with soap and resentment, keeping my head down when she scolded me for invisible stains on a flawlessly cleaned garment. Even as hatred throbbed in my skull I said as little as possible to her, reminding myself to
think, not feel,
and waiting for my chance to send her toppling from her throne.

Then one day, an even more worrisome threat arrived from a most unexpected place: Egypt.

Bilal’s shout pulled the entire city outdoors to gawk at the caravan marching through our gate. We sister-wives stood at the mosque, our faces
covered and our senses resonating at the sights, sounds, and smells: tinkling bells like shy giggles from the camels’ ankles; the sultry rattle of tambourines; women whose blue-black hair swung like the fringe on a Persian carpet; men in pleated skirts with braided hair and pointed beards, hoisting on their shoulders an enormous ebony box.

I and Hafsa laughed at the men’s made-up faces, but my humor soured when two women rode past on camels, their bodies barely covered by their tightly fitted bodices and transparent skirts. How immodestly they dressed, like slaves for sale at the
suq
! These must be the courtesans the Egyptian ruler had promised to Muhammad months ago.

“I thought Saffiya had no shame, but she’s a virgin compared to these two,” Hafsa said. “They seem to enjoy the eyes of our men on their bodies.”

“They’re used to being ogled,” I said. “They’re concubines in the palace at Alexandria.”