The Jewel Of Medina (46 page)

If Muhammad died now, the
umma
would die also. We’d buzz about like a beehive without its queen, and Abu Sufyan would have little trouble soaking the streets of Medina with the blood of Believers. And I and my
sister-wives and their children—plus my baby—would be sold as slaves, the children separated from their mothers, the women enduring the humiliations of men with hard eyes and cold fingers prodding our secret places.

I’d taken risks for Muhammad, but not only for his sake. I’d done it for myself—I’d rather die than live as a slave—and for the
umma
. Now, it seemed, the price for my foolhardiness was Muhammad’s love, for he looked away whenever I glimpsed him in the courtyard, and he failed to come to my apartment even for his nightly visit. I felt as empty as if my soul had flown away.

Three days after Alia’s departure, Muhammad sent word that he was leaving. He, my father, Ali, and Zayd were on their way to meet with the Ghatafani. He sent my father to say good-bye to me.

“Our departure is hastily arranged,”
abi
explained, averting his gaze. “Muhammad has no time to visit with you now.”

“But he must!” I cried. “I have something important to tell him.”

“The Ghatafani chief demands Muhammad’s presence immediately,”
abi
said. “He wants revenge against Quraysh for the killing of his tribesmen and the breaking of the peace treaty. He is angry about Muhammad’s latest agreement with Abu Sufyan.”

Who could blame the chief? Muhammad had negotiated only for himself, apparently forgetting the pride of his Bedouin allies. Yet the Ghatafani would be easily assuaged. The real danger to Muhammad, I feared, lay with the Yemeni.

In just a few hours Muhammad and my father would be traveling in the desert, vulnerable to attack. Would Nu’man give up so easily when he had traveled so far to kill Muhammad? I was certain that he and his group lurked nearby, waiting to fulfill their evil mission.

“
Abi
,” I said. “You must warn Muhammad. That woman he nearly married was an assassin.” I told him the entire story, from spying on her with Nu’man in her hut to thwarting their plot with my advice. As I spoke, his face reddened.

“Why have you waited so long to tell me this? Muhammad could have been killed!”

“I tried to tell you,” I said. “I tried to tell Muhammad. But no one would listen.”

He frowned. “Forgive me, A’isha. I should not have dismissed you. I am as much to blame for all this as you are.”

“Yet my plan worked, didn’t it,
abi
?” I lifted my head proudly. “Muhammad is alive.”

My father closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. I waited for his rebuke, reminding myself that it didn’t matter what anyone, even my own
abi
, thought about me or what I’d done—as long as they kept Muhammad’s neck safe from the Yemeni’s blade.

When he opened his eyes, I thanked al-Lah to see that his expression had softened.

“
Yaa
A’isha, I have often wished your brother Abd al-Rahman had some of your spark,” he said. “I used to wonder why al-Lah had wasted all that intelligence and courage on a female.”

“Unfortunately, courage seems to be admired only in men,” I said, lowering my eyes so he couldn’t see how his remarks stung me. So my father thought my efforts to protect Muhammad had been wasted. If I’d been a man, he’d be beaming with pride at me right now. As a woman, I was an embarrassment.

“You are wrong,” he said, calling my gaze to his broad smile, his shining eyes. “I have more respect for you than for both my sons combined. You have not let being a woman prevent you from fighting for your
umma
.”

“Yet still I am criticized,” I said. “If I were a man, I’d walk around in a glow from the praise.”

“Glory,” my father scoffed. “Is that what you want? It is not difficult to obtain. Ask Abu Sufyan. Glory is as easy to grasp as a dagger. It draws attention to its bearer like a blade flashing in the sun. Honor, on the other hand, requires discipline and compassion and self-respect. It often works silently, without recognition or the desire for it. Honor comes only after years of effort and, once grasped, is even more difficult to hold.”

“Which makes it more precious,” I guessed.

He lifted his eyebrows as if he could only now see me clearly. “As precious as a courageous daughter.”

He stepped forward and clasped my elbow, greeting me in the way of men. I clasped his elbow in return, choking back my emotion, accepting the tribute he’d bestowed on me. We could never be equals—he was, after
all, my father—but in that moment we were Companions, each with the same purpose: the protection of our Prophet and of the
umma
, and of our freedom to worship our God in peace.

“You saved Muhammad, and you did it brilliantly,” he said. “In doing so, you saved the
umma
also.” My eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude as he pulled me close for a coffee-and-cardamom embrace.

My heart seemed to swell in my chest until it filled my throat, keeping me from speaking. My father was proud of me for what I’d done! He’d grasped my elbow and praised my cleverness. I buried myself in his arms, in his long, henna-dyed beard, in the love and trust I felt beating in his heart. Then he released his hold and turned to leave.

“I must go and confer with Muhammad now,” he said. “In the meantime, we should keep your news a secret. It would only worry the
umma
.”

“All I care about is Muhammad’s approval, and no one else’s—except yours,” I said. “What if he doesn’t believe you?”

“Do not worry, A’isha. He will not only believe your tale, but his heart will soften toward you when he realizes what you have done for him—for all of us.”

“What about Nu’man,
abi
? Do you have a plan?”

He frowned. “Not yet, but I wonder—do you have a strategy for me to present?”

I stared at him, not sure I’d heard correctly. My father, asking me for advice? Was he teasing me? But his face held only respect. The plan I had already formed in my head sprang readily to my lips.

“I would send our scouts in all directions to find the Yemeni encampment. It has to be nearby,” I said. “Don’t you think so?

He nodded. “By al-Lah, I do.”

“Have Ali and Zayd and some of their best men sneak up on them tonight, before you leave on your journey. Then send Nu’man’s head on his sword to the Yemeni king.”

With Muhammad and my father off to appease the Ghatafani, Umar took command of the
umma
. Normally we in the
harim
cringed at this arrangement. As much as Umar enjoyed devising new restrictions on Muhammad’s wives, he seemed to like enforcing them even more. But this
time, with so many new converts in Medina, he was too busy arbitrating disputes, finding housing, and recruiting warriors to worry about the
harim
. At least for a while.

As for us, we were busy with our new enterprise. The wedding of our first client, Ghazala, was less than two weeks away, and my sister-wives had a gown to sew and adorn, face paints to mix, fragrances to extract, henna to prepare. They tested their concoctions on one another, then refined them. This would be their first paying work, and they intended to make the bride’s mother faint at the sight of her daughter’s beauty. The praise she would spread afterward would send every bride in Medina to the Prophet’s wives.

I didn’t help them much. I still felt queasy and tired from my pregnancy, and I spent much of my time in the tent city. Our three-year drought had only worsened the lives of the tent-dwellers. People died of hunger and disease, women and babies cried, men hung their heads in despair. How could I help any of them? Yet I kept trying. Every few days I’d lead Scimitar, loaded with barley and dates, across Medina to their sad enclave, where the people welcomed me as warmly as if I were one of their own.

Each time I returned from my visits with Umm al-Masakin’s poor, my sister-wives would sit me in the cooking tent’s “nest” and display their accomplishments. Umm Salama would lift the veil from her face with a flourish, showing off her made-up eyes, or Zaynab would bare her arms to show Hafsa’s latest design. I’d never heard my sister-wives laugh so much, or talk so eagerly together. For the first time ever, I looked forward to going home.

A few days before the client Ghazala’s wedding, I came home to a surprise: Raihana rattling her tambourine and Sawdah playing her
tanbur
while the gentle Juwairriyah danced in the bride’s gown, a confection of green and gold, her hands and arms adorned with peacocks whose tails seemed to shimmer with color. As she moved she wafted a perfume of cardamom and rose, Raihana’s invention; and then, to my delight, removed her wrapper to reveal her brass-colored hair wound in a shining series of coils, eyes so dramatically lined with
kohl
that they seemed to leap off her face, and lips not only stained a fetching red, but as moist and glimmering as if she’d been kissing dewdrops.

“By al-Lah! I’m glad Muhammad isn’t here to see this vision of loveliness,” I said, laughing but only partly joking. My sister-wives laughed, also, and Hafsa leapt up to join Juwairriyah’s dance, twirling and flipping her hair and writhing her body like a serpent, surprising us all. In the next moment Zaynab was dancing and making up a song about
dirhams
and the new gowns they would buy, while Saffiya snapped her fingers and jerked her head from side to side, holding out her hands and beckoning me to join them.

Exhausted by the demands of my pregnancy, I demurred, but Hafsa danced over and pulled me to my feet. Then Umm Salama stepped into the circle, and even Umm Habiba. Soon we were all dancing and laughing and clapping to Sawdah’s plinks and Raihana’s clinks, which grew faster and faster until I forgot my weariness and my sister-wives became a blur. We bumped into one another and shrieked and sang until the cooking tent must have looked as if a
samoom
whirled within.

Immersed in clamor and joy, none of us heard Umar’s thunder. Sawdah must have spied him in the entryway, because her music was the first to cease. Raihana’s rattle stopped next, and then we all ceased dancing and turned to our musicians, perplexed. We followed their dread-filled gazes to Umar, his hands planted on his hips and his face curled into a sneer that told us we were doing something very bad.

The room was silent for a moment and then, remembering the rule against seeing our faces, he commanded us all to cover ourselves. When we had done so, he entered the tent, picked up Sawdah’s
tanbur
, and broke it over his knee. Sawdah cried out, and some of us gasped, but no one spoke. The blustery Umar intimidated even me, especially now, when I carried a vulnerable child in my womb.

“The Prophet would not like this music,” he said, his voice rough.

He spoke the truth: The modest Muhammad enjoyed a private show, but he disapproved of public performance. Yet not all the sister-wives trembled in fear at Umar’s thunder.

“It is fortunate for the Prophet, then, that he is not here,” Umm Salama retorted in a cold, clear voice. I stared at her: Was she possessed by a
djinni
? No one spoke back to Umar.

“He will be here soon, and there will be trouble when he learns of this party you have put on!” Umar cried. Then his eyes took in the mortars and pestles and colored powders and inks, the bottles of fragrant oil, the
scraps of cloth and cutting knives and thread, all scattered at his feet like lost hopes.

“Where did you find the money for all these trinkets and frills?” He spied a purse of silver coins on the floor: Ghazala’s mother’s down-payment for supplies. Hafsa reached for it, but he grabbed it away from her.

“Daughter, you did not get these
dirhams
from me! Did your mother give you this? If so, she stole it from me, and I am taking it back.”

“I didn’t get it from
ummi
,” Hafsa said in an almost-whisper. “Nor does it belong to you.”

“Who, then? Certainly not from the Prophet.”

“The Prophet has no money to give,
abi
.”

“Just tell me where you obtained it, by al-Lah!” He raised his fist. “Answer me, or—”

“No!” I flung myself in front of her, shielding her with my body. “She’s not yours to strike, Umar, not anymore. And Muhammad doesn’t beat his wives.”

“Move out of my way, A’isha.” Shadows gathered on his pocked face as he lifted his fist.

I thrust my chin out at him, pretending not to be afraid even though my very breath trembled. “Would you strike me, and risk injuring the Prophet’s heir?” I challenged.

Umar’s mouth opened. His eyes widened like full moons. I patted my stomach and smiled, and watched with satisfaction as he moved his hand slowly down to his side.

“
Yaa
Umar, that money belongs to Umm Jibrail, the merchant’s wife,” Umm Salama said, stepping up to stand before him. “She has given it to us to buy these materials. We are going to be her daughter’s tire women.”

The money pouch fell to the floor. Umm Salama’s hand dived to snatch it up.

“The Prophet’s wives working for pay?” Umar frowned.