The Jewel Of Medina (53 page)

“Oh, my head,” he moaned.

The other sister-wives rushed in, flapping and cooing, crowding Maymunah’s elegant apartment. Her father al-Abbas had provided well for her: carpets, frankincense, silk curtains, velvet cushions, jewels dripping from her ears to rival the onyx necklace Muhammad had given her.

Ali and al-Abbas pushed their way in and helped us stretch Muhammad out on Maymunah’s soft feather bed.

“This is a good place for you to rest,” I said, but Muhammad shook his head.

“This is not Maymunah’s night,” he said. “Whose night is this? Is it yours, A’isha?”

“That was last night, remember?” I squeezed his feeble hand.

“When will it be your night again?” he said.

“Don’t you be worrying about that, Prophet,” Sawdah said. “Get your rest. We will stay here with you all night, if that is what it takes.”

He moaned and clutched his head. Umm Salama placed her hand on my arm. “
Yaa
A’isha, do you have anything for headaches in your pouch?” she asked.

“Yes, by al-Lah, relieve his pain!” Zaynab cried. She sank to the floor and pressed her wet cheeks against his ankles, cascading hair over his bare feet.

I raced to my hut for the pouch, then back again. There I fumbled through my medicine bag, spilling half the contents onto the floor. Rose oil. I snatched up the vial and unstoppered it, then trickled it over Muhammad’s forehead.

“This will help,” I said as I massaged the oil into his skin. “You’ll be better soon, my love.”

“No,” he said with a faint smile at me. “That is not true, A’isha. I made my choice. Soon I will be with Ibrahim.” Over my head, the whir of wings. I glanced up; al-Abbas was staring with lifted eyebrows into Ali’s startled face.

In a while Muhammad’s headache subsided. He stood shakily and, with his arm around Ali’s shoulder, made his way slowly to Hafsa’s hut.

“This is not necessary,” Hafsa said as she followed close behind. “I wish you would simply rest, husband.”

He continued this way for a week. Struggling through his pain to lead the Friday prayer service. Defying his fever to stumble from one wife’s apartment to the next. Ignoring our pleas for him to forget about us, to take care of himself. As he’d said, I knew his fate was sealed. But when my sister-wives consoled one another with news of this joke he’d made or that meal he’d eaten, I kept my knowledge to myself.

Then one morning Saffiya entered the oven tent with a face full of woe.

“Muhammad asked for you all night, A’isha,” she said.

Hafsa looked down at her clasped hands. “He did the same on his night with me. But I was too selfish to tell you.”

“‘Who am I with tomorrow?’ he kept asking on his night with me,” Zaynab said.

“‘When will I be at A’isha’s hut again?’”

“He wants you, A’isha,” Hafsa said. She sounded small and far away.

“Of course he wants her!” Sawdah said in a thick voice. “Have you heard how he talks? The end is near for him. He wants to be with the one he loves most.”

A sob burst like a bubble from Saffiya’s lips. “Dying?” She covered her face with her hands. “Our Muhammad, slipping away! What will happen to us?”

“Who will take care of us?” Juwairriyah said. “We cannot remarry. Where will we go? What about our children?”

“It’s useless to worry about that now,” Raihana said.

“If only there were something we could do for him,” Hafsa said.

“There is.” Umm Habiba leveled her gaze at me. “
Yaa
A’isha, take my night with Muhammad tonight.”

“I will do the same,” Maymunah said quietly.

Soon all the sister-wives had given up their turns with him so that Muhammad could spend his last days and nights in my bed. If any of them did so begrudgingly, I’m sure they were gratified by his enormous smile at the news.

“Al-Lah will bless you all for this, after I am gone,” he said. “I will see to it personally, when I sit by His side in Paradise.”

I wept bitter tears as he spoke. How freely I would have given up all my nights with him to keep him among us! He couldn’t even walk to my room. Al-Abbas and Ali had to carry him, and when he fell from their grasp, I felt myself falling, also, as though I tumbled from a cliff toward a jumble of sharp rocks.

The threat of Muhammad’s death drew us in the
harim
more closely together than before. Umm Salama’s powers of organization kept us from falling apart; she instructed Hafsa and Raihana on the amount and types
of foods to prepare for the visitors who streamed in to my apartment. She suggested Sawdah call the best caregiver in Medina to prescribe treatment for Muhammad. I listened to the nurse’s advice, but my trembling hands could not administer the palliatives. Umm Habiba, for all her foreboding airs, turned out to be a capable assistant, clear-headed enough to do the job for me. To ease Muhammad’s convalescence, Umm Salama arranged entertainment: I recited poetry; Hafsa danced; Sawdah strummed her
tanbur
while Maryam sang to him, relaxing his tightened brow.

Meanwhile, the
umma
began to tear apart as if invisible hands pulled it in different directions at once. His eyes red-rimmed, my father sat with me one night while Muhammad slept and told me of the struggles that had begun. Men of the Aws and Khazraj tribes, rivals for the leadership of Medina before we arrived, were fighting in the public market over who would rule when the Prophet died. Immigrants to the
umma
whispered rumors of impending Bedouin attacks and another Qurayshi invasion against a weakened Medina.

“The people need to know who will lead them if Muhammad dies,” my father said. “But he has told me that he wants al-Lah to decide.”

To me, the choice of a leader was obvious: My father had stood by Muhammad’s side from the very beginning. He’d been the first man, with Ali, to convert to
islam
—and he was far more diplomatic than the brash, impetuous Ali. He’d sent food and supplies to Muhammad after the Meccans banished the Believers to the desert. He’d stood up for Muhammad at meetings of Mecca’s leaders, and helped him escape assassination. He’d given him his favorite daughter—me—to seal their friendship. He’d helped him plan every caravan raid and battle, and had fought by his side despite Muhammad’s protests that the risk was too great, that my father was too valuable to the
umma
and to Muhammad to lose.

I begged my father to let me speak to Muhammad on his behalf, but he refused. Others weren’t so principled. One evening as I returned to my hut after the daily meal, I heard al-Abbas and Ali within, arguing so loudly I could hear them through the closed door.

“
Yaa
nephew, there is no need to wring your hands,” al-Abbas said. “I am only suggesting that you ask him.”

“By al-Lah, how can you speak about his death while he still lives?” Ali
cried. Al-Abbas shushed him, and he lowered his voice. “It does not seem proper.”

“I have seen members of the al-Muttalib family die before,” al-Abbas said. “I do not like the looks of Muhammad now. He reminds me of his father, who died of pleurisy.”

“Pleurisy? No, that is no way for a Prophet to die,” Ali said. “I would rather he were killed in battle.”

“Unfortunately, you cannot control how he dies,” al-Abbas said. “However, you may have some power over what happens afterward. Do you want to succeed him, Ali? Do you want to rule Hijaz and restore our clan to its former status?” His voice sounded low and cunning. I remembered the tray of
tharid
in Maymunah’s apartment and wished I’d taken some to test for poison.

“You know I want to succeed him,” Ali said. My heart fluttered at the thought. With Ali in charge, what would become of my family, or of me? “But how can I ask him to name me? Then he would resign himself to dying. By al-Lah! I would rather that he lived.” Ali’s voice sounded gargled, as if he were crying.

“When his baby died, Muhammad was left without an heir. His adopted son Zayd is dead, also. Who else is there but you, the father of his grandsons, to succeed him?”

“Let him name me, then. I will not ask.”

“What if he does not name you?” Al-Abbas said in a hissing voice. “What if he names no one? You are young and without power in this community. Others would certainly seize the position for themselves—Abu Bakr, who is not even related to the Prophet, or Umar! You would be left out. The clan of Hashim would fade into ignominy.”

“If I don’t ask him, and he names no one, the people of the
umma
might choose me yet,” Ali said. “But if I ask him and he names someone else, they will never choose a Hashimite.” Al-Abbas started to protest, but Ali cut him off. “No, Uncle. I will not ask.”

I opened the door and called out, hoping they’d think I had just arrived. Al-Abbas gave me his ever-generous smile—one that I now knew concealed a calculating soul. “How fortunate the Prophet is to be waited upon by an angel,” he said. “When he awakens, I will tell him so.”

I pulled my wrapper more tightly over my face. “I hope he wakes up soon,” I said, “because I have a few things to tell him, also.”

When Muhammad did awaken—the next morning—neither angels nor successors occupied his mind. He thought only of the Friday services.

“I must lead them,” he said. “The
umma
depends on me.”

He threw off his cover and tried to stand—but his legs shook so badly he couldn’t even get to his knees. Ali and al-Abbas rushed to his aid and helped him back into bed.

“May I suggest that you designate someone else to lead the prayer today?” al-Abbas said. His glance flickered to Ali. “Someone you trust?”

Muhammad sighed. “I suppose it is best,” he said. “Soon, all my duties will be performed by another.” He paused. The room fell as silent as an unasked question. I stared at him, willing him to choose anyone but Ali. To choose Ali was to choose the conniving al-Abbas, who cared only for power.

“Please send for Abu Bakr,” Muhammad said.

Al-Abbas’s countenance darkened like a snuffed candle. As for me, I smiled behind my wrapper.

“Hearing is obeying,” Ali said, his voice tight. Then he followed al-Abbas out the door.

W
ARRIOR
B
RIDE

M
EDINA
, J
UNE
632

On that final day Muhammad roused himself, sweating and shaking, to attend the prayer service. He panted with the exertion of sitting up in his bed, but he sighed with pleasure as I bathed him and washed his hair. I dried him all over with a towel and hummed one of the tunes Maryam had sung to him the night before—not even minding when he smiled at the flatness of my tone. I would have made myself foolish one thousand and one times to hear him laugh again.

He was too weak even for laughter. Fever had consumed Muhammad’s very soul, leaving only a barely glowing ember. Yet as I dressed him and wound his turban I allowed myself the thinnest sliver of hope. That he wanted to leave his bed was a sign of something, wasn’t it? Maybe God had decided to answer my pleas and let Muhammad live.

I helped him stand. He remained still for a long time, panting and lifting a limp hand to daub his pale face. Then, with one hand on my shoulder and the other against the wall, he shuffled like an arthritic
shaykh
to the door that opened into the mosque. He smoothed his clothes, straightened his back, and took a few labored breaths. Then he nodded, and I pushed the door open.

All sound instantly ceased. My father’s prayers flew like doves out the window. Light filled the mosque, shining on Muhammad, making him glow. His skin shone.

“
Assalaamu aleikum
.” Muhammad’s strong, clear greeting echoed off the walls of the mosque. I covered my smiling cheeks with my hands and thanked al-Lah. He was restored!

“
Wa aleikum assalaam
,” my father answered. Umar echoed with a cry of his own, and then Ali and Uthman, and soon the mosque reverberated with the cheers and good wishes of hundreds of worshippers singing the praises of God’s Prophet. Joy flew around my heart in expansive circles, making me feel as light as air. Muhammad was healing, and everyone could see it!

My father stepped down from the tree stump and stretched a hand toward Muhammad. His smile crinkled his face beneath his long beard. “Please, Prophet, come and lead our service.”

“I have come to follow today, not to lead,” Muhammad said. “But when you have finished the prayers I would like to speak a while.”

My father’s sermon was eloquence itself. Words of beauty rolled like music from his tongue, quickening my spirit. He spoke of God’s love, of how generously He had revealed Himself to us through His Prophet, of how steadfastly He had defended us against our enemies. “He is all-good and all-powerful,” my father said. “None of us can compare to Him—no, not even our Prophet. For Muhammad will tell you himself: He is but a man. Men are born, and men die. But al-Lah lives on forever—and
islam
lives on after we are gone.”

While he spoke, Muhammad continued to stand. His hands gripped the doorway on either side of him, making the shape of Maryam’s ankh. When my father stopped talking, all eyes in the room turned to Muhammad.