The Jewel Of Medina
The Jewel of Medina
The Jewel of Medina
A Novel
SHERRY JONES
The Jewel of Medina is a work of fiction. All characters, with the exception of well-known historical figures herein, and all dialogue, are products of the author’s imagination.
Copyright © 2008 by Sherry Jones
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
COVER IMAGE: The Queen of the Harem (oil on canvas) by Max Ferdinand Bredt (1868–1921) used with permission of the Bridgeman Art Library
MAP: Kat Bennett, 360Geographics
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jones, Sherry, 1961–
The jewel of Medina : a novel / Sherry Jones.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-8253-0518-4 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-8253-0518-7 (alk. paper)
1. ‘A’ishah, ca. 614-678—Fiction. 2. Muhammad, Prophet, d. 632—Marriage—Fiction. 3. Muhammad, Prophet, d. 632—Relations with women—Fiction. 4. Muslims—History—Fiction. 5. Islam—History—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3610.O6285J48 2008
813’.6—dc22
2008039823
Published in the United States by Beaufort Books, New York
www.beaufortbooks.com
Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books, New York
www.midpointtrade.com
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my mother,
who taught me to reach for the stars,
and for Mariah,
the brightest star in my sky.
Author’s Note
Join me on a journey to another time and place, to a harsh, exotic world of saffron and sword fights, of desert nomads living in camel’s-hair tents, of caravans laden with Persian carpets and frankincense, of flowing colorful robes and kohl-darkened eyes and perfumed arms filigreed with henna. We are in seventh-century Hijaz, in western Saudi Arabia, not far from the coast of the Red Sea, a vast desert dotted with lush oases where bedouin raiders fight for survival and women have few rights, and a religion destined to be one of the greatest in the world has sprung from the lips of a man regarded, until he reached the age of forty, as unremarkable.
This was A’isha bint Abi Bakr’s world. When she was born, in 613 A.D., women were regarded as chattel, the property of men, so worthless they might be buried alive at birth if there were too many girls born that year. When A’isha became engaged, at age six, she was confined to her parents’ home, forbidden to run and play outside or to even speak to boys. Yet she grew up to be a strong, powerful woman: an outspoken, red-haired beauty with a quick wit and a shrewd mind; an influential political advisor; a warrior; a religious scholar; and, in one of the most touching love stories ever recorded, the favorite wife of the Prophet Muhammad.
According to numerous accounts, A’isha married Muhammad, the revealer of Islam, when she was nine years old. They consummated the marriage later, when she had begin her menstrual cycle. Although her tender age may seem shocking to us now, scholars generally agree that the marriage was motivated by politics. A’isha’s father, Abu Bakr, supposedly hurried the wedding to establish his position as chief Companion to the Prophet. As for Muhammad, he doted on A’isha, playing dolls with her when she was young, and, as she matured, turning to her for political advice.
Yet their marriage had its difficulties. Wife and husband were both willful, dynamic, complex individuals. Having known Muhammad all her life, A’isha was extremely jealous of the other wives and concubines—a total of twelve—whom he brought into the harem. A consummate mischief-maker, A’isha played pranks on her sister-wives and on Muhammad, hoping to thwart romance between him and any of them. At times, her ploys succeeded—splendidly and to her husband’s great displeasure.
Outside stress took its toll on their marriage, as well. As the leader of a growing community of Believers, Muhammad had to contend with a steady stream of rumors regarding his wives. (At fourteen, A’isha was embroiled in a devastating scandal that nearly ended her marriage). But there were other problems, too. The powerful Meccan tribe of Quraysh—Muhammad’s kinsmen—hated Muhammad’s message of one God, and attacked him and his followers viciously and relentlessly. There was no quelching the Prophet of God, though. The angel Gabriel had told him to “Recite!” and Muhammad was bound to obey.
Islam came to Muhammad in a vision on Mecca’s Mount Hira around 610. His family members, including his wife, Khadija, with whom he had a monogamous marriage for twenty-five years, and his cousin, Ali, whom he raised, were the first to believe in Muhammad’s message of one God. Others were less enthusiastic. Mecca was the idol-worshipping capital of the Arab world. Hundreds of gods filled the Ka’ba, the cube-shaped shrine in the city’s center, and they attracted caravans coming from near and far to worship and trade. In the eyes of the Qurayshi merchants, this new religion meant economic disaster. It—and its prophet—had to go.
After years of persecuting the Muslims, Mecca’s leaders finally sent their sons to assassinate Muhammad. He escaped, with the help of Ali and Abu Bakr, and joined the rest of the umma (the community of Believers) in Medina, an oasis town some 250 miles to the north. There, members of the city’s Arabic tribes, the Aws and Khazraj, had offered to house and protect the Muslims. Yet life was dangerous in Medina, too. The Quraysh continued to attack, enlisting the help of the umma’s new neighbors. Particularly threatening were three Jewish tribes, the Kaynuqah, Bani Nadr, and Qurayzah. The fact that Muhammad worshipped their God wasn’t enough to win their loyalty. Not only did they mock his claim to be a prophet foretold in their religious texts—would God choose an Arab for that honor?—but these tribes were trading partners with the Meccan Quraysh.
Against this backdrop of scandal, danger, and oppression, A’isha grew up with, married, and loved Muhammad. According to most sources, he adored her, indulging her outspokenness and soliciting her advice on various matters. Her role in the umma’s battles seems to have been limited to carrying water and bandaging wounds, but other women, such as Umm ‘Umara, did fight alongside the men in Islam’s early years.
So little is known about Muhammad’s wives, and even that is disputed. History, like genealogies and poetry, was transmitted by word of mouth, not written down until hundreds of years after Muhammad died. Almost everything is open to debate, it seems, from A’isha’s age at consummation to Muhammad’s attittude toward her. Was she his favorite wife, as the Sunnis claim, or did he dislike her because of her disobedience, as one Shiite man insisted to me?
Whatever your opinion of A’isha, she remains larger than life, an unforgettable heroine who spoke her mind, followed her heart, loved her God, and won a place in her community and in history as the Mother of the Believers. For me, she is a role model, a consummate survivor who overcame enormous cultural and personal obstacles to make her mark on the world.
Muhammad died at age sixty-two with his head upon A’isha’s breast (Shiite accounts say he died in Ali’s arms). At nineteen, A’isha was just beginning her life and her work. A champion of her family’s interests as well as Muhammad’s legacy, A’isha went on to advise the next three caliphs succeeding the Prophet and, ultimately, to lead troops against Ali in the Battle of the Camel, the first Islamic civil war. But that’s another story …
The Jewel of Medina
Prologue
A SINGLE POINTING FINGER
MEDINA, JANUARY 627
FOURTEEN YEARS O
LD
Scandal blew in on the errant wind when I rode into Medina clutching Safwan’s waist. My neighbors rushed into the street like storm waters flooding a wadi. Children stood in clusters to point and gawk. Their mothers snatched them to their skirts and pretended to avert their eyes. Men spat in the dust and muttered, judging. My father’s mouth trembled like a tear on the brink.
What they saw: my wrapper fallen to my shoulders, unheeded. Loose hair lashing my face. The wife of God’s Prophet entwined around another man. What they couldn’t see: my girlhood dreams shattered at my feet, trampled by a truth as hard and blunt as horses’ hooves.
I let my eyelids fall shut, avoiding my reflection in the stares of my umma, my community. I licked my cracked lips, tasting salt and the tang of my wretchedness. Pain wrung my stomach like strong hands squeezing water from laundry, only I was already dry. My tongue lolled like a sun-baked lizard. I rested my cheek against Safwan’s shoulder, but the horse’s trot struck bone against bone.
“Al-zaniya!” someone cried. “Adulteress!”
I made slits with my eyes. Members of our umma either pointed fingers and shouted at me or spread their arms in welcome. I saw others, Hypocrites, jeering and showing their dirty teeth. The ansari, our Helpers, stood silent and wary. Thousands lined the street, sucking in our dust with their sharp breaths. Staring as though I were a caravan glittering with treasure instead of a sunburned fourteen-year-old girl.
The horse stopped, but I continued—over its flank, headfirst and into the arms of Muhammad. Into my husband’s control once more and sighing with relief. Trying to forge my own destiny had nearly destroyed me, but his love held the power to heal. His thick beard cushioned my cheek, caressed me with sandalwood. Miswak unfurled from his breath, clean and sharp as a kiss.
“Thank al-Lah you have made it home safely, my A’isha,” he murmured.
The gathering crowd rumbled, prickling my spine. I lifted my heavy head to see. Umar rolled in, thunder and scowl. He was Muhammad’s advisor and friend, but no friend to women.
“Where, by al-Lah, have you been? Why were you alone with a man who is not your husband?”
His accusations whipped like the wind through the crowd, fanning sparks into flames.
“Al-zaniya!” someone cried again. I ducked as if the word were a hurled stone.
“It is no wonder that A’isha rhymes with fahisha— whore!” People laughed, and soon they began to chant: “A’isha—fahisha! A’isha—fahisha!” Muhammad steered me through the crush toward the mosque entrance. As if in a mosaic their faces swirled before me: the jowly Hamal and his pale wife Fazia-turned-Jamila, screaming and plum-colored; the town gossip, Umm Ayman, pursing her wrinkled lips; Abu Ramzi, the jeweler, flashing golden rings on his waving fists. I’d expected murmurs when I returned, and lifted eyebrows—but this? People who had known me all my life now wanted to tear me apart. And Safwan—I turned my head to look for him, but he had disappeared. As always.
Rude fingers yanked my hair. I cried out and slapped them away, and a stream of spittle landed on my arm. Muhammad set me on my feet and faced the mob, then raised his hands into the air. Silence fell like a shroud, muffling even the glares.
“A’isha needs to rest,” Muhammad said. His voice sounded as weary as I felt. “Please return to your homes.”
He curled his arm around me and we ducked into the mosque. My sister-wives stood near the courtyard entrance, two and two. Sawdah rushed forward, ululating, enfolding me in her plumpness. She praised al-Lah for my safe return, then kissed her amulet to ward off the Evil Eye. Next came Hafsa, weeping, kissing my hands and face. She whispered, “I thought you were lost forever.” I didn’t tell her that she was nearly right. Umm Salama nodded, unsmiling, as if she feared her head might topple off her long stem of a neck. Zaynab slanted lusty eyes at Muhammad as though she and he were alone in the room.
But my husband’s concerns were only for me. When my stomach clenched again, slumping me in pain, he caught me and lifted me up as though I were filled with air. And in truth, I had little else left inside me. I floated in his arms to my apartment. He kicked open the door and carried me inside, then placed me on my feet again while he unrolled my bed. I leaned against the wall, grateful for the quiet—until Umar’s shout barged into the room, followed by the man himself.
“See how she shames al-Lah’s holy Prophet!” he cried. “Galloping through the center of town with her hands on another man and her hair waving like a harlot’s dress.”
“A harlot with vomit-stinking breath and hair like a bird’s nest?” I blurted.
“Please, Umar,” said Muhammad. “Can you not see that she is ill?”
“You indulge her.”
“I am happy to see her alive, praise al-Lah.” The love in my husband’s gaze made me blush. How close I’d come to betraying him with that trickster! Safwan had lured me with freedom, then tied my destiny to his desires. No different from any other man. Except, perhaps, Muhammad.
“Yaa habibati, what reward should I offer Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal for bringing you home safely to me?”
“One hundred lashes would be fitting,” Umar grumbled.
“But Safwan saved her life.”
“Apparently, Umar thinks I should have been left at the mercy of the jackals—or the Bedouins,” I said.
“At least you would die with your honor intact.”
“Nothing has happened to A’isha’s honor,” Muhammad said.
“Tell that to Hassan ibn Thabit,” Umar said. “I heard him moments ago reciting a damning poem about your wife and that womanizing soldier.”
A poem. No wonder the umma had snapped at my heels like a pack of dogs when I’d ridden into town. Hassan’s words could incite a crowd into frenzy nearly as quickly as Muhammad’s raised hand could quell it.
But I refused to let Umar see me tremble. “Me, with Safwan? That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m the wife of al-Lah’s holy Prophet. Would I want a nobody like him?”
I felt Muhammad’s eyes watching me. Heat spread like flame under my skin. Had he heard the lie beneath my laughter?
Clipped steps rapped on the courtyard stones. A man’s hand flung open the door to my apartment. His silver ring flashed like a sword’s blade: Ali, related to Muhammad in three ways—cousin, foster-son, and son-in-law—yet bitterly jealous of his love for me. Stabs of pain pierced my stomach. I leaned my head against Muhammad’s shoulder.
“Here she is!” Ali extended his arm to point at me. “Medina churns with sickness over your ruin, A’isha. Men are fighting in the streets over your guilt or innocence. Our own people have turned against one another. The unity of the umma is threatened because of you.”
“Did you defend me?” Even as I challenged him, I knew the answer.
He turned to Muhammad. “How can I defend her when Safwan himself will not speak on her behalf?”
Of course. Not only had Safwan disappeared when the crowd grew menacing, but when my father and Ali went to question him, he’d hidden inside his parents’ home. Some rescuer. I felt tears burn my eyes, but I willed them away. The only one who could save me, it seemed, was me.
“Safwan doesn’t need to defend me,” I said, although my voice quavered and I still leaned on Muhammad for support. “I can speak for myself.”
“Let her rest,” Muhammad said. He helped me walk to my bed, but before I could lie down Ali was insisting I tell my story. The umma could not wait to know the truth, he said. Another crowd was forming outside the mosque at this very moment, demanding answers.
I closed my eyes, recalling the tale I and Safwan had fashioned on the ride home, during my lucid moments. “I was looking for my agate necklace,” I said, fingering the smooth stones. “My father gave it to me on my wedding day. Remember?” I looked at Muhammad. “It means as much to me as the necklaces you’ve given your other wives.”
His expression didn’t change. I pressed on, spinning a tale that began with me slipping behind the sand dunes to relieve m
yself, then returning to my hawdaj. As I waited to be lifted onto the camel’s back I felt for my necklace—but my throat was bare.
“I searched my clothing, the floorboards of my hawdaj, the ground. I wanted to ask the driver to help me, but he was watering the camels.” My voice stumbled like tender feet on rocky ground. I took a ragged breath, trying to hold steady. “I followed my path back to the dunes. I sifted the sands with my fingers. Then, when I was about to give up, I found it. I ran back to the caravan—but you were far away.” Like ants crawling single-file into tomorrow, I’d thought at the time. “I knew I could never catch you. So I sat down to wait for someone to come back for me.”
“Someone?” Ali pointed his sharp nose at me, sniffing for lies. “You mean Safwan.”
“Yaa Ali, let her tell her tale,” Muhammad said.
“In truth, it is a tale, and nothing more.” Ali spat on the dirt floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring. “You waste our time with this fantasy, while we all know the real story.”
“Ali, please,” Muhammad said, more sternly. Ali folded his arms across his chest and curled his lips. My courage wavered under his scrutiny. Did he truly know the reason I had lost the caravan? Maybe it would be better for me to tell the truth—but a glance at my husband’s concerned face changed my mind. Even Muhammad, who knew me as if our souls were one, wouldn’t understand why I’d risked so much for so little—and he might not believe me when I told him I was still pure.
“You sat down to wait,” Umar said. “What occurs next in this unlikely tale?”
I closed my eyes, feeling faint. What was the story? I and Safwan had rehearsed it during our ride. I let out a long sigh, calming my frantic pulse. This next part was true.