The Jewel Of Medina Read online

  “Yes, we are insatiable.” Hafsa pushed a date slowly between Muhammad’s lips, then pulled her fingers just as slowly from his mouth. Giving him a long, sultry gaze. “Yaa habib, what’s this I hear about a disturbance in the Kaynuqah market? Did your child bride really start a fight? If I were the hatun, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  A force gathered in my belly. The hair on my neck stood up. She arched her eyebrows up at me.

  “Are you still here? Eyeing my new necklace, I see. It’s a gift from Muhammad. A token of his love. I’m sure you have one just as nice.”

  “A token?” I said. “Who needs a token, when I have the real thing?”

  But—did I have Muhammad’s love? Had he looked at me a single time this morning, as I’d served him and his new bride? As I walked across the courtyard with my empty dish in hand, I wondered if my fears were coming true. Would Hafsa win his heart and make herself the hatun? Please, al-Lah, haven’t I suffered enough? I had to find a way to knock her off that throne. But how? She had six more days alone with Muhammad and two ample breasts with which to enchant him. Still as virginal as an infant fresh from the womb, I couldn’t hope to compete with her. In the cooking tent, I set down the platter so hard it broke in two.

  “By al-Lah, what is the matter, Little Red?” Sawdah clucked, taking my face in both hands and peering down at me. “You look like you want to cry.”

  “Cry? What do I have to cry about? Because my husband is in love with another woman, and has forgotten all about me?”

  Sawdah’s grin was lusty. “You remember those first nights. Like a pair of rutting goats, eh? The man and the woman cannot keep their hands off each other. But it does not last.”

  I frowned at her. Being grunted and sweated on was supposed to feel good? That wasn’t my impression that day at Hamal’s window. But—Jamila hadn’t pushed him away. Her arms and legs had clung to him and her body had moved with his, as if she were riding a horse. I felt Sawdah watching me; she was probably wondering why I didn’t agree with her. In a moment, she would guess that my marriage hadn’t been consummated. I picked up the pieces of the plate I had broken and threw them into the fire to scatter her thoughts.

  “She’ll be the hatun soon,” I muttered. “And you and I might as well kill ourselves.”

  “Hatun?” Sawdah frowned. “That is supposed to be my position, I guess. But I do not want it, A’isha. I raised Muhammad’s girls from his first wife, and I have my own boy from my previous marriage. I have spent enough time giving orders.”

  I felt my hopes lift. “Why don’t you appoint me?”

  She shook her head. “You are awfully young to be in charge of a household.”

  “But not too young to fight for you,” I pointed out.

  Sawdah cocked her head, pondering, then broke into a laugh. “By alLah, you speak as truly as Gabriel himself. All right, A’isha, I will make you the hatun of this harim.”

  I would have flung my arms around her in glee, but she stopped me with a lifted hand. “Do not get excited yet,” she said. “Not until Hafsa bint Umar agrees.”

  I kicked at the dirt floor. “She’ll never respect my authority, and Muhammad will be too dazzled to make her do so.”

  “Not for long.” Sawdah chuckled. “That Hafsa has got an awful temper. Worse than her father’s, I hear. Have you heard the saying? ‘A nail that has a blunted point brings shame upon itself.’ We will not wait long before her first outburst, you will see. The clouds will part from the Prophet’s eyes then.”

  An idea flew into my head. A good idea—but also a bad one. I talked myself out of it, but when Hafsa called me durra three times the next day—and suggested to Muhammad that I should be kept at home—I began to change my mind. Something had to be done about her, and quickly. Clearly she was in league with Ali. I hoped Muhammad wouldn’t let slip that we weren’t consummated or Hafsa would seize the first-wife position without a thought.

  She needed to be humbled. If I told her what I knew, she’d never look down her nose at me again. How could any woman preen like a peacock when so many men had rejected her?

  But Muhammad had sworn me to secrecy. To diminish Hafsa, I would have to betray him. I convinced Sawdah to deliver their meals, afraid of what I might say to her. But on Friday, five days after the wedding, she sauntered into the cooking-tent and demanded some date juice—then stood idle and watched me and Sawdah clean the dishes from her meal with Muhammad.

  “I said I wanted date juice,” she demanded. “Are you two deaf, or ignoring me?”

  Only the first-wife in the harim was entitled to give orders to the others. “Did you hear something, Sawdah?” I asked.

  “I am claiming for myself the role of hatun,” Hafsa said. She folded her arms and drummed her purple-hennaed fingertips against one of her forearms. “I’m certain you know what that means. My desires are to be fulfilled.”

  “Oh, but we all have desires, don’t we, Sawdah?” I said. “As for me, I desire help with these dishes.”

  “I desire to leave this tent before I say something unholy,” Sawdah said, and hurried out to collect water for the dishes.

  “I know what your desires are, A’isha.” Hafsa lifted her long, elegant nose. “How sad for you that your husband doesn’t return them.”

  For a long while I stood without moving, blinking at her smirking face and wondering how much she knew about me and Muhammad. Had he told her that our marriage wasn’t consummated?

  “How strange to hear you speak of Muhammad’s feelings,” I said. “Since he’s never had feelings for you.”

  “No? Then why did he ask to marry me?” Her eyebrows swung upward. The half-smile remained on her lips. The bad idea bounced around in my head, confounding my good intentions with evil wishes—wishes to see Hafsa reduced, and to raise myself above her. Then, almost before I knew it, that bad idea flew right out of my mouth.

  “Muhammad didn’t ask to marry you,” I said. “Your father was the one who made the request. Muhammad obliged him as a favor.” Hafsa rolled her eyes and gave a short laugh. Seeing her disbelief, I plunged into the tale of how Umar had gone from man to man in search of a husband for her—adding my own details here and there.

  As I spoke, I watched her superior smile fade to a trembling frown. The triumph in her eyes turned to indignant sparks. Here were the first signs of the terrible temper I had heard so much about! But then my words began to stumble from my lips, as I saw her proud expression crumple. At the end of the story, a single dark tear rolled down her cheek, trailing kohl.

  Yet it was too late for me to turn back now. “Your father had to beg Muhammad to marry you,” I said.

  “Where did you hear these tales?” Her voice rose. “Don’t you know better than to repeat such hurtful rumors? Wait until Muhammad hears about this. He’ll beat you until your back is as red as your hair!”

  “I was there when your father implored Muhammad to take you,” I lied.

  “You she-dog!” she cried. “I’ll beat you for those sorry tales.” And in the next moment we writhed in a flurry of fists and kicks, teeth and hair—until Sawdah yanked us apart with arms as beefy and muscular as the legs of an ox.

  “Tut! What shame! The Prophet’s wives fighting like a couple of Bedouins,” Sawdah huffed. “What would he say if he saw you?”

  “He’d say she deserves to be beaten for her stupid lies!” Hafsa was screeching and pointing her index finger at me.

  “Hush! You will deafen me,” Sawdah complained. “What tales, A’isha?”

  “I only told her the real reason Muhammad married her,” I said. “But the truth is painful to hear.”

  Sawdah grabbed her amulet. “A’isha, you did not.”

  “That story is a lie!” Hafsa continued to scream. “My father told me what happened. Every man in the umma wanted me, but Muhammad won. He’s the one who begged, not my father. Sawdah knows the truth! Yaa Sawdah, tell her how Muhammad asked my father for my hand.”

  Sweat popped out li
ke blisters on Sawdah’s forehead and upper lip. She knelt to pick up the dishes I had stacked, then stood with them in her arms. “By al-Lah, it does not matter who asked whom,” she said. “You are married to the Prophet of God. Forget the rest.”

  Hafsa stamped her foot. “You’re on her side, I knew it! By al-Lah, I know where to find the truth.” She stormed past us, knocking the dishes out of Sawdah’s arms. The crash must have drowned out my warning not to disturb Muhammad while he was preparing for the prayer service. In a whirl of dust and angry oaths Hafsa was gone, leaving me and Sawdah to pick up the broken platters and bowls. As I fumbled with the pieces, my hands trembling, I wondered how Muhammad would feel when he found out I’d betrayed his confidence. Would he ever trust me again?

  Sawdah shook her head at me. “You are a good girl, A’isha, but you have made a big mistake.”

  “She goaded me,” I said. Sawdah grunted. As if in a dream, we moved to the entrance of the cooking tent, neither of us daring to say more.

  From the mosque we heard shouts, another crash. We heard Hafsa’s sobs like the wailing of one in mourning, and Muhammad’s low voice coming closer. My pulse rippled and I leaned against Sawdah, slightly dizzy. Would he divorce Hafsa for this outburst? That would be a disaster for her, and my fault. But no, his friendship with Umar was too important. At least, though, he wouldn’t allow Hafsa to be hatun. But would he let me fill that role?

  From behind the tent flap we watched Muhammad stomp through the courtyard, his face as hard as stone. His red ceremonial robe was streaked with kohl, and his turban sat askew and unraveling on his head. He strode across the grass to Hafsa’s hut. She burst from the mosque screeching his name.

  “Am I less than an ass, who at least is sold to the highest bidder?” she cried, then tripped and fell to her knees.

  I would have run to help her up, but Sawdah grabbed my arm. “You have done enough.”

  In truth I had—and alas! None of it could be undone. Forgive me for this pain I’ve caused, I prayed. Hafsa pulled herself up off the ground and ran to the hut, threw open the door, and flung herself inside. From there, I and Sawdah could hear her screams. Probably all of Medina could hear them.

  In a while the noise subsided. Sawdah and I stood in the strange, sharp silence, watching and waiting. The door to the hut opened and Muhammad stepped out. He had rewound his turban, but the black stains remained on his robe. As he walked past the cooking tent, he jerked his head around to look at me.

  In his eyes: Betrayal. Anger. Disbelief.

  “May al-Lah forgive you, A’isha.” His calm voice cracked, and tears welled in his eyes. I opened my hands to him, wishing I could carry his sorrow, but he bared his teeth.

  “May He give me the strength to forgive you, also,” he said. “With your cruel words you meant to break only one heart, I know. But, by al-Lah! By betraying my trust, you have broken two.”

  MUHAMMAD IS DEAD

  UHUD, APRIL 625

  For weeks after that terrible night when I’d humiliated Hafsa, Muhammad chose his words carefully when he spoke to me. His guarded demeanor made me want to cry, but I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t deserve his trust.

  That would change at Uhud, I vowed.

  Abu Sufyan was bringing an army to attack Medina. Our scout’s report surprised no one: We knew he’d been recruiting warriors. After Quraysh’s humiliating loss at the battle of Badr, he needed to salvage his reputation. Since Badr, poets had been spouting satirical verses throughout Hijaz, making fun of the Meccans. Lazy merchants with soft hands and softer heads, our own city’s poet Hassan ibn Thabit had famously quipped.

  Losing that battle had cost Abu Sufyan many Bedouin allies—tribes he’d relied on to protect his precious trade caravans—because Bedouins liked to fight on the side of winners. Loyalty meant nothing to some of these tribes, who wanted only more loot and female captives. Abu Sufyan could promise neither until he defeated our army.

  So when our scouts reported that he was approaching our city with five hundred men, we were ready to meet him. Our army had been training for months.

  “Let them come to us,” Muhammad said, standing on his tree stump in the mosque and announcing the invasion to the umma. “We will defeat them easily on our own ground.”

  But he was outnumbered. The men who’d fought at Badr were heroes in the umma, and those who’d missed that battle wanted their chance at glory. Hurling arrows from behind the city’s walls wasn’t nearly as exciting as chopping off heads in hand-to-hand combat. We must go out to meet them, these hotheads argued. Give us the chance, also, to be martyrs for al-Lah.

  At last Muhammad relented. “If they want to fight, can I say no?” he said when I protested. He and his warriors donned what little armor they had, gathered the women who’d volunteered to help, rode a full barid to Mount Uhud, and waited, as they had done at Badr.

  To my delight, Muhammad had allowed me to come along—as a helper, but secretly I hoped for a chance to do battle against Quraysh. I remembered clearly the ugliness on Abu Sufyan’s face as he’d slapped and dragged away poor Raha in Medina. Since that night, I’d tended a flame of resentment in my breast, waiting for the day I could repay that overfed swine for his cruelty. At the same time, I yearned to redeem myself in Muhammad’s eyes for showing off in the Kaynuqah market and starting a fight, then betraying his confidence in order to humble Hafsa.

  A mere girl, I wasn’t allowed to join the army, even though I knew I could outfight half our men. A few women had taken sword in hand at Badr, but for the most part our task was to carry water and tend our wounded. No matter: Whatever Muhammad asked of me I’d perform so well that he would know I was worthy of him, and of islam.

  At Uhud, I could tell from the frown creasing Muhammad’s face that I was far from his mind. He was worried that, by agreeing to meet the Qurayshi here, he’d made the wrong choice. The desolate landscape, all dirt and sand and burnt-black rock, offered little protection. And our army was pitifully small. We’d started out with one thousand men, but then our scouts reported seeing three times that many warriors and camels on the Qurayshi side, plus two hundred on horseback. After that news, the leader of the Hypocrites, Ibn Ubayy, ran away with three hundred of our warriors.

  Midmorning, I and dozens of other women from our camp watched, stunned, as the Qurayshi army came spilling down the distant hills, pouring like a silver flood over the colorless sand. Their chain-mail and painted shields flashed the sun into our eyes and filled me with dread. Just below us, Muhammad arranged our troops in a broad swath, with their backs to the jutting mountain of black rock. After being awake all night planning strategy and praying, he looked haggard, bleary-eyed and pale.

  “If Quraysh reaches the higher ground, we will be lost,” he said. He placed fifty archers on the rock-strewn pass. “Guard the mountain as if it were your mother,” he commanded. “Do not leave her side no matter what happens, do you understand? Remain on that pass even if you see birds picking the flesh from our bones.”

  His ominous words filled me with dread, and I realized for the first time the horror of war. My heart began to pound violently and would not stop, even as Muhammad led our troops in prayer. We women on the hill joined the prostrations, murmuring praise to al-Lah and asking Him in our hearts for an easy victory.

  “Their numbers may be large, but we have al-Lah on our side!” Muhammad shouted. The roar of our men rose like a whirlwind, lifting my hopes and soaring my spirits. Compared to the armored troops kicking up dust in the distance, our fighters made a sorry sight, most of them in flimsy robes without even a shield to protect them, and a cavalry of only two horses. Yet what Muhammad had said was true: We had defeated Quraysh at Badr with fewer men—and less training—and, al-Lah willing, we would best them again.

  Caught up in the excitement, I ran down the hill toward Muhammad, through the men who milled about in readiness for the battle. I wanted so badly to fight. Muhammad knew I was skilled with sword and dagger. If I asked him again
to let me join the battle, would he relent? As I scanned the crowd in search of him, I heard a voice that made my heart seem to turn over.

  “I should have known you would be here.”

  I looked around: Safwan stood behind me, tall and lean, chain-mail fitted like a skin over his broad shoulders and chest. His tilted eyes smoldered. His thin mouth curved slightly.

  Locked in his gaze, I flinched. What if someone should see us exchanging glances? I lowered my eyes.

  “Good luck today.”

  “Yaa A’isha, you know it takes skill to win a battle. Fortune only helps in matters of love. And my luck in that area is pitifully poor.”

  “May you fare better with the Qurayshi, then, than you do with women,” I said in a ragged voice, glancing around for fear someone might be watching us. Everyone else, though, seemed too intent on preparing for battle to take notice of a warrior and a battlefield nurse.

  “I aim to kill the Meccans, not kiss them,” Safwan said. I could feel his eyes pulling at me. Almost against my will I looked up at him again. His gaze was so deep I thought I might fall into it and never return. “And there is only one woman for me.”

  A cry arose from the pass. Quraysh is arriving! Prepare to kill or be killed in the name of al-Lah! I turned with my heart in my throat to see our enemies charging in a rush like a wind storm with swords in their hands and death in their eyes. I cried out, terrified, and clutched Safwan’s arm.

  “The battle begins!” I choked, and turned to run up the hill, but Safwan patted my hand.

  “They’re only trying to frighten us,” he said. “We still have the formalities to go through. You’ll see: They’ll stop when they draw near and start boasting about how they’re going to slaughter us all. Then they’ll send their best warriors forward and we’ll send ours, and those men will fight to the death. Then the battle will start.”

  Umar marched past, looking like a peacock with feathers waving from atop his helmet. He stopped when he saw me standing in the ranks, and shouted at me to retreat and join the women at the camp. With a burning face I glanced at Safwan, but he had gone.