The Jewel Of Medina Read online

  The last thing I wanted was to be noticed. If anyone recognized me, I’d be sent home and placed under guard at the mosque, to be certain I remained there. Not for me the task of sitting passively and wringing my hands in worry. Al-Lah had chosen me to fight, not to cower like a girl. And, after the debacle with Safwan, I needed to prove myself to the umma.

  I hid behind a boulder as immense as an elephant and peered around it, trying to see whether the Qurayshi army had arrived, but a high bank of dirt blocked my view of the desert. I strapped my shield to my arm and climbed into a thorn tree. A shout rang out and then, like the flood bursting through the great Marib dam, a sea of men came pouring over the ridge far ahead of us. Our warriors scrambled into position behind the embankment, forming a line all the way to the high stone wall around the neighborhood of the Qurayzah, one of the few Jewish clans remaining in Medina. They’d sworn allegiance to the umma, but they wouldn’t fight on our side, for they refused to kill their Nadr and Kaynuqah kinsmen.

  Our troops stood silent, bows and arrows ready, as the dark swarm blanketed the land before us, men rushing and clamoring red-faced for our blood, their horses whinnying and rolling their eyes. I clutched the hilt of my sword and braced myself, preparing to fight. When the invaders approached so near we could almost feel their breath on our faces, they stopped, staring at the enormous trench our men had dug, a chasm as wide and deep as a wadi, impossible to cross.

  “Why do you stop, you idiots?” Abu Sufyan thundered up on his horse, bulging over his saddle like a sack of grain. Almost too late he saw the trench yawning like a grave. He yanked back on his reins, skidding his horse to the edge.

  He heaved himself down to the ground and stood at the trench’s lip, surveying our work with his mouth twisted in disgust.

  “Muhammad ibn Abdallah ibn al-Muttalib!” he shouted. “What cowardly device is this to keep my army at bay?”

  “Yaa Abu Sufyan, you thought you would surprise us. But we are the ones with the surprise,” Muhammad called back.

  “This is not doing battle honorably. Why do you not come out and fight like men, instead of cowering behind this hole you have wasted your time digging? Or do you fear your precious al-Lah will not protect you?”

  “Al-Lah protects us already,” Muhammad said. “Who do you think is responsible for this glorious trench?” Our men began to yell, shouting praises to God. Someone shot an arrow up and over the berm; it rose in an arc and fell among the attackers. More arrows followed, hissing like serpents and spooking the horses. I heard a scream and saw a man pitch sideways with an arrow stuck in his throat. A horse whinnied and reared, pierced in the flank. The iron sea of men tumbled and crested as skittish animals flailed and sidled, tossing their riders to the ground or over the rim of the trench into an instant grave.

  Ali ran over to the tree where I’d perched. “What are you doing up there?” he snarled. I tried to answer him, but my leaping pulse blocked my throat. Of all the men to discover me here, why did it have to be him? I clambered down the tree to face his outrage, but he was so preoccupied he just ordered me home.

  Cursing, I stormed back to the mosque. How could I have let myself be spotted? I’d thought Ali would be at the trench with his troops. He’d tell Muhammad I’d broken the hijab, and I’d lose Muhammad’s trust again. Now my husband would certainly post a guard to prevent me from leaving the mosque, condemning me to sit at home and wring my hands while a battle raged outside our walls.

  When I saw Muhammad in the courtyard later that day, his expression was sober, but, thank al-Lah, not furious. “I admire your courage, A’isha,” he said. “But you have already contributed much to our defense with your trench idea.”

  “How could I ever do enough for you?” I dabbed the moisture that had popped onto my lip.

  “Bringing harm onto yourself would harm me, also,” he said. “Please, A’isha, stay here to guard the mosque. Our women and children would be soothed by your protection.”

  Umar stormed into the courtyard, his chain mail clanking, and seized Muhammad’s beard. His eyes looked stricken, as if someone had just died. I held my breath.

  “Huyayy, the leader of the Nadr clan, has entered the gates of the Qurayzah,” he said. “There can only be one reason for this visit: access to Medina.”

  Muhammad shook his head. “The Qurayzah have given me their pledge to remain neutral in this conflict. Their leader Ka’ab is a trustworthy man.”

  “He also hates to fight,” Umar said. “Would seeing ten thousand men at his gate cause him to break his pact with us?”

  For the second time that day, I saw fear’s dark wing fall across Muhammad’s face.

  “If the army gains access through the Qurayzah gate, the umma is doomed,” he said. “By al-Lah, Umar, I hope you are wrong.” Gray strands appeared as if by magic in his hair and beard. The skin under his eyes sagged. He shuffled away with his shoulders stooped, shaking his head and muttering.

  “Yaa husband!” I cried. “Where are you going?”

  “To pray,” he said. “I suggest you both do the same.”

  POISON WIND

  TWENTY-FIVE DAYS LATER

  Twenty-five days felt like twenty-five years. Fear became a familiar flavor, mixed daily into our bread. Sawdah wept at every sunrise, certain it would be her last. Hafsa hid in her hut, refusing to emerge, taking her meals alone in her apartment. Zaynab scowled at anyone who dared to look at her. Umm Salama held her children in her lap and rocked them all day, humming a dismal tune and frightening the color from their poor faces.

  As for me, I sharpened my sword every morning. “You’re going to wear out the blade,” Zaynab snapped.

  “Then I can use your tongue to fight with,” I said. “It’s sharper than any sword.”

  She didn’t laugh. No one did during those twenty-five days. Even the children lost their glee: They walked instead of running, and their little mouths quivered. I carried meals to Hafsa for relief from the gloom, but the darkness under her eyes and the pallor in her voice made the cooking tent feel festive in comparison.

  Ten thousand murderers lingered outside our city. They toyed with us the way a cat teases its prey before it pounces. Laughing at us, they urinated and defecated into the trench. They threatened to roast and eat our children, elaborating on the tenderness of the meat and lamenting the foulness of Muslim flavor. They sang lewd songs about Muhammad’s wives and what they planned to do to us before killing us. They staged mock battles between the Qurayshi and the Believers, with the “Believers” oinking and grunting like swine.

  “Such humiliation should not be endured,” Ali would grumble to Muhammad after a long day of watching the enemy’s displays. “If you would only allow us to strike them with our arrows, they would remain in their camp.”

  “Conserve your arrows,” Muhammad would say. “We may need our weapons yet. Abu Sufyan seems determined to find a way in.”

  And in truth, he did find a way, as we learned on the twenty-fifth day. That’s when Safwan came to the mosque with news: Ka’ab, the leader of the Qurayzah tribe, had agreed to open his gates to the invaders. “My Ghatafani source says Abu Sufyan is preparing his troops,” he told Muhammad.

  Watching and listening from my apartment, I leaned against the doorway, dizzy with fear. Abu Sufyan was preparing his troops—to slaughter us all!

  “I cannot believe this of Ka’ab.” Muhammad shook his head. “Less than one year ago he shared a bowl of milk with me and promised his allegiance.”

  “But his people were allies with the Nadr for many generations before we arrived,” Ali said. “Then we exiled the Nadr.”

  “Now Ka’ab is afraid you’ll do the same to the Qurayzah,” Safwan put in.

  “We will do worse than that to those treacherous dogs!” Ali shouted. For once, I agreed with him. If we lived through this terror somehow, I’d happily sever Ka’ab’s head myself.

  Muhammad excused himself to pray, asking Ali to gather his Companions in the majlis and to
find food for Safwan.

  “It will not be extravagant,” Ali said. “Our stores are nearly depleted.”

  “The invaders are also hungry,” Safwan said. “Abu Sufyan promised them an easy victory, so they only brought a two weeks’ supply of food.” He grinned. “Of course, the Bedouin warriors are accustomed to hunger pangs, but you should hear the Qurayshi complain.” I glowered at him as he snickered. If not for me, he’d be getting ready now to invade Medina.

  Muhammad thanked Safwan and departed. Ali went to summon the Companions, promising to return shortly. Left in the mosque alone, Safwan glanced toward my door—which I shut hurriedly and, when he knocked, refused to open.

  “My heart still longs for you, A’isha,” Safwan said through the door.

  “Is that why you left me to face the umma alone?” I choked.

  “The Prophet sent me away. He didn’t want me here to remind people of our night in the desert together.”

  “And so you went to your old friends the Ghatafani.”

  “By al-Lah! The Prophet asked me to spy on their talks with Abu Sufyan. I wouldn’t have left you otherwise, A’isha.”

  I kept silent. Yet my heart did soften toward him—a little.

  “I hope you will forgive me,” he said. “I would like for us to be friends.”

  A tear seeped from my eye. “That can never be,” I murmured. After that, all was silent. Safwan was gone.

  I sat on my cushions for a long while, mourning our lost childhoods. How innocent we’d been in those days, imagining a life free of restraints! In truth, our destinies had been set for us since birth. We might be able to shape the future, but we couldn’t escape it, no matter how far into the desert we rode.

  Now, when my own future seemed about to end, I once again faced the impossibility of escape. If death awaited me today, then so be it. I couldn’t flee from my fate; nor did I want to. But I could act bravely, wielding my sword, fighting to the end. I swallowed my tears, summoning my courage. If the Qurayshi invaded, they wouldn’t find me sobbing and begging for mercy! I’d fight like no woman those soft-bellied merchants had ever seen.

  I fastened my sword to my belt and headed to the majlis to listen to the men’s talk.

  “The enemy troops are massing at the trench,” Ali barked. Bluster as he might, he couldn’t hide the fear in his voice. Outside the majlis, my knees trembled so hard they knocked against each other.

  Muhammad seized Ali’s beard, embracing him. “Prepare to fight,” he said. “And have faith in God.”

  The men hurried out the door, not even seeing me. When Muhammad emerged, I flew into his arms. “Let me come with you, habibi,” I said through my tears. “I want to die fighting by your side.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. I could feel his heart racing as though it would leap from his chest. His body quivered in my embrace like a shot arrow.

  “My A’isha,” he said. “You are the bravest of all my warriors. That is why you must remain in the mosque with the women and children. You can give them courage.”

  “Some comfort, waiting for slaughter!” I said, beginning to cry. “Do you expect us to huddle in the mosque and pray for a miracle? Arm us with weapons, at least, so we can send our enemies to Hell before we die.”

  “Hearing is obeying, habibati.” His voice cracked. “I will send Talha with all the extra daggers, swords, and shields we possess.”

  Muhammad pulled me closer and kissed me with such passion, I had to gasp for air when his mouth left mine. Then he loosed his hold and pushed me gently away.

  “Al-Lah be with you, husband,” I said.

  “And with you, my warrior-bride.” He gazed intently at me with liquid eyes. “Now, go and prepare our women to join God’s army. I will see you in the next world, if not in this one.”

  How I wanted to sob! Were we all to die like sheep at slaughter? If Muhammad were killed, would I even want to live? Please, al-Lah, keep him safe.

  Shaking all over, I went into my room to strap on my dagger and don my helmet. When Talha arrived at the mosque with a sack full of weapons, he gave me the first smile I’d seen since the siege began.

  “By al-Lah, cousin, I have never seen a lovelier warrior,” he said. “Our enemies will be fortunate to have their throats slit by such a pretty hand.”

  “Who’s slitting throats? I’ll be whacking off heads,” I boasted. His smile softened like melting butter, and his eyes moistened. Shrugging off proper behavior, I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, in thanks for the friendship he had shown to me over the years.

  As the women began to arrive, I handed them weapons at the door. “It’s not going to bite you,” I said to Umm Ayman, who stared at her sword with wary eyes.

  “You can grasp it firmly; you won’t break it,” I told Jamila, who dangled her dagger like a ribbon from a limp hand. “That’s the way, ummi,” I said as my mother grasped the hilt of her weapon and thrust it, wild-eyed, into an imaginary foe.

  Sawdah ran up, puffing and perspiring. “Hafsa still won’t come out of her hut,” she said. “It doesn’t seem right to leave her in there alone.”

  Zaynab strode up to me with her eyes flashing. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Are you the wife of the Prophet of God, or a common street fighter like Umm ‘Umara?”

  My cheeks blazed. “Umm ‘Umara saved Muhammad’s life at Uhud.”

  “While you ran around making a spectacle of yourself. And now, look at you. Armored head to toe like a … a … boy!” She shook her head in disgust.

  I lifted my chin, already knowing the real reason for her protest. While I’d been exiled in my parents’ home, Zaynab had set her sights on the hatun position. That had become apparent to me when she’d challenged me in my apartment, in front of Muhammad. Now she couldn’t bear to see me wielding a power she didn’t possess. Of course, our struggle over a title wouldn’t matter once our bodies lay in heaps in the dirt.

  Umm Salama stepped forward with her arms around her children Dorra and Omar. Her oldest son, Salama, had turned fifteen and had joined the ranks of the warriors, and her baby girl was safely nestled in the arms of a Bedouin wet-nurse somewhere in the desert.

  “Zaynab speaks the truth,” she said, remarkably calm for a woman about to die. “We women were meant to give life, not to destroy it. What kind of example will it set for my children to see me spilling the blood of men?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My heart slammed against my breast like a bird caught in a room. “Example? For whom? Unless we fight, no one here will live to tell how you died,” I said.

  “I agree with Zaynab and Umm Salama.” Fatima glared at me, jealous of her father’s love to the last breath. “If I must die, I would rather do so with dignity.”

  I shook my head in disgust and dropped my bag of weapons to the floor. “Do as you wish. Cower in the corner when our murderers arrive, with my blessing. As for me, let it be said that A’isha bint Abi Bakr died the way she lived: fighting!” I left the mosque, trembling with rage, and went to find Hafsa.

  She sat in the darkest corner of her apartment, hugging herself with crossed arms. “Why is al-Lah doing this to us?” she cried.

  Compassion spread like warm milk through my breast. I knelt beside her and enfolded her in an embrace. She didn’t respond at first, but when I began to sing to her I felt her body relax, and when I told her it was all right to be afraid, that we were all afraid, she sighed and placed her head on my shoulder.

  “Fear is normal,” I said. “The question is, what are you going to do with your fear?” I pulled out the weapon I had brought for her—an elegant, curved dagger with a bronze handle and a blade that flashed even in the dim light of her room.

  “Let your feelings flow out through your hands and into this dagger. Then, when it’s full, stick it into your attacker’s belly—and watch your fear empty itself into his eyes as he dies by your hand!”

  Timidly she accepted the dagger f
rom me and hefted its weight. She turned it over, examining it. She pushed it forward in a hesitant stab. Then she dropped the blade and burst into tears.

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’m so confused.”

  I picked up the dagger and curled her fingers around its handle. “Yaa Hafsa, many of us are confused. But there is one thing we all know: Everyone dies, sooner or later. We don’t have a choice about that. But I and you do have power over how we die. I would rather go fighting than cringing. What about you?”

  Something stirred in her eyes. She wiped them with her sleeve and sat up a bit straighter.

  “How do I use this thing?” she said, lifting the blade. “Will you show me?”

  I stood. “In a few minutes, I begin giving lessons. You are invited to join us in the mosque.” As I left her room, she was reaching for her robe.

  Back in the mosque, I was astonished to see all the women, including Zaynab, Umm Salama, and Juwairriyah, clumsily hefting swords and shields at the feet of my mother, who stood on Muhammad’s tree-stump pulpit and shouted improvised verses about killing and maiming our enemies.

  “Yaa A’isha, come and give us a lesson!” ummi cried when she saw me walk in with Hafsa at my heels. She held out her hand and pulled me onto the stump. I raised my sword and began to teach. In moments every woman in the room was practicing sword fighting and envisioning herself a warrior. On the edges of the room the children sat in clusters, clapping and cheering as if we were playing a game.

  To my delight many of the women learned quickly—even those who’d resisted at first. Umm Salama proved a canny opponent, detached enough to think, rather than feel, her way through a fight. Zaynab, on the other hand, was as impulsive as Ali, but without his skills. She fought with the ferocity of a tiger, but I feared she wouldn’t last long in a real battle. My mother was indomitable, and she laughed as she fought against the hapless Qutailah as though she were having the best time of her life. Sawdah danced with her sword, light-footed and graceful, easily overpowering Umm Ayman. The clank of swords and the grunts and shouts of women filled the room until, at last, we decided to stop and rest. It would do us no good to exhaust ourselves before the real fighting began.