The Jewel Of Medina Read online

  “After his men broke our treaty, he did not know whether he would be in danger,” my father said. “He left his bodyguards at our gates to avoid attracting attention and asked Umm Habiba to relay him safely to you. She refused.”

  Muhammad shot me another look—this time, of triumph. “She is a loyal and devoted Believer,” he said. Then he frowned. “Abu Sufyan should have known that. Yaa Abu Bakr, is there a trick? Why has he taken the risk of coming here alone?”

  “He has insurance.” My father’s voice hoarsened. “His son Mu’awiyah occupies my father’s home in Mecca, uninvited and refusing to leave. Abu Sufyan is holding my abi hostage.”

  Muhammad’s vein darkened, but he clapped a hand on my abi’s shoulder. “Do not worry, Abu Bakr. Your father is safe. Not a single hair on Abu Sufyan’s head will be touched.” My father’s face relaxed, though worry still filled his eyes.

  “As for Abu Sufyan’s pleas for mercy, I would like to hear them myself,” Muhammad said. “Let us go to him now. I think we can claim Mecca for al-Lah in a way that is merciful.”

  “After all the times he’s tried to kill you?” I blurted.

  “He is my cousin, and now my father-in-law,” Muhammad said, all business, as he turned toward my door. “Yaa A’isha—” he kept his back to me, and his voice pulled itself tight at the edges, “—you and I have not finished. Please wait for me here.”

  It was late by the time Muhammad entered my apartment. I’d paced my floor for hours, trying to think of a way to listen in on his talk with Abu Sufyan. But I didn’t want to break Muhammad’s command to wait in my room for him. His trust in me was too damaged for me to risk his wrath again. I fumed, wondering what I had to do to repair our relationship. Discovering Abu Sufyan should have pleased him, but accusing Umm Habiba had harmed me more. Please, al-Lah, give me the chance to prove myself.

  He rolled into my room like a brush fire. “Your jealousy has become untenable. If I cannot depend on your support, at least, in this harim—”

  “Do your other wives oppose you also?” I said, my voice surprising me with its even tone. “Perhaps you’re at fault.”

  He raised his eyebrows at my impertinence. “At fault? For which offense? Each of my wives has a different complaint.”

  “Some of us have much to complain about,” I said bitterly, hoping he would ask me what I meant so I could tell him of my servitude to Zaynab and how I dreaded rising from my bed every day. But Muhammad was too immersed in his own problems to consider mine.

  “Juwairriyah has not had new clothes in a year,” he grumbled. “Saffiya dislikes the food that Sawdah prepares. Hafsa dislikes Maryam. Umm Habiba dislikes you.”

  “What a coincidence! I feel the same about her.”

  His smile was humorless. “Umm Salama will barely speak to me, and Zaynab will not leave me alone. Raihana dislikes everyone except Zaynab, and everyone dislikes Saffiya.”

  “By al-Lah, what a tangle!” I said. “I can understand why you’re eager to marry again.”

  “That is not so, A’isha. I am resigned to it.”

  “Resigned? Was that the look I saw in your eyes when you beheld your Yemeni bride’s heart-stopping face?”

  He frowned. “I will not lie and say I feel resigned about spending time with her. But I would not have sought another wife.”

  “Why trouble yourself when they flock so readily to you?

  “You speak truly.” He sighed. “Al-Lah has already given me more than my share of women.”

  I took his hand in mine and pressed it to my breast, letting him feel the urgent flutter of my heart’s caged wings. “Why marry this new one, then? Send her back to the Yemeni king.”

  “And risk his displeasure? Never.” He pounded his fist on the windowsill. “We need Yemen’s allegiance. With it we can ride into Mecca without worry or bloodshed.”

  “But Yemen is allied with Quraysh,” I pointed out. “They’ve traded together for generations. How many of their caravans have we raided?”

  “All that ended with the peace treaty. The trade route is open now.”

  “Peace treaty?” My laugh was harsh, for I could see Muhammad was determined to proceed with this marriage. “Your friend Abu Sufyan has broken it, remember?”

  He pulled his hand from my grasp. “I sealed another agreement with him today.”

  “Truly?” I stared at him, incredulous. “That’s like placing your hand in a lion’s mouth and trusting it not to bite you.”

  “He will honor this pact, or he will pay with his life.” Muhammad grasped my shoulders and shone his eyes at me. “Mecca is ours, A’isha! We are taking her back for al-Lah. In return, Abu Sufyan will remain as leader—as long as he obeys me.”

  “Invade Mecca?” Panic gnawed at my insides. “But you said you were tired of killing brothers and cousins.”

  Muhammad lifted his hand to stroke my hair. “You have nothing to fear, A’isha. No one who converts to islam will come to any harm. And when they see the size of our army, they will all convert—even Abu Sufyan.”

  BROTHERS OF JOSEPH

  THE NEXT DAY

  With Abu Sufyan hidden away, I was unable to listen in on his talks with Muhammad. As much as I distrusted him, I consoled myself that at least Muhammad was aware of the dangers he posed. The Yemeni emissary, on the other hand, seemed to have everyone fooled—except me.

  I was suspicious of his story. Muhammad’s territory, such as it was, included a few thousand devoted subjects, a few vanquished tribes, and a handful of inconstant Bedouins. Why would the Yemeni king suddenly shun his longtime ally Abu Sufyan in favor of Muhammad, whose religion he hadn’t embraced? Since the trade route from Yemen to Damascus had been reopened, what did he gain from an alliance with us?

  Each time I remembered the look of terror Muhammad’s bride-to-be, Alia, had given the Yemeni emissary, my hair stood up on my neck. And why had the emissary sneered as he’d watched Muhammad kiss the beautiful Alia’s hand?

  I arose and dressed myself early the next morning, intending to learn more about our guests. A rap on my door made me race to open it with a pounding heart, fearing that evil had already occurred—but it was only Zaynab.

  “We have a wedding feast to prepare,” she said. “We need you in the cooking tent. Now!”

  I followed her across the courtyard clasping my hands, wishing they circled her neck, and turning my eyes to Alia’s hut. In the flash of the rising sun I spied the glimmer of gold in her doorway before the door clicked shut. My breath stopped. That robe belonged to Nu’man, the Yemeni emissary. He was in her room at this very moment. I had to find out what they were plotting. But how, with Zaynab hovering over me?

  “Are you sleepwalking?” she said. She clamped my arm with her fingers and yanked me along to the cooking tent. “We have work to do, you lazy child.”

  Inside the tent, Sawdah’s face flushed when she saw Zaynab handling me so roughly. “By al-Lah, be careful with her!” she cried, running up to us and pulling Zaynab’s hand away. “Our A’isha is carrying the Prophet’s heir,” she said, beaming, to the entire room.

  A stunned silence followed. Zaynab’s eyes grew three sizes larger, and her open mouth trembled. Umm Salama looked down at her hands. Raihana rolled her eyes and said, “Praise al-Lah, the race to impregnate is ended.”

  Sawdah came rushing up with a tray of dates, barley mush, and coffee. “Yaa A’isha, will you take these to Alia?” she asked. I took the tray, glad for an excuse to check on the Yemeni bride-to-be and her escort.

  Outside her hut I set down the tray and looked around. The courtyard tents where Alia’s maids and guards slept were quiet. I crept around to a window in the back of the hut and peeked through the curtains. Inside, Nu’man held Alia’s hair in one hand, pulling it back to expose her neck, and was running his dagger lightly across her throat. Her eyes were wild, her skin colorless.

  “You have no choice, habib,” he said. “Not if you want to keep your pretty head.”

  “Go
ahead, slit my throat,” she choked. “Muhammad’s men will kill you next, and we can burn in Hell together.”

  He let go of her hair, but his eyes continued to strangle her. “You took my money. Now I want the services you promised.”

  She rummaged in the pouch at her waist and flung a handful of coins at him. “Here is your repayment. Now release me from this dreadful deed! God will punish me forever if I kill His Prophet.”

  My heart flip-flopped. Kill Muhammad! I wanted to run to him with the news—but I’d have to learn more for him to believe me this time.

  The emissary’s eyes glittered as brightly as the coins, which he let drop to the floor. “You should have worried about your immortal soul before you took my money.”

  “I had to pay my father’s debt.” She looked at the floor. “Those men you sent would have killed him.”

  “And they will yet, if I command them to,” he said. “Which I will do, unless you keep your promise.”

  Alia mumbled something that must have been assent, for Nu’man laughed and thrust his dagger into the sheath under his arm. “Let us go over the plan one more time,” he said. “Tell me everything you intend to do.”

  “I must drug his wine and give it to him before the consummation.”

  “That is correct.”

  “But—” her mouth quivered. “I have discovered that the Prophet does not drink wine.”

  “Put it in whatever he drinks, then.”

  “I do not think he will bring his bowl of milk to my apartment. And the drug will be too easily detected in water.”

  “Hmm.” Nu’man tugged at his beard. “Then I suppose you will have to complete the consummation.”

  “Make love with him and then kill him? Nu’man, I cannot! It is too heartless.”

  “I would not worry about Muhammad. At least he will enjoy his final night in this world.” He licked his lips. “If anything goes wrong, scream, and I will rush to your aid.”

  I shuddered to think of that awful scene, Alia consummating with the man she was supposed to kill while the man she hated waited outside. Her mouth twisted, but she said nothing.

  “When he is asleep, you slip out the door and come to my tent,” Nu’man said. “I will creep to the hut with my dagger, and unh! The Prophet will be no more. My camel will be waiting outside the mosque, and before the rest of the household awakens, you and I will be gone. Then I will sleep peacefully at last, knowing my caravans are safe from Muslim raiders.”

  I let the curtain drop, fearing they’d hear my pounding heart. Assassins! The Yemeni emissary was a murderer, plotting against Muhammad’s life the same as Abu Sufyan had done, and for the same reason: money. They’d kill him this night unless I could find a way to stop them. But how? Al-Lah help me, I whispered. Show me the way.

  I tiptoed around to the door of her hut, knocked, and entered with the tray. Without her makeup or jewels, I noted, Alia wasn’t nearly so beautiful. She was going to need a lot of work before the wedding tonight. And then, as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes, I suddenly saw the perfect way to thwart their plot.

  “Marhaba,” I said as I set the tray of food before her. “I am A’isha bint Abi Bakr, favored wife of the Prophet Muhammad, and your future sister-wife.”

  “Marhabtein,” she said. “I am Alia.”

  “I hope you will allow me to help adorn you,” I said. “We could use the time to get to know each other better. Also, my sister-wife Hafsa is unparalleled at the art of henna. She has offered to adorn your hands and feet.”

  Alia blinked in confusion. “I have servants for that.”

  “But it is our gift. When we finish, you will surpass even your natural beauty. Think of the impression you’ll make for Yemen!”

  “But—” She glanced nervously at the emissary, and he nodded. Then she turned to me with a slight smile. “I would be delighted,” she said. “Sister-wife.”

  As soon as I left her hut I ran to Saffiya’s, searching for Muhammad. “He arose early and went to the hammam,” she said. “What’s the matter, A’isha? You look so pale.”

  I turned and ran, ignoring her questions, thinking only that I had to reach Muhammad—not about how I might accomplish that while he bathed in the men’s hammam. Women, of course, were forbidden, as the attendant with the laughing eyes told me when I reached the door.

  “Please summon him. It’s urgent,” I said, but he shook his head.

  “I am under orders not to disturb the Prophet,” he said, clearly amused. “Unless it is a life-and-death matter.”

  “But it is!” I cried. “Please, tell him A’isha is here, and it’s an emergency.”

  As I waited I paced the hard-packed dirt outside the baths, replaying the scene I’d witnessed in Alia’s hut, going over every word, looking for some other, saner interpretation. It seemed far-fetched even to me, who’d heard every detail of their plan. But there had been no mistaking that poor woman’s words or the lust in Nu’man’s eyes as he’d talked about spilling Muhammad’s blood.

  The door opened and I whirled around, ready to throw myself at Muhammad’s neck and tell him all I’d seen and heard. Instead of my husband, though, I found myself facing Ali’s mocking eyes.

  “The Prophet is preparing for his wedding, A’isha,” he said. “He doesn’t have time for jealous wives today.”

  He stood with his feet apart, caressing his sheathed sword as though he contemplated using it on me. I glared at him, wishing for my own sword. How satisfying it would be to bring Ali to his knees! As for now, though, I had neither the time nor the patience for fighting, or even for arguing.

  “Yaa Ali, I asked to see Muhammad,” I said. “I have urgent news.”

  “I told you, he’s busy,” Ali said. His grin widened. “What’s the matter now, A’isha? Is Alia a spy, like Umm Habiba? Or have you conjured something new?”

  My expression must have startled him, for he stepped closer to me and stared into my eyes. “Behold your face, A’isha, with its look of a naughty child whose lie has been discovered. I am well acquainted with your tactics in the harim, even if Muhammad is not.”

  My heart began to pound very fast. “Ali, I must see Muhammad! His life may depend on it.”

  “I swear by al-Lah, if you try to disrupt this alliance with Yemen, I will make your life miserable,” he said. “I have tried to persuade Muhammad to ban you from the wedding, but he is unwilling. I warn you, though, A’isha: I have eyes, and ears, everywhere. One false word or deed from you, and I will make sure you are confined to your room until the marriage is consummated.”

  I whirled around and rushed through the streets, fury blinding me to the curious eyes of passersby. That self-important ass, blocking my access to my husband! Muhammad couldn’t have known I’d wanted to see him, or he would have come to me. I thought of going back and waiting until he emerged, but decided against it. What if Umar was with him? Al-Lah help me if he spotted me loitering outside the men’s baths!

  Soon my steps slowed, and I pulled my wrapper about my face, contemplating Ali’s jeers. As much as I hated him, his words had served a useful purpose. He’d made me realize how foolish I might appear to Muhammad if I went to him with claims of an assassination plot. I’d just accused Umm Habiba of being a spy for her father, and I’d been terribly mistaken. Before that I’d falsely called Maryam an adulteress. Because of my blunders Muhammad hadn’t believed me when I’d told him I was carrying his child. Why would he believe me now?

  If I said anything about Alia except in praise, Muhammad would only grow angrier. Then Ali could easily convince him to shut me away. If that happened, I’d never be able to carry out my plan—and Muhammad would die tonight.

  To help prepare Alia for the wedding I recruited Hafsa, the only sister-wife I trusted. When she heard about the assassination plot, her eyes flashed with a familiar, temperamental fire.

  “I’d like to thrust a dagger between those precious breasts of hers,” she said.

  “Patience, Hafsa, is t
he key to success,” I said. “If we kill her, her emissary will simply find another way to assassinate Muhammad.”

  She gripped my sleeve. “But what if your plan fails, A’isha? Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

  I told her about my attempt at the men’s hammam, and about Ali’s scorn.

  “Don’t let that bag of wind stop you from alerting Muhammad,” Hafsa said. “If something happened to our husband, it would be your fault.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to him if I can help it,” I said. “But I won’t be able to do anything if Ali has me locked away.”

  “Tell your father, then, A’isha. You can’t do this alone.”

  I nodded. “My father, of all people, might believe me. If not, though, don’t worry: My plan is a good one. And if it doesn’t work, I have another. That murderer will never get close to Muhammad.”

  I left her and went to abi’s house. I found him, to my surprise, in his majlis with Abu Sufyan. “You’re letting him stay here?” I said when he came out to greet me.

  He ran trembling hands through his hair. His eyes were vacant, staring at me but not seeing. “By al-Lah, he will not leave my sight as long as my father is his hostage.”

  I seized his beard, trying to grab his attention. “I need your help, abi. This new bride of Muhammad’s—”

  “A’isha, did you hear what I said? I am busy. I have no time for your intrigues.”

  “But this is serious!”

  His eyes focused on me at last—in a glare of outrage. “Serious!” he shouted. “You know nothing of serious. Your domestic squabbles are of no interest to me now, A’isha, do you understand? I have my father’s life to worry about. Now, leave me!”

  He turned and rushed into his majlis, leaving me feeling as if I’d just been caught in a samoom. My father couldn’t help me, after all. Despair swirled around me, but I took a deep breath and summoned my wits. I would save Muhammad myself.