The Jewel Of Medina Read online

That afternoon I tried to keep my hands steady and my voice light as I and Hafsa primped and painted and coifed the bride-to-be until she dazzled even us with her beauty. I flattered Alia and gave her sisterly advice while Hafsa, gritting her teeth, adorned the bride’s hands and arms with sharp-toothed serpents and thorny roses—very fashionable, I assured her.

  The next part of my plan was crucial to its success. Knowing how Alia had been blackmailed into her role, I almost hated to do it. I consoled myself by thinking of Muhammad, and my love for him formed a hard shell over my heart.

  “Now remember,” I said as she stood to leave. “When the time comes for your consummation tonight, don’t submit to Muhammad right away.”

  “Be coy,” Hafsa said. “That’s how he likes it.”

  “Resist his advances—while giggling, so he’ll know you aren’t serious,” I said.

  “Men relish the role of pursuer,” Alia said. Then she gave us a sly smile. “That is what I have heard.”

  “Muhammad will lose interest in you if he finds you an easy conquest.”

  “But what if I frighten him away?”

  “Frighten the Prophet? The mightiest warrior in Hijaz?” Hafsa’s laugh was scornful.

  “Just as he is about to achieve the consummation, cry out, ‘I take refuge in al-Lah from you!’” I said, wiggling my eyebrows at her. “His reaction will surprise you.”

  In truth, I had already seen the phrase’s effect on Muhammad. During one of our evening coffee hours with him, Saffiya had told a disturbing tale from the umma’s raid on her tribe. A cousin had begged for mercy as one of our warriors stripped off her clothes. “I take refuge with al-Lah from you!” the woman cried, but the soldier hadn’t paused in his attack. In truth, Saffiya said, he’d called her an impostor and treated her more roughly than before.

  Muhammad’s face turned as pale as milk when he heard the tale. “Who is that warrior? He will certainly burn in Hell for that transgression.”

  “But the woman wasn’t a Muslim,” Zaynab said.

  “Do you think only Muslims can call on al-Lah?” Muhammad said. “Anyone who does so should be protected.”

  Looking in her mirror, Alia practiced her line.

  “I take refuge with al-Lah from you,” she said, and frowned. “Are you certain that will excite Muhammad?”

  “You will be amazed at the effect,” Hafsa said. She smirked as the unwitting Alia walked out of her apartment and into the mosque, toward the trap that awaited her.

  “Praise al-Lah,” Zaynab muttered at the wedding, “the bride’s marriage gown, at least, does not plunge down to her navel.”

  “Yaa Zaynab, did you think you invented that form of seduction?” Hafsa teased.

  “Mine was an off-shoulder nightgown,” Zaynab said. “And no, I did not invent it, but I perfected it.”

  “I thought she was going to burst open like springtime when she came down off that camel yesterday,” Raihana said.

  “They have much to learn about modesty in Yemen,” Umm Salama said.

  Maryam didn’t participate in our talk, but stood off to the side, splendidly dressed in white linen and long jeweled earrings, and sending us cool sideways glances. But I felt sure her loneliness was well compensated when Muhammad smiled sweetly at her across the room. I caught his eye, also, but he quickly glanced away, making my own eyes burn. Perhaps after I’d saved his life he’d love and trust me again.

  Please al-Lah, please let my plan work. As the rest of the umma feasted, disastrous scenarios pushed aside my hunger. What if Alia failed to say the phrase I’d taught her? Then she and Muhammad would consummate the marriage, and, as always after lovemaking, Muhammad would fall into a deep, satisfied sleep from which even the angel Gabriel couldn’t awaken him. Cutting his throat would be an easy task.

  I tried to comfort myself: Wouldn’t I be waiting nearby, ready to defend Muhammad with my sword? Yet my mind was so preoccupied with worries that I hardly tasted the exotic Yemeni food everyone else said was so delicious: Juicy hunks of goat in a peppery broth; a yogurt-and-cucumber salad pungent with garlic; a spicy-hot relish; sweet bright slices of ripe mango. I picked at my food, knowing I should fill my belly, but my thoughts honed in on the night ahead as if I were preparing for battle. Muhammad had looked so happy as he’d gazed down into his bride’s face, blissfully unaware of her treachery.

  We wives approached him for kisses and congratulations after the meal was finished. When I beheld Muhammad’s smile, my throat felt as if a blade were pressing against it. And poor Alia’s arms trembled as she embraced me.

  “I have not forgotten the phrase you taught me,” she whispered.

  “Don’t forget to say it, or he may not be able to consummate.” I blushed to utter such a slander on Muhammad’s manhood.

  The night stretched out like a terrifying dream. I’d planned to crouch behind Alia’s hut, listening to the conversation within. That way, I would know whether my plan had succeeded. If she failed to say the words, I’d spring out with my sword before the emissary could even touch the door handle.

  But as I neared the apartment, my sword hidden under my robe, I saw the figures of men, one at each corner of the building. That wily Nu’man had posted guards—not against evildoers from outside, but to protect the ones within.

  Broken clouds muffled the moonlight like an assailant’s hand. I crouched in the shadows beside Umm Habiba’s hut next door, straining to hear the murmurs and whispers filtering from their bedroom.

  “Nothing to fear,”

  I thought I heard Muhammad say. “Thrilling kisses,” she purred.

  His hungry eyes. His devouring mouth on her flesh. His fingers untying her, unwrapping her. I shook my head, scattering the images, but they drew themselves again, delineated by his animal moans, her sultry laughter. She sounded anything but innocent. Had she forgotten her ploy, or cast it aside? I prayed she wouldn’t forget her line.

  “Say it!” I whispered, crouched in the dark, dabbing the moisture from my face, willing my thudding heart to be quiet so I could hear.

  I heard her gasp, sharp as a dagger, and his deep laugh. By al-Lah, had he shown himself to her?

  “Say it,” I rasped. Help, al-Lah! Please, don’t let her forget. If she failed to say her line, I would be powerless to stop him. The guards would overwhelm me, and Muhammad’s life would be lost, unless I found a way to get near that door.

  I glanced around the courtyard, looking for answers. Why hadn’t I tried harder to get help? I’d been afraid no one would believe me. How foolish those fears seemed now! Even the suspicion of a plot might have made Muhammad more careful, or might have put my father on the alert. I’d been so confident I could rescue Muhammad. Now it was too late to seek help, and Muhammad might pay the ultimate price for my vanity.

  The clouds shifted again, unsheathing the moon. Its light bathed everyone in the courtyard—including me. I stepped back into the shadows, but my movement had caught the attention of the front-door guard. Without a sound he sprang across the grass and seized me by the hair.

  “Come with me,” he rasped, and, with his hand over my mouth, yanked me toward the emissary’s tent.

  My eyes filled with tears from the pain in my scalp but somehow I managed to reach for the dagger under my arm. As the guard jerked me along I formed a plan: Once we were out of sight of Alia’s hut I would shove the blade into his belly, then don his clothing and post myself at the door. That way I’d have no trouble stopping Muhammad’s murderer.

  But before we got very far a screeching wail pierced the night, a terrible sound like cats before a fight. The guard stopped and turned, still holding me, and I turned with him to see Muhammad stepping into the courtyard, his clothing in disarray, his head bare—and the tearful Alia, in a diaphanous gown, clinging to his arm. In the distance the clatter of galloping hoof beats rose, then faded.

  My heart smashed against itself, clamoring to be heard. I struggled with the guard, wanting to scream out a warning to Muhammad. H
e stood without a weapon and surrounded by assassins, unaware of danger.

  “Yaa Muhammad, beware!” Hafsa ran into the courtyard with Umar and Talha, who brandished swords. Seeing them, the guard released me and rushed toward Alia, waving his own sword. Nu’man was nowhere to be seen.

  “Muhammad, watch out!” I cried. “They’re assassins!” But no one heard me.

  “I didn’t mean it!” Alia cried. “Your other wives told me to say it. They said you would like it, those she-dogs! Please do not send me back home. I will do anything!”

  She flung her arms around his waist, then his legs. Muhammad reached down and pulled her gently to her feet. She entwined her arms around his neck, but he pried her loose and handed her to the guard.

  “My bride has sought refuge from me with al-Lah,” Muhammad said. “I must obey her wish and send her home untouched.”

  The guard frowned. “But you heard her say she did not mean her words,” he said. “She was deceived.”

  “It does not matter,” Muhammad said. “The words hold the same power regardless of her intention.”

  “The king will be insulted.” The guard thrust the sobbing Alia forward, jostling her against Muhammad who stepped back and fended her off.

  “Will al-Lah allow me to marry one who has sought His protection from me? The decision is not mine to make,” Muhammad said. “I am deeply sorry.”

  At that moment the tear-streaked bride spotted me standing in the courtyard. She tried to yank herself free of the guard but had no better luck than I’d had.

  “A’isha!” she screamed. “You did this to me. Yaa Prophet, there she is, the one who tricked me. And that one, also!” She pointed to Hafsa, who returned a glare.

  “It was an assassination attempt,” I said.

  The stricken look on Muhammad’s face as he turned his eyes to me almost made me wish I were the one being sent away instead of his new bride. Yet if he knew the truth, he’d laud me as his savior.

  “Muhammad,” I said, my voice beseeching. “You have to believe me. Nu’man was going to kill you tonight!”

  “Enough!” he shouted through lips that trembled.

  “No, you must believe me.” I looked around for Nu’man, intending to accuse him, but he hadn’t appeared. I recalled the sound of hoof beats after Alia’s scream, and I knew he’d gone.

  “Where’s Nu’man?” I turned to the guard, whose hard eyes told me he’d known of Nu’man’s plans. “He ran away, didn’t he?” I turned to Muhammad, triumphant. “Only a guilty man would flee.”

  The guard released Alia, who now stood sobbing quietly, and bowed to Muhammad. “The emissary sends his farewell,” he said. “The king called him back to Yemen this afternoon on urgent business.”

  Muhammad’s face darkened. The vein between his eyes throbbed. He glared at me, then at my sister-wives, who’d floated into the courtyard like so many ghosts.

  “It does not matter which of my wives did this deed, for any of them would have wished to,” he said, sweeping his hand to include all nine of us. “These women are like the brothers of Joseph, who sold him into slavery. Loving themselves above all others, they would betray the one who would never do them harm.”

  He turned and marched back into the hut that had been Alia’s, slamming the door behind him. Hafsa and I turned to each other with eyes full of panic. “He will divorce me now, for certain,” she murmured.

  I said nothing, but trudged to my hut feeling as if a foot were pressing on my chest. Hafsa wasn’t the only one who had to worry about divorce. When Muhammad had looked at me tonight, I’d seen his love shatter into one thousand and one fragments. Only a miracle could save us now.

  HONOR AND GLORY

  In the confusion following the incident with Alia, the Yemeni caravan departed before I could explain to Muhammad what had happened. Umar had rebuked Hafsa for believing my “outlandish” tales about Alia and Nu’man, while Muhammad asked the emissary to send his apologies to the Yemeni king.

  As for me, I waited anxiously to convince Muhammad that I’d saved his life by deceiving his bride. But how could I tell him anything? He avoided me as though I were a leper. For three evenings I waited for his visit, yet he spent his nights with Juwairriyah, Raihana, and Saffiya, instead.

  I barely left my apartment. I didn’t want to answer my sister-wives’ questions. I couldn’t even answer my own. Why, I agonized, had I risked Muhammad’s life? I’d never felt so afraid as I had when the Yemeni guard was dragging me away from Alia’s hut. I’d thought I could protect Muhammad by myself, but my plan had nearly failed. What if it had failed? If Alia hadn’t followed my ridiculous advice, Muhammad might be dead, and I would be at fault.

  If Muhammad died now, the umma would die also. We’d buzz about like a beehive without its queen, and Abu Sufyan would have little trouble soaking the streets of Medina with the blood of Believers. And I and my sister-wives and their children—plus my baby—would be sold as slaves, the children separated from their mothers, the women enduring the humiliations of men with hard eyes and cold fingers prodding our secret places.

  I’d taken risks for Muhammad, but not only for his sake. I’d done it for myself—I’d rather die than live as a slave—and for the umma. Now, it seemed, the price for my foolhardiness was Muhammad’s love, for he looked away whenever I glimpsed him in the courtyard, and he failed to come to my apartment even for his nightly visit. I felt as empty as if my soul had flown away.

  Three days after Alia’s departure, Muhammad sent word that he was leaving. He, my father, Ali, and Zayd were on their way to meet with the Ghatafani. He sent my father to say good-bye to me.

  “Our departure is hastily arranged,” abi explained, averting his gaze. “Muhammad has no time to visit with you now.”

  “But he must!” I cried. “I have something important to tell him.”

  “The Ghatafani chief demands Muhammad’s presence immediately,” abi said. “He wants revenge against Quraysh for the killing of his tribesmen and the breaking of the peace treaty. He is angry about Muhammad’s latest agreement with Abu Sufyan.”

  Who could blame the chief? Muhammad had negotiated only for himself, apparently forgetting the pride of his Bedouin allies. Yet the Ghatafani would be easily assuaged. The real danger to Muhammad, I feared, lay with the Yemeni.

  In just a few hours Muhammad and my father would be traveling in the desert, vulnerable to attack. Would Nu’man give up so easily when he had traveled so far to kill Muhammad? I was certain that he and his group lurked nearby, waiting to fulfill their evil mission.

  “Abi,” I said. “You must warn Muhammad. That woman he nearly married was an assassin.” I told him the entire story, from spying on her with Nu’man in her hut to thwarting their plot with my advice. As I spoke, his face reddened.

  “Why have you waited so long to tell me this? Muhammad could have been killed!”

  “I tried to tell you,” I said. “I tried to tell Muhammad. But no one would listen.”

  He frowned. “Forgive me, A’isha. I should not have dismissed you. I am as much to blame for all this as you are.”

  “Yet my plan worked, didn’t it, abi?” I lifted my head proudly. “Muhammad is alive.”

  My father closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. I waited for his rebuke, reminding myself that it didn’t matter what anyone, even my own abi, thought about me or what I’d done—as long as they kept Muhammad’s neck safe from the Yemeni’s blade.

  When he opened his eyes, I thanked al-Lah to see that his expression had softened.

  “Yaa A’isha, I have often wished your brother Abd al-Rahman had some of your spark,” he said. “I used to wonder why al-Lah had wasted all that intelligence and courage on a female.”

  “Unfortunately, courage seems to be admired only in men,” I said, lowering my eyes so he couldn’t see how his remarks stung me. So my father thought my efforts to protect Muhammad had been wasted. If I’d been a man, he’d be beaming with pride at me right now. A
s a woman, I was an embarrassment.

  “You are wrong,” he said, calling my gaze to his broad smile, his shining eyes. “I have more respect for you than for both my sons combined. You have not let being a woman prevent you from fighting for your umma.”

  “Yet still I am criticized,” I said. “If I were a man, I’d walk around in a glow from the praise.”

  “Glory,” my father scoffed. “Is that what you want? It is not difficult to obtain. Ask Abu Sufyan. Glory is as easy to grasp as a dagger. It draws attention to its bearer like a blade flashing in the sun. Honor, on the other hand, requires discipline and compassion and self-respect. It often works silently, without recognition or the desire for it. Honor comes only after years of effort and, once grasped, is even more difficult to hold.”

  “Which makes it more precious,” I guessed.

  He lifted his eyebrows as if he could only now see me clearly. “As precious as a courageous daughter.”

  He stepped forward and clasped my elbow, greeting me in the way of men. I clasped his elbow in return, choking back my emotion, accepting the tribute he’d bestowed on me. We could never be equals—he was, after all, my father—but in that moment we were Companions, each with the same purpose: the protection of our Prophet and of the umma, and of our freedom to worship our God in peace.

  “You saved Muhammad, and you did it brilliantly,” he said. “In doing so, you saved the umma also.” My eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude as he pulled me close for a coffee-and-cardamom embrace.

  My heart seemed to swell in my chest until it filled my throat, keeping me from speaking. My father was proud of me for what I’d done! He’d grasped my elbow and praised my cleverness. I buried myself in his arms, in his long, henna-dyed beard, in the love and trust I felt beating in his heart. Then he released his hold and turned to leave.

  “I must go and confer with Muhammad now,” he said. “In the meantime, we should keep your news a secret. It would only worry the umma.”

  “All I care about is Muhammad’s approval, and no one else’s—except yours,” I said. “What if he doesn’t believe you?”