The Jewel Of Medina (37 page)

M
EDINA
, M
AY
627

The entire desert buzzed with the news: The Prophet Muhammad had defeated an army of ten thousand without a casualty on his side. Converts to
islam
poured as thick as honey into Medina. Bedouin chiefs, including the leader of the Ghatafan, now clamored to be his friends. The Negus, king of Abyssinia, sent one hundred camels in congratulation. The Egyptian holy chief promised his most beautiful courtesans to Muhammad. Only one month ago all of Hijaz had called him
djinni
-possessed, but now the Prophet of al-Lah stood with the world at his feet. I stood by his side, and tried to hold my place against the conniving Zaynab.

I’d grown in Muhammad’s esteem because of my trench idea, praise alLah, and also for the way I’d helped the women to defend themselves and their children. “If it weren’t for A’isha, you would have found us huddled on the floor and blubbering like little babies,” Sawdah had told Muhammad, who’d nodded at me as if he’d expected nothing less. None of us mentioned how Zaynab, Umm Salama, and Fatima had challenged me.

My mother had changed their minds. After I’d left the mosque for Hafsa’s apartment,
ummi
had asked who agreed that fighting was more
desirable than begging. As women clamored around her, taking swords and daggers, Zaynab spied a blade with a silver scorpion clutching its handle. She grabbed the sword from my mother’s hand and lifted it up with gleaming eyes, admiring its beauty.

“
Yaa
Zaynab, if you are not going to use that sword, hand it to someone who will,” my mother snapped. But Zaynab was entranced and wouldn’t let it go. Moments later, Umm Salama’s children urged her to take a sword and protect them, their eyes wide with fear. Once Umm Salama had capitulated, Fatima decided to fight, also.

Sawdah’s tale of how I’d empowered the women brought tears to my father’s eyes, and my mother’s demonstration of her swordsmanship made him smile. Yet not all Muhammad’s Companions were impressed. Umar barked at his wives to drop their weapons before they harmed themselves, and Ali scolded Fatima for endangering their child with such a sharp object. “You should have known the men would protect you,” he said as he led her out the door of the mosque.

My father chuckled at his Companions’ reactions. “I suppose you will want to take command of the household now that you have had a taste of power,” he said to my mother. Her face lit up at the idea. She turned to the pale, haggard Qutailah, who held her sword as if it were a stinking fish, and took the weapon from her.

“Come, sister-wife. It is time we went home,” my mother said imperiously.

Umar’s wives followed him from the mosque with their heads high and smiles on their lips. Even Zaynab, seeing how Muhammad’s eyes shone when he looked at me, hoisted her sword and bragged to him about how she’d planned to skin the Qurayshi attackers alive. As she cut her eyes at me, I wondered if I’d created an even more formidable foe for myself.

I thought I had enough worries, but al-Lah must not have agreed, for He sent me another very soon. A few days after the Battle of the Trench had ended, I and Muhammad were in my room when Ali arrived. His hands gripped the arms of a
houri
-eyed woman with a beauty spot like a quince seed on her right cheek and rage in her dark eyes. Ali shoved her toward Muhammad.

“A gift from your warriors,” he said. “Raihana, the Qurayzah princess.”

She hurled a stream of spittle that landed on Muhammad’s beard. Ali cried out, but Muhammad raised his hand to silence him.

“You murdered my father, my husband, and my brothers,” the woman snarled. “I’d rather die, too, than become your whore—like this one.” She flung her hand toward me without a glance.

I winced at the hatred in her voice. Yet who couldn’t understand her anger? After Abu Sufyan’s army had fled, devastated by hunger and the
samoom
, our warriors had attacked the Qurayzah neighborhood and killed all its men in the most brutal act Muhammad had ever ordered. “We cannot risk their betraying us as the Nadr have done,” he’d said. Yet I could see sadness in his eyes as we watched our men hack off their heads and push their bodies into the trench.

I shared his sorrow, yet I supported Muhammad’s decision. The Qurayzah leader, Ka’ab, wouldn’t have shed a tear over our massacre. In truth, he’d tried to help our enemies. And if Muhammad had shown them the same mercy he’d given to the Nadr and Kaynuqah clans, our men would have rebelled. They needed to take revenge on the treacherous Qurayzah.

His gaze steady on Raihana’s face, Muhammad dabbed his beard with his sleeve. When he had finished, he told her he regretted causing her grief. “I do not require you to choose between marrying me and death.”

“If you plan to send me into slavery, kill me now,” she said. “Death by beheading would be more merciful than rapes and beatings. I’m an unskilled princess with soft hands and a sharp tongue, neither of which is valued in a slave.”

“I will not make a slave of you, daughter of Ka’ab,” Muhammad said. “In spite of his recent treachery, I admired your father. Out of respect for him I will allow you to live here, in my
harim
—but not as my wife until you have converted to
islam
.”

Foreboding filled me, but I bit back my protests. Muhammad’s warriors had given her to him, and so he couldn’t reject her. But to bring this venomous creature into the
harim
? I would have sooner kept company with a serpent.

“Marry you, and forsake my Jewish God?” Raihana’s laugh scraped like sand over a fresh wound. “I will never do that, even to get my sons back.”

“You have not lost your children,” Muhammad said. “They may live with you here.”

Raihana lowered her eyes, but not before I saw the tears cupped on her lashes like dewdrops on blades of grass. Ali prodded her with his sword. “See how kind our Prophet is?” he said. “Why don’t you thank him for his generosity?”

She glared at Ali. “Why should I thank him for giving to me what is already mine?”

“What kind of man is Muhammad?” Raihana asked that evening in the cooking tent, where we sister-wives hid from the men building her hut. “A killer or a lover?”

“He only kills those who deserve to die,” I retorted, still stung by her “whore” remark. “Luckily for you, he’s not so choosy about whom he loves.”

She pursed her full lips at me. “Jealous?” she said. “You needn’t worry about me. I’m not interested in your false Prophet.”

“False!” From the corner where she played with the children, Sawdah cried out. Her face reddened like a pomegranate as she pushed herself to standing and lumbered over to us. “The Prophet is the truest man in all of Hijaz.”

Raihana smirked. “A true pretender. Claiming to be the prophet our Jewish Book foretold. Would God anoint an Arab over one of His own chosen people?”

Sawdah tutted and lowered herself to sit in the “nest” with me, Hafsa, Juwairriyah, and Raihana. I leaped into the discussion, relishing the role of Muhammad’s defender.

“Would a pretender risk everything he owned?” I glanced around at my sister-wives for support. “Muhammad had a wealthy wife, one of the most beautiful homes in Mecca, four daughters, and a life of ease. Why would he want to change his life unless he had to?”

“Oh, I see. God forced him to do it,” Raihana said, rolling her eyes.

“As a matter of fact, He did,” Hafsa said.

“It was the angel Gabriel that forced him,” Sawdah said. Her voice dropped to a mystical hush, and she told the tale the rest of us knew so well—how Muhammad had become the Prophet of al-Lah.

In a cave atop Mount Hira, Muhammad was sitting in meditation and
praying to his family’s gods when a sound like thunder shook the walls. A booming voice echoed through the cave. “Recite!” it commanded.

Muhammad fell prostrate with fear, wondering if fasting had made him delirious. Then, in the dark, a pair of hands squeezed his throat, choking him. “Recite!” the voice shouted again, and the hands released him.

Shaking so violently he could barely stand, Muhammad stumbled to the cave’s entrance, wanting a glimpse of his attacker, wondering if it might be a
djinni
. What he saw stunned him: A great, glowing figure of a man—the angel Gabriel—straddled the horizon, blocking the moon and stars. Muhammad fell down in a trembling heap.

Raihana scoffed. “A
djinni
? Surely no one believes this ludicrous tale.”

Zaynab strolled in with Umm Salama at her side and Fatima in the rear like an attendant. She stood over me with a contemptuous smile.

“I have just heard a most interesting rumor,” she said.

I tensed. “Did it involve a man’s daughter-in-law and a curtain?” I asked, glaring up at her.

“That old bit of gossip has long been disproved,” Fatima broke in.

“This is a new tale. Judging from its source, I’d say it’s true,” Zaynab said. “Your mother’s sister-wife told me. Has anyone else heard it? About Muhammad’s child bride being too afraid to consummate their marriage until recently?”

Hafsa’s eyes bulged at me, warning me to restrain myself. Sawdah shook her head and told Zaynab she shouldn’t listen to gossip. Fear crept up my neck. According to tradition, which linked marriage with consummation, Zaynab had been Muhammad’s wife for longer than I, which gave her more rights to the
hatun
position.

“Maybe it wasn’t fear that stopped Muhammad, but that skinny child’s body,” Zaynab taunted. “You still look like a child to me. And, as we saw during the siege, you still act like one.” Her eyes glimmered. “Like a boy who can’t wait to become a man.”

Hafsa clamped her hand over her mouth, signaling to me, but I was too enraged to hold my tongue any longer.

“
Yaa
Hafsa, did you hear something?” I said, keeping my tone casual. “A strange squawking sound, like a parrot?”

Zaynab sucked in her breath. “We’ll see who’s the parrot in this
harim
,” she snapped. She turned to my sister-wives. “Let’s take a vote right now.”

She marched over to her group’s corner and took a seat. “All of you who want A’isha to be your
hatun
, remain there in her court. Those of you who support me, come and sit here.”

Umm Salama followed her without a pause, and Fatima, of course. The three of them sat facing us.

I grinned. Fatima didn’t count. With Sawdah, Hafsa, and Juwairriyah on my side, I had the majority. I flashed Zaynab a look of triumph—but she was smiling eagerly at Juwairriyah, who had moved over to her corner

“I and Juwairriyah became good friends while you were throwing yourself at Safwan,” Zaynab said to me. She swiveled her head to address the women by her side. “As
hatun
, sister-wives, what task should I make A’isha perform first?”

“Why not have me count your votes?” I said archly. “I see two others, besides your own.” I looked around at my group. “By al-Lah, we have the same number!”

“
Yaa
Zaynab, don’t designate yourself the
hatun
yet,” Hafsa said. “You need one more vote.”

Zaynab raised her eyebrows at Raihana. “There’s still another member of this
harim
to be heard from,” she said. “Lovely Raihana.” She flashed her most dazzling smile. “Welcome to our home, sister-wife. Whom would you rather have leading this
harim
: me, a woman of maturity and intelligence, or this impulsive little brat?”

Raihana laughed. “Don’t expect me to choose sides in this fight,” she said. “I’ve already witnessed too many battles. Besides, I’m not married to Muhammad, so I’m not a member of this
harim
. And, God willing, I never will be.”

M
UTINY AT
M
ECCA

M
EDINA THEN AL
-H
UDAYBIYYAH
, M
AY
627

The confrontation with Zaynab had been a close call. One more vote in her favor, and I would have been shoveling out the toilet that afternoon. It was time, I decided, to conceive a child. Knowing my plight, Sawdah had begun whispering remedies: A suppository made from the desert plant
khuzama
was supposed to help a woman’s fertility. I’d try it when Muhammad came to me next. Soon, al-Lah willing, I’d bear his son.