The Jewel Of Medina (12 page)

“
Yaa
Ali, the heat keeps only the lazy from an event like this one,” I said, glaring at him from my horse. “Of course, no one needs to tell
you
about laziness.”

As slowly as a snake wriggling out of its skin, he peeled himself from the wall to amble over to Sawdah’s side.

“What am I supposed to do?” he drawled. “It is forbidden for any man to touch the Prophet’s wives. But little girls might not know that.” He draped the edge of his robe over his hand, then used it to hoist Sawdah over the camel’s hump until she’d finally settled in her saddle. She mopped her sweating face as he commanded the camel to stand. I cringed to hear her thank Ali profusely for his help.

“I know you did not want to come with us,” she told Ali. “But I swear by al-Lah, I did not ask the Prophet to send you. In truth, I tried to talk him out of it.”

Sawdah just wanted to sell her saddlebags; she didn’t want to bother anyone. That was what she had told Muhammad this morning, when she’d asked for permission to go to the Kaynuqah market.

From the tilt of his head and the set of his jaw when she’d come to my apartment to ask, I could see that Muhammad wanted to say “no.” But how could he? The Kaynuqah
suq
was the only worthwhile market of the year in Medina. There, Sawdah’s lovely leather work would sell for a good price. Yet something worried him: The Kaynuqah had traded for many years with our enemy Abu Sufyan. Their alliance with the Quraysh was strong, and driven by something Muhammad didn’t possess: money. Because of money, our raids on Qurayshi caravans were causing resentment from our Kaynuqah neighbors—that, and Muhammad’s claim that he was the Prophet their holy Book foretold. Their leaders had mocked him for it, saying their God would never send an Arab to minister to Jews.

“I am sorry, Sawdah, but I cannot allow you to go,” Muhammad had said. “There is much tension between us and the Kaynuqah. Their market is too dangerous for you.” Sawdah looked as if she might crumple into a heap. She’d been working for months on her saddlebags, tanning the pieces of leather to a butter-soft consistency, tooling moons and stars into
them, stitching them together with a needle of bone, adding fringe as thick and wavy as camel’s hair. Now that they were complete, who could blame her for wanting the best price?

I spoke out on her behalf. “
Yaa
Muhammad, are we training our army to fight our enemies or to run away from them? Warriors don’t cower in their homes, afraid of the next battle. I will be Sawdah’s guard. Anyone who touches her will lose his hand.”

Muhammad’s lips twitched, holding back a smile. “You want to go to the market, Little Red? Will you prevent trouble there, or cause it?”

I lifted my chin. “I’ll stop whatever trouble there is to stop, and cause whatever trouble needs to be caused.”

Eventually, he did let us go—with Ali, who urged him to change his mind about me. “I am no baby-sitter,” he said. “I think you should follow Abu Bakr’s example and keep A’isha at home, to avoid trouble.”

Keep me at home! My chest tightened as though a harness had been attached to me. Yet I knew my sense of humor could win Muhammad’s favor, so I forced a laugh. He looked at me with raised eyebrows.

“Have I missed a joke, A’isha?” he said. “Please share it with me.”

“Nothing, husband,” I said, then gave him a wink. “Only that, from Ali’s words, I see that he knows nothing about my abilities. If there’s a fight, he’ll need my help!”

Muhammad chuckled, but he shook his head. “You may speak the truth, A’isha, but Ali is also convincing. Yet, since we have heard no reports of conflict at this market, I will allow you to go.”

“By al-Lah, cousin, you are making a mistake,” Ali said, glaring at me. “Will you at least make her leave that sword at home? You see how eager she is to use it.”

“Leave it at home?” My pulse skittered. “But what if I’m attacked? How will I defend myself?” Without my sword, I’d be just a helpless female in need of male protection.

“I will let you to carry it to the market,” Muhammad said. “But you must promise not to use it unless you are attacked. Even then, you must first ask for Ali’s help. I am sending him to protect you and Sawdah. It is better if you allow him to do so.”

I ran to him and flung my arms around his waist. I was going to the market! It would be my first excursion in six years.

“Watch A’isha closely, cousin,” Muhammad said with a grin. “She bested me last night with that sword of hers. If there is a fight, observe her. You may learn something.” Ali didn’t smile, having the humor of a rock.

“Silly fools, going out while Medina blazes like the fires of Hell,” Ali grumped as we rode. Sawdah turned fretful eyes to me; she hated to displease any man. I had no such problem. “Don’t worry, Sawdah,” I said—loudly, so Ali could hear. “Wait until you’ve sold your saddlebags. When Ali sees your purse bulging with gold coins, he’ll be nice. He’ll probably carry you home to the mosque on his own back.”

Ali
hmphed
, and then we were all quiet as heat covered our noses and mouths with its smothering hand. The tang of manure stung my nostrils. Flies whirled in frenzied clouds, aiming for my eyes. The sun flashed, dazzling us. Somewhere in the city, wailing women screeched over a dead body. I pulled my wrapper close around my face. Through the narrow opening I peered at the city of Medina. Carefully I breathed through my mouth, trying to avoid the stench. Just ahead, Sawdah huffed and prayed, drawing disgusted looks from Ali.

“Oh God, why did you choose this day of all days to blow Your hottest breath on us?” she moaned. Then, so He wouldn’t feel criticized, she quickly added, “But You know best.”

Soon we passed through the shade of date palms, where a few women strolled to the market in twos and threes, mopping their faces and carrying empty baskets on their heads. Their colorful garments added greens, reds, and blues to the drab streets lined with mud-brick houses. Children laughed and ran among their legs, oblivious to the sun. I delighted in their freedom, remembering how I’d kicked up the sands in Mecca with strong leaping feet and shouted until my lungs felt sore. Coming the other way, men trudged behind their donkeys, spurring them on with whips and sun-sparked curses. The bedraggled animals pulled wooden carts laden with wine, honey, and rice—rare goods, from faraway lands—purchased in the Kaynuqah market. My pulse quickened as I remembered the exotic aromas, bright colors, and strange, musical tongues that had made the market in Mecca so exciting. Would we see a similar scene in the Kaynuqah neighborhood today?

A few Believers passed us as we lumbered along. They grinned and made comic faces at Ali, teasing him for riding with two women.

“Someone alert the Prophet!” cried a lean man with ears that stuck out from his head like open doors. “Ali is stealing his wives!”

“One wife is not enough for a man with two blades,” called another, and everyone laughed. Ali’s eyes narrowed as he brandished Zulfikar, his double-bladed sword. I’d heard him brag that he’d split the blades by yanking the sword from a scabbard that had been nailed shut—quite a feat of strength, if it were the truth. But I knew that Muhammad had given the sword to him, twin points and all, after the battle at Badr. The men cheered to see its blades reflecting the sun. Some of them chanted a name—Ali’s or al-Lah’s, I couldn’t tell which.

After a short time we reached the far edge of Medina, and it seemed as if we’d entered another world. The farm-town, with its streets full of sheep and goats, had faded away. The Kaynuqah neighborhood was dark and full of shadows. Shops lined the edges of the cobbled, canopy-filled street, the tall stone buildings blocking out the sun and casting a menacing pall. Men stood in the shaded doorways of their stores and watched us from the corners of their eyes. The aromas of roasting lamb and mint made my mouth water, but I clenched my stomach against the leers of the venders. From the tents, men and women announced their wares, filling the air with their cries—until we passed, and the exuberant shouts faded to suspicious murmurs.

I tensed every muscle in my body as if to cover myself with armor, and kept my gaze on the colorful beads dangling from racks alongside copper bracelets and bolts of dyed cloth. A grinning bald man with a gold tooth and a booth filled with jewelry held up a long knife as we passed, turning it this way and that as if to see his reflection, then gave me a pointed look. A goat-faced vendor darted out his tongue, lizard-like, then laughed when I hid my face in my wrapper. A chill seemed to drip down my spine as I remembered Muhammad’s warnings about the Kaynuqah. I turned to Sawdah, intending to suggest we return to the mosque, but the smirk on Ali’s face stopped me. He’d tell Muhammad I’d been afraid, and that would be the end of my excursions. I touched my sword, reminding myself that I was a good fighter, and I felt my heartbeat and my breathing become slower and more steady.

Our little caravan stopped. I hopped down from Scimitar and tied her to a post, trying not to think of the eyes watching me. Ali helped Sawdah
dismount her camel and the two of them walked away, leaving me behind to calm my skittish horse. I scouted the crowd for hostile faces. Now it seemed everyone was too busy buying and selling to notice the presence of a few Muslims in the crowd, and I gave myself a shake for letting my imagination get the best of me. For the first time in years I was free to wander about, and I wasn’t going to let my childish fears ruin my pleasure. As for Sawdah, Ali would take care of her. All I needed to do was avoid trouble so Muhammad wouldn’t stop me from going out like this again.

I wandered among the stalls, forgetting about danger in the thrill of being surrounded by beautiful things: ornate
kohl
pots and perfume bottles of silver and colored glass; fragrant myrrh and frankincense; rubies like blood-drops on a gold necklace. I lifted the jewelry toward the sky, trying to see the color of the light in the stone. A hand snatched it away. I stared at the twisted face of a woman with eyes like hot coals.

“Muslim thief!” she snarled. “Is it not enough that you steal our goods from Quraysh’s caravans? Keep your fingers away from my merchandise.” I stepped back onto someone’s foot.

“By al-Lah! Forgive my clumsiness.” My skin began to flood with heat even before I looked up into the smooth, sculpted face of Safwan. He had grown nearly as tall as my father since I’d last seen him, and his ears no longer jugged out from his head. The strong line of his jaw, the slant of his dark eyes and the long hair hanging like a mane down his back made me think of an Arabian steed. The curl of his lips reminded me of the nights, long ago, when he’d filled my dreams. I lowered my gaze, too flustered to speak.

“My feet are honored to carry such a pretty load.” His voice was as soft as the purr of a cat. My pulse fluttered and I pressed a hand against a stall for support. “Are you going to faint?” Safwan said. “It must be the heat. You need a cool breeze.”

He plucked a fan made of date-palm leaves from a nearby pile and held it out to me. I stood there as if my body had turned to wood. It wasn’t proper for me to accept a gift from any man except Muhammad or my father—but that wasn’t why I froze. I worried that his fingers might brush mine, or that I would feel the heat from his hands on the fan as I touched it. Surely al-Lah would strike me dead for betraying His Prophet! Safwan watched me standing like a statue, struggling to breathe, and his eyes glinted.

“We of the
umma
must relieve one another’s sufferings as we can.” He
waved the fan over my head and face as if he were my servant—but no servant would have moved so close to me, or caressed me with his eyes as the palm fronds tickled my nose and cheeks. My pulse raced like that galloping horse I’d dreamt so often of riding on with him.

“By al-Lah, that smile is worth the pain in my toes!” he murmured. “I wish for a camel to trod on my feet next. Then I might have a thousand of your smiles to console me.”

I couldn’t help laughing, he was so audacious, but when I glanced up at him the expression on his face told me clearly that he was not joking. And I wondered: Was this the danger I’d sensed when I’d approached the market?

“
Yaa
A’isha,” he said. “I miss our times together.”

A shriek shattered our moment, drawing our attention to the goldsmith’s stall. There a group of women pointed to Sawdah and cawed with laughter. Oblivious, she fingered a new piece of leather and waddled toward the outdoor cafe where Ali drank coffee with his friends. As she walked, her thighs jiggled like dancers, bared to the world. Someone had pinned the back of her skirt up to her belt.

The baldheaded goldsmith doubled over and grabbed his sides in laughter. Other merchants slapped him on the back, congratulating him for his trick.

“The true face of the Muslim is revealed!” he shouted.

Ali continued to talk, unaware. I cried out and would have run to her, but Safwan grabbed the sleeve of my robe. “No, A’isha, it’s too dangerous for you,” he said. I jerked myself out of his reach and fled through the stalls, ignoring his shouts, toppling baskets of fruit and scattering jewelry with my feet.

I ran straight to Sawdah and stopped behind her with my arms spread, blocking her backside. “Don’t move, Sawdah,” I said. “Your skirt is pinned up in back.”

Sawdah cried out and waved her hands across her rear, felt her bare legs. “Move out of the way!” someone yelled. “We can’t see her.” The goldsmith took a step toward me, flashing his gold tooth.

“I dare anyone else to come near the wives of the Prophet Muhammad,” I shouted, hoping no one could hear the tremor in my voice.

After only a few weeks’ lessons from Muhammad, I wasn’t skilled enough to fight a donkey, let alone a man. But someone had to defend Sawdah, and Ali was occupied. Besides, I could afford to be brave: No man would confront a twelve-year-old girl. Or so I thought.

“Look, another Muslim whore who wants her skirt pinned up,” the goldsmith jeered. “Come here, darling, and I’ll do your front.” He lunged for me, his hands grasping like a scorpion’s pincers. I whipped my sword from its sheath and slashed the back of his hand with the tip of my blade. He cried out and pressed the wound to his mouth. The taste of his blood filled his eyes with hatred. He drew a dagger from his belt and raised it, popping his eyes at me.