The Jewel Of Medina (34 page)

“But Zaynab—”

“Zaynab can take care of herself. I know you two have become close friends, but she does not need to send you on her behalf. You can tell her I said so when you see her again.” He held open the door, and Fatima huffed out.

“You’ve done it now,” I said. “Zaynab is next.”

Moments later there she stood, chilling the room with her cold stare, filling it with the fragrance of thorny roses.

“I have come to make a protest,” she said. Her eyes moved over the baskets of food, the silks and linens, the jewels and hair combs that spilled over the floor of my room. She picked up the mirror from my table and eyed her reflection lovingly. Yet when she put it down the tenderness had vanished from her eyes.

“If you are going to complain about my time with A’isha, I have already heard it from the others,” Muhammad said.

“Look at all the treasure piled at her feet—for what? For acting like a fool!”

“If foolish behavior earns treasures, then Zaynab’s apartment must be filled with gold,” I said.

“Muhammad, this brings shame to the rest of your wives. Please tell the people of the
umma
to stop sending gifts to A’isha,” Zaynab said. “We like honey and pomegranates also.”

“Refuse these gifts and insult those who would congratulate A’isha? I cannot do that.”

“You spoil her!” Zaynab cried. “She has only to lift a finger, and you run to her side as if she were a baby.”

I laughed. “With that pout, you’re the one who looks like a baby.” Then I remembered that Muhammad had asked me to be quiet.

Looking at me, he swept an arm toward Zaynab. “I have been defending you all afternoon, with little benefit,” he said. “Would you like to speak on your own behalf, A’isha?”

“Only to point out the destructive nature of jealousy,” I said, smiling sweetly at Zaynab. “And to remind you that your sister Hamnah’s lies are just that: lies.”

Zaynab’s skin turned as pale as the moon, and her eyes flashed in outrage.

“I had nothing to do with Hamnah’s accusations,” she said, lethally calm. “If she thought she acted on my behalf, she was mistaken.”

She lowered her eyes and glided out the door, closing it behind her. I looked at Muhammad and saw, by his lifted eyebrows and shaking head, that I had gone too far. I lowered my gaze, chagrined by how easily I’d fallen back into my old, impulsive ways, despite swearing to Muhammad that I had changed. I’d never win the trust of my sister-wives if I continued to speak without first measuring my words. By blaming Zaynab—unjustly, it seemed—for her sister’s actions, I’d certainly made an enemy of her at a time when I should be making friends.

Frantically I glanced around the room. My gaze fell on the bronze mirror, and an idea flew into my head.

I snatched up the mirror and dashed into the courtyard. “Wait!” I cried. Zaynab halted in the dappled shade of the ghaza’a tree and turned to me with eyes so cold they made me shiver.

“
Yaa
Zaynab, forgive my harsh words,” I said, venturing a smile. “I’ve heard how you refused to slander me. Please accept this as a token of my gratitude.”

I held the mirror out to her. She looked down her nose at me as she took it, as if she were doing me a favor.

“I have done nothing for you,” she said.

“You defended me.”

“My sister and I saw you walking into my wedding feast with Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal snapping at your heels,” she said. “Lust was smeared all over your face, and his, too. But when Muhammad asked me, I said I did not believe you would be unfaithful to him. However, I did not do that for you.”

I frowned. “For whom, then?”

“For Muhammad!” Two messengers paraded past us with gifts in their hands, headed to my apartment. Zaynab leaned closer and lowered her voice so they couldn’t hear.

“I would love to see you disappear, like your lover Safwan,” she murmured, her tone deceptively silky. “But you should have seen Muhammad these past weeks, when he thought he might lose you. It would kill him to know the truth. I kept my knowledge to myself, so he wouldn’t be hurt.”

“You could have been the first-wife in this
harim
,” I said, blinking at her in confusion. “You would have had everything you wanted.”

She sneered at me as if I were a dung beetle destined for the bottom of her sandal. Her gold eyes flashed. “Everything,” she said, “except Muhammad’s happiness.”

I shook my head, trying to understand.

Her laughter stung my face like sand. “It’s called ‘love,’ A’isha. Perhaps someday you’ll try it.”

A G
ATHERING
S
TORM

M
EDINA
, M
ARCH
627

In the desert, the
samoom
is the most dreaded of storms. It’s the poison wind that whips the sand into pillars we call
zauba’ah
. These “devils” lash the sky, blocking the sun, and whip the sand into a fury like a surging, windswept sea. The
samoom
rushes across the desert like the most ravenous beast, devouring all in its path, chewing up houses and spitting them out, then cleaning its teeth with trees ripped out by their roots. The sight of those enormous towers of whirling dust sends even the most godless desert traveler to his knees in prayer, for those fortunate enough to miss the crushing force of the
zauba’ah
are certain to die an even more agonizing death by suffocation as the frenzied sands rise and fling themselves down in great waves, smothering everything in dunes nearly as high as the yellow, grit-laced clouds.

Few have survived the
samoom
. Those who do, miraculously, begin their tale with their first sighting of the
zauba’ah
where the whirling towers join at their pinnacles, sucking the stars from beyond the pale and ripping the heart from the Earth. Although we sat in my apartment and the sun sparkled outdoors in a flawless sky, I saw in Muhammad’s dilated eyes
the vision of the
zauba’ah
that day when Safwan told him of the gathering storm he’d witnessed to the south.

There he stood in my apartment, Safwan, my childhood playmate and, more recently, my betrayer. From behind my screen I seethed as I watched him greet Muhammad, his face not so handsome, I realized now. Were the ashes in his complexion meant for me, whom he’d wooed to the edge of a precipice, then left dangling? I glared at him, quivering like a drawn bow with an arrow of rage notched on its string. Yet I also knew he wasn’t entirely to blame for what had happened.

It’s called “love.” Perhaps someday you’ll try it.
As much as it grated on me to admit it, Zaynab had spoken the truth about me. I did have a lot to learn about love. I loved Muhammad, but I realized now that love was more than a feeling. Love was something you did for another person, like Zaynab’s speaking up for me so Muhammad wouldn’t be hurt. Love was something I was going to do for Muhammad from now on.

Had Safwan learned this lesson? Judging from the plaintive looks he sent my way, the answer was “no.” Given the chance he’d ride away with me again, leading me to a destiny that was no more mine to control than if I were a camel. And if we were caught again, he’d disappear, leaving me to my fate, just as I’d nearly left Muhammad to his. I burned with shame at the realization.

When he’d finished his ablutions, Muhammad settled his turban on his head and beckoned Safwan to sit with him.

“
Yaa
Prophet,” Safwan said, “now is not the time for sitting down.” His lips had turned white, and the urgency in his eyes sent fear rippling through my blood. “I bring distressing news. Abu Sufyan is marching to Medina with an army of ten thousand men.”

“Ten thousand?” Muhammad gripped the windowsill. “Are there so many men in Mecca now?”

“The Nadr march with them. Also, the Kaynuqah.” The Jewish clans Muhammad had banished for conspiring against him. Ali had insisted they should be killed, but Muhammad had refused.
Our mercy will make allies of them.
Unfortunately they’d become allies of Abu Sufyan, instead.

“Also—they have the Ghatafani.”

My lips curled, although I found nothing amusing in this news. If I’d
followed Safwan, he and I would be with them now, coming to attack our
umma
. The realization filled my mouth with bitterness.

Muhammad stared out the window as if straining to see the advancing army. “What do they desire, Safwan?”

“To kill us all—even our children,” Safwan said. “I heard their poets foretell Muslim blood filling the streets.”

The vein on Muhammad’s forehead throbbed as he paced the room. “Kill us all?” he growled. “Will Abu Sufyan never learn? He faces his own death for this act.”

He sent Safwan to fetch my father and Umar. I flung myself from my hiding place to bury my face in his scented beard.

“Ten thousand men?” I said. “Can even al-Lah defeat such an army?”

“It will require a miracle. If only I had more notice! We could have sent for help. We could have built a wall to protect our eastern boundary.” High cliffs and black rocks surrounded Medina on three sides, but on the east the broad, flat desert lapped like the sea at the edge of our oasis town.

An idea flew into my head—and I decided to reveal it. Here was my chance to help Muhammad and my
umma
! My heart raced with excitement—but before I could speak, Umar and my father entered, sending me back behind the screen as Muhammad told them the news.

“Ten thousand!” My father’s voice quavered like an old
shaykh
’s. “How soon will they arrive?”

“In six days, at their current pace,” Muhammad said.

My father blanched. “How many warriors can we gather in such a short time?”

“Three thousand, at most,” Umar said. His eyes were wide and vacant, as if he watched a scene unfold that no one else could see.

“Three thousand. That means we cannot go to meet them as we did at Uhud,” Muhammad said. “Our only hope is to remain here, and allow them to besiege us.”

“By al-Lah, that will not be a siege but an invasion! An army that size will slaughter us all.” Umar wiped his face with his handkerchief and pressed his cheek against the cool wall.

“
Yaa
Umar, would al-Lah let the
umma
be destroyed?” Muhammad said
quietly. “Would He have brought us to Medina only to be annihilated by Quraysh? No. We can prevail.”

“We have friends in Abyssinia, but they could not join us here so quickly,” Umar said.

“Can we fight until the Abyssinians arrive?” my father asked.

Umar’s laugh was harsh. “Outnumbered more than three to one, and with no barrier between us? We might fend off our attackers for ten minutes, al-Lah willing.”

“If we trained our women to fight, we would add to our numbers,” Muhammad said.

“And then, when the battle ended, would they put down their weapons and submit to us again? I do not wish to take that risk,” Umar said.

“The Quraysh threaten to kill even our babies,” my father pointed out. “What mother would leave her children in order to fight?”

“I see only two choices,” Umar said. “Desert the city or prepare ourselves for death.”

“Desert the city? And go where?” my father said.

“We might be able to hide in the mountains, but for how long?” Muhammad said.

“You speak the truth. Abu Sufyan is determined to put an end to
islam
. By al-Lah, his hatred consumes him! He is Satan in the flesh.” Umar thrust a fist into the air.

“Perhaps God will send a storm to blow them back,” my father said glumly. “Or a flash flood to drown them all.”

“I wonder if we have time to build a wall?” Muhammad said.

“We would need six days just to gather up the stones.” My father shook his head. “We might as well dig a moat like the Abyssinian king, except we have no water to fill it.”

Now was the time for me to speak. I took a deep breath to quell my clamoring pulse, and asked Muhammad’s permission.

“
Yaa
Prophet, we are engaged in a serious discussion,” Umar grumbled. “Can you not keep your wife silent for even a few moments?”

“I have a suggestion,” I said. “A good one.”

“A woman’s role—” Umar began, but Muhammad waved his hand to silence him.

“Please, A’isha. We have exhausted all ideas of our own.”

“Build a moat without water,” I said. “A huge trench around the edge of Medina. If it is deep and wide enough, it will stop anyone who tries to cross it.”

Umar’s face reddened. “
Yaa
Prophet, do you understand now why I require silence from my wives?”

A long pause followed. My father pulled at his beard. Muhammad moved back to the window and stared at the sky as if waiting for al-Lah to write an answer there. I peered around the edge of the screen, holding my breath, willing him to see the beauty of my idea. At last he turned and smiled at me, making me want to leap with joy.

“A’isha’s plan has merit,” he said. “An enormous trench could save us. If we build it correctly, no one will be able to penetrate Medina. Praise al-Lah for you, A’isha!” Muhammad strode over to me behind the screen, kissed me on the mouth, then bounded out into the sitting area, shouting and exclaiming. I smiled with pride, knowing I’d moved up a notch in Muhammad’s esteem. If this trench worked, could he fail to ask for my advice in the future?