The Jewel Of Medina (35 page)

“Tell Bilal to summon every man and boy in the
umma
,” Muhammad said. “We have much digging to do. Praise al-Lah! We are saved.”

For the next six days I girded myself for battle. This invasion, I knew, was the event for which al-Lah had called me. For the first time I felt a clear sense of my mission. I had already helped defend the
umma
with my trench idea, and now I would confront our enemies with my sword and dagger, filling that trench with Qurayshi blood. It was time for Abu Sufyan to pay the ultimate price for what he’d done to Raha, and to the rest of us.

When Bilal sounded the call to battle I stood ready. I donned the helmet and shield I’d begged from Talha and strapped on my sword. With my hair tucked into the helmet I looked like a boy. No one would send me back to the mosque to cower with the other women of the
umma
—waiting, helpless, for slaughter.

I ran through the streets, my feet racing with my thrumming pulse. Ululations, shouts, whinnies, and the clang of metal couldn’t drown out
the drum of my heart in my ears. Terror snatched at my throat like the teeth of a crazed dog and hammered the city like a hailstorm. It made the men roar in defiance and hoist their weapons. It beat the heads of women until they sobbed and ran from their homes, clutching their babies. Jamila rushed past me, carrying two young children, her eyes frantically searching for a place to hide them. All around her, mothers stuffed their young ones into doorways, through windows, and high into trees, hoping that an invader with evil in his heart and a dagger in his hand wouldn’t look there. A smell like sex, faint yet pungent, rose from the moil.

My feet carried me like true arrows toward Muhammad, who darted to the city’s eastern edge as if his double chain mail were weightless. In the roiling dust and churning crowds I nearly lost him, but shouts from the men ahead pulled my eyes to the red feather Umar wore in his helmet and my father’s own gray head, bare, as always, until the last possible moment.

The last thing I wanted was to be noticed. If anyone recognized me, I’d be sent home and placed under guard at the mosque, to be certain I remained there. Not for me the task of sitting passively and wringing my hands in worry. Al-Lah had chosen me to fight, not to cower like a girl. And, after the debacle with Safwan, I needed to prove myself to the
umma
.

I hid behind a boulder as immense as an elephant and peered around it, trying to see whether the Qurayshi army had arrived, but a high bank of dirt blocked my view of the desert. I strapped my shield to my arm and climbed into a thorn tree. A shout rang out and then, like the flood bursting through the great Marib dam, a sea of men came pouring over the ridge far ahead of us. Our warriors scrambled into position behind the embankment, forming a line all the way to the high stone wall around the neighborhood of the Qurayzah, one of the few Jewish clans remaining in Medina. They’d sworn allegiance to the
umma,
but they wouldn’t fight on our side, for they refused to kill their Nadr and Kaynuqah kinsmen.

Our troops stood silent, bows and arrows ready, as the dark swarm blanketed the land before us, men rushing and clamoring red-faced for our blood, their horses whinnying and rolling their eyes. I clutched the hilt of my sword and braced myself, preparing to fight. When the invaders approached so near we could almost feel their breath on our faces, they stopped, staring at the enormous trench our men had dug, a chasm as wide and deep as a
wadi
, impossible to cross.

“Why do you stop, you idiots?” Abu Sufyan thundered up on his horse, bulging over his saddle like a sack of grain. Almost too late he saw the trench yawning like a grave. He yanked back on his reins, skidding his horse to the edge.

He heaved himself down to the ground and stood at the trench’s lip, surveying our work with his mouth twisted in disgust.

“Muhammad ibn Abdallah ibn al-Muttalib!” he shouted. “What cowardly device is this to keep my army at bay?”

“
Yaa
Abu Sufyan, you thought you would surprise us. But we are the ones with the surprise,” Muhammad called back.

“This is not doing battle honorably. Why do you not come out and fight like men, instead of cowering behind this hole you have wasted your time digging? Or do you fear your precious al-Lah will not protect you?”

“Al-Lah protects us already,” Muhammad said. “Who do you think is responsible for this glorious trench?” Our men began to yell, shouting praises to God. Someone shot an arrow up and over the berm; it rose in an arc and fell among the attackers. More arrows followed, hissing like serpents and spooking the horses. I heard a scream and saw a man pitch sideways with an arrow stuck in his throat. A horse whinnied and reared, pierced in the flank. The iron sea of men tumbled and crested as skittish animals flailed and sidled, tossing their riders to the ground or over the rim of the trench into an instant grave.

Ali ran over to the tree where I’d perched. “What are you doing up there?” he snarled. I tried to answer him, but my leaping pulse blocked my throat. Of all the men to discover me here, why did it have to be him? I clambered down the tree to face his outrage, but he was so preoccupied he just ordered me home.

Cursing, I stormed back to the mosque. How could I have let myself be spotted? I’d thought Ali would be at the trench with his troops. He’d tell Muhammad I’d broken the
hijab
, and I’d lose Muhammad’s trust again. Now my husband would certainly post a guard to prevent me from leaving the mosque, condemning me to sit at home and wring my hands while a battle raged outside our walls.

When I saw Muhammad in the courtyard later that day, his expression was sober, but, thank al-Lah, not furious. “I admire your courage, A’isha,”
he said. “But you have already contributed much to our defense with your trench idea.”

“How could I ever do enough for you?” I dabbed the moisture that had popped onto my lip.

“Bringing harm onto yourself would harm me, also,” he said. “Please, A’isha, stay here to guard the mosque. Our women and children would be soothed by your protection.”

Umar stormed into the courtyard, his chain mail clanking, and seized Muhammad’s beard. His eyes looked stricken, as if someone had just died. I held my breath.

“Huyayy, the leader of the Nadr clan, has entered the gates of the Qurayzah,” he said. “There can only be one reason for this visit: access to Medina.”

Muhammad shook his head. “The Qurayzah have given me their pledge to remain neutral in this conflict. Their leader Ka’ab is a trustworthy man.”

“He also hates to fight,” Umar said. “Would seeing ten thousand men at his gate cause him to break his pact with us?”

For the second time that day, I saw fear’s dark wing fall across Muhammad’s face.

“If the army gains access through the Qurayzah gate, the
umma
is doomed,” he said. “By al-Lah, Umar, I hope you are wrong.” Gray strands appeared as if by magic in his hair and beard. The skin under his eyes sagged. He shuffled away with his shoulders stooped, shaking his head and muttering.

“
Yaa
husband!” I cried. “Where are you going?”

“To pray,” he said. “I suggest you both do the same.”

P
OISON
W
IND

T
WENTY-FIVE DAYS LATER

Twenty-five days felt like twenty-five years. Fear became a familiar flavor, mixed daily into our bread. Sawdah wept at every sunrise, certain it would be her last. Hafsa hid in her hut, refusing to emerge, taking her meals alone in her apartment. Zaynab scowled at anyone who dared to look at her. Umm Salama held her children in her lap and rocked them all day, humming a dismal tune and frightening the color from their poor faces.

As for me, I sharpened my sword every morning. “You’re going to wear out the blade,” Zaynab snapped.

“Then I can use your tongue to fight with,” I said. “It’s sharper than any sword.”

She didn’t laugh. No one did during those twenty-five days. Even the children lost their glee: They walked instead of running, and their little mouths quivered. I carried meals to Hafsa for relief from the gloom, but the darkness under her eyes and the pallor in her voice made the cooking tent feel festive in comparison.

Ten thousand murderers lingered outside our city. They toyed with us the way a cat teases its prey before it pounces. Laughing at us, they urinated and
defecated into the trench. They threatened to roast and eat our children, elaborating on the tenderness of the meat and lamenting the foulness of Muslim flavor. They sang lewd songs about Muhammad’s wives and what they planned to do to us before killing us. They staged mock battles between the Qurayshi and the Believers, with the “Believers” oinking and grunting like swine.

“Such humiliation should not be endured,” Ali would grumble to Muhammad after a long day of watching the enemy’s displays. “If you would only allow us to strike them with our arrows, they would remain in their camp.”

“Conserve your arrows,” Muhammad would say. “We may need our weapons yet. Abu Sufyan seems determined to find a way in.”

And in truth, he did find a way, as we learned on the twenty-fifth day. That’s when Safwan came to the mosque with news: Ka’ab, the leader of the Qurayzah tribe, had agreed to open his gates to the invaders. “My Ghatafani source says Abu Sufyan is preparing his troops,” he told Muhammad.

Watching and listening from my apartment, I leaned against the doorway, dizzy with fear. Abu Sufyan was preparing his troops—to slaughter us all!

“I cannot believe this of Ka’ab.” Muhammad shook his head. “Less than one year ago he shared a bowl of milk with me and promised his allegiance.”

“But his people were allies with the Nadr for many generations before we arrived,” Ali said. “Then we exiled the Nadr.”

“Now Ka’ab is afraid you’ll do the same to the Qurayzah,” Safwan put in.

“We will do worse than that to those treacherous dogs!” Ali shouted. For once, I agreed with him. If we lived through this terror somehow, I’d happily sever Ka’ab’s head myself.

Muhammad excused himself to pray, asking Ali to gather his Companions in the
majlis
and to find food for Safwan.

“It will not be extravagant,” Ali said. “Our stores are nearly depleted.”

“The invaders are also hungry,” Safwan said. “Abu Sufyan promised them an easy victory, so they only brought a two weeks’ supply of food.” He grinned. “Of course, the Bedouin warriors are accustomed to hunger
pangs, but you should hear the Qurayshi complain.” I glowered at him as he snickered. If not for me, he’d be getting ready now to invade Medina.

Muhammad thanked Safwan and departed. Ali went to summon the Companions, promising to return shortly. Left in the mosque alone, Safwan glanced toward my door—which I shut hurriedly and, when he knocked, refused to open.

“My heart still longs for you, A’isha,” Safwan said through the door.

“Is that why you left me to face the
umma
alone?” I choked.

“The Prophet sent me away. He didn’t want me here to remind people of our night in the desert together.”

“And so you went to your old friends the Ghatafani.”

“By al-Lah! The Prophet asked me to spy on their talks with Abu Sufyan. I wouldn’t have left you otherwise, A’isha.”

I kept silent. Yet my heart did soften toward him—a little.

“I hope you will forgive me,” he said. “I would like for us to be friends.”

A tear seeped from my eye. “That can never be,” I murmured. After that, all was silent. Safwan was gone.

I sat on my cushions for a long while, mourning our lost childhoods. How innocent we’d been in those days, imagining a life free of restraints! In truth, our destinies had been set for us since birth. We might be able to shape the future, but we couldn’t escape it, no matter how far into the desert we rode.

Now, when my own future seemed about to end, I once again faced the impossibility of escape. If death awaited me today, then so be it. I couldn’t flee from my fate; nor did I want to. But I could act bravely, wielding my sword, fighting to the end. I swallowed my tears, summoning my courage. If the Qurayshi invaded, they wouldn’t find me sobbing and begging for mercy! I’d fight like no woman those soft-bellied merchants had ever seen.