The Jewel Of Medina (36 page)

I fastened my sword to my belt and headed to the
majlis
to listen to the men’s talk.

“The enemy troops are massing at the trench,” Ali barked. Bluster as he might, he couldn’t hide the fear in his voice. Outside the
majlis
, my knees trembled so hard they knocked against each other.

Muhammad seized Ali’s beard, embracing him. “Prepare to fight,” he said. “And have faith in God.”

The men hurried out the door, not even seeing me. When Muhammad emerged, I flew into his arms. “Let me come with you,
habibi
,” I said through my tears. “I want to die fighting by your side.”

He wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. I could feel his heart racing as though it would leap from his chest. His body quivered in my embrace like a shot arrow.

“My A’isha,” he said. “You are the bravest of all my warriors. That is why you must remain in the mosque with the women and children. You can give them courage.”

“Some comfort, waiting for slaughter!” I said, beginning to cry. “Do you expect us to huddle in the mosque and pray for a miracle? Arm us with weapons, at least, so we can send our enemies to Hell before we die.”

“Hearing is obeying,
habibati
.” His voice cracked. “I will send Talha with all the extra daggers, swords, and shields we possess.”

Muhammad pulled me closer and kissed me with such passion, I had to gasp for air when his mouth left mine. Then he loosed his hold and pushed me gently away.

“Al-Lah be with you, husband,” I said.

“And with you, my warrior-bride.” He gazed intently at me with liquid eyes. “Now, go and prepare our women to join God’s army. I will see you in the next world, if not in this one.”

How I wanted to sob! Were we all to die like sheep at slaughter? If Muhammad were killed, would I even want to live?
Please, al-Lah, keep him safe.

Shaking all over, I went into my room to strap on my dagger and don my helmet. When Talha arrived at the mosque with a sack full of weapons, he gave me the first smile I’d seen since the siege began.

“By al-Lah, cousin, I have never seen a lovelier warrior,” he said. “Our enemies will be fortunate to have their throats slit by such a pretty hand.”

“Who’s slitting throats? I’ll be whacking off heads,” I boasted. His smile softened like melting butter, and his eyes moistened. Shrugging off proper behavior, I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, in thanks for the friendship he had shown to me over the years.

As the women began to arrive, I handed them weapons at the door. “It’s not going to bite you,” I said to Umm Ayman, who stared at her sword with wary eyes.

“You can grasp it firmly; you won’t break it,” I told Jamila, who dangled her dagger like a ribbon from a limp hand. “That’s the way,
ummi
,” I said as my mother grasped the hilt of her weapon and thrust it, wild-eyed, into an imaginary foe.

Sawdah ran up, puffing and perspiring. “Hafsa still won’t come out of her hut,” she said. “It doesn’t seem right to leave her in there alone.”

Zaynab strode up to me with her eyes flashing. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Are you the wife of the Prophet of God, or a common street fighter like Umm ‘Umara?”

My cheeks blazed. “Umm ‘Umara saved Muhammad’s life at Uhud.”

“While you ran around making a spectacle of yourself. And now, look at you. Armored head to toe like a … a … boy!” She shook her head in disgust.

I lifted my chin, already knowing the real reason for her protest. While I’d been exiled in my parents’ home, Zaynab had set her sights on the
hatun
position. That had become apparent to me when she’d challenged me in my apartment, in front of Muhammad. Now she couldn’t bear to see me wielding a power she didn’t possess. Of course, our struggle over a title wouldn’t matter once our bodies lay in heaps in the dirt.

Umm Salama stepped forward with her arms around her children Dorra and Omar. Her oldest son, Salama, had turned fifteen and had joined the ranks of the warriors, and her baby girl was safely nestled in the arms of a Bedouin wet-nurse somewhere in the desert.

“Zaynab speaks the truth,” she said, remarkably calm for a woman about to die. “We women were meant to give life, not to destroy it. What kind of example will it set for my children to see me spilling the blood of men?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My heart slammed against my breast like a bird caught in a room. “Example? For whom? Unless we fight, no one here will live to tell how you died,” I said.

“I agree with Zaynab and Umm Salama.” Fatima glared at me, jealous of her father’s love to the last breath. “If I must die, I would rather do so with dignity.”

I shook my head in disgust and dropped my bag of weapons to the floor. “Do as you wish. Cower in the corner when our murderers arrive, with my blessing. As for me, let it be said that A’isha bint Abi Bakr died the way
she lived: fighting!” I left the mosque, trembling with rage, and went to find Hafsa.

She sat in the darkest corner of her apartment, hugging herself with crossed arms. “Why is al-Lah doing this to us?” she cried.

Compassion spread like warm milk through my breast. I knelt beside her and enfolded her in an embrace. She didn’t respond at first, but when I began to sing to her I felt her body relax, and when I told her it was all right to be afraid, that we were all afraid, she sighed and placed her head on my shoulder.

“Fear is normal,” I said. “The question is, what are you going to do with your fear?” I pulled out the weapon I had brought for her—an elegant, curved dagger with a bronze handle and a blade that flashed even in the dim light of her room.

“Let your feelings flow out through your hands and into this dagger. Then, when it’s full, stick it into your attacker’s belly—and watch your fear empty itself into his eyes as he dies by your hand!”

Timidly she accepted the dagger from me and hefted its weight. She turned it over, examining it. She pushed it forward in a hesitant stab. Then she dropped the blade and burst into tears.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’m so confused.”

I picked up the dagger and curled her fingers around its handle. “
Yaa
Hafsa, many of us are confused. But there is one thing we all know: Everyone dies, sooner or later. We don’t have a choice about that. But I and you do have power over how we die. I would rather go fighting than cringing. What about you?”

Something stirred in her eyes. She wiped them with her sleeve and sat up a bit straighter.

“How do I use this thing?” she said, lifting the blade. “Will you show me?”

I stood. “In a few minutes, I begin giving lessons. You are invited to join us in the mosque.” As I left her room, she was reaching for her robe.

Back in the mosque, I was astonished to see all the women, including Zaynab, Umm Salama, and Juwairriyah, clumsily hefting swords and shields at the feet of my mother, who stood on Muhammad’s tree-stump pulpit and shouted improvised verses about killing and maiming our enemies.

“
Yaa
A’isha, come and give us a lesson!”
ummi
cried when she saw me walk in with Hafsa at my heels. She held out her hand and pulled me onto the stump. I raised my sword and began to teach. In moments every woman in the room was practicing sword fighting and envisioning herself a warrior. On the edges of the room the children sat in clusters, clapping and cheering as if we were playing a game.

To my delight many of the women learned quickly—even those who’d resisted at first. Umm Salama proved a canny opponent, detached enough to think, rather than feel, her way through a fight. Zaynab, on the other hand, was as impulsive as Ali, but without his skills. She fought with the ferocity of a tiger, but I feared she wouldn’t last long in a real battle. My mother was indomitable, and she laughed as she fought against the hapless Qutailah as though she were having the best time of her life. Sawdah danced with her sword, light-footed and graceful, easily overpowering Umm Ayman. The clank of swords and the grunts and shouts of women filled the room until, at last, we decided to stop and rest. It would do us no good to exhaust ourselves before the real fighting began.

I and Hafsa, newly energized, rounded up the children to help us in the cooking tent.

“We might as well cook everything,” Hafsa said, eyeing our last sack of barley. “We’ll need the energy for the fight, and there’s no use leaving anything for Quraysh when it’s over.”

When we returned to the mosque bearing huge bowls of grain, we found the women prostrating themselves on the floor. My mother gestured toward the date-palm stump.

“
Yaa
daughter, we need a prayer, and you are the one to lead it,” she said. Zaynab rose and made a noise of protest, but when my mother thrust her chin out in defiance, she lowered herself to the floor again. Her eyes hurled daggers at me as I nervously climbed atop the pulpit.

I felt as tiny as an ant in that silent room. I opened my mouth to pray, but my lips trembled too much for words. How could I stand here in place of Muhammad, the Prophet of the One God? Yet hadn’t he asked me to comfort the women of his
umma
? Here was my chance to prove myself worthy.

Al-Lah, please provide me with the right words
. I opened my mouth again, and this time they rang out as true as the cries of Bilal from the rooftop.

“Give us the heart we need to protect our children and our
umma
,” I prayed. Serenity filled me as though I were an empty vessel. “With You on our side, we will be victorious.”

After our meal the women lay down to rest, their hearts too fearful for sleep. Asma’s little boy Abdallah begged me for a story. I sat on the tree stump and held my arms out to him, and he crawled into my lap. Then, warmed by his breath, I began to recite. One poem after another, whatever came to mind: love poems of old, verses of revelation from al-Lah to Muhammad, poems of heroic deeds at Badr and Uhud, and poems of longing for Mecca, our motherland, which filled the mosque with sniffles and tears.

And then from outside we heard a rumble like the hooves of one thousand and one horses. A screech like the wind tore through the streets. Panic seized me—they were coming! The end was near. Tears filled my eyes as I said my good-byes, but I gave myself a shake. If anyone lived to tell this tale, they’d say A’isha died a warrior, strong and proud, not sobbing in fear and self-pity.

Sawdah cried out. Fatima’s baby began to wail. I lifted the sleeping Abdallah and carried him to Asma. My sister’s eyes brimmed, luminous with fright. I stepped back atop the stump and pulled my sword from its sheath. It sang and quivered in my hand, joined by the songs of swords all around me as they were lifted into the air.

We stood in place for what seemed like hours, sniffing the air like dogs on point, listening for those first feet pounding, watching for those blood-lusting eyes. My pulse sped through my body, slowing time. I heard the breaths of the women, smelled the tang of the barley we’d eaten and the dust we’d kicked up with our feet. The air was uncommonly cold, although sweat covered my body. Chilled, I clamped my jaw shut to keep my teeth from chattering.

Then, from outside the mosque entrance, we heard a clatter and a yelp. I tensed, waiting for the onslaught—but nothing. I strained my ears, listening, but heard only a long, loud roar that ebbed and flowed like the Red Sea.

With trembling legs I stepped down from the stump and walked slowly through the room, weaving among the taut, tense women, aswirl in the fragrances they’d perfumed themselves with this morning, not knowing
whether this day would be their last. Long, panting breaths filled the mosque. Not a single hand shook, although many faces glistened with tears.

Inside the mosque, the area around the entrance remained empty; no one wanted to be the first to greet our enemies. I stepped into the vacant space as though taking the stage. Every woman’s eyes watched me sidle to the doorway. As I neared the entrance I could see the cause of all the noise outside: A
samoom
flung dust against the houses and ripped up date-palm roofs. Sand filled the air in swirls, and in the distance
zauba’ah
, dust devils, spiraled and twisted and blotted the sun with a cloud the color of sesame paste. I saw no sign of soldiers or anyone else. I craned my neck to peer up and down the street, but the scene was the same: deserted.

I let out a whoop. “We’re not under attack! It’s a
samoom
!”

Relieved sighs whooshed through the room like air from a punctured ball. I heard the rustle of clothing and the scrapes of swords being sheathed. And then, before I pulled my head inside, I saw them coming.

Dark shapes in the distance grew larger as they neared. Like ten thousand whirlwinds they raced through the storm, heedless of the blowing sand and palm branches slamming to the ground.

“Prepare your weapons again!” I shouted. “The enemy approaches.”

Hafsa hurried up and stretched her neck to see, also. “They’re coming for us,” she said.

So they were: ten thousand killers running straight to the mosque, elbowing each other aside, shouting and laughing, racing ahead then being pulled back by others. How similar their armor appeared to ours! They must have torn it from the dead bodies of our
umma
’s warriors. I growled low in my throat and gripped my sword, hungering for Qurayshi blood. Looking for Abu Sufyan.

Then, in the front of the mob, a familiar figure emerged—a compact man, curly bearded, and with the most beautiful smile in all of Hijaz.

“
Yaa
A’isha, give praise to al-Lah!” Muhammad waved his arms, flashing his blade. “He has destroyed the enemy camp with His
samoom
. Abu Sufyan, as we predicted, has taken his army and fled. The siege is lifted, and we are rescued!”

T
HE
H
ARIM
D
IVIDED