The Jewel Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  The only way I could ensure my freedom was to become Muhammad’s true wife. Yet doing so now seemed impossible. Not only did two new women keep him busy, but plots against his life seemed to emerge every other day. Our loss at Uhud had weakened his support among the desert tribes, and his marriage to Zaynab had hurt his standing with the urban clans. With so much else to occupy his mind, it was no wonder he hadn’t noticed the changes in my body or the desire in my eyes.

  Perhaps on this journey Muhammad would notice me at last. For two nights and maybe three, he would belong to me alone. Consummating our marriage was urgent now, with Zaynab openly challenging my status in the harim. She, of all women, must not be the first to bear Muhammad’s son.

  On our first night we traveled like slow ships over the undulant waves of shifting sand. The following morning we set up camp at Muraysi, on the soft white beach of the Red Sea, and waited for the Mustaliq to arrive. I stood transfixed at the tent entrance, my eyes resting on the deep blue water, watching its waves rake the shore like fingers combing for treasure, listening to its soft sighs. A breeze skimmed the water and kissed my face wetly, tingeing my lips with salt. In the open, blue expanse of sea and sky I felt my body lighten as I gulped deep draughts of air. I grasped the fabric of my tent, giddy, fearing I might float away and, at the same time, wishing I could. I’d soar like the gulls wheeling overhead, free of constraints, free of everything except breath and sun and silver-finned fish, free to choose for myself what, how, when, and where.

  Muhammad spent the day planning strategy with his commanders. He slept little, with his head in my lap, after fretting aloud for an hour over this battle. If we lost, Quraysh wouldn’t need to use swords and arrows against us the next time we met. Their laughter would be enough to destroy us.

  “We could defeat those fish-eating Mustaliq with our eyes closed,” I said to Muhammad as I helped him strap on his helmet and shield. The Mustaliq lived easy lives on the Red Sea, where the climate was mild and the fruits grew abundant and wild. The mountains protected them from the Bedouin tribes we in the umma faced every time we ventured into the desert. “I hear the Mustaliq chief had to file the rust off his sword for this expedition.”

  Muhammad laughed and kissed me lustily—and I returned his kiss. That brief clutch with Safwan behind the cooking tent had taught me a few things. I pressed my body against my husband’s, ignoring the roughness of his chain-mail suit, and I opened my mouth to invite his tongue to dance with mine. When we parted, Muhammad’s eyes held the fire I’d been waiting to see again.

  “You are full of surprises,” he said.

  I kissed him again. “After your victory, I’ll show you more.”

  He turned away from me and strode toward the tent entrance.

  “Yaa husband, where are you going?”

  “To win a battle,” he said. “As quickly as possible.”

  I watched the fight from the camp, fingers twitching for my sword as if feeling for a lost leg. Muhammad had trained me so well I could defeat almost any man, but none of that mattered. I was not even supposed to show my face outside our tent. Once the battle began, though, I let my wrapper fall and, from afar, shouted encouragements to our men. We needed to win so all of Hijaz would know the price of treachery.

  The fight started slowly. Arrows flew back and forth for an hour. From time to time I sneaked glances at Muhammad, who directed his troops from atop his camel. He glanced at me also, his eyes smoldering, making my pulse race more madly than any of our warriors’. Finally he rode over to Ali and spoke a few words. In the next moment the guttural cries of men thirsty for blood curdled the air and our fighters were running across the beach, waving our green flag and their swords. I held my breath, fearing for our men’s lives—then laughed to see the Mustaliq archers drop their bows and flee. A few of their swordsmen attempted to fight, but our men trampled them like a stampede of horses. The black-and-yellow standard of the Mustaliq fell, and our men swarmed their camp, shouting and looting tents and chasing down the women who tried to escape.

  For once I didn’t mind not being in the thick of the action. I had excitement of my own to prepare for. Judging from the looks he’d been sending me, Muhammad would return very soon. With a light heart I slipped into our tent and cleansed myself with water from my goatskin bag. I brushed my hair and crushed lavender against my bosom. Holding up a cooking knife to serve as a mirror, I lined my eyes with kohl. I fastened my agate necklace around my throat, then fingered the milky white stones and admired their glow against my sun-kissed skin. Abu Ramzi couldn’t have fashioned a more gorgeous piece of jewelry.

  Then I waited. I rolled out our sheepskin bed and strewed cushions upon it, then arranged myself seductively. When he walked in, Muhammad would find me ready. Aroused by our army’s easy victory and the sight of me spread like a banquet on his bed, he would shed his chain-mail suits, lie down beside me, and cover me with his body. At last I would know what Sawdah meant when she winked, and why Hafsa wiggled her eyebrows at the mere mention of a night with Muhammad. And then, alLah willing, I would have the son I wanted—at last.

  After a while, I lay down, trying to calm my impatient heart’s gamboling like a lamb in my breast. Outside the sun hurtled upward like a shot arrow and the Red Sea lapped at the sands in rhythms as ancient as the Earth. What could be delaying him so long? After a victory, he’d oversee the dividing of the spoils—but how much booty would the Mustaliq carry on a battle expedition? I stood and paced the floor, walking in circles as I’d done so many mornings while in purdah. In some ways, little had changed for me since then. I’d thought I’d gain so many freedoms by going to live with Muhammad, but here I was again, trapped by the hijab and wearing a path in the floor with frustration at not being able to control even the smallest aspect of my life.

  I moved to the tent entrance, poked my head through the flap. The camp slept, as though deserted. I grabbed my wrapper and pulled it around me, then ventured outside to search for him.

  Empty tents rested under the midday sun. Their open flaps shivered occasionally in the breezes that wafted from the Red Sea. Like a shadow I moved among them, afraid to be seen and chastised by the likes of Umar.

  From the edge of the camp nearest the sea’s shore, I heard a shout. Tentatively, trying to see through just one eye, I followed it and heard rough laughter. As I drew closer to the clamor I peered around the edge of a tent. Our men crowded together under a large canopy, many of them gripping the arms or waists of women and laughing as their captives struggled. “I have tamed this one already,” Ali bragged as he ran his hand up and down the torso of a girl about my age. She stood motionless with her eyes closed and tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Look, habibati, how meekly Ali’s slave submits to him,” another man said as he wrestled his captive in place.

  “His sword is not the only thing about Ali that is double bladed,” another man said, and laughter filled the air.

  “Are two blades necessary to subdue these Mustaliq daughters? Then tell me this: Why does the Prophet’s slave kneel at his feet when he has yet to touch her?”

  Then I saw Muhammad standing deep inside the tent, bending over a heart-stopping woman who knelt at his feet.

  Her hair was the color of a brass bell. Her mouth was a red bow. She wore a blue gown that glittered as if she had been rolling in diamonds. Muhammad gazed at her, rapt, as if she were a snake-charmer playing a tune with her beseeching eyes.

  “I agree, it is not proper for a princess to become a slave,” he said. “But these are strange times. Nothing is as it was even a few months ago.”

  “I beg you, Prophet of al-Lah, do not send me into slavery,” she said in a voice as light and refreshing as rain. “See how soft my hands are? Look at my skin. It has never been touched by the sun. I have lived a life of ease. Slavery would kill me.”

  He was, in truth, looking at her skin. Alarm jabbed me with a sharp finger.

  “My warriors fought bravely for me today,”
he said. “Am I to tell the man who claimed you that he must now forfeit his prize?”

  She lowered her eyes, pulling his gaze downward to rest on her ample bosom.

  “I am at your mercy,” she said. “I will do whatever you desire.”

  Desire? Muhammad was having so many of them at that moment, they clashed like lightning bolts on his face. I could have spoken his next words before he even thought them.

  “There is a way,” he said. “I can save you from slavery and avoid offending my men if you will do this one thing.”

  Hope lit her face like sunlight. She lifted her dimpled chin to beseech him. I felt my plans for the evening—for my life—slip away like sand though my fingertips. A falling sensation swept over me, and I grabbed a tent pole for support.

  “Anything,” she said. “I am your humble servant.”

  He sank to his knees before her and took her hands in his. His eyes caressed her face as if he had loved her all his life.

  “Marry me,” he said.

  I let my wrapper drop away from my face and fled from the ugly scene, of men pawing women, of Ali kissing the neck of his new slave while she stood passively sobbing, of Muhammad proposing marriage to yet another beauty. She would consent. She had no choice. Marriage would be the price of her freedom, although I could have told her that our lives were anything but free. Did she know she’d be imprisoned as Muhammad’s wife, bereft of her fineries, subsisting on a diet of barley mush and dates? I careened against tents as I ran, toppling their supports. My wrapper flew like a sail about me, revealing my hair and my contorted face, but I didn’t care. What use was it to try to please a husband who thought so little about pleasing me?

  “A’isha!” I heard my name, but I kept running. Let Umar go into convulsions over his precious rules! “A’isha! Wait!”

  I ducked into my tent and let the flap fall shut behind me. A man’s hand drew it aside.

  “You don’t have to say a thing, Umar,” I said in a broken voice, but it was Safwan who stepped inside.

  “I saw you spying on Muhammad,” he said in a low voice. “And I know why you cry. Poor A’isha.” His words of sympathy made my tears pour like water from a spout, although I tried to blink them back. With a soft sigh he pulled me into the circle of his arms and held me as I cried. He caressed my hair with his fingers, murmuring. Then, when I’d ceased sobbing, he lowered his lips to my eyes and my cheeks and kissed away my tears.

  “Sweet A’isha,” he said. “Come away with me. Tonight. I have the perfect plan.”

  Like a slap, his words jolted me back to reality. I yanked free and pulled my wrapper over my hair.

  “Yaa Safwan, do you wish to die? Leave now, before someone catches you here.”

  “My only wish is for you, habibati.” That endearment again. This time, though, my heart warmed to hear it.

  “Listen,” he said. “Our victory was so swift that our army isn’t tired. And the Prophet is eager to take his new princess back to Medina to marry her. Forgive me,” he added when he saw me wince.

  “The Prophet has commanded us all to pack our tents and prepare to leave tonight. But I’ll remain behind, as a scout, to watch for the return of the Mustaliq men. Here’s my idea: When the caravan stops at the Wadi al-Hamd oasis, you find a way to stay behind. The curtains on your hawdaj will keep anyone from noticing you’re gone—and when they do, we’ll be far away!”

  A satisfied smile spread across his face, reminding me of when we were children and he would invent some devious plot sure to land us all in trouble. But in those days, all we faced was a scolding or maybe a slap if we were caught. Now, the stakes were much higher. If we ran away, we’d face permanent exile from the umma or, if we were hunted down and captured, we might be stoned to death.

  From outside the tent, Umar shouted my name. Safwan’s hands grew cold. “Al-Lah save me!”

  “Shhh! He’ll hear you. Come with me,” I whispered. I yanked him behind my screen with me. “Bend down, or he’ll see you.” I could feel his hand trembling in mine.

  “You may enter,” I called out.

  “What if he comes back here?” Safwan rasped.

  “Calm yourself! He’s not going to come back here. Not seeing me is the whole point of this screen.”

  “Did you say something, yaa A’isha?” Umar’s voice rumbled.

  “I said, ‘I hate this screen.’”

  “It is for your own protection,” Umar said. “You will learn to appreciate it, in time.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. Safwan had stopped trembling, praise al-Lah, but then he did something far more dangerous: He lifted my hand to his lips and began kissing my palm, sending shivers up my spine and into my voice.

  “Did you come here to discuss the new rules?” I called out.

  “You sound unwell,” Umar said. I pulled my hand from Safwan’s lips.

  “I’m … tired, that’s all. What do you want?”

  “The Prophet has sent me to tell you we will leave immediately,” he said. “Pack up your belongings, and prepare for the tent to be dismantled.”

  “Where is Muhammad? Why couldn’t he tell me this himself?”

  “You will learn why soon enough.” I heard the tent flap swish, and when I peered around the edge of my screen Umar was gone.

  “Get out of here now, Safwan! Muhammad may be on his way.”

  “Will you wait for me tonight?”

  I looked up into his eyes, listening for my heart’s answer. Then I knew our time had run out.

  “Leave,” I said.

  “I will look for you, A’isha. At the Wadi al-Hamd. Under the highest date-palm.”

  “We shall see,” I said. “Now, go.”

  Safwan leaned down and brushed my lips with a treacherous kiss, then ducked out into the frenzy. I knew he wouldn’t be noticed. After all, he was the one who’d taught me how to spy.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” I said softly, when I knew he couldn’t hear. “Maybe.” Then I turned to the bed and began packing up my dreams for another night, with another man.

  AN UNPICKED FLOWER

  WADI AL-HAMD OASIS, JANUARY 627

  As our caravan departed for Medina, my mind wavered with each sway of my camel’s back. Safwan’s offer of escape made my pulse leap in anticipation. With him I’d be able to live out my dream of freedom, for hadn’t we conjured that notion together long ago? Yet my heart trembled at the thought of leaving Muhammad. Would al-Lah strike me dead for abandoning His Prophet?

  I leaned back in my seat, dizzy with indecision. Muhammad had been my morning of light for as long as I could remember. We had always had more of a father-child relationship, it was true, but I depended on his friendship. Yet unless he changed his view of me from child to woman, I’d never have the control over my life that I needed. The longer his caravan of wives grew, the slimmer my chances of catching his eye, of conceiving his heir, and of holding my place as number one in his harim. How could I endure the dread gathering like a dark cloud in me with each new marriage? Yet—how could I bear losing Muhammad, never to see or touch or talk with him again?

  When he came to visit me in my hawdaj, I would decide. When I saw his face, I would know what to do. Maybe he would apologize for leaving me waiting in our tent. I was disappointed, also, A’isha, he would say. I did not want another wife, but I had no choice.

  My intentions shifted with my body, back and forth, leave or stay, Safwan or Muhammad, as our caravan rode into the night, torches flaming against the deep, their lights glimmering in the wild eyes of desert rats, the light defining rocks as rocks and not jackals about to pounce or, worse, dagger-wielding Bedouins. We illumined the sands as brightly as if the sun shone in the sky, but peer and yearn though I might, I couldn’t glimpse Muhammad. At last I asked the driver of my camel where he might be.

  “He accompanies his new bride-to-be, the princess of the Mustaliq,” the driver said. “Shall I have him summoned for you?” I dropped the curtain and slumped in my seat.

>   At the Wadi al-Hamd oasis, the caravan stopped for a few hours’ rest—and Muhammad finally came to me. Or, I should say, he walked past my camel and thrust his face through the curtains for barely an instant.

  “Greetings, A’isha. I am glad to see you are well,” he said—and then disappeared again.

  “Wait!” I pushed the annoying curtains aside and called out to him. “Yaa Muhammad, come back!” I saw the flicker of a frown before he summoned a smile and strode over to me. I forced myself to smile, also. Everything depended on these next few moments. I reached for his hand and stroked it gently with my fingertips.

  “I’ve been expecting you, habibi,” I said as sweetly as possible. “Are we stopping to camp? You and I had plans for the evening, remember?”

  His eyes darted to the front of the caravan, where he had been riding with his new princess. “That will not be possible.”

  “Muhammad, you hardly slept yesterday. Surely you’ll come and lie down with me for a little while, at least.” I burned with shame at the whine edging my plea.

  “I have others to take care of for now,” he said. “Two hundred women and their children have joined us from the Mustaliq camp.”

  I flung his hand away. “When did you begin worrying about the welfare of war prisoners? No—don’t bother. I know the answer. When you became betrothed to one of them, isn’t that right? Aren’t you planning to marry a Mustaliq she-dog?”

  “She is a princess, A’isha. Juwairriyah, the chief’s daughter. Having her in the harim will be valuable for us. Think about it! Today her people wanted to kill us. When she becomes my wife, the Mustaliq will be our allies.”

  I hesitated. For the umma, an alliance with the Mustaliq would be very good indeed. For me, though, another sister-wife would be as useful as a hump on my back.