The Sword Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  She lifted her eye to give me a tender look. “It is already too late,” she said. “After hearing A’isha’s tales about you and Abu Bakr, Asma’s heart teems with bitterness. She refuses to marry you. I am sorry, Ali. Nothing I could say would change her mind.”

  A’isha

  Three years after he’d sighed his final sigh Muhammad lived on, not only in the beautiful verses he’d left behind, but also, for me, in the memory of his warm copper eyes and how they’d shone when we were together. His eyes were like bronze mirrors that reflected only my loveliness and none of my flaws. With him on this earth, I’d reveled in my strengths, knowing that he relished my bold spirit like the savory taste of tharid, his favorite dish, on his tongue.

  Now as I stood amid the festive, early-morning bustle of caravaners on the street, I had to bear Ali’s glares without my husband’s smile to sustain me. Yet I wasn’t completely alone. Talha, packing my camel for the pilgrimage to Mecca, gave me adoring looks—which I tried not to notice. Instead, I closed my eyes and savored the excitement of the hajj: the bellows and grunts of the camels, the aromas of sandalwood and cardamom, the spontaneous verses shouted by men showing off their oratorical skills. When I opened my eyes again, Talha had turned away, to my relief. Despite already being married to one wife, Talha, being a man, had little to lose by flirting. But for me, everything was at stake. One rumor could rob me of all my freedom—especially now, with Umar in power.

  Umar presided in the mosque wielding a whip in one fist and suspicion in the other. He watched me, in particular, waiting for me to behave immodestly—in truth, expecting it. I was one woman he’d never been able to control. Many suffered under his rolling eye. He strode through the market every day with that whip, terrifying women by cracking it about their heads. One old dear, Umm Alia, had hands that shook so badly she couldn’t hold her wrapper about her head. When it fell to her shoulders, out lashed Umar’s whip, which fell too hard and struck her across one eye.

  Abi had predicted that Umar’s nature would soften when he became khalifa, but I wasn’t so sure. By al-Lah, a serpent that sheds its skin is still a serpent! In Umar’s eyes, all women were temptresses, and that included me. Muhammad and my father had protected me from his harsh ways, but they couldn’t help me now. If Umar knew that Talha visited my hut and that we spoke without a hijab, or curtain, between us, he’d confine me to the harim for the rest of my days, despite the fact that I and Talha had been lifelong friends. In truth, my laughing cousin had become my closest companion, the person whose company I treasured most, in spite of his boldness. Or maybe because of it.

  Now, while loading my camel with provisions for the long excursion to Mecca, Talha noticed Ali’s squint-eyed scowl and mimicked him, bunching his face exaggeratedly and causing Ali to redden.

  “Afwan, Ali, but you don’t look like a just-married man,” Talha said. “I hope you’re not already having troubles with the lovely Asma.”

  Ali grunted and hurried away. If Asma was the reason for his ill humor, I’d gladly endure one thousand and one of his frowns. An unhappy home was just what Ali deserved, given how he’d coerced Asma into marrying him.

  After Ali had gone, Talha gave me a wink. Then with a grunt he hefted a sack of dates onto my camel’s back.

  “By al-Lah, who would believe little A’isha could eat so much?” he teased. “You’re bringing enough food for the entire caravan.”

  “These dates will feed the poor,” I said, and stepped forward to help him tie the sack onto the saddle. In a lowered voice, I added, “If Ali can resist stuffing his expanding belly with them.”

  “His paunch has grown nearly as large as his head,” Talha agreed.

  “He has a reason for his fat stomach, having four women to cook for him,” I said. “But from what I can see, there’s nothing but air between his ears.”

  Talha laughed. “Yaa A’isha, what would Muhammad say if he heard you?”

  “He would say, ‘A’isha hasn’t changed at all.’”

  But he would be wrong. Since Muhammad had died, Ali had denied him the funeral befitting a Prophet; he’d tried to start a rebellion against my father; and, with Umar’s help, he’d forced my father’s widow, Asma, to marry him. As far as my feelings for Ali were concerned, I had changed a lot in the past few years. I hated him now more than ever.

  I’d known why Ali had praised the “great Abu Bakr” so lavishly during abi’s funeral. I’d seen him drooling over Asma as if he were a starving man and she were his next meal—while my father’s spirit yet lingered among us. The earth had barely covered abi’s nostrils when Ali sent Umm Salama with his outrageous marriage proposal. Poor Asma was sobbing so wretchedly over abi that she’d barely heard a word—but she was, at last, able to choke out her refusal. Of course, Ali had found a way to win her hand: He’d encouraged Umar to propose—for himself. Faced with such a choice—the hypocrite or the wife-beater—Asma accepted Ali’s offer, telling Umar that Ali had misunderstood, that she had accepted his offer but wished to delay the marriage until her grieving was ended. Yet Asma had cried for months afterward and all the way through her wedding. I hadn’t seen her since, but I hoped to visit with her during the hajj.

  Yet who could dwell on gloomy thoughts during this festive time? Around us, men and women swirled past like leaves in a breeze, laughing and chattering in anticipation of our eleven-day ride. This was the yearly hajj, in which we Believers braved desert heat, wicked storms, and Bedouin raids to visit Mecca, where, only a few years ago, Muhammad had rid the Ka’ba of all gods but al-Lah. Our triumphal entry into our homeland still thrilled me whenever I remembered it: how Bilal had climbed to the Ka’ba’s rooftop to sound the call to prayer; how the people of Quraysh had streamed out from their homes to greet us; how Muhammad’s eyes had filled with tears as, one by one, his kinsmen and neighbors had knelt before him on the Ka’ba’s steps and kissed his ring. I’d sat next to him with my heart so full that love coursed through my body like a river overflowing its banks. I felt that same fullness of love every time I made the hajj.

  I’ll see you in Mecca very soon, habib. Never did I feel so close to Muhammad as during the pilgrimage, when I walked in his footsteps and prayed the prayers he had taught us. Bereft of his company and of my father’s presence—had it already been a year since abi had died?—I needed this journey more than ever to soothe my lonely heart. Anticipation tickled the bottoms of my feet, making me smile at my camel and at Talha, making me want to kiss them both. Judging from the look in Talha’s eyes, he was feeling the same impulse.

  I dropped my gaze and, seeing Umar approaching with his whip, made sure my wrapper covered my face and ducked into the mosque. I slipped across the floor and into the courtyard, where my sister-wives packed their belongings. Zaynab stood among them, waving her white gown and complaining loudly.

  “Outrageous for a wife of the Prophet!” she was saying. “Behold, this gown has been mended three times. In truth, mended holes are all that holds this rag together!”

  I couldn’t help staring at her—not because of the noise she was making, but out of shock at the paleness of her face and its tautness. Her lips were tinged a faint blue, making her beautiful teeth look yellow.

  “By al-Lah, I wonder what holds her together,” whispered Hafsa, who had sidled up next to me. I couldn’t reply; my breath blocked my throat, snagged by emotion. Zaynab, I could clearly see, was very ill.

  Umm Salama could see it, too. Like a wind she rustled across the drought-parched grass and enfolded her friend in her arms. “Yaa Zaynab, are you planning to travel tonight? I think you will need to rest beforehand.”

  “Rest? How can I rest when I have no clothes to wear and no money with which to buy even the coarsest cloth?” Zaynab’s glance veered about the courtyard, seeming not to see any of us who watched her. Then Saffiya stepped out of her hut in a gown of pink silk edged with gold thread.

  Oblivious as always, Saffiya returned our gape-mouthed stares with a smile, and twir
led before us in new gold-colored sandals. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said. “I haven’t worn such a gorgeous gown since I was a princess in my father’s house.”

  “Yaa Princess, I wouldn’t step too close to Zaynab right now,” Raihana said with a grin. “Unless you want to get crowned.”

  “Now girls, there is no need to start any trouble.” Sawdah’s voice was stern, but her hands fluttered like anxious birds. “Saffiya has not been on the hajj before, and she does not know how to dress for it.”

  “I want to look my best,” Saffiya said, and twirled more slowly this time. “See how the gold thread shines throughout the fabric? And it is so weightless, I feel cool even in this heat.”

  “But—where did you get it?” Hafsa asked.

  Saffiya blinked at her, as if the answer were too obvious to state. “From Uthman,” she said.

  I sucked in my breath. Uthman! He was wealthy, yes—probably the wealthiest man in the umma. But, unlike Umar, he was infamous for his love of women. Before islam, the handsome, pleasure-seeking Uthman had enjoyed the company of widows, dancing girls, concubines, and virgins, all eager, it seemed, to lavish their attentions on a man so generous with his gold.

  “Yaa Saffiya, you must return those gifts,” I said.

  She jerked away from me as if afraid I’d yank the clothes from her body. “Why?” she said. “Because you don’t have them?”

  “If you are seen wearing such an extravagant gown, you may bring scandal on yourself,” Umm Salama said.

  Saffiya frowned. “Scandal? For what? Wearing new clothes?”

  “It doesn’t take much to start a scandal about us,” Raihana said with a smirk. “Looking at a man with both eyes will get you the whip these days.”

  “People will wonder where you got the gown,” I said.

  Zaynab flashed her eyes at Saffiya, although her voice was feeble. “And what you did to earn it.”

  Saffiya’s gasp was as short and sharp as a slap “Uthman is my friend,” she said, bristling. “He comforted me when Muhammad died, which is more than any of you cared to do.”

  “We had our own grief,” Umm Salama began, but Saffiya cut her off.

  “You had your own interests.” She swept an arm around to indicate each of us. “All you cared about was the khalifa while I wept in the courtyard alone, dying of a broken heart. Uthman gave me his scarf to dry my tears, then sat and cried with me. We’re friends, and nothing more.”

  “That’s very touching,” Raihana said dryly. “So when the umma starts whispering, are you going to give them this tale? Because I’m telling you, no one is going to believe it.”

  “At least, not the ‘friends’ part,” I said. “Yaa Saffiya, Uthman used to have a reputation. You probably didn’t know.”

  She turned to me. “And I don’t care,” she said. “I won’t listen to you slander him just because you’re jealous, A’isha. Although, why you should be, I don’t know—not when you have your father’s money!” She whirled around and stomped to her hut, kicking up a puff of dust before she disappeared inside with a slam of the door.

  For a few moments, all was silent. Then Juwairriyah’s quiet voice rose. hesitant.

  “Yaa A’isha, you speak truly about the scandal,” she said. “But there is truth in Saffiya’s words, also. While you have enjoyed Abu Bakr’s assistance, some of us have no one to provide for us. I, Raihana, and Saffiya came to Medina from other lands, and our families are far away.”

  “Or dead,” Raihana grumbled.

  “Nobody helps me.” Sawdah drew herself up and spoke in a voice tinged with pride. “I have provided for myself for years.”

  Zaynab sighed. Her shoulders drooped, and she looked as though she might crumple to the ground. “My father used to give me money until he died. But my uncle won’t give me a dirham. He thinks the umma should support Muhammad’s wives.”

  “I receive a small allowance from my father, but his fortunes have changed since we invaded Mecca,” Umm Salama said. Her tribe, the Banu Makhzum, had been one of the Quraysh clan’s most prestigious families before islam.

  “My father provides for me, of course,” Ramlah said. She raised her nose into the air, its usual position. “But as the daughter of Abu Sufyan, governor of Mecca, I should have more money than Jewish slaves.”

  “Because of my father, I do not starve, either,” Maymunah said. She smoothed her palm over her linen gown. “Like your father, yaa Umm Habiba, al-Abbas has much pride in our family’s status and would never allow me to wear mended clothes. Yet he complains nonetheless. He says, ‘Muhammad should have left an inheritance for his wives or allowed you to remarry.’”

  “Remarry? Then we would lose our place in Paradise with him,” Sawdah said. “I want to be right there by Muhammad’s side, living in his palace. We’ll have plenty of nice clothes then, girls.”

  Hafsa lowered her eyes. “My father provides for me, also. I never even wondered how everyone else gets along.”

  I patted her arm in commiseration, then looked up to see the gazes of my sister-wives on me. They were waiting for me to speak, but what could I say? My father had given me a generous share of his property when Muhammad had died, but I’d used it to help feed people in the tent city while abi tried to collect taxes from the apostate tribes. Only lately, as our men made more and more conquests, had the umma’s treasury begun to fill. But then abi had asked me, on his deathbed, to share my income with my two brothers, my older sister, and my little sister, Umm Kulthum.

  “I’d share what I have with all of you, but it’s not mine to give any more,” I said. “Soon I’ll be wearing mended holes, also.”

  “Ah, but you have the power to do something about it,” Raihana said. “You have the khalifa’s ear.”

  I laughed. “Umar? What woman has power with him? He whips his wives if they talk back.”

  “He listens to me,” Hafsa said in a small voice. “Sometimes.”

  “Of course he does,” Sawdah said. “What father could turn his little girl away?”

  Umar could, and we all knew it, but no one spoke as we gave Hafsa nervous glances. If she petitioned her father, he might view it as a sign of disrespect—and he’d punish her severely. Yet I wasn’t sure I’d fare any better if I went to see him. He wouldn’t strike me, for he knew Muhammad was watching from Paradise, but he might punish me in some other way for daring to approach him. Still, loot from our conquests had been pouring into the umma’s treasury since he became khalifa. Umar might make things hard for me, but would he refuse my request?

  “I’ll go,” I said, “when we return from the hajj.”

  Hafsa took a deep breath. “We’d better go now, A’isha. Our army killed that Persian queen, did you hear? I saw my father this morning, and he’s in a very good mood. Our messengers brought back a trunkful of treasures. By the time we get back from Mecca, it might all be spent.”

  Together we went inside my hut to prepare for our visit. Hafsa combed my hair and pulled it back away from my face so it wouldn’t show beneath my wrapper, and I removed the kohl from her eyes. “Our humble personalities won’t be enough to impress my father,” she said with a giggle. “If we want his help, we must embody modesty and meekness.”

  We hunched our shoulders, covered our faces, and shuffled into the mosque like a pair of cringing slaves. The room was dim and cool, having no windows, with trickles of light filtering through the date-palm ceiling and mottling our white robes. Umar knelt on a crimson carpet that, I could see as we neared, displayed a glorious garden of jewels: emerald grasses, trees dripping with ruby fruits, flowers of amethyst and garnet and jade, and rivers of pearl springing from a golden earth paved with silver paths.

  “Exquisite,” Umar murmured as his hands caressed the glinting jewels.

  “It is beautiful, yaa abi,” Hafsa said in her most childlike voice. His head jerked up at the sound of her, and he leapt to his feet.

  “Yes, b-but—too extravagant,” he said, his voice suddenly gruff. “The
decadence of the Persian court was never more apparent. It is one reason why our disciplined warriors were able to defeat the Persian troops—that, and the fact that a woman led them.”

  I thought of asking Umar about the Muslim army’s other victories, in which we had defeated troops led by men. Did he also think men were unfit for war? But I held my tongue, not wanting to rankle him now.

  “Did our messengers bring the carpet to you, abi? By al-Lah, that is a rare acquisition!” Hafsa gave Umar her most winning smile. “What do you intend to do with it?”

  “We will display it in the Ka’ba as a testament to the power of islam,” Umar said, beaming at her. My spirits lifted to see him in such a benign mood. Hafsa had spoken truly: Now was the best moment to make our request. I bowed low and asked permission to speak.

  “Yaa khalifa, we have come to ask for your help. Muhammad’s widows, having no husbands to provide for us, need the umma’s support.”

  “The umma has always shown the utmost respect for you all, has it not?” Umar said.

  “I do not think Muhammad would approve of such an ostentatious display of that carpet, yaa khalifa.”

  The voice came from the shadows behind me. Irritation crossed Umar’s face at the sight of Ali, but he quickly arranged his features into a smile and walked across the floor to grasp his elbows.

  “Yes, of course you speak truly, Ali. I did not mean I would display this extravagant item indefinitely. It would be on view for a short time, to allow the Believers to witness the luxury of the Persian court.”

  “A luxury in which they lived while their subjects begged for food in the streets,” Ali snapped. “These are the conditions Muhammad sought to correct with islam.”

  Although I agreed with Ali, I felt as agitated as if acacia thorns were pricking my skin. If we didn’t speak up soon, our petition would be forgotten or even dismissed, as Ali’s interference soured Umar’s mood.

  “Yaa Umar, as Muhammad’s widow and Abu Bakr’s daughter, may I make a suggestion?” I said in my meekest tone.