The Sword Of Medina (13 page)

“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.

Umar scowled at me, but he nodded.

“
Yaa
Ali, what would you have Umar do with the Persian carpet?” I asked.

Ali folded his arms and widened his stance. “He should cut it into pieces and distribute them to the men of the
umma
. That would be the way of
islam,
to share equally with all.”

“Why couldn’t you display the carpet first for all to see, and then divide it?” I asked. “Then everyone could see the fruits of our conquests and give praise to al-Lah before reaping the benefits.”

Umar’s smile returned. “Your idea had occurred to me, also, A’isha. Now I am convinced that it is the best way.” He clapped Ali on the shoulder. “You are not the only one who bears the Prophet’s intentions in mind, Ali.”

Then Umar turned toward the
majlis
and began to walk away. “It has been a long day for me. I need to rest.”

“But
abi
!” Hafsa blurted. Umar stopped, lifted his whip slightly, and looked around at her with lifted eyebrows.

“What is it?” he asked. Then he shifted his gaze to me, and back to Hafsa. “Yes. Your petition.”

I stepped forward, my head ducked in submission. “Will the widows of Muhammad receive a portion of this wonderful carpet? Selling it would do much to relieve our suffering and also to enhance your status, for the people of the
umma
would not like to see us threadbare and starving.”

“I do not recommend that,
khalifa,
” Ali said. Umar looked annoyed by the interruption.

“Would Muhammad object to this, also, Ali?”

“Not Muhammad. But
you
might not desire it.”

“Muhammad would want us to be provided for,” Hafsa said. She walked over to Umar and grasped his hand. “
Abi
, please,” she said.

“If you distribute that carpet to Muhammad’s widows, every woman in the
umma
will want a share,” Ali said. “Shouldn’t their husbands decide how the household income is allocated?”

Umar released Hafsa’s hand and pulled at his beard. “Ali’s argument is compelling.”

Hafsa’s shoulders drooped as low as my spirits. “However,” Umar added, “I do not wish to leave the widows of the Prophet in destitution. You speak truly, daughter, when you say that Muhammad would not have wanted you to suffer.”

He smiled at her then, his eyes as soft as kisses. When he turned his gaze to me, the warmth remained.

“I will distribute the Persian carpet to the men of the
umma
only,” Umar said. “As for your sister-wives,
yaa
A’isha, I will give them each a yearly pension of ten thousand silver dirhams.” Hafsa cried out and threw her arms around her father’s neck, while I stood in stunned silence. What about me? Were my sister-wives to be awarded such a generous amount while I received nothing? My portion of the date harvest from my father’s lands was barely enough to keep me alive.

Umar patted Hafsa’s back self-consciously, being unused to showing affection. As he pulled her hands away from his neck, he smiled down at her and then at me. “Do not look so forlorn, A’isha,” he said. “Would I forget my friend Muhammad’s favorite wife? Because of his esteem for you and your status in his
harim
, I will award you more than they receive: twelve thousand dirhams.”

“
Yaa khalifa
, do you think that is wise?”

As rude as always, Ali strode forward to stand in front of me. “We have all heard how A’isha antagonized the other women of the Prophet’s
harim
. Her jealousy over Muhammad’s affections inspired much resentment among her sister-wives. Awarding her a larger pension might rekindle those old animosities.”

“
Afwan, khalifa,
” I said. “Ali seems to be an expert on everything today. What will he say next? That he should be the
khalifa
instead of you?”

Umar heard the truth in my words. Ali had overstepped his bounds more than once. He glared at Ali. “A’isha speaks truly. I do not recall asking for your advice today on any matter, yet you have thrust your opinions upon me several times. Utter one more word, and you will feel the sting of my whip!”

He lifted his whip and jerked his wrist. Its tail snapped so closely to Ali’s head that I saw his hair lift and fall. “Ten thousand dirhams for the others, twelve thousand for A’isha,” he said. “Umar has spoken. I am going to leave you now—unless, Ali, you have something else you want to contribute?” Ali shrugged.

As soon as Umar had left the room, Ali whirled around and lunged toward me, forcing me back against the mosque wall. “Leave her alone, or I’ll call my father!” Hafsa cried, but I knew I could handle him. Staring into his narrowed eyes, I sent Hafsa to the
harim
to tell the sister-wives our good news.

“How dare you belittle me before Umar?” he rasped when she had gone. “By al-Lah, if you had not deceived Muhammad into loving you so ardently, I would find a way to diminish you. Instead, I have forbidden any of my wives to speak to you, lest your unbecoming conduct influence theirs.”

I struggled to keep my dismay from showing. Not speak to Asma! She and I had grown close after my father’s death. Her grief had been so heartfelt that even my mother had ended up consoling her—and, in the end, loving her.

But I knew Ali would have a hard time enforcing his new rule during the
hajj.
Amid so many pilgrims, he’d never be able to watch all four of his wives, especially since he would ride up front with Umar while we women would be in the back.

“Hearing is obeying,” I said, never breaking my stare. “Now if you’ll step aside, I need to finish packing.”

A slow grin spread like a shadow across his face. “You have not heard the news,” he said. “And so it is my great pleasure to inform you. After hearing my warnings about dangerous rebels lurking in the desert, Umar has declared that the widows of Muhammad will remain in Medina. You will not make the
hajj
this year, A’isha. Al-Lah willing, you will never see Mecca again.”

Al-Lah didn’t seem to be the one making the rules these days. But before I could make the retort Hafsa ran into the mosque, her wrapper forgotten, her hair lashing the air about her head.

“A’isha, you’ve got to come quickly,” she cried. She jostled Ali aside as if she hadn’t seen him, then grabbed my hands and pulled me toward the courtyard. “Zaynab needs you. She’s vomiting blood.”

All was a blur as I ran to get my medicine pouch. Ali was forgotten, the
hajj
of no consequence to me now. None of us would travel while our sister-wife Zaynab lay at the feet of death. Inside her hut, I pushed my way through the sister-wives crowding her bedside. She smiled weakly, parting her parched lips just enough for me to see flecks of blood on her gums. I rummaged through my bag, silently worried, having no experience with this illness. My hands trembled as I pulled out a piece of dried ginger. “We’ll make a tea from this,” I said. “It will soothe your stomach.”

“A’isha.” Her once-husky voice sounded feeble, a mere rustle like grasses in the wind. “I spoke with Muhammad.”

I heard a cry, and looked into the panicked eyes of Umm Salama, whose pale face reflected my own terror. Was Zaynab so close to death that she communicated with those in Paradise? I reached out to smooth her hair from her damp brow. Touching her skin was like putting my hand into a fire.

“
Yaa
A’isha, why do you cry?” Zaynab reached out to squeeze my hand. “Not for me. I’m going to join Muhammad!”

“No,” I lied, blinking back my tears. “Not for you. For myself! I hoped I’d be with him soon.”

“But of course I would be the one to go,” she said. “He was my whole life, you know. But you, A’isha—Muhammad told me—you have to stay. You won’t go to Paradise for many years.”

“But why?” I said, sobbing now, forgetting that Zaynab was speaking out of delirium. “Doesn’t he want me?”

“Of course he does.” She squeezed my hand again, but more feebly. She closed her eyes and sighed. I cried out, thinking she was gone—but then she spoke again.

“You need to be here, A’isha,” she murmured. “Muhammad told me. You have work to do.”

“Work? What kind of work?”

“Al-Ma’thur,” she murmured. “The Legacy.” She closed her eyes.

“Muhammad’s sword? Does he want me to use it? Against whom?
Yaa
Zaynab!” My voice rose with my fear of losing her, and my urgent need to hear more.

“Shhh, A’isha,” Umm Salama whispered, and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Zaynab is resting, can’t you see?”

I sighed in defeat. When Zaynab awoke, she might not even remember this conversation.

Please, al-Lah, help her to remember,
I prayed.
I need Muhammad’s direction more than ever.

As Umm Salama ushered my sister-wives out of the hut, I stuffed the herbs and medicines back into my pouch, wiping tears from my eyes. Zaynab was dying, and there was nothing I could do. All the ginger tea in the world wouldn’t cure her, and I didn’t know what would. I’d have to go to the market apothecary for help.

I stood and turned away from her—and then I heard a murmur. I looked down to see Zaynab’s lips moving. “A’isha,” she whispered.

I fell to my knees. “Zaynab,” I said. “I’m here.”

Her lips moved again, and I lowered my head so close that I could feel her breath on my ear.

“Dogs . . .” she said. “Beware the dogs.”

“What did you say, Zaynab?” I whispered back. “What dogs?”

“At Hawab,” she said. “Muhammad said . . . beware the dogs at Hawab.”

And she fell back into her deep slumber, leaving me more confused than before.

Such pleasure it gave me to reveal to A’isha her exclusion from the
hajj
, and to see her smug expression flee like a slumbering dog startled by a hungry lion. In truth, I felt much like a lion at that moment. But the swelling of my chest, like the fullness in my belly, did not last for long. Only months after the pilgrimage to Mecca had ended, despair had become a sharp stone in my stomach as I scoured the city for barley to feed myself and my growing household. In the market, I moved from vendor to vendor with a coin-heavy purse, thanks to the pension Umar had given to me and my sons. Yet all the dinars in Hijaz would not have benefited me, for the drought we had been experiencing for more than a year had diminished our food supply. Barley and dates, the foundation of our diet, had become scarce.

Perspiring with anxiety, I snatched the sack of gold into my right hand ready to throw it in exasperation into the next sorrowful face telling me there was no barley available. Apparently seeing my frustration, or perhaps glimpsing the coins in my sheepskin pouch, the old jeweler Umm Ramzi beckoned for me. In a hushed voice he told of a caravan that had arrived that morning bearing wheat from Egypt. The owner of that caravan was none other than Hassan ibn Thabit, our city’s esteemed poet. For this useful news, I gave Umm Ramzi a dinar. His expression brightened: It was an outrageous amount. But I would have paid twice the price to ensure that my family would be fed while I was in Syria.

These were desperate times for Hijaz. From Khaybar to Ta’if, the ruthless sun beat strong men down to dust, shrinking spirits as well as bodies. Springs had vanished, sucked dry by the earth’s thirst, shriveling the date crop before flowers could form on the trees. Prayers for rain filled the mosque like birds too exhausted to fly, flapping their tired wings against the dirt floor. One afternoon, dark clouds choked the sky with eerie promise—but the few drops of rain they spat dried up before reaching the ground.

And so with a gladdened heart I entered the mosque that evening, a sack of wheat hoisted upon my shoulder and news for Umar of more grain available from Hassan ibn Thabit. Relief from starvation, at least, was near at hand. Now we could turn our energies to other problems.

“You must put an end to the decadence of your warriors if you wish to end the drought,” a wizened
shaykh
said to Umar as I walked into the mosque. “We hear tales of excess from the conquered lands in Syria and Persia. Al-Lah is punishing us for straying from the Prophet’s ideals.”

I could not argue with this reasoning. My cousin had modeled an ascetic life, for he believed material possessions distracted men from spiritual pursuits. In truth, the pleasures in my life provided by a pension and four wives had lulled me into a malaise like the sleep into which a man lapses after a large meal. Yet we had heard rumors of a greater decadence in Syria, where our warriors had abandoned their fight for the love of dice, dancing girls, and exotic foods.

“By al-Lah, I know these tales, and I will determine their truth,” Umar said to the
shaykh.
“We have finished our preparations and leave for Damascus tomorrow. If we find our men engaged in sinful pursuits, I shall order all to return to Medina immediately. If we find the governor condoning this behavior, I shall replace him. By al-Lah! I will put an end either to the wagging tongues or to the causes for God’s displeasure.”

And so we departed the next evening, one hundred men but no women, for Umar had forbidden wives to join us.
“We must not risk exposing our women to corruption,”
he’d said, causing many to grumble. I held my tongue, but with difficulty. Without Asma to accompany me, the excursion would be only a duty to be endured.

Yet Umar had selected a propitious time for this expedition. As we were mounting our camels, the young warrior Said ibn Utba rode up on horseback. Said was dressed in a most amusing fashion, more befitting a eunuch
than a man, in a Damascene silk tunic of pale indigo patterned with the figures of horses. “
Yaa khalifa,
I bring news from Khalid ibn al-Walid,” he said, panting. Umar invited him into the
majlis
, delaying our departure until Said had eaten from our meager stores, drunk the last of the
umma’s
goat’s milk, and rested an hour from his long journey.