where every spring was, hidden deep between clefts of
rock, every place where a well had been sunk, every dip
in the landscape that held the sudden winter rains to
create pools that would vanish within a few days. They
needed no compasses, no maps; the land was in their
heads. They were master travelers.
From her vantage point in her howdah—a canopied
cane platform built out from the camel’s saddle—Aisha
saw the vast herds of the camel and horse breeders in the
northern steppes; the date palm oases of Khaybar and
Fadak nestled like elongated emeralds in winding
valleys; the gold and silver mines that produced much of
the wealth of the Hijaz; the Beduin warriors of remote
tribes, ɹercely romantic to a city girl. She watched and
listened to the drawn-out negotiations with those tribes
that resisted acknowledging Muhammad and Islam,
hoping for a peaceful outcome even as some other part
of her may have hoped the talks would break down so
that the only choice left was the sword and the world
devolved into action, men’s voices grown hoarse with
yelling and the air charged with the clang of steel and
the acrid tang of blood.
It was on these expeditions that she learned her
repertoire of battle cries, spurring on the men from the
rear. The women of seventh-century Arabia were no
shrinking violets, and least of all Aisha, known for her
sharp tongue and her wit. She learned to curse the
enemy, to praise her own side’s virility, to urge the men