The Jewel Of Medina (23 page)

“See what my sister taught me to make while you were gone?” I said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I confessed to Asma that you and I haven’t consummated
our
marriage yet. She was very surprised.”

“Was she?” Muhammad said absently, his eyes on the food, his nostrils flaring at the aromas of meat and spices.

“Very surprised. She said, ‘But you’re a woman now! How can he take new wives before consummating with you?’ She helped me make this dish to tempt you.”

He took a big bite, chewed with his eyes closed, and pronounced it
latheeth—
delicious. I let down my hair and arranged it over my shoulders as he slurped every morsel from the dish and then lamented that there wasn’t more.

“I have something else just as tasty for you,” I said, and whisked the dish away to settle myself on his lap. His breath smelled of coffee and cardamom. I cocked my head at him. “Have you and Umm Salama been enjoying a cup in the
majlis
?” I teased, to lighten the tone.

He laughed. “Her uncle asked me to share a drink with him. He discovered the difficulty I was having with Umm Salama. He took the child from her and hired a woman in the country to nurse it.”

“And so, with the baby out of the way, you were finally able to finish your task?” My tone was harsher than intended, sharpened by humiliating memories of another night when I’d sat in his lap, blatantly offering myself to him while he’d blathered on about Mother of the Poor. But I was nearly fourteen years old now, and, some said, developing into a beauty. Muhammad should be melting into my eyes and
groaning with desire, not reminiscing about his attempts to heat the blood of his chilly bride.

“I am telling you this for a reason, A’isha.” The vein on his forehead began to darken. “Umm Salama is upset over the loss of her child. She was doing well—” his smile was fleeting “—until after the consummation. Then she cried all night.”

“How romantic,” I said, and pulled myself out of his lap to stand.

“
Yaa
A’isha, are you so cruel? This must be jealousy speaking.”

“What do you expect from me? Advice?” I glared at him. “Leave the poor woman alone. Can’t you see she’s miserable?”

“Miserable?” He stood. “She has been very engaging with me. We have talked together all night long, then slept in each other’s arms all day.”

“That sounds quite cozy.” I turned to the window. “It sounds like you two are great friends.”

“We are. We were there together when Abdallah died. He was my milk-brother, you know,” he said, meaning that, as babies, they’d been fed by the same wet-nurse. “I feel responsible for his death. I should never have allowed him to lead that caravan raid. The wound he received at Uhud had not healed completely, and it opened up and became infected.”

“Responsible, you?” I said. “You told me yourself: Al-Lah alone decides when we live and die.”

“That is what I know,” he said. “What I feel, however, is another matter.”

“So you married her to assuage your guilt?” My heart softened. I knew all too well these days how powerful a force guilt could be.

“That is only part of the reason. I will not lie to you. Umm Salama is special to me. She possesses all the finest qualities. Beauty. Modesty. Wisdom. Courage. Intelligence.” I flinched at each word of praise. Did he think I lacked these qualities?

“We began to talk together, and it was as though time had taken wing. I did not notice the setting of the sun or the rising of the moon.” Muhammad smiled like a man who has just enjoyed a meal. Which he had—the
tharid
I’d prepared. If there were any justice, I seethed, the meat would settle as heavily in his stomach as his words were doing in mine. “When you come to know her, you will find much to admire.”

“Unrequited love is painful,” I muttered, blinking back my tears.

“What do you know about it?” Muhammad snapped. I jerked my head
around to look at him, but his glower made me look away again. Suddenly the room felt cold. I pulled my robe from its hook and wrapped it around me. “You know nothing,” he said. “You have only met Umm Salama once.”

“Twice,” I corrected. “I saw her at Uhud, when she was tending to her husband’s arrow wound. You should have seen the love in her eyes.”

“Of course she loved him. We all loved him!”

“She still loves him.” The vein between his eyes bulged at my words. “You don’t believe me, do you?” I laughed, wondering how he could be so blind. The great military strategist knew nothing about women. “Maybe it wasn’t the baby at all! Maybe she was putting off the consummation because she didn’t want it. That’s why she cried afterwards. She might be married to you now, but in her heart she’s still the wife of Abdallah ibn Abd al-Asad.”

Now Muhammad was the one who laughed—a rough laugh, like the scrape of gravel on the grinding stone. “What an imagination! You have been reading too many love poems.”

“I don’t need poetry to know about love. My love for you has taught me plenty about heartache.”

“Your love for me? What love for me, A’isha?” He was shouting now, and his vein was throbbing and turning black. “The love that tries to sabotage each new alliance I make?”

“Alliance?” I snorted. “Is that what you’re calling marriage these days?”

“It is both! Umm Salama’s father wields much influence in Mecca. He can help us greatly.”

“So
that’s
why you married her—for her family connections! It’s pure coincidence that she happens to be incredibly beautiful.”

“Nothing is simple. Not any longer. The
umma
is growing in power. Power brings enemies. Every new alliance I form extends our influence in Hijaz and increases our chances of survival.”

I scowled at him. Did he really expect me to believe he’d married Umm Salama for her ties to Meccan high society? “What about love, Muhammad? Is there room in your life for love anymore? Or are you too busy ‘extending your influence’?”

His pupils were fierce pinpoints of rage. His nostrils flared, and his face bunched up like a fist. I staggered backward as he thundered toward me.

“Love?” he shouted. “Do you see any love? Because I do not! I see only a spoiled child who loves herself!” He snatched his turban off the windowsill and stormed out the door.

I stood in place for only a moment, gasping for breath enough to keep up with my racing heart. “Well,
someone
has to love me.” I threw open my door and looked around.

“Muhammad!” I cried. “Come back!” I ran into the courtyard, searching for him, thinking perhaps he’d gone into the
majlis
, but it was dark. The mosque? I turned toward the entrance—and, in the window of Umm Salama’s hut, I saw his profile flickering in the lamplight. I stood there with my mouth hanging open. He’d run to
her?

I felt a scream rise in my throat. I closed my mouth against it, loath to give Umm Salama even this small victory over me. I turned to walk back to my hut, but I stopped after only a step or two. Dread filled me when I thought of another night in my room alone, while my husband dallied with his new plaything.
Al-Lah, free me from this wretched life!
I remembered Muhammad’s words:
Do you see any love?
In truth, I did not. Was it love to cause such heartache as Muhammad was causing me?

Sorrow flooded my soul and spilled tears on my cheeks. If I were a man, I’d be riding through the desert now. No one would lock me away or call me “parrot” or judge my worth by the number of children I had. I’d be in charge of my life as only men could be, with their swords and their horses, their courage and their wits. And then I remembered: I had all those things, but still I wasn’t free. Yet.

I ran to the stable, tears streaming down my face, where Scimitar stood as if waiting for me. “Let’s go join the Bedouins,” I said to her, and soon we were riding through Medina at full speed. The stars whooshed past in a blur. Scimitar’s hooves pounded in time with my pulse. The wind rushed against my ears. Two men on horseback parted for me to pass. One of them called my name. His voice beckoned, familiar somehow, but I resisted the urge to halt. Instead, I drove Scimitar to gallop faster. No one would stop me. I leaned into the gusting wind. Sand stung my face, a rough caress. Then the world lurched, and I hurtled up into the air, my arms outstretched as though I were flying. I reached out to grab a nearby star but then I was falling, falling. The lap of the earth opened up for me, plump and soft, and I landed with my astonished face in a dune of sand still warm with the day’s heat.

I heard my name again. A man’s hands clasped my arms and pulled me up from my sand-bed. I imagined how I must look, with grains pouring like water from my hair and clothes, sand like white powder in my eyelashes and in my mouth. I spat, brushed myself off, and staggered, dazed by my fall. Strong arms caught me, and I gazed up into the worried face of Safwan.

“A’isha.” My name sounded as round and full as the moon on his tongue—and I realized that it had been his voice I’d heard calling me as I’d ridden out of town. “Are you hurt?” He lifted a hand to brush the sand from my forehead and cheeks. The heat of his body pressed against mine like a lover’s touch. I reeled, dizzy.

He stepped back and steadied me with his hands on my shoulders, then let go of me. I shivered and pulled my robe tight, all those parts of my body so warmed by his closeness now cold in the night air. The wind whipped around us, enclosing us in a private world of swirling sand.

“Forgive me, A’isha,” he said, taking a step back. “I did not mean to impose upon you. I feared you were injured.”

His voice and manner were so formal. Had I imagined those moments in his arms? I felt my face grow warm. How could I have let him touch me? I lowered my eyes, hoping he couldn’t see my blush, and thanked al-Lah for hiding the moon’s light behind a cloud.

I forced myself to laugh. “The only thing injured is my pride.”

His hands hung by his sides, but his eyes continued to caress me. My heart began to race again.

“My horse.” I looked to the east, to the north, everywhere except at those eyes. “Where is my horse? Scimitar!”

“I’m afraid she is gone. But I can return you to the mosque.” His eyes caught mine at last and held me there as surely as if he’d wrapped his arms around me.

“That’s a very kind offer—but I can’t accept it.” How people would talk if they saw me riding in from the desert on Safwan’s horse!

Disappointment clouded his eyes. “Forgive me again. I was thinking only of myself.”

I grinned, trying to lighten the tone. “Yes, how selfish of you! Making me ride your horse while you walk alongside it, all the way back into town.”

But he didn’t smile. “I was thinking of riding behind you, with my arms around your waist,” he said. “Holding you close.”

I loosened my wrapper, no longer cold. I turned away from him, knowing I should scold him for being so forward, yet flushing with excitement at his words. If only Muhammad would speak so sweetly to me!

“But I would gladly walk beside you for the pleasure of your company,” he said.

“I’m honored.” I scouted the vast, undulant terrain for Scimitar. “But we can’t be seen together in the middle of the night. Where is that horse of mine? Scimitar! Scimitar!”

“Here, then.” He walked over to his horse, a handsome, cinnamon-colored steed, and held the reins out to me. “Ride Bedouin into Medina, and tie him up outside the mosque. I’ll walk alone, and I’ll collect him when I arrive.”

“But—you’ll spend hours trudging through this sand! I have an idea.” My pulse fluttered. Safwan watched me, waiting. His ardent gaze seemed to tie my tongue in place. I looked around for Scimitar again. “What if we ride together to the edge of town, and then I take your horse in alone?”

He smiled at last, and the clouds parted from the gibbous moon. As I was pulling myself up onto his horse, though, the rhythm of hoof beats sounded in my ear. With chagrin and relief I looked up to see Scimitar cresting a dune and running in our direction.

“There she is!” I cried as though elated. I leapt down to the sand and ran to her. She stopped in front of me and nickered, nuzzling my neck with her nose.

I mounted her and rode over to Safwan. His turban had tumbled from his head at some point this night, and his long, straight hair blew free and glossy in the moonlight. My heart throbbed in my throat.

“Scimitar,” he said. “Isn’t that a strange name for a mare?”

“Not when the mare belongs to A’isha bint Abi Bakr.”

“Lucky mare,” Safwan said. He reached out to caress her mane, then moved his hand over to mine and gently pulled it to his lips. His gaze pressed into me as his body had done just moments before, and his kiss seared my fingers. I gasped and yanked away, pulled up on Scimitar’s reins, and galloped back to Medina—and to my marriage that, with all its problems, seemed a much less dangerous place than the desert tonight.

R
IDICULOUS
R
UMORS

M
EDINA
, S
EPTEMBER
626
T
HIRTEEN YEARS OLD