The Jewel Of Medina (24 page)

Among Muhammad’s wives, I was the only one who escaped the pinches and lewd remarks of Ibn Ubayy and his cohorts in the Medina market. Tired of the humiliation, my sister-wives began asking me to shop for them. I was happy to oblige, always eager to walk in the open air, reveling in my freedom. But when Umm Salama sent me for cow’s milk, I rankled. What would be next? Ordering me to the well for her hair-washing water?

It wasn’t the asking that bothered me, but the way she asked, with a lifted chin and her usual commanding tone. After her new bosom friend Fatima had started encouraging her to take my place as
hatun
, Umm Salama began asserting herself in the most irritating ways. For example, she now insisted that I nurse my runt lambs outdoors instead of in the cooking tent. She said she was afraid I’d infect her children with diseases from the tent city, but I knew she just wanted to be in charge.

As I crossed the courtyard to the cooking tent, I passed her and Muhammad reclining under the date-palm tree. He had his head in her
lap, and she was dropping fat grapes into his mouth. Entranced by her fruit, he didn’t see me pass. But she did, to my dismay.

“I need you to do something for me,” she said. I hurried along as though I hadn’t heard her, but then Muhammad called my name and I had to stop.

Umm Salama lifted herself off the grass like a swan taking flight and glided over to me. “My children do not care for the goat’s milk that is drunk here,” she said. “I have promised them cow’s milk for their meal today.”

She pressed a coin into my palm. “I dare not venture into the market myself, for fear of suffering at the hands of those ruffians.” As if she were so pure that a single pinch would undo her virtue.

I turned pleading eyes to Muhammad, who had come over to join us.

“I was going to the tent city this morning,” I lied.

“Surely you can delay your visit until the afternoon,” he said. “For the benefit of Umm Salama’s children.”

He watched me closely, and I dropped my gaze. After our terrible fight the night I’d run off to the desert, I’d promised to trust his judgment in the future. He’d forgiven me, but not without some chiding.
I am not the same as other men, but I am a man,
he’d said sternly. I knew what he meant: He differed from other men in the way he treated his wives. He listened to our opinions and encouraged us to speak. But in the end, Muhammad was the ruler of the household and of the
umma
. He made the decisions for all our lives. And my duty, as his wife, was to submit.

The journey to the market lifted my sour mood. The morning sun kissed my face as I walked through Medina, and people I hadn’t seen in weeks greeted me with smiles and embraces. The burdens of
harim
life grew lighter the farther I walked from the mosque, until even the smell of manure didn’t bother me. Neither did the swarms of insects.
Kohl
on the eyelids might attract the glances of men, but, I’d discovered, it also repelled thirsty flies. I only hoped I didn’t attract Safwan’s glance today.

Remembering that exchange in the desert with him a few nights ago made me blush so hard I thought my hair would catch fire. What had he been hoping to accomplish by flirting with me so boldly? Did he really think I would betray Muhammad, God’s holy Prophet, for anyone—even him? True, I’d fantasized about joining the Bedouins when he and I were
young, but those had been children’s dreams. I was an adult now, accountable to my family, my husband and, especially, my God.

Which made my behavior even more abhorrent.

Hadn’t I vowed to forget about Safwan and focus on my marriage? Yet whenever I saw him, my intentions scattered like clouds blown by the hot winds of desire. My heart fluttered as I remembered his proposal to ride through the desert with our bodies pressed together on a single horse. I shook the memory away. Whatever Safwan was trying to do, he was destined to fail. I was the wife of God’s Prophet. If Safwan didn’t respect my position, at least I should respect it myself. And if I lost my intelligence whenever I was around him, I would have to avoid his company.

A cacophony of sounds jolted me out of my reverie. I’d arrived at the market. Goats bleated. Cart wheels clattered. Children ran and laughed and screamed, and their mothers shouted. Amid all the noise, I could barely hear the vendors beckoning, their voices lilting, as I passed their stalls. The savory aroma of roasting lamb brought water to my mouth—but I had to do without, since the coin Umm Salama had given me would pay for the milk and nothing more. I held my stomach to quell my pangs as I passed by the meat vendor’s stall, wondering when I’d ever taste such a delicacy again.
Not soon,
a part of me hoped. Meat, in our household, almost always meant a wedding. I’d give it up for the rest of my days to avoid another one of those sad events.

Not that I needed to worry about more wives in our
harim
. We were full, according to Muhammad’s own rules. He’d told his followers they could have only four wives each. I, Sawdah, Hafsa, and Umm Salama made four. There would be no more new brides in our household, thank al-Lah! It was too exhausting, establishing my position as first in the
harim
again and again. Plus, each marriage meant I had to wait a little longer between nights with Muhammad. He slept with each of us in turn: Sawdah one night, then me the next, then Hafsa, then Umm Salama, no matter whom he might prefer. He was determined to treat us all the same—an honorable goal, but impossible to attain, in my opinion. I was sure he looked forward to his nights with Hafsa and Umm Salama more than to his time with me. They gave him pleasures while I gave him only talk. Or—that was all he would accept from me. As for Sawdah, she’d become indifferent to their nights together.

“I cannot have more children, so what good does it do? I would rather work on my leather,” she’d told me.

In truth, Sawdah earned a tidy income with her elegantly tooled desert boots, sandals, and saddlebags. Neither she nor her son hungered for meat or wore ragged clothes. We watched from the corners of our eyes, envious, when she counted her money from her sales.

“It’s unfair,” Hafsa complained to me privately. “We like nice things, too. Husbands are supposed to provide for their households, but ours provides for everyone else, instead.”

“
Yaa
Hafsa, you need to spend a day in the tent city before you make that claim,” I said. “People there die of hunger every week. Our stomachs may growl, but at least we’re alive.”

“I’m not talking about food. I want clothes. Look! I’ve had to mend this robe three times. And your gown is too small, A’isha. See how your wrists stick out from your sleeves!”

I wanted to tell Hafsa how the tent people wrapped themselves in goat skins or moved about under the blazing sun with nothing on their heads, but I knew how she felt. Our life wasn’t as hard as she imagined, but it might have been easier if Muhammad paid more attention to matters at home.

I slipped my arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “That’s our misfortune, being married to the Prophet of God,” I teased. “His mind is in Paradise, so our bodies suffer.”

Or, I reflected now, maybe the problem wasn’t Muhammad at all. He didn’t concern himself with us much, that was true, but he also demanded very little. Ours was an easy life, compared to those of the tent-dwellers or of women whose husbands beat them or who, like my mother, suffered abuse from a tyrannical first-wife.

Would I still think my life was easy if Umm Salama became the
hatun
? The child of wealth, she was used to being waited on. As Great Lady, she’d keep us all busy catering to her and her children. My spirits sank when I thought of spending my life in servitude to that stiff-necked princess. I tried to shrug off the notion, telling myself it would never happen, that Muhammad would never let me be treated that way. But I knew there was only one way to ensure my number-one status in the
harim
. I would ask Muhammad tonight to make an announcement recognizing me once and
for all as his
hatun
. After that, no one would be able to challenge my place.

But there were other problems in the
harim
. We were hungry, we were threadbare, and, worst of all, we were bored—especially Hafsa, who had no other interests except henna decorating. In other
harims,
women’s lives were filled with babies to raise. In Muhammad’s
harim,
there were no babies, only children from previous marriages—and most of them older. We sister-wives spent our days in idleness, magnifying our few problems and grumbling at one another, when we could have been using our time to earn money for ourselves, as Sawdah did.

Entering the Medina market, I passed the stall of a woman hairstylist, and the idea flew into my head: Why couldn’t Hafsa offer her skills with henna to the women at the public baths? Brides, especially, would clamor to have her filigreed peacocks and flowers adorn their hands and feet, and they would pay a nice sum for her artistry. The work would keep her happily busy, and with the money she earned she could buy a new gown for herself every now and then. I quickened my steps, eager to buy Umm Salama’s milk and run home to Hafsa with my plan.

I found a vendor selling the milk and filled my skins, then turned to hurry back, my thoughts full of moneymaking schemes. But fragrances of flowers and spice beckoned from another stall, tempting me to sample some perfumes.

Dotting rose oil on my arm, I heard laughter behind me, followed by Muhammad’s name and more laughter. I touched my hand to my sword. Was Ibn Ubayy nearby? No—these were women’s voices. I pulled my wrapper about my face to hide, and listened.

“Imagine! She answered the door wearing nothing but a nightgown. The Prophet could see right through it,” an elderly voice said.

“
Ai!
That modest man? He must have prayed for the ground to swallow him up,” said her listener.

“She told me his eyes shone like two glowing lanterns, even as his face turned red.”

“But why did she open the door to him?”

“She says she thought it was Zayd.” The first woman snorted. “As if she would not know her own husband’s voice at the door.”

“She exposed herself to the Prophet on purpose? Is she not modest?”

“Zaynab bint Jahsh, modest?” The old woman cackled. “She ought to sprout the tail of a peacock! And now she is worse than ever. Since the Prophet saw her naked, all she does is preen before the mirror.”

I gasped, then glanced over my shoulder: As I’d thought, the scratchy-voiced woman was Umm Ayman, Sawdah’s friend and the first-wife of Muhammad’s adopted son Zayd. With her was a short, squat woman with eyes that bulged like an insect’s.

“The Prophet saw her naked?” the pop-eyed woman squawked. The perfume vendor lifted her eyebrows. Umm Ayman shushed her companion, and she lowered her voice—but not too low for me to hear. “But how?”

“When she opened the door in her nightclothes, he told her he would wait outside for her to get dressed. But then a gust of wind blew past and lifted her bedroom curtain. ‘The breath of God,’ she calls it. As if al-Lah willed it to happen. The Prophet saw everything, she said.
Everything!
”

“But how does she know what he saw?”

“She turned and saw him standing outside the window, flushed with desire. He covered his eyes with his hands, but it was too late. She threw on a gown and raced out the door to apologize, but he had already rushed away with a red neck. He was shouting, ‘Praise be to al-Lah, who changes men’s hearts.’”

“That is a strange thing to say. What does it mean?”

“I am not clever enough to figure it out, but Zaynab claims he is in love with her. Poor Zayd! She goads him about it day and night. ‘Muhammad wants me,’ she tells him. ‘He has always wanted me, but now he is obsessed.’ The Prophet is her cousin, and Zaynab says he would have married her long ago if his first wife, Khadija, hadn’t insisted on being his only wife.

“‘I waited years for that old woman of his to die, but you had to beg for my hand in the meantime,’ she said to Zayd. ‘Now I’m stuck with you, and all Muhammad can do is keep marrying other wives, trying to forget me.’”

“Poor Zayd!” Umm Ayman’s listener clucked.

“By al-Lah, it breaks his heart to hear it. It breaks mine, too, to see my husband hurting. She wants a divorce so she can be free to marry the Prophet, that is what I think. Zayd would be happier without her, believe me.”

Their voices faded. I turned to see them walking away with their heads
close together, nodding and laughing—as the entire
umma
soon would be. Sawdah couldn’t keep a secret for a day, but her friend Umm Ayman was worse: She couldn’t keep her lips sealed for even an hour.

I hurried to the mosque to tell Muhammad about the rumors, far more damaging than anything Ibn Ubayy had invented. The blame Muhammad took for losing at Uhud was nothing in comparison. And, even though I knew her tale could only be half-true, others would be eager to believe every word, and to pass on the story with embellishments. Rumors only grow more spicy as they move from tongue to tongue. Soon everyone would be whispering “incest”—unless Muhammad stopped the lies before it was too late.

I found him in the courtyard with Umm Salama. He was stripped bare to the waist, and stood bent-over as she washed his hair for Friday services—my task.

“What delayed you, A’isha?” he said. “I had to ask Umm Salama to do your job today.”

“I have urgent news,” I said, panting from my long run.

“It will have to wait until after the services.” He raised his dripping head and began toweling it dry. His arms were lean and muscular. The rippling of his chest muscles made my pulse flicker. I felt Umm Salama’s eyes watching me, and I looked away.

“I must tell you now,” I said. “Before the services.” Umm Ayman would spread her gossip all over the
umma
by noon. The crowd filling the mosque would whisper about Muhammad even as he led the prayers. Perhaps if he knew about the rumors beforehand he could mention something in his sermon to deflate them.