The Jewel Of Medina (25 page)

“I am sorry, Little Red. There is no time. I will talk with you afterward.” Umm Salama lifted a razor to trim Muhammad’s beard. Their eyes met, and the intimate look they exchanged turned me on my heel and sent me out the door to my hut. After the services? Fine! Let the whole city talk. Why should I care?

Yet I trembled for him as worshippers filled the mosque. With my head down I listened for gossip about Muhammad and his son’s wife. I saw Umm Ayman in the corner. I slipped against the current to move closer to her.

“I am the one who suggested she move out,” she was murmuring. “The
Prophet told Zayd not to divorce her. You should have heard her scream when she heard that news! So I said, ‘If you are so unhappy, sister-wife, then why not be the one to leave? No one has told
you
to remain in the marriage.’ I even helped her pack her things—crying all the time, of course. If she knew how glad I was to see her gone, she might remain just for spite!”

Murmurs rustled through the room, and I looked up to see Zaynab bint Jahsh standing in the entryway. I tried not to stare at her, but my gaze kept returning like a bee to a succulent flower. She was every bit as beautiful as Umm Salama, but in a different way. Umm Salama was a gazelle, elegant and understated; Zaynab was a lioness, gleaming with power. Her eyes shone a startling gold, like ripe dates fresh from the tree, and her loose, dark hair curled wildly about her face, vining around her green silk wrapper.

As she entered the crowd, the murmurs ceased. People might gossip about her, but not to her face. Boldly she stepped to the front of the mosque, where the men prayed, and with a graceful flick of her wrists she unrolled her prayer mat. Clearly she didn’t cringe in shame, and why should she? A transparent nightgown, a blowing curtain, a blushing Prophet—such ridiculous rumors!

Then Bilal’s rich voice rang through the mosque. Muhammad burst into the room like a ray of sunlight in his white gown, red robe, and gleaming smile. His hair tumbled in glossy curls from beneath his white turban—tied again, I noted, with that tail of cloth that all the men were wearing now. His freshly scrubbed skin glowed, and his stride was as quick as a stag’s. In a single leap he stood atop the date-palm stump in the front of the room.

From his perch, Muhammad scanned the mosque. His glance flickered when it met mine, as if he barely recognized me, before he graced Umm Salama with the warmest of smiles. My cheeks burned and I lowered my head. Muhammad, who had once called me “beloved,” now treated me with a vague indifference since our fight over his new wife. After he heard my news of this terrible rumor, though, he’d be so grateful that he’d probably spend two nights with me. Then I’d finally have my chance to make him see that I’d grown up.

His gaze flitted like a moth from face to face—and then it lighted on
Zaynab, who stood directly beneath him. When I saw the burn in his eyes, the world seemed to shift under my feet. The rumors were true. If only a hand would reach down and pluck me from the room! I longed to rush forward and yank every curl from her brazen head. I wanted to scream at him for being so gullible. But I had tried pouting and shouting before, and all I had done was send him to another woman. The arms of Zaynab bint Jahsh were the last place I wanted him to go.

Zaynab was known throughout the
umma
for her extraordinary beauty as well as for her magical charm. Every man who looked upon her fell utterly under her spell, it was said. Zayd was foremost among them, or so we all thought. But she’d claimed that Muhammad was in love with her. If she joined the
harim,
how could I avoid being overshadowed, forgotten, turned into a servant? I was only a skinny, red-haired thirteen-year-old with narrow hips and a tart mouth. She was an oasis of a woman, lush, yellow-eyed and wild-haired. And cunning enough to seduce the holy Prophet of God.

I dropped to my knees and pressed my hands and forehead against my coarse woven mat, feeling the fronds cut into my skin. I blinked back my tears, stood, bowed, prostrated myself again.
How could You let this happen? Haven’t You tested me enough?

After the service, I paced in my room, wondering how to tell Muhammad about the rumors, worrying the sash of my robe into knots. Would he accuse me again of jealousy? By al-Lah, I wouldn’t let it happen! I’d seen the flashing eyes of Zaynab bint Jahsh. She played a game for which I didn’t know the rules—but I could guess them after hearing the story of how she’d seduced Muhammad. And in this contest, I held at least one advantage: I was married to Muhammad, while she was married to his son.

I met Muhammad at the door wearing only my night robe, with nothing but flesh underneath. When he entered I would let the robe slip to the floor and stand before him naked. He would forget about the woman he couldn’t have, and embrace the new, young breasts of the woman he already loved.

My hand felt cold as I led him into the room. He was frowning. “Was there something urgent you needed to discuss?”

“Discuss? Not exactly. But it
is
urgent.” I hoped he couldn’t hear my
voice quavering. I fumbled with the ties that held my robe together, trying to loosen them.

“Please, A’isha, I have other concerns,” he said. His voice sounded rough and impatient. I hesitated, imagining the humiliation of standing before him unclothed while he reddened and demanded I cover myself.
You have chosen the wrong time again, A’isha.
Even if he hurried away, at least he’d have the image of me seared into his mind. He would think about me later, and maybe he’d feel that same fire I’d seen in his eyes two years ago. My hands jerked the cord and I felt the knots tighten.

“Wait,” I said, as he started to speak again. Frantically I worked at the sash. A knock on my door made me jump, and my robe fell open—but he had turned away from me. I scurried over to the screen in the corner of my room while Muhammad answered the door.

“Father, help me! Zaynab has gone!” Zayd’s anguished cry flew around my apartment and out again. Then I heard muffled voices, followed by silence. I stepped out from behind the screen. Muhammad had gone out with Zayd and closed the door behind him, leaving the room as empty as my open arms.

Muhammad was gone for hours. When he returned, I met him in my silk wedding gown. I’d brushed my hair until it sparked, and decorated my hands with henna. I greeted him with a kiss and the sweetest of smiles. Muhammad would never tell me anything if I pouted every time he tried to confide in me.
A wise man knows his enemies,
my father had always said. If I was going to prevent other women from stealing Muhammad’s heart—and my status in the household—I needed to know their tactics.

He circled the floor of my apartment, groaning and gripping his beard with both hands as if pulling himself around the room. “By al-Lah, I do not understand what is happening!”

As Umm Ayman had predicted, Zaynab had moved back into her parents’ home, demanding a divorce from Zayd. Muhammad tried to visit her, but her father wouldn’t let him in.
Forgive me, Prophet, but her reputation is at stake,
he’d said.

“I must speak to her,” Muhammad said to me. “She is making a mistake. She thinks I will marry her, but I cannot.”

“You already have your four wives,” I said from my cushion.

He grunted and waved his hand as if to say,
Who cares about that?

“She is my son’s wife,” Muhammad said. “It would be forbidden for me to marry her. Even al-Lah couldn’t change that.”

“Nor could Zaynab,” I said. “Blowing curtains or not.”

“Zaynab did nothing wrong. The wind simply moved her curtain aside.”

“‘The breath of God,’” I murmured, remembering Umm Ayman’s words in the mosque.

“You speak the truth,” Muhammad said. “If people must blame someone for it, they will have to blame al-Lah.”

“Why would God cause such pain to poor Zayd, who has suffered so much? He spent years in slavery until you adopted him. He’s not even your blood-son. Why would al-Lah take Zaynab away from him and hand her to you, who have so many blessings? And why would He give your enemies more ammunition against you?”

“Only al-Lah knows the answers to your questions, Little Red. In fact, I think I will pray tonight for His guidance.” He kissed my forehead and turned away without looking into my eyes.

I sighed and crawled into bed—alone again—while Muhammad stepped through the door that led from my apartment into the mosque. He’d placed me close by when I was younger so I wouldn’t be lonely or afraid. Now, lying in bed, I could peer through the open door and watch his prostrations and hear his prayers. I felt tempted to say a prayer of my own—
Send her back to Zayd—
but I told myself I had nothing to worry about.

Zaynab could plot and scheme, but she would never have Muhammad. “Changed heart” or not, marrying her would be too dangerous for him. God wouldn’t like it, the
umma
wouldn’t like it, and our few remaining allies in the desert wouldn’t like it. They might stone the two of them to death, or exile them. At the very least, the
umma
would fall apart and Ibn Ubayy would be king of Medina at last. After all his work, would Muhammad throw everything away for a woman? Even now, as he prayed, he must know he would have to give her up.

For fifteen minutes I watched as Muhammad knelt in silence, squeezing sand in his fingers and letting it go, pushing his forehead deep into his
mat as I’d done earlier. Then, to my horror, his body stiffened and he yelped. He fell backward to the floor. He writhed and trembled and moaned. His eyes rolled, and his limbs jerked.

After a few moments he lay still, panting quietly and glistening with perspiration, his eyes closed. I raced to him, my heart hammering, and pressed my hand to his chest, feeling for a heartbeat. “Muhammad?” I whispered.

He lifted his head and stared at me, his eyes wide and wild. Excitement ignited his smile.

“Al-Lah has spoken, A’isha. How wise He is! He has made everything clear to me.”

My pulse calmed a bit. Muhammad had been having a revelation from God! I gazed at him in awe—that quickly turned to dread. From the trill in his voice, I knew he’d found a way to have Zaynab. I spread a smile thick as
hummus
across my lips. He sat up and gripped my hand.

“A’isha, al-Lah has given me permission to marry Zaynab. No—He has commanded it.”

I didn’t even try to hide my smirk. “Al-Lah certainly hastens to do your bidding,” I said, widening my eyes. “You say He has given you permission to marry the wife of your son?”

“My
adopted
son. As you pointed out, Zayd is not a blood relation.”

Panic rose in my breast, tearing at my throat. He
had
found a way! And al-Lah had helped him. Still, I kept my voice calm. “But it’s the same thing in the eyes of the
umma—
in the eyes of Hijaz.”

“That is the point.” Muhammad was nodding, the way he did when I mastered a difficult sword-stroke. “We have been in error all these years. Blood children and adopted children are not the same. If I marry the woman with whom my blood-son has shared a bed, of course I am committing an incestuous sin. But if the son does not carry my blood in his veins, then why should I hesitate?”

Tears filled my eyes. How much longer could I pretend? Yet I kept smiling. “So you change the tradition. But,
habibi,
do you have to break Zayd’s heart? Why can’t you just recite your revelation and leave Zaynab for someone else to marry?”

His look said,
Haven’t you learned anything?
“The entire
umma
is talking about her, Little Red. Some are saying she is pregnant with my child!

Who would marry a woman who has been so disgraced? I cannot let the slander continue against a member of my own family. If Zayd divorces her, the only way to stop the talk is to marry her.”

The urge to flee swept over me, making me leap up and storm to my bed. Muhammad followed and lay down beside me with his hands under his head. He gazed at the ceiling as if it were a sky filled with stars. “My uncle and aunt will be very pleased. As will Zaynab, of course.”

Of course. And me? I could only lie there beside my husband with my mouth full of woe. Hadn’t he wanted
me
once? And hadn’t he forbidden every other man in the
umma
to marry more than four wives? Apparently, though, the rules didn’t apply to the Prophet of God—not anymore.

“Praise be to al-Lah, who changes men’s hearts,” I whispered.

I turned my back against him, refusing to let him hold me.
Why?
I prayed again.
Why won’t You change his heart for
me?

And I fell into a fitful sleep with dreams of a man with long, shining hair and a face like a fine Arabian steed, with eyes for me alone.

C
OME
A
WAY WITH
M
E