The Jewel Of Medina (26 page)

M
EDINA
, J
ANUARY
627
F
OURTEEN YEARS OLD

Was there meaning in the rage of the wind that day, in the slap of the sand against our skittering legs? We scurried from the courtyard with our wrappers pulled close, hiding our faces from the sting, closing our eyes to the sight of our Prophet signing the marriage contract with his son’s wife. The sky grew thick with dust, blotting out the sun, hiding the blasphemy, some hissed, from al-Lah’s wrathful gaze.

Others remained loyal to the Prophet.

“To us, this union may appear unwise,” my father said during the feast, as I poured water from a ewer into his yellow gourd. “But who among us can discern the intentions of al-Lah?”

“Al-Lah’s intentions are perfectly clear.” Ali stabbed the air with a bread crust. “By commanding this marriage, He has left no room for doubt: Adopted sons are not the same as sons by birth.” He narrowed his eyes at my father. “And no man should place friends above family members.”

Umar folded his arms and scowled at Ali.

“Unfortunately, interpreting the Prophet’s revelations to fit our own
needs has become a popular pastime in the
umma,
” he said. “Some accuse Muhammad of doing the same in this instance.”

“Treacherous words, Umar.” Ali sagged into his cushion, his bark now a whimper against the powerful Umar’s dissent.

“Is it treacherous to accuse the Prophet of being human?” Umar said. “Zaynab bint Jahsh is the jewel of Hijaz. Given the chance to have her, I could easily convince myself that it was God’s will.”

He glanced across the room at the laughing bride in her shimmering flame-colored gown and his own beady eyes seemed to ignite. Sweat dotted his face, and he licked his lips. As I watched him, his eyes shifted suddenly—accusingly—to me. Disconcerted, I brushed Talha’s hand with mine as I poured water into his cup. The forbidden touch of his skin flustered me so that I splashed water into his lap, making Talha laugh.

Umar growled. “Mind your virtue, A’isha!”

I rushed away, flushing as furiously as if Umar had caught me flirting with Talha, whom I loved more dearly than I loved my brothers. Such was the mood in al-Lah’s holy mosque that evening: lewd and leering, filled with bawdy jokes and winking speculations.
See how the Prophet lusts for his bride? It is a wonder he was able to wait four months to marry her
. With the sides of the cooking tent snapping like whips outside, men and women alike nudged one another, baring teeth and wagging tongues.
Of course he waited. He had to be certain that she did not carry his son’s child, did he not?
I moved in the thick of the talk, pouring water into the guests’ bowls and setting platters of meat before them, my hands trembling, my blood zinging. The insinuations made me yearn to attack some of them with my water jug, or to cut off their tongues. When a group of Khazraj men tried to draw me into their gossip, I
did
cut them off, with the only weapon I was allowed to use.

“Five women in his
harim,
while he limits us to four. Is that fair?”

“The Prophet of God must have special powers in the bedroom.”

“Here is one of his wives. Let us ask her.
Yaa
, A’isha, how will your husband satisfy five women?”

I laughed, scorning them to hide my panic, for I’d wondered the same thing. With so many others to sate his desires, how would I ever become Muhammad’s true wife?

“I was just serving your wives,” I said, “and they asked a similar question:
‘How can the Prophet satisfy five women when our husbands struggle with one?’” Their banter fell away like the glance of a modest girl.

In the close room, thick with the stench of unwashed bodies barely masked by cloying perfumes, the aroma of meat made my empty stomach twist. Needing to eat, I stepped gingerly among the men dressed in white and the women in their gaily colored gowns and made my way to the cooking tent.

I walked with my head down to escape the bawdy talk, yet the Khazraj men’s question taunted me. How would Muhammad satisfy us all? I’d have to spend four nights alone now between visits. With each new wife, I’d have an even harder time catching his attention. Would he forget altogether about consummating with me?

Lately, when Muhammad lay beside me, a strange force tugged at my body, pulling me toward him. I would move close to him, and he would wrap his arm around me—but nothing more would happen. My skin tingled for his touch in spots he never approached. I’d lie there wondering what to do next, how to invite his caress. If I placed his hand there, or there, would he pull away in horror? If I asked him to make love to me, would he laugh and call me Little Red? While I lay there wishing and wondering, he’d begin to snore, indifferent to my charms.

Or did I even possess charms? I’d wanted to be a boy for so long when I was growing up that I’d ignored my mother and sister’s advice about clothing, hair and makeup, and how to use my eyes to captivate a man. And with my awful reddish-brown hair and eyes like a murky pond, maybe I wasn’t desirable to Muhammad. Safwan’s fevered gaze that night in the desert flashed through my mind, sending heat to my cheeks. Would such an exciting man desire an unattractive woman?

“By al-Lah, is this a wedding or a funeral?” Safwan’s voice jerked me out of my thoughts and into his gaze. His eyes pierced mine so boldly that I quickly glanced away, worried we might be noticed.

“I’ve never seen such sorrow on your face, not since the day your mother confined you to the house,” he said. “Of course, it’s understandable. You must be feeling very neglected right now.”

I felt my skin heat like a flame fanned by a bellows. Remembering my vow, I glared at him, trying to ignore the way his sly smile set off his high cheekbones.

“Right now, I have plenty of attention,” I said. “Unfortunately, it’s unwanted.” I tried to step around him, but he blocked my way.

“Unwanted attention is better than none, A’isha.” His gaze intensified. “Besides, I’m not convinced that it
is
unwanted.”

I ignored the whirling of my pulse. I denied my skin’s familiar tingle. I quivered—in outrage, I told myself, at his rude behavior. Flirting with the wife of God’s Prophet here in the middle of the mosque, for all to see! I glanced around the room and saw hundreds of eyes looking at Muhammad and Zaynab. I heard the clamor of arguments over al-Lah’s will and the meaning of incest, saw Muhammad neglecting his meal while he gazed hungrily at his new bride, saw Ali staring at me and Safwan with the eyes of a predator about to pounce on its prey. I turned and, brushing Safwan aside, hurried out the door.

I ducked my head against the blowing sand as I headed to the cooking tent—but before I reached the entrance, hands tugged at my robe and a pair of arms encircled me. Safwan’s body pressed against mine. I struggled, but he pulled me closer, as if we were tied in a knot. “Do you ever quit?” I said, but my words were lost in the wind.

He touched his lips to my ear. His warm breath made me shiver. “Never,” he said.

He pulled me around to the back of the tent. He removed his turban as we walked, freeing his long hair to caress my face. His spicy sandalwood smell mingled with the choke of dust.

“What are you doing?” I gasped when we were out of the wind and out of sight of the mosque entrance. “Do you want us to die? They’ll stone us if they catch us together.”

“The Prophet would never let that happen, not to you. And you’d protect me.”

I wrenched myself free from his hold. “If you deserved it.”

He frowned. “Have you forgotten our years together as children, A’isha? Didn’t we once think we would marry?”

“We were young.”

“I’ve heard how you cried at your wedding. You
wanted
me.”

“So what if I did?” I raised my voice, knowing the wind would sweep it away before it reached the mosque. “I wasn’t allowed to make that choice, was I?”

“
Yaa
A’isha, I wish it had been me. If you were my wife, you wouldn’t look so sad. I can see you’re not happy with him. Five wives, and one of them like a daughter!”

“Zaynab’s no daughter,” I said. “She never was, even when she was married to his son.”

“No. But you are.”

His words sent an arrow through my heart. Safwan spoke truly. I
was
more of a daughter to Muhammad than a wife. Did Safwan know my marriage was a lie? I searched his face, but I saw no pity there—only desire, as I’d once seen in Muhammad’s eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“The Prophet is—how old? Fifty-eight? Old enough to be your grandfather, or even your great-grandfather. Too old for a spirited woman like you.”

He moved closer to me. I would have stepped backward, but I was too near the tent.

“A’isha. I think about you all the time. I can’t stop! It’s as if I had a fever and walked around delirious, blinded by visions of your loveliness. I must have you, A’isha. Come away with me. We’ll leave tonight.”

He touched his hands to my shoulders, making me shiver, then slid his palms down my arms. I stood as if in a trance, looking up into his handsome face, listening to the words of love I had longed for so many months to hear from Muhammad.

“He has so many other wives,” Safwan murmured. “How long will he miss you? Yet, with you as my bride, I’d never look at another woman. You would be my world. You
are
my world.”

His face drew nearer to mine. His breathing was slow and deep. His hair fell forward like water against my hands, and I buried my fingers in its softness.

“A’isha.”

His lips pressed against mine. His hands kneaded my arms. He kissed me again, coaxing my lips apart. I felt my body leap to life like an animal released from its cage. I collapsed against him and returned his kiss as the wind swirled around us.
“Habibati,”
he murmured—but then the image of Muhammad’s face appeared before me.

Shame burned the backs of my eyes, flooded my skin like a fever. No one but Muhammad had ever called me “beloved.” I pushed Safwan away,
fled around the tent and into the stinging sand, and lurched into the mosque—where Ali stood in the doorway, watching me like the Evil Eye.

“What were you doing out in the storm?” he demanded.

“I went to the cooking tent where I could dine in peace,” I said.

His lips twitched as if he suppressed a laugh. “Tell me, A’isha, on what did you feast tonight? Or should I ask
whom?
” Safwan slipped past us, his turban set neatly on his head. Ali stretched his neck to watch him duck into the crowd, and I fled to my apartment.

On the way I bumped into Umar, who scowled at me. “Your cousin Talha bragged tonight that he would marry you after Muhammad dies. Why would he say this unless you had encouraged him?”

I started. Talha, my future husband? It had never occurred to me. “I expect Muhammad to live for many years,” I said coolly.

“I saw you touch Talha’s hand when you poured his water,” Umar said.

“That was an accident!” I cried, losing my temper.

“The way you women behave, it is no wonder the
umma
crawls with rumors about the Prophet.”

I turned and walked away from him, holding my head high. Hafsa stood near my apartment door, her eyes wide. “
Yaa
A’isha, what did my father say to upset you?”

“He accused me of flirting with Talha.”

“From what I saw, he suspects the wrong man.”

I felt myself blush. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She poked me with her forefinger. “I saw you and Safwan leave the mosque together. Take care with him, A’isha. He’s not a child anymore.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” I smirked, belying the crazed thumping in my breast. “But I think Umar is the one to worry about. Why is he suspicious of me?”

“He suspects every woman. Why do you think I was so eager to marry—both times? In his house, if a woman glances at the mirror she’s plotting evil. He’s upset about the scandal this wedding has caused. And he blames Zaynab, of course.”

“Why shouldn’t he? She seduced Muhammad.”

“By al-Lah, are you agreeing with my father?” Hafsa pretended to swoon, then lowered her voice. “But you speak truly: My father is the one to beware. I heard him tell Ali today that the Prophet’s wives should all be sequestered, to avoid more gossip.”

“God forbid that from happening. We would kill one another if we had to stay indoors together all the time.” Suddenly, the crowded mosque seemed too warm and close, as if the walls had shifted inward.

“Who’s afraid of Umar? Not me,” I said, wiping my damp palms on my robe.

“I am afraid of my father, and you should be, too,” Hafsa said. “He knows how to command the Prophet’s attention. And he can be very convincing.”

Although I shrugged and scoffed, the idea that we might be confined to the mosque sent fear racing through my limbs, reviving memories of how I had stood at my bedroom window and watched life march by like a caravan redolent of spices. Yet I couldn’t believe Muhammad would agree to such drastic measures. Hadn’t he given women more rights? Before
islam,
women were as chattel. Now we could inherit property, testify in hearings, and write provisions for divorce into our wedding contracts. Hadn’t those rights come at al-Lah’s behest? Muhammad’s revelations proved that God valued women, also.