The Jewel Of Medina (33 page)

Power was what drove them all, including Muhammad. In truth, it was what I desired, also: the power to live freely, to fight for my
umma
, to control my destiny. Being a woman meant I couldn’t seize this power by force, and I certainly wouldn’t gain it by running away. Muhammad had married every one of his wives, starting with me, for political gains. My best chance for empowerment, I saw now, was to become politically useful to him. If I could earn his respect and his trust, I could become his advisor. I might also be able to help the
umma
, fulfilling my promise to al-Lah with my intelligence instead of my sword.

My pulse drummed an exuberant beat. Me, advisor to the Prophet of God! I knew I could do it, and do it well. How many times had I spied on the men in the
majlis
with ideas spinning through my head? Muhammad would listen to me if I proved myself worthy. Even that jackal Abu Sufyan, it was said, consulted his shrill wife, Hind, for political advice.

I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke the rich, red light of the fallen sun bled into my room, and the wing of the angel Gabriel slid over my cheek and out the window.

“The Prophet!” Barirah crashed into my room, arms flapping. “He calls for you. Look outside.”

I heard a shout as I arose, followed by clamoring voices. Muhammad stood in my mother’s garden with his arms outstretched, his smile leaping like a flame, his hair flung about his head as if he’d just awakened from a long sleep. Around him, men and women of the
umma
ululated and threw themselves to the ground, shouting their thanks to God.

“
Yaa
A’isha, al-Lah has sent me a revelation at last,” Muhammad called. “You are innocent of any wrongdoing!”

Relief washed over me like a cooling rain. “Praise al-Lah,” I breathed, and let the curtain drop.

I sent Barirah for my robe and pulled my hair back, reminding myself of my vow to become Muhammad’s helpmate. To gain his respect, I would have to command it. And if I wanted him to treat me like a woman, I would have to act like one. I dried my tears and washed my face, giving myself a chance to calm down before going to greet him.

Barirah came in with my robe. I slipped it on, then covered my hair with my wrapper. My mother rushed in with a face as eager as a child’s.

“Muhammad is waiting for you. Come and thank him,” she said, and practically pushed me toward the front door, where my father stood smiling at Muhammad, who in turn beamed at me like a man presenting a precious gift.

“
Yaa
A’isha, I’ve come to take you home and make you my true wife,” he said.

I lowered my eyes quickly, hiding my joy, fearing he’d see triumph, which would have raised me above him, or gratitude, which would have placed me at his feet. Neither of us was responsible for this change, anyway. Al-Lah had made it all possible. The triumph belonged to Him, and so did my thanks.

“I will gladly accompany you, husband,” I said. “But first, I’m going to the mosque.”

“What are you talking about?” my mother cried.

I kissed my father’s beard. “Thank you for your protection during this difficult time. Will you please call for a camel so I may ride home, as befits the wife of the Prophet?”

It was a ridiculous request; the mosque stood next door to us. But I was determined to reclaim my dignity. My father grinned, but my mother seized my shoulders and stared at me with wild eyes.

“
Ai!
The Prophet has saved your life today. Are you too proud to thank him?”

“Muhammad didn’t clear my name. Al-Lah did,” I said. “Al-Lah is the one I’m going to thank.” Then I gave Muhammad my most winning smile. “And when I return to my room, husband, I hope to find you waiting there.”

“Hearing is obeying,
habibati
.”

A G
LANCE IN THE
M
IRROR

M
EDINA
, F
EBRUARY
627

How quickly the heart changes! Desire burned like a fire in Muhammad’s loins, unquenchable in one night, or two, or three. As for me, the pain of consummation soon melted away—Muhammad was so gentle, I hardly felt the scorpion’s sting. To be in his arms, skin to skin, was the bliss I had longed for all my life. Now my husband’s very glance filled me with pleasure, and I understood at last the grins and sighs and innuendoes that swirled like cinnamon in the cooking tent whenever Muhammad sequestered himself with a new wife.

Afterward, lying in the circle of his arms, I listened with a full and quivering heart to his declarations of love and his tender promises for the future.

“When I heard that you were missing from your
hawdaj
, I felt as if my life were ending,” he murmured, stroking my hair. “All color seemed to drain from the sky, and all the heat from the sweltering day. For the first time in my life, A’isha, I felt truly afraid. My first thought was to ride out in search of you immediately.”

My stomach shifted as I imagined him galloping up to find me lying in Safwan’s arms. Of course, by the time Muhammad had discovered me
missing I was vomiting in the dirt and holding my belly, alone, in the shelter of Safwan’s tent.

“What made you change your mind?” I asked.

“Ali. He convinced me that it would be foolish to set out in the midday heat. In truth, I was weary and in need of replenishment. When the day had cooled, Ali sent Abu Hurayra in search of you.” He frowned. “In retrospect, it was not a good decision. Being unfamiliar with the path, Abu Hurayra lost his way.”

I couldn’t suppress my smirk. If Ali had truly been interested in finding me, he wouldn’t have sent a newcomer from Yemen to search for me. But I kept my suspicions to myself. Ali couldn’t hurt me now.

“It’s fortunate that Safwan’s horse has a more refined sense of direction than Abu Hurayra’s nose,” I said.

“Fortunate, yes. But it does not surprise me that you returned in safety, for al-Lah chose you for me long ago.” Muhammad caressed my face with his coppery eyes, making me glow. “The angel Gabriel once showed me your face in the palm of his hand. I knew we would be together until death.”

“And afterward.” Heat surged under my skin and spread through my chest.

“A’isha, every woman I have ever loved has left me. My dear Khadija, who believed in me from the first and who gave me Fatima, died only a few months before you and I became betrothed. Before that, I lost my mother when I was six.”

My heart beat only for him as I imagined the sorrow of the boy Muhammad, orphaned at such a young age, for his father had died before he was born. “That must have been terrible for you. Do you remember her?”

“As if she lived yesterday.” His eyes grew misty. “She was beautiful and filled with joy. No one ever made me laugh so much—until you came along.” He squeezed my hand and gave me a tremulous smile.

“At least you had your uncle Abu Talib to take care of you.” Ali’s father had raised Muhammad as his own son, inspiring Muhammad, years later, to return the favor and care for Ali.

“But not right away. In those first years after
ummi’s
death, my life was a procession of ever-changing sorrows. My grandfather took me to live
with him in a house with little light, for he was nearly blind. No longer was I allowed to play with my friends or to go outdoors except to draw water from the well. Instead I became my grandfather’s servant.”

I exclaimed over this news and pulled him close Like me, Muhammad had been imprisoned at a young age—had lost his childhood before he’d had a chance to enjoy it. “Then you must know how I felt, being locked in
purdah
.”

“I tried to change your father’s mind, to convince him such drastic measures were unnecessary, but he feared for you,” Muhammad said.

I sighed and lay my head on his chest. “We were not children for long, were we,
habibi
?”

“Our lives have been difficult, yes. But you and I are survivors. That is one reason I admire you, why I love you more than my own life. Like me, you are a fighter.”

“Control your destiny, or it will control you,” I said.

Muhammad nodded. “You speak the truth. That is why I have risked so much for
islam
, why I have given up everything to come to Medina. I must worship according to al-Lah’s wishes, not those of Quraysh.”

I sat up, sensing the opening I’d been waiting for. “And I want to fight in battle—” Muhammad winced—“as I know I cannot do, and to be the official
hatun
of your
harim
, which I know I can. With your support.”

He wrinkled his brow. “But you are already the
hatun
, are you not?”

“Yes and no. I have taken the position, but not all your wives respect it. Some say I’m too young to lead the household. But if you tell them yourself, they’ll have to respect my status.

Muhammad tapped his forefinger against his chin and studied me as if I were a puzzle that needed solving. “My leadership of the
umma
was given to me by my followers.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re not going to help me?”

“The
harim
is not the man’s domain, but that of the women,” he said with a rueful smile. “If you want to be
hatun
, you must earn the privilege from your sister-wives.”

As disappointed as I felt to learn Muhammad wouldn’t declare me his
hatun
, I was delighted at all his attention after I became his true wife. He lingered
in my apartment seven days and nights, as befitted a virgin bride—although, as far as anyone else knew, we were merely celebrating my safe return home. We might have spent every moment giving love to each other if not for the constant interruptions. Messengers brought gifts from the
umma
, congratulating me for my return: figs and honey, pomegranates and
tharid
. Muhammad adorned my hair with an opalescent comb made of shells from the Red Sea, and I admired my reflection in a brass hand-mirror Hassan ibn Thabit presented along with a new poem praising my many virtues.

But not everyone was pleased to have me back. On my third day with Muhammad, as I lay in his arms and sucked grapes from his fingers, and dreamed about the child that could not be long in coming, Umm Salama came to my door.

I stood as regally as my short frame would allow.

“Welcome home, sister-wife,” she said. “I am pleased to see you looking so well after all you have endured.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Forgive me for intruding, husband.” She turned to Muhammad. “But I have not seen you in several days. Had you forgotten that last night was your night with me?”

“I have been keeping A’isha company since she arrived,” Muhammad said. “As you said, she has been through a terrible ordeal.”

She looked at me without expression. “I understand.”

When she had gone, Muhammad pulled me close for a kiss. “Being my true wife has its disadvantages, also. Now you will have to contend with the jealousy of your sister-wives.”

“Disadvantage? After years of being the jealous one, it’s a nice change.” I slipped my arms around his waist and kissed him again. “One of many nice changes.”

Another knock on the door made us both laugh. “Lack of privacy is another disadvantage,” I said. “All of Hijaz seems to be at our door today.”

Fatima stormed in with a face as pinched as a rat’s.

“
Yaa
Father, Umm Salama is very upset,” she said. “Zaynab also. You are paying too much attention to your child bride. The rest of us are feeling neglected.”

“What’s the matter, Fatima? Doesn’t Ali keep you entertained?” I said. Muhammad shook his head at me. I pressed my lips together.

“It’s not fair to the rest of us,
abi
, the way you favor her,” Fatima said. Muhammad gave his daughter a tender look. “
Yaa
Fatima, do you love me?”

“You know I do, Father. More than anyone in the world.”

“Then do you not love whom I love?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good.” Muhammad’s smile broadened. He lifted my hand to kiss it. “Since I love A’isha above all others, that means you love her, too. So naturally you do not want to hurt her feelings with these accusations, or by keeping me away from her.”