The Jewel Of Medina Page 16

  “I will leave you all to acquaint yourselves while I attend to an urgent matter,” Muhammad said. “Yaa Umm Salama, when I return I will show you your new apartment.” His eyes flashed with a look I remembered from his first day with me.

  “By al-Lah! He needs a handkerchief to catch all that drool,” Hafsa whispered. Umm Salama lowered her gaze to the sleeping baby in her arms and her cheeks blushed a delicate pink. She, I noticed, was not smiling.

  Sawdah cooed and clucked over the babe while I looked on wistfully, wondering what it would be like to have a little one of my own. The children went out to play in the courtyard as I led Umm Salama to a cushion in the “nest,” as Hafsa had named the wives’ corner. I poured the new sister-wife a glass of date water, inhaling the scent of rose oil as I drew near to her.

  I and Hafsa looked at our hands and sneaked glances at the new bride. She resembled an alabaster idol with that pale skin and those high cheekbones. No wonder so many men had courted her after her husband had died! And it was no wonder that Muhammad, the most prominent man of all, had persevered for so many months.

  “She is not accustomed to harim life,” Muhammad had told me the night before. “You will need to explain everything to her.” I’d brayed like a donkey: After one and one-half years in Muhammad’s household, I only knew one thing for certain. I wouldn’t play “parrot” to anyone.

  “A bowl of dates isn’t much of a wedding feast,” Sawdah said, grinning in apology. “We didn’t know you were coming today.”

  “Yaa Sawdah, we have some clarified butter, also. Samn and dates are perfectly appropriate for a last-minute celebration.” I spoke with authority, to establish my status.

  “We were hoping for a big feast, because then they’d kill a goat or a lamb,” Sawdah said. “We haven’t had meat for a long time.”

  Umm Salama frowned. Judging from her perfume and the sheen of her silk, I guessed she was used to mealtime spreads of lamb and pomegranates, cucumbers and saffron-scented rice. Did she realize how different her life would be here? More important, did she realize who was in charge of this harim?

  “I am sorry to disappoint you,” she said in a quiet voice. “The Prophet offered me a feast, but I declined. These days I have little appetite for celebrations.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek, dissolving the stiff mask she’d put on for us. I saw the face of heartbreak, and I forgot for a moment that she was my rival.

  “Please forgive us,” I said. “We didn’t realize. You’re still grieving for Abdallah. Yet you married Muhammad. Why?”

  She lifted her head on that stalk of a neck and looked at me as though I were a spider crawling across the floor, which she might crush at any time—but chose not to, out of pity. “If ever you have children, perhaps then you will understand,” she said.

  Her baby began to cry, and Umm Salama turned to face the wall to nurse the child. I glared at her back. If I ever had children? Did she know that my marriage was unconsummated? My pulse beat frantic wings at the thought. In the eyes of the umma, an unconsummated bride was not a wife at all. And the only proper place for an unmarried virgin was in purdah— a place I’d avoid at almost any cost.

  Yet even if Umm Salama hadn’t known I was a virgin, her remark about if I ever had children was a cutting one, and deliberately so. After one and one-half years in Muhammad’s harim, I should be expecting a child. Eyebrows were raising over my failure, as Umm Ayman’s remarks in the hammam had made painfully clear. Some were speculating that I was barren, a shameful condition indicating the displeasure of the gods or, in our community, of al-Lah.

  In a few moments, Muhammad came to the nest with a face as eager as though Umm Salama were a bowl of honey. He stretched out his hand to her and led her out of the tent. As she walked, with her baby in her arms, she held her head as still and erect as if she balanced a crown atop it.

  “So why did she marry him?” I puzzled as soon as they were gone.

  “Tut, A’isha, how is a woman going to take care of herself, and four young ones, too, if she does not marry?” Sawdah grinned. “Besides, you know how the Prophet can be when he wants something. As stubborn as a donkey.”

  “Al-Lah only knows why he would want her,” Hafsa said. “A winter’s night is warmer. I should have given them a blanket as a wedding gift!”

  Apparently, Muhammad tried very hard to warm his new bride. For seven days he closed himself up with her, not visiting the cooking tent, my apartment, or the mosque, except to lead the Friday prayer service. On the pulpit, he delivered his sermon with his mouth stretched tight and worry marching across his forehead like a funeral procession. When he arrived at my apartment the next day, I had strewn rose petals on the floor and in my hair, and I was ready to lift his spirits with a night of love—but he no longer needed cheering up. He swooped me into his arms and whirled me in a circle, then set me down, laughing, and sprinkled kisses on my nose and cheeks. He was acting very fatherly, but I didn’t mind. After tonight he’d think of me not only as a woman, but as his true wife and, I hoped, the mother of his child.

  “How happy you are!” I said. “You must feel as pleased as I do to be together again.”

  “I and Umm Salama have consummated the marriage at last,” he said with a broad smile. “After six nights of frustration.”

  “Six nights?” He removed his turban and handed it to me. It was tied in a new way—with a long strip of fabric trailing down his neck and shoulders, like a tail. Her handiwork, I supposed. “Why did she delay?”

  “Her infant is young and needs constant nursing.” His color deepened. “Umm Salama had neither time nor energy for anything else.”

  “So, the baby finally got its fill?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but my voice was as stiff as Umm Salama’s spine. “Or maybe Umm Salama’s arms grew tired of holding it to her breast. Either way, congratulations.” Hiding my flushing face, I turned away and pulled from my shelf the surprise I had made for him: a dish of tharid, Muhammad’s favorite meal, fragrant chunks of goat meat and broth ladled over broken-up pieces of bread. It was time to change the topic of conversation—to me.

  “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.