The Jewel Of Medina Page 18
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.
COME AWAY WITH ME
MEDINA, JANUARY 627
FOURTEEN 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.”
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.”