The Jewel Of Medina Page 21

  “I saw the Mustaliq fight,” I said. “Wouldn’t you rather have them helping our enemies?”

  “They belong to the biggest tribe in Hijaz,” Muhammad said. “They hold much influence. This is the work of al-Lah! First He handed us an easy victory, then He awarded me the chief’s daughter. This marriage will be good for the umma, and for islam.”

  “Praise al-Lah, then!” I said, smirking, although my heart seemed to crumble. “But why do you have to be with her tonight?”

  “She is unbelievably beautiful.” His eyes lost their focus for a moment, as though he were gazing into the distance. “As long as she remains with me, she is safe. But if she were to escape, there would be no one to look out for her. And if she were harmed, her father would become a terrible foe.”

  “The poor thing,” I said. Rage unraveled my voice, but I knew I’d lose him if I showed my anger. “Send her to me, and I will watch her.”

  Muhammad shook his head. “You would watch her run all the way back to Muraysi.”

  “Why don’t you come and watch me, instead?” My smile was meant to seduce, but it felt as though hands were pulling it too tight. “Maybe I’m planning to run away.”

  “I do not have time for this nonsense, A’isha. If there is anything you need to discuss, it will have to wait until we are home. Now I must go and make a place for Juwairriyah to sleep.”

  Al-Lah forbid that her soft princess hands should be roughened by unrolling a bed! While Muhammad hurried off to care for his bride-to-be, I lugged my sheepskin to a grassy spot and spread it out, muttering. The sweet fragrance of jasmine wound around me like a vine, choking me. The nighttime breeze heaved a mournful sigh, rattling the heads of the date-palms. The rustle of their fronds made a sound like feet running across the desert sand. The moon blazed a trail of light that obscured the stars.

  I shivered under my camel’s-hide blanket and snuggled deep, wishing for Muhammad’s arms to keep me warm. But no, he was busy tonight—again. Just when I’d been on the cusp of his desire, just when he’d begun to glimpse the woman in me! But it was useless. Muhammad would never love me except as a daughter. I’d been a fool to think I could change his love, that I could forge it with my own fire into something deeper and more mature—into something that would produce a child for me and an heir for him.

  In his eyes, I was a child. How long before my new sister-wives noticed? Then I’d be forced to spend the rest of my days serving, pleasing, smiling, cringing. Caring for their babies instead of my own. Pain twisted my stomach, clenching me like a fist. Then I remembered Safwan, and the pain seeped away. He’d offered to free me from all this, to take me away to a place where we would make our own rules. I sighed and curled around that thought, cupping it like a warm flame in my belly. Safwan would arrive soon, and I would be waiting for him. The rest was in the hands of al-Lah.

  Losing the caravan was surprisingly simple. I handed my bedroll to the men packing my camel, then I stepped into the hawdaj and, with a clamoring heart, waited for them to turn their backs. As they tied on our beds and amused one another with exaggerated verses about the battle with the Mustaliq, I slipped away across the still-warm sand to hide behind a dune. I weighed so little, I knew the men wouldn’t feel the difference as they lifted the hawdaj onto the camel’s back. And since no one but Muhammad was allowed to look behind the curtain, I faced no danger of discovery. He wouldn’t return to me tonight, not if it meant tearing himself away from her.

  From my hiding place I heard the cry to move forward, and the camels’ belches and the clanking of cooking pots as the caravan resumed its journey home. This afternoon they would arrive in Medina, set down my hawdaj, and wait for me to emerge. My pulse surged as I imagined the shock on my attendants’ faces when they realized I was gone. What would Muhammad think then? Would he remember my frown and my words about running away? Would his heart cry out for me? Or would he turn red with rage and leap on his horse, then tear across the desert in search of me? I looked frantically about for a hiding place. But could I hide from the Prophet of God?

  The sister-wives would come rushing out at the news that I was gone. Sawdah would wave her arms and rustle the curtains as if I might be hiding in their folds. Hafsa would weep, fearing that I was lost to her forever. Umm Salama and Zaynab would have to force their tears. Without me in the harim, they’d compete only with each other for Muhammad’s heart—unless they found a new rival in the princess Juwairriyah.

  As for the men, what an uproar my disappearance would cause them! Umar would burst with fury, especially when Safwan turned up missing, also. Women are good for only one thing: trouble, he would say. That is why I keep mine locked up at home.

  Ali would be thrilled to see me gone. He’d goad my father : It is unfortunate that your daughter has brought such shame upon you, Abu Bakr. He’d try to push him out of the circle of Companions. And my abi, who loved me best, would be so torn with grief he wouldn’t resist. My disappearance would destroy his friendship with Muhammad, for how could he face him after this?

  The honor of the entire family depended on its women. My father, mother, sister, and brothers, even Asma’s husband Zubayr and their son, Abdallah—all would suffer because of my actions. They’d endure finger-pointing, whispering, rude laughter, public poems about Safwan and me. They’d become known as the family of the adulteress who’d deceived alLah’s Prophet. My mother would wear dark blue and scratch her face with her fingernails, then try to forget I’d ever lived. In the eyes of the umma, I would be dead. No—worse than dead. Speaking my name would be forbidden. No woman would ever name her daughter “A’isha” again.

  “What have I done?” I leaped up and ran to the place where the caravan had so recently stood, but it was gone, sailing across the vast, rippled sea of moonlit sand to another wedding—and wedding night—for Muhammad.

  “Stop!” I jumped and waved my arms, calling Muhammad’s name. I shouted and screamed until my throat grew raw, and I strained with watering eyes to see the line of camels, horses, and men dwindling into the distance. As they shrank I felt myself grow larger until, overwhelmed by my deed, I lay on the ground. There I shivered in the cold and pondered the stars fading against the bleeding dawn. No one—except al-Lah—knew what I had done.

  Forgive me, I prayed. Help me. Yet not even God could change my actions. Nor was I sure I wanted Him to.

  The truth was, my life in Medina had become unbearable. The umma might whisper, my parents might mourn, my sister-wives puzzle or sneer, but none of them could judge me. None of them had spent six years in purdah, clawing at the walls and vowing never to become imprisoned again. None of them had lived in constant fear of losing the few freedoms they possessed. I felt like the girl on the seesaw again, fighting off attackers with a wooden sword—but the game had gone on too long, and I was tired. When Safwan arrived, I’d find respite at last.

  Tall, handsome Safwan, with the chiseled face of a purebred steed and hair as thick and glossy as a horse’s mane. Soon he would come galloping across the desert, kicking up sand, and whisk me away to another life. Where would we go? To Ta’if, with its beautiful gardens of roses and its famous vineyards? Or Damascus, perhaps, the glorious city I’d heard so much about. In a great, bustling place like that you could lose yourself and start anew, and no one would even ask questions.

  A poignant light spilled across the sky. The rising sun colored the air with warmth. Grass and leaves brushed my cheek like Muhammad’s beard. The deed was done, and at last I could rest. In my dreams, Muhammad rode up on al-Qaswa, his white camel, laughing with relief at finding me there. I have decided to give up all my other wives for you, my A’isha, he said.

  His soft kiss thrilled me. I opened my eyes to see him—and found Safwan lying next to me instead.

  “My A’isha,” he was saying. “At last, you belong to me.”

  His lips were so sweet and his breath so warm. I let my eyes flutter shut again as I returned his kiss, as chaste as a child’s. I felt a stir
ring under my skin, and I raised my tongue to touch his. With our bodies we brushed each other lightly—my breasts to his chest, his thigh to my most intimate place, my toes to his shins. An aroma like musk rose from his body. My moan of pleasure surprised me, luxuriant as the purr of a cat stretching in the sunlight.

  “My Safwan,” I said—but the words sounded strange, as if someone else were speaking.

  Yet they must have awakened something inside him. His eyes widened, and he growled before attacking my throat with lush, wet kisses. Shudders wracked my body, squeezing back the cry that pushed against my throat. By al-Lah, I wasn’t ready for this! He was moving too fast. I thought of Muhammad, his gentle kiss that first day, how he’d let me go at the first sign of fear. Safwan grabbed my breasts and squeezed them hard. I jerked away, but he tugged at my chemise and pulled it open, exposing me. The hunger on his face made me cry out. I pushed his hands away and sat up, pulling the fabric back together to cover myself.

  He frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “What are you doing?” I said, panting, stalling for time, struggling against the anger I knew I shouldn’t feel. Of course Safwan would expect to make love with me. The desire had been there for me, also—but like a glimpse of brightness from the corner of my eye.

  His expression shifted first one way, then another, mirroring his confusion. “I’m doing what we came here to do.”

  My mouth went dry. I hadn’t come to this oasis to consummate our friendship. I’d come here to escape. Seeing the passion on Safwan’s face, though, I realized that to achieve my desire, I was going to have to accommodate his.

  Suddenly shy, I averted my gaze to the grass between us. “C-could you go more slowly?”

  “We don’t have much time,” he said, crawling toward me. “Someone could come back looking for you.”

  I tied my shirt decisively. “That would be a disaster. We’d better wait.”

  “I’ve waited long enough for you, A’isha.” When he kissed me this time, his mouth was hard. His pointed tongue darted into my mouth like a lizard’s. He pushed me back onto the ground and pinned me with his body.

  “I’ve dreamed of this for so many years,” he said. “Ever since that day at Hamal and Jamila’s window. Remember?” I glanced up at him to see if he was joking, but his gaze was so intense I had to look away.

  “Safwan, I was just a little girl,” I said.

  “You wanted it, too,” he said. “You wanted to marry me, remember? You were supposed to be my wife.” He pushed his hand between my legs, making my blood scream. I tried to squirm away but his hand increased its pressure, hurting me.

  “The Prophet picked your flower, but the fragrance is mine to enjoy now,” he said, and thrust his tongue into my mouth again.

  I struggled to push him away, but he was too heavy. He grunted as he ground his mouth against mine and tugged at my gown, pulling it upward across my calves, my knees, my thighs. I kicked and writhed, trying to escape and wishing for my sword. I felt his fingers on my bare skin, burning me. I flailed my hands, grabbed long strands of hair, and yanked as hard as I could. He yelped—and, my mouth freed, I could finally speak.

  “My f-flower has not been picked,” I said, gasping.

  His body stiffened. He pushed himself up and stared down at me. “What did you say?”

  “My marriage has not been consummated.”

  Safwan sat up abruptly, cursing. Trembling, I slid away from him. He was laughing—a rare sight, I suddenly realized—and shaking his head.

  “You always were the worst liar imaginable,” he said. “By al-Lah, tell me the truth!”

  So I told him: about the day I’d moved into my new apartment, about how my girlish fear had put out Muhammad’s fire. I didn’t tell him about the times I’d tried to seduce Muhammad and he’d patted my head and called me “Little Red,” or how I’d held back tears in recent nights as he’d slept with his back to me. “In his mind, I’m still a child.”

  “By al-Lah, I wish you’d told me this sooner!” His tone was bitter. I stared at him. When had I been able to say anything to Safwan? He’d filled our every moment together with his declarations of love.

  “Yes, I’m sure if you’d known, you would have attacked me more gently,” I snapped. Clearly my feelings were far from his thoughts.

  He stood and brushed the sand from his gown. “The Prophet is going to kill me,” he said. “If al-Lah doesn’t strike me down first.”

  “If I’d had my sword a few moments ago, I might have done it myself,” I said.

  Above me, Safwan paced and glowered. “A virgin,” he muttered. “If I take you now, it will unman the Prophet completely.”

  “Safwan, he doesn’t care! That’s why I’m here with you now.”

  He stopped. His eyes searched mine. “I thought you were here because you loved me.”

  I felt my stomach clench. Did I love him? I’d never considered the question. Years ago I’d practically worshipped him. He’d been my rescuer, coaxing me out of the cage that was my girl’s destiny. Because of him, I’d dared to dream of a life different from my mother’s: a life of adventure, in which women and men rode, and fought, together. But did I love him?

  “Please don’t be offended.” He held out his hand to help me stand. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. Musk and cinnamon, coarse cloth, a racing heartbeat. “You took a great risk by waiting here for me. If that doesn’t prove your love, nothing will.” He kissed me again but I hung limp in his embrace, pondering his question. Did I love him?

  “A’isha, feel how crazy you make me!” He pressed my palm to his chest so I could feel his heart’s frenzied knock. “By al-Lah, you won’t have the same problem with me that you’ve had with the Prophet. I want to possess you right now, under this tree.”

  “Didn’t you say we should go? If someone catches us here, we’ll be killed.”

  “That’s true. And Ubaynah ibn Hisn is expecting us tonight. They’re not far away.” He puffed out his chest. “They were planning to raid the Prophet’s caravan, but I talked them out of it.”

  “Ubaynah ibn Hisn? He’s with the Ghatafan!”

  He grinned. “We join them tonight. Ubaynah said he would be thrilled to have us on their side.”

  I took a step back from him. “But they’re friends with Quraysh!”

  “Which makes them even more powerful. The Prophet will never be able to take you back—not without a war.”

  I took another step back. “You’d fight against the umma?” I remembered my promise to al-Lah—to protect the umma—and panic scrambled my thoughts.

  “I’d fight anyone for you.” He stepped toward me, but I moved away. He frowned. “They’re Bedouins, A’isha. We’ll live the life we’ve always dreamed.”

  “Sleeping in tents, always moving around, never bathing. Turning brown and wrinkled from the sun. Drinking camel’s milk. What kind of life is that?”

  “You liked the idea once. It was all you ever talked about!”

  “When we were children, yes. But I’ve grown up.”

  “Yes, and your mouth has grown, too.” He glowered at me. “Since when do wives talk back to their husbands? We’ll do as I say.”

  He turned and walked to his horse. I stood in place. He swung himself up into his saddle and rode over to me, his expression hard.

  “I’m not going to fight for the Ghatafan,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. They don’t allow their women to fight.”

  “You’re not going to fight for them, either.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “No silly girl is going to tell me what to do.”

  Rage rushed through my veins like hot steam from a boiling cauldron. “Silly girl? Don’t you ever call me that again. I’m a warrior, Safwan. A warrior!”

  He leaped down and stood before me with his arms crossed over his chest. “Yaa A’isha, have you forgotten which one of us is the man?”

  “Do you see a man here? I see only a traitor.” Still seething w
ith anger I reared back and, with a mighty force, spat on his chest.

  Safwan’s hand aimed for my face, but I saw his open palm coming. I ducked out of the way and stood triumphant while he stumbled forward.

  “Fighting against the Prophet would be betraying God,” I jeered. “I have no desire to burn in Hell. But if you’re so eager to, then go a-”

  This time he moved quickly. He had hold of my shoulders before I could finish my sentence. His grip was fierce. His eyes blazed. He spat when he spoke, hitting my eyes with a fine spray. His breath smelled like lemons and rue.

  “I’m running away with the virgin bride of God’s holy Prophet!” he shouted. “I think Hell-fire is already a certainty for us both.”

  QUEEN OF THE HARIM

  MEDINA, FEBRUARY 627

  Safwan’s words hit me like blows, stealing my breath so that I couldn’t speak, filling my eyes with tears and my mouth with bile. Doubling me over to spit up regret and fear. Afterwards, he handed me a water skin for rinsing my mouth, then helped me up onto his horse—but before I could swing my leg over its back I began to retch again.

  Sickness hurled me to the ground, and the sun kept me there, stomping me down with its heat. Safwan carried me to the grass and pitched his tent in the shade. Inside it, I lay on his sheepskin and curled up like a child in the womb, groaning with pain but not daring to speak the thought that tortured us both: Al-Lah’s punishment had already begun.

  I had forgotten my pact with Him, my promise to defend the umma against our enemies. Instead, I’d thought only of my own desires.

  Forgive me, I prayed. And please let Muhammad forgive me.

  I returned to Medina the next day on Safwan’s horse with the umma’s accusations pelting my aching head. To protect me from the storm of scandal, Muhammad sent me to my parents’ home, where I contemplated with horror the sin I had almost committed. Death was the penalty for adultery—not a swift, merciful death by beheading, but stone by stone, painful and slow, agonizing. Given the rumors already flying through the umma, I couldn’t be sure I’d escape that terrible death. But at least I would die knowing I’d been true to Muhammad. When he joined me in Paradise he would know the truth also.