The Jewel Of Medina (30 page)

“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 stirring 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 with 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.”

Q
UEEN OF THE
H
ARIM

M
EDINA
, F
EBRUARY
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.

In my parents’ home I prayed daily for al-Lah’s mercy, begged Him to spare my life and to restore me to Muhammad. Each day flowered with hope—would Muhammad visit me today?—then dropped its petals like tears. The weeks dragged on like a funeral procession. My father barely spoke, and shifted his glance aside when he saw me. My mother, on the other hand, speculated about my fate, speaking freely with Asma or the few friends who would risk being seen entering the dwelling of an accused adulteress.