Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (30 page)

T
he Messenger consummated his marriage that night with Hafsa, to her quite vocal satisfaction. I covered my ears with a rough leather pillow, but her throaty cries wafted through the thin mud walls between our apartments, adding to my misery.

A few days later, while I was still raw from the addition of this spirited girl to the harem, a second wedding was held. Fatima, I learned, was to marry Ali, and somehow that felt right. They were both strange, otherworldly creatures and their union felt almost destined.

The ceremony was not as grandiose as Hafsa’s nuptials, but there was a great dignity to the event. I felt an inexplicable solemnity to the wedding, as if this were something momentous in the history of the world rather than the union of two poor misfits who were lucky to find each other.

The Messenger was solemn and quiet as Ali and Fatima sat before him. The groom was dressed in a simple robe of black, his green eyes sparkling in vivid contrast. Fatima wore a russet gown, her face completely covered by a thin veil. Only a few intimates were invited, the heart of Muhammad’s family—his wives and daughters, Uthman the widowed son-in-law, and the Messenger’s two fathers-in-law, Abu Bakr and Umar. I was delighted to see Talha there, and my sister, Asma’s, eyes never left Zubayr, who had finally emigrated to Medina with a promise to marry her and end her spinsterhood.

Ali and Fatima signed the wedding contract and we all raised our hands to pray the
Fatiha,
as was customary. Normally the ceremony was completed with the supplication, but the Prophet did something unusual that night that I never saw before or again.

The Messenger of God raised a small bowl of carved acacia wood and poured it full of clear water from an earthen jug. He then rinsed his mouth with the liquid and spit the water back into the bowl and it seemed to sparkle as if he had cast diamonds into the bowl. And then Muhammad took the water and sprinkled it on Ali and Fatima, and the strange shimmer seemed now to emanate from then. Finally, my husband reached for a small glass vial of olive oil and touched it to his fingers before anointing Ali’s forehead. He then reached inside his daughter’s veil and did the same to her. It felt as if he was anointing them king and queen, as the prophets of Israel were said to do with their regal charges in days long past.

“May God bless you and your descendants,” he said with a look that somehow managed to combine joy and sorrow at once.

The whole ceremony seemed appropriately ethereal for this enigmatic couple and I was glad when the Prophet rose and kissed them, signaling that we had returned to the world I knew and understood.

The women took hold of Fatima’s hand and with the usual giggles and knowing glances led her to the adjoining bedchamber, where a sheepskin mattress similar to my own was laid out on the stone floor.

As I adjusted Fatima’s veil, which had shifted awkwardly as we moved her, I saw that her eyes were filled with tears and her mouth was a solid line.

“Smile!” I said with a wide grin of my own, hoping to lift her inexplicable gloom. “This is the most important night of a woman’s life.”

Fatima looked at me as if seeing me, truly seeing me, for the first time. And then she said words that I would never have expected.

“I wish I could be like you, Aisha.”

“Why?” I asked, sincerely surprised.

“You live your life freely, embracing every moment,” she said softly. “You are not troubled by the past. Or the future.”

It was a strange comment from a strange girl, and I responded as best as I knew how.

“My father says that the past is like a dream from which one has awakened. Why look back on it? And the future is like a mirage in the desert. We keep racing after it, and it keeps running away from us.”

I was startled at my own words, which had a flourish of poetry that I had not realized was in me.

Fatima smiled sadly, and there was something so tragic in her look that I felt my heart break.

“And yet sometimes the mirage runs toward us,” she said. “And then we see it is made not of water but of fiery sand, sweeping away everything we love into the wind.”

I looked at her, confused, even frightened. And then the women ushered me out as Ali entered the room, his green eyes as distant and unreadable as ever.

T
he day of reckoning came at last, and war was upon us. The Meccans had come to avenge the dead of Badr and destroy Medina. It was the first day of spring and the sparrows sang from the palm trees as our soldiers marched out to defend the oasis from the invaders. Abu Sufyan led a force of three thousand men and three hundred horses, while we were able to put together only seven hundred Muslims, along with three hundred tribesmen allied to the shadowy Ibn Ubayy. Despite the overwhelming superiority of our adversary’s numbers, the Muslims remained confident. After all, we had seen the miracle of Badr, where we had defeated an army three times our size.

And there had been a special sign of favor in the days just before the battle. The Messenger’s daughter Fatima had given birth to a son, a chubby and smiling little boy named Hasan. The Prophet’s own infant sons from his marriage with Khadija had died many years before and Hasan was now the only living male heir to the Messenger of God. His birth had come after a difficult pregnancy during which Fatima had spent weeks confined to her bed. The old women of Medina had begun to whisper sadly that the Prophet’s daughter was not strong enough to carry the child to term, and my husband’s face had become increasingly bleak and despairing in the days before her labor had set in.

But then, as if God had decided that the poor girl had suffered enough, Fatima’s pains vanished and she easily gave birth to the plump, curly-haired boy. The successful delivery of the Prophet’s heir represented a clear sign of hope for our
Ummah
. None of the Mothers had borne the Messenger any children, a fact that was the source of my greatest personal sorrow. But I took some comfort in the knowledge that if Hasan lived past the difficult weaning years, when most children succumbed to the cruelties of the desert, he would carry in him the sacred blood of the Messenger and ensure the survival of Muhammad’s family. The fact that Hasan was Ali’s son had instantly pushed the strange young man to even greater prominence in the community, a reality that was greeted with some bemusement by the elders among the Muslims.

But now all rivalries were set aside, for the enemy was at the gates of the oasis. The two hosts met on a valley just beyond a craggy volcanic mountain called Uhud, where the Messenger made camp and awaited Ibn Ubayy’s reinforcements. I sat beside my husband as he looked down from the heights to the plain below. The Meccan forces were like shiny beetles, their mail coats glinting up at us in defiance. With my falcon’s gaze, I could see the cavalry being led by a powerful, chiseled face man I recognized as the great Khalid ibn al-Waleed. He raised the visor of his helmet and scanned the battlefield, his eyes expertly following the curvature of the mountain, searching for any weak points in our defenses.

As I looked down at the Meccan camp, with its red, purple, and blue flags bringing color to the dead valley, I remembered how similar the scene was to the one I had witnessed a year before. Except that the enemy had tripled its forces and was motivated by vengeance rather than hubris.

If they succeeded, we all would be dead. And if they failed, they would be back again next year, with a larger force and a greater hunger for vengeance. It was as if every victory the Muslims secured only placed them on a new and more dangerous battlefield.

I sighed wearily and put a hand on my husband’s arm, more for my own comfort than his.

“Will there ever be peace, my love?”

“Yes. In Paradise,” he responded wistfully. “This world was born in war, and will one day perish in it.”

His fingers tightened around mine and I could feel the calluses on his hand from the many months of manual labor that had been required to build walls and strengthen Medina’s defenses. Muhammad could have absented himself from bricklaying as the chieftain of the oasis, but my husband understood the power of a leader who joined his men in doing the most mundane tasks. It created a bond of trust and loyalty whose true value could be proven only on a day like this.

I heard the steady crunch of rocks as heavy boots struck on the mountainside. I glanced over to see Umar, his massive body covered in rings of armor, race up toward our position. His face was contorted in rage.

“We have been betrayed! Ibn Ubayy has taken his men and turned back!”

My husband nodded grimly. Perhaps he had expected this possibility. Ibn Ubayy had thought the idea of confronting the Meccan force to be suicide and had argued that we should hide in our homes. Medina, with its winding streets layered with palm trees, would not be easily taken unless the Meccans wished to fight alley by alley, house by house.

But the Messenger had decided that allowing Mecca to cross the borders of the city, where they could wreak long-term havoc by burning our crops and poisoning our wells, was too dangerous. The Muslims had to cut the Meccan advance here. Apparently Ibn Ubayy did not agree and had chosen to abandon us even as the wolf pounced on our doorstep.

“Allah will protect us as long as we remain united,” he said calmly, but I could hear the edge in his voice. Even if angels came to help us as they had done at Badr, seven hundred versus three thousand presented unfavorable odds. If we were to hold back the Meccan line, there was no room for the slightest deviation in our strategy.

The sudden thunder of hooves echoed from the valley below, and I saw Khalid lead his horsemen toward a tiny pass at the base of the mountain. The Prophet raised his right fist and Talha grabbed a black flag and twirled it. The sign was seen by a group of archers hidden in a ridge to the east of our position and a volley of arrows suddenly rained down on the Meccan cavalry. The horses reared in surprise and Khalid pulled his men back, his eyes scanning the mountain until he located the source of the projectiles. The cavalry did not retreat to the Meccan camp but held position just outside the range of our arrows.

The Messenger rose and shouted across the hill, his voice echoing to the archers.

“Hold your positions,” he cried. “You are the vanguard of the Muslims. Do not lower your bows until I command you!”

The archers nodded and I felt a stirring of hope. As long as they remained in place, Khalid would be unable to ride through the pass and attack our forces from the rear. The Muslims held the benefit of high ground, which somewhat mitigated the Meccan advantage in numbers.

The rumble of drums caused my eyes to flash back to the Meccan camp. As one figure moved forward and I recognized the scarlet-and-gold turban.

“O men of Aws and Khazraj!” Abu Sufyan called out. “Quit the field now and leave my cousin to me. Once we have killed this troublemaker, Mecca will leave your lands. We have no fight with you!”

Perhaps his offer would have carried weight three years before, when the people of Medina had still seen one another as members of one tribe or the other. But since we had arrived, I heard less and less the mention of these ancient clans as the citizens began to think of themselves first and foremost as Muslims. As if reading my thoughts, the leaders of the Aws and Khazraj responded to Abu Sufyan’s challenge with a unified thunder of war drums.

“So be it.” Abu Sufyan nodded, as if he had expected this response. As the leader of Mecca turned back to his people, I heard the rattle of timbrels and a familiar sensual voice rose up from the camp, sending shivers down my spine.

It was Hind, leading a group of women in a dance around the soldiers. They were dressed in tight-fitting tunics and skirts cut high to reveal flashes of their thighs as they whirled and chanted, arousing the lust of their men, a fire that would soon be stoked to white-hot rage.

“Advance and we embrace you, and soft carpets spread,” they sang in throaty voices, like lovers crying out at the height of passion. “But turn your backs and we leave you. Leave you and never love you.”

It was an ancient verse, sung by women of every generation to goad their men to battle. And I could see its power. The Meccan soldiers clashed their swords to shields and bared their teeth like wolves as Hind ignited their loins and their hearts to a frenzy.

Watching Hind, I was both fascinated and repelled by her power. There was something both beautifully feminine and ruthlessly feral about her. I wanted to run from Hind, and at the same time I wanted to learn from her all the terrible secrets she held, the secrets of women’s power over men.

As Hind crouched and spun to the thrumming beat of the women’s timbrels, I saw Hamza step forward, watching her. And then Hind saw him, recognized the ostrich feather he always proudly wore on his helmet, and bared her teeth in what could have been a smile or a snarl. Or both at once, if that were possible.

“That woman is the devil,” Hamza said, his eyes focused on her sensuous, swaying form. Bilal stood beside him, his eyes poring over the front lines of the enemy forces.

“They have even brought their slaves today,” he said with clear regret. “I see Wahsi, my friend.”

Hamza placed a comforting hand on the shorter man’s shoulder.

“There are no friends on the battlefield, Bilal,” he said without hesitation, but I could hear the compassion in his voice. “If you face him in the heat of war, do what you must.”

Bilal nodded sadly. And then the thunder of drums stopped. The women fled from the front lines and disappeared into the Meccan camp as the true dance of death began. As at Badr, the Meccans sent forth a champion, a young man I did not recognize but who strode onto the field proudly, jeering confidently at his opponents. He swung his mighty sword and twirled it like the African fire-eaters I had seen perform when a caravan from Abyssinia stopped at Mecca years before. It was a powerful show, meant to mock and terrify the Muslims at the same time.

The Prophet dispatched Ali, who strode out onto the battlefield, his dual-bladed sword,
Dhul Fiqar,
glowing in the sunlight. And then, without any words or performance, Ali struck out and in one blow tore through the Meccan champion’s breastplate. The man fell over dead, the mocking smile still frozen on his lips. I heard a horrified cry, and another man, who distinctly resembled the thin-faced champion, rushed out onto the battlefield. This second warrior, almost definitely the brother of the first, ran after Ali, who was facing away from the attacker. And then Hamza charged out onto the plain and hacked the brother to death with his terrifying broadsword before he could stab Ali in the back.

Silence fell over the battlefield as both sides stared in shock at this duel that had lasted no more than a half a minute. It was such a similar moment to what I’d seen at Badr that I had that strange feeling that sometimes comes when the veil of time is tangled and past and present become one. The Meccans must have felt the same, because the sight of their most feared champions struck down again like unarmed children sent a wave of rage and fear through the enemy camp.

And then, without further ceremony, the warriors of Mecca charged.

This time no cloud of dust arose to block my view of the battle, nor did I witness any ghostly riders come to our aid. What I saw beneath me was raw and brutal and would forever haunt my memory.

The Meccans flew at our men with unbridled savagery. Their swords flashed red as the sun reflected off the volcanic rock and soon the ancient stones were splattered with a darker shade of crimson. The clash of blades against shields was deafening, as if a thousand bolts of lightning had struck at the base of Uhud, the thunder reverberating with such painful force that I covered my ears with tightly clenched fists.

Wave upon wave, they came upon us like an ocean of metal racing to flood the valley with death. And yet the Muslims held their ground. We had the protection of the mountain, and even as our front lines held up their shields to the unrelenting onslaught, those behind them rained spears and arrows upon the attackers.

I heard screams everywhere—the cries of pain and triumph, as well as the whimpers of the dying. To my surprise, many of the mortally wounded who had only moments before fought with such animal ferocity now became like little children, crying out for their mothers as the horror of death came upon them. It was that desperate weeping that shocked me more than anything else I witnessed that day, and suddenly the curtain of glory was stripped away and war was presented in it naked ugliness. As the smell of gore and entrails wafted up to me, I looked away, trying to hide the tears that were welling in my eyes. Tears for an enemy that would have no qualm slicing my body to shreds should any escape death and penetrate our defenses. It made no sense and I felt shame and disgust and horror all at once.

Despite my best efforts to hide my conflicted feelings, the Messenger saw the grief on my face and nodded. He understood.

I forced myself to look, to watch this deadly massacre that was unfolding only fifty feet away from me. I saw Hamza tear through the front lines, his ostrich feather splattered with grime and human remains as he cut down men with the ease of a farmer using a sickle on shafts of grain.

And then suddenly the Muslim defense became an offense. With Hamza in the lead, our warriors began to push through, forcing the Meccans to give ground and tumble back toward their camp in disarray. The reversal of momentum only increased the courage of our forces and the confusion of the enemy, and suddenly the Muslims were streaming across the battlefield and the Meccans desperately seeking to stave off our advance. I heard cries of joy as the stalemate broke and the advantage went to the followers of Muhammad. Despite my own complicated feelings at the sight of the dreadful slaughter, I called out to the warriors, even as Hind had encouraged her own men to fight.

“Victory is within your grasp, my sons!” I cried out, unsure and uncaring whether they could hear me over the din of battle. As a twelve-year-old girl, I always felt awkward referring to grown men as my children. But it somehow felt right at this moment. I saw Talha look down at me and wink, and I flashed him a smile that made color rise to his cheeks.

And then I felt the Messenger stiffen. I thought perhaps I had done wrong by calling out to the troops as Hind had done, but when I looked at my husband, I saw that he was paying no attention to me. His eyes were on the battlefield as the Muslims advanced near the Meccan camp at the other end of the valley.