Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (34 page)

I
stood outside the birthing chamber as Fatima’s screams of agony echoed from beyond the thin palm-wood door. The Messenger stood by my side, holding his small grandson, Hasan, in his arms. My husband looked even more pale than usual, and his eyes were red from lack of sleep. Ever since his daughter had begun labor three nights before, he had been holding a vigil in her small house. Each of his wives had alternated spending the hours at his side, and I had just arrived to relieve the elderly Sawda, who shook her head wearily as Fatima’s cries intensified.

“She is in so much pain,” my sister wife said to me quietly. “I don’t understand it.”

I glanced over at my husband, who held his grandson tight, as if afraid that some evil djinn would appear and spirit him away into the netherworld. The boy was now two years old and his face looked remarkably like the Messenger’s, although his eyes were light brown and his curly hair had streaks of gold in it. Hasan looked at us, his grandmothers, with a placid smile, as if he could not hear the heart-wrenching cries from the adjacent room. I was always struck by how perpetually happy the child was. Indeed, I could not remember Hasan ever crying, and he seemed to find every moment of his little life a source of great delight and wonder. The “miracle child,” the people of Medina had called him, the boy who should have died in Fatima’s malnourished and tiny womb.

Hasan’s mother had endured great suffering in the final weeks of her first pregnancy and had been unable to rise from her bed, requiring constant attention from the other women of the household. So when we learned that Fatima was carrying a second child, the women of the
Ahl al-Bayt
worked feverishly to prepare a comfortable home and bed for the Prophet’s daughter. We expected another difficult pregnancy that would require us to spend many long nights at her side. But this time it was different. Fatima had shown no signs of discomfort in the days and weeks prior to the onset of labor, and we were delighted that our fears had come to nothing.

But the moment her water broke, Fatima had suffered terrifying pain. Her unearthly screams had chilled me to the bone, and for the first time made me thankful that I had failed to conceive a child myself.

My husband saw Sawda and me looking at him and he spoke for the first time in hours.

“It is not her own pain that she feels. It is her child’s.”

I stared at him in confusion, unable to understand what he could possibly mean. But then I realized I shouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing about Fatima had ever made much sense to me.

The Messenger turned his attention to his son-in-law Ali, who sat cross-legged on the hard floor, his head buried in his hands. My husband placed a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulders as Fatima’s wails continued unabated. It seemed so strange to see this mighty warrior hunched over, as if the suffering of his wife were far more painful to him than any wound he had endured at Badr or Uhud. I suddenly realized with a flash of surprise that Ali truly loved Fatima. I had never thought much about it before that moment. Perhaps I had assumed that the marriage was nothing more than a political union meant to bring the young man closer to Muhammad, his cousin and mentor.

But looking at his sagging shoulders, his body trembling from suppressed grief, I finally understood that the bond between Ali and Fatima was deeper than I understood. They were both misfits, people who did not and could not fit into the cruel world, and in each other’s company they must have found solace. And if, as it appeared, Fatima failed to survive the childbirth, Ali would be truly alone. With few friends or supporters aside from the Messenger himself, he would be plunged into a desert of solitude that would make the empty wastes of the Najd look green with life. For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for him.

And then, without any warning, the cries from the birthing chamber ceased abruptly, followed by a terrible silence that was more frightening than all the hours of agony that had preceded it.

Ali lifted his head and met the Messenger’s eyes. I saw both men exchange a look of terrible grief and I felt tears welling in my eyes. The Prophet had lost another daughter. Fatima, his most beloved child, who was the plainest and simplest of his girls, and yet the one he treated with such open devotion that it bordered on reverence. Ever since Khadija had died, Fatima had been the rock that held him steady amid the crashing waves of his destiny. Even though I knew that I was his favorite wife, Fatima held a place in his heart that I could never reach. And now she was gone.

I moved to comfort my husband, when, to my absolute surprise, I heard the cry of a baby. The Messenger and Ali both turned to stare at the door to Fatima’s chamber, which swung open, revealing an elderly midwife named Malika standing in the threshold, her birthing apron covered in blood.

Malika looked as if her face had aged a dozen years in the past hour. And just beyond her weary form, to my disbelief, was Fatima in her bed, alive and holding a tiny baby swaddled in green.

“Blessings to the
Ahl al-Bayt.
” Malika spoke, her voice as heavy and exhausted as that of a warrior crawling back from the battlefield. “The Messenger has another grandson.”

As if swimming deep underwater, my husband stepped slowly inside the room, followed by Ali. Sawda and I hesitated and then stepped behind the men, keeping a respectful distance as they leaned over Fatima and stared in silence at her newborn baby boy.

As I stepped inside the birthing chamber, I felt as if I were entering a dream. My vision flickered like a candle caught in a storm and I felt a strange chill even though the night air was unseasonably hot.

I watched in awestruck silence as the Prophet leaned close to the new baby. His elder grandson, Hasan, was still held tightly in his arms, and the smiling boy laughed with delight at the sight of his baby brother. The Messenger held Hasan close to the baby, and the child kissed the newborn on the forehead. And then my husband handed Hasan to his father and took the bundled baby in his arms.

I saw the infant’s face for the first time, and I was startled to see that his eyes were already open and were looking at the Messenger with surprising intensity. The Prophet gazed into the baby’s eyes, which, I saw, were as black as his own. And then he whispered the prayer call into the child’s right ear before handing the baby to Ali, who repeated the prayer in newborn’s left ear.

It was a miracle that Fatima and the baby had survived. And it was a blessing that the Prophet had been given another grandson through whom his lineage would continue. But there was no rejoicing. I looked around the room, confused to see the solemn looks on the men’s faces and tears of evident sorrow on Fatima’s bloodless cheeks.

I felt as if I had walked in on a funeral rather than a birth, and I finally turned to Ali, unable to hold back my unease.

“Why are you not smiling? You have a son!”

Ali looked at me with those mysterious green eyes. As always, I felt he was seeing past me to another place, another time.

“My heart smiles, but my lips cannot. He has a burden I wish for no man.”

And then Ali looked down at his son and I was shocked to see a tear roll down his cheek. In all the years that I had known him, I had never seen this strange young man weep, except in prayer.

Shaken, I turned to face Fatima, who was gazing at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“What will you name him?” I asked with a forced smile, hoping to bring some semblance of normality to this otherworldly scene.

Fatima opened her mouth, but it was a long moment before any sound came out. When she finally spoke, her voice was like a whisper carried on the wind.

“He has already been named.”

Fatima turned her head to her father. My husband stood at Ali’s side, stroking his new grandson’s thick black hair with his forefinger. His eyes glistened, but I saw no sign of tears. It was as if a light had been lit in his soul, one that I had seen only during his painful moments of Revelation.

“Husayn,” the Messenger of God said. “His name is Husayn.”

I looked at the three of them, Muhammad, Fatima, and Ali, and at the two boys, Hasan and Husayn, and suddenly felt as if I were intruding. I was the Messenger’s favorite wife, the beloved of the harem, and yet in that moment I was a stranger. My heart ached with the realization that whatever bond linked these five, it was one that I would never truly be able to understand or participate in. Theirs was a world that I could gaze into only from afar, a shore I could never truly step onto because the ocean that divided us was greater than the expanse of the heavens and the earth.

I turned and saw that Sawda and the midwife had already departed, wisely leaving this intimate moment for those in whose veins the blood of the Messenger flowed. I realized sadly that though I shared Muhammad’s bed, I could never share in his blood. I did not belong here, either.

Without another word, I walked out of the room and left the unsettling dreamworld of the
Ahl al-Bayt
for the refreshingly familiar streets of the oasis.

M
uawiya watched with a cold eye as his father hosted a gathering of the allied tribes. The Hall of Assembly had been decked out in flowing curtains of various hues—indigo, emerald, turquoise, and lavender—each representing one of the major clans present at the summit. It was a motley group that included the uncouth Ghatafan Bedouin tribes that grazed their flocks to the north of the enemy in Medina, and their ancient enemies, the proud Bani Sulaym, who had cultivated the lava fields to the east. Muawiya noted with interest that the only thing that unified these disparate and competing tribes was their hatred for Muhammad’s steady accumulation of power. The refugee from Mecca was truly bringing Arabia together in more ways than one.

The hall was buzzing with loud gossip about the troubling turn of events. Muhammad’s diplomatic efforts, once constrained to the northern tribes of the peninsula, had recently expanded southward. He had forged an unexpected alliance with the Yamama, a tribe that controlled the grain routes from the south. The tribal leaders had adopted the renegade faith and had joined in Muhammad’s boycott of Mecca, denying the pagan tribes wheat and barley. Without any warning, one of Arabia’s key suppliers of food had joined the enemy, and the threat of starvation for Mecca and its allies was very real. It was this shocking development that had forced Abu Sufyan to call together the heads of the southern tribes in the hope of uniting them in a final stand against the danger of Medina.

Abu Sufyan clapped loudly to gain their attention, and a blanket of silence fell upon the crowd of tribal chiefs. Muawiya read the men’s faces and saw anger and fear in their eyes. These were desperate people, ready to take desperate action, a fact that his father relied upon to bring together men whose fathers had been at one another’s throats, whose tribes had warred with each other for centuries.

“The situation to the north has become intolerable,” Abu Sufyan said without any preamble. “Muhammad’s alliance with the Bedouins has choked off all our trade with Syria and Persia. And now Yamama has fallen under his spell and the enemy has brought famine to our doors.”

Hind stepped forward, decked in a flowing robe made of red silk that rustled seductively. Muawiya saw some of the men whisper, undoubtedly speaking of her madness at Uhud, which had become the infamy of Mecca. But there was no sign of that crazed demon, hungry for human flesh, and she walked with her usual grace. And when she spoke, her voice was steady and calm, although Muawiya could see an unnerving glint in his mother’s eyes.

“The future of all Arabia is at stake,” she said. “We will live as free men and women. Or as slaves to Muhammad and the voices in his head.”

Her words were met with a loud murmur of assent from the nobles. And then another voice rose above the din. Muawiya glanced over to see that it was his friend, the ever-diplomatic Amr ibn al-As.

“But we have tried military action before, with little success,” he said with his practiced silky ease. “Is it not time to reach an accommodation?”

Muawiya smiled in relief. Amr had the respect of many of the tribal leaders. If he had been persuaded to see the reality of their situation, perhaps the fire of this folly could be extinguished before it blazed out of control.

All eyes were on Abu Sufyan to respond. The old man hesitated and then cast a bitter glance at Hind.

“If ever there was a chance for an accord, it is long past,” he said with a tone of real regret. “The barbarism shown to the dead of Uhud by our women has inflamed their passions.”

Hind turned to face him, one eyebrow raised defiantly.

“Do not place the blame on women for your failure to be men,” she said with a dangerous smile.

Muawiya saw his father wince slightly and he shook his head. After all these years, Abu Sufyan remained in thrall to this madwoman. The most powerful man in Mecca had long been enslaved by the chain that she had tied around his heart. Muawiya vowed never to let that happen to him.

“In any event, Arabia is at a crossroads,” Abu Sufyan said with a heavy sigh. “We have received word that Muhammad is sending envoys to other southern tribes, asking them to join the Yamama against us. If he forges more alliances to the south, our trade routes with Yemen will be compromised. Without food, without trade, Mecca will die.”

His words were meant to silence Amr’s dissent, but the son of al-As was persistent.

“Even without allies in the south, Muhammad is well defended at Medina,” Amr said slowly, as if explaining a complex matter to a child. “We do not have enough men to challenge him.”

His last words were meant to sting, and they did. At best, the Arabs could muster perhaps four or five thousand men. With Muhammad’s new allies, they would be matched on the battlefield. And if Muhammad’s luck prevailed, a match was as good as a defeat for Mecca.

And then Muawiya saw his mother smile. She nodded to one of her servants, a boy of thirteen, who opened a small door that led to an antechamber. A mysterious figure emerged, his face shadowed by a dark cloak.

Muawiya felt the stirrings of alarm. And then the tall man stepped into the middle of the room, standing between Abu Sufyan and Hind, and threw off his hood dramatically.

It was Huyayy ibn Akhtab, the exiled Jew of Medina.

“The sons of Nadir stand with you,” he said in a booming voice.

The room immediately erupted in a tumult of voices, of shock, excitement, disbelief. Muawiya felt the bile in his stomach rising. He was angry at his mother for raising the stakes in this deadly game with Muhammad when the tribes should have been moving toward a treaty. And he was outraged at himself for not having seen this coming, for not having a plan to counter her strategy.

Abu Sufyan raised his hands and shouted over the din.

“Silence! Let us welcome our brother with the dignity of Mecca,” he said, and the crowd immediately went still. Muawiya wondered if his father had been privy to Hind’s scheme to enlist the support of the Jews of Bani Nadir, but the troubled look on his face suggested that he was as surprised by this development as the other tribal chiefs.

Huyayy cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was with a rich fluidity, the naturally seductive tone of an experienced politician.

“My friends, I have lived next to this Muhammad for the past several years,” he said in a measured voice, but his eyes burned with passion. “I have seen his sorcery up close. He claims to be a prophet of my God. But I tell you with certainty that he is a fraud and a liar. He does not even know what is contained in the holy books of Moses, and he contradicts the Word of God with his own fabrications. Such a man is deemed a false prophet in the Torah, worthy of death. And so my brothers in the Bani Nadir stand with you. Together we can wrest Yathrib from the hands of this wizard and restore peace to Arabia.”

His words were met with enthusiastic applause. Muawiya cursed under his breath. Huyayy was a fool who had been outmaneuvered by Muhammad. And now they were expected to follow his guidance to bring Muhammad down? It was madness, but as Muawiya looked around at the hopeful faces of the chieftains, he realized that they were all mad. Old men desperate to hold back the flow of time, they were clinging to the sanctuary of their memories rather than facing the truth of the world as it was today. Hind and Huyayy were playing to their false hopes, and the outcome would be devastating for all of Arabia.

Muawiya looked over at Amr, who shook his head in frustration, as if thinking the same thought. And then a deep voice echoed in the grand chamber, and Muawiya’s head turned.

It was Khalid ibn al-Waleed, the greatest of the Meccan generals and the architect of their sole victory against Muhammad at Uhud.

“Then let us end this once and for all,” he said solemnly. “Let us send against Medina the greatest force ever seen in the sands of Arabia.

If Muhammad is a false prophet, as you say, we will prevail. And if he is victorious, then the heavens will have rendered a judgment that can no longer be gainsaid. In any event, let this be the final battle between us.”

His words were met with shouts of assent from the weary tribal leaders. As the crowd moved in to surround Huyayy, the nobles vying to offer him lodging and hospitality during his stay in Mecca, Muawiya turned and walked out of the Hall in disgust.

He stood outside, gazing up at the clear night sky. The red flame of Mars,
al-Mareek,
twinkled above him like an angry wasp. It was fitting that the planet of war should rule the heavens tonight. With the Jews and the pagan Arabs united, the bitter skirmishes with Muhammad would now escalate into full-scale war that would tear the peninsula apart. It was not that Muawiya feared war. Conflict was a necessary part of a world where survival itself was a daily battle. What he despised was war conducted under the foolish compulsion of emotion and hubris, the two flags that always led to defeat. A true warrior was dispassionate, saw the battlefield for what it was, not what he wanted it to be. He advanced when the opportunity presented itself and retreated when it was the right thing to do. There was no glory in the reckless death of a warrior. Or of a civilization.

He felt a figure move to his side and glanced over to see Amr. Muawiya nodded to him, and then returned his eye to the stars. Rising across the eastern horizon was the noble star he loved the most—
Zuhal,
the planet the Romans called Saturn. It was the star of destiny, and the
kahina
s said it had shone over him at his birth. And so it was that he had been born with a sense of purpose. Muawiya had known that he had been meant to lead his people, to bring these barbaric, illiterate tribes to greatness. But if his mother succeeded in destroying Arabia with her fanatical pursuit of the one man who was bringing it together, then his destiny would be thwarted.

Muawiya realized in that moment that the time had come for a break from his family, his people. The only way he could save them was to distance himself from their madness. Only when they had destroyed themselves could a man like him move in to build something new from the ruins.

“We must make preparations,” he said in a soft voice. Partly to Amr. Partly to himself.

“For victory?” Amr still clung to the false hopes of the masses, even though his diplomatic nature sought conciliation over conquest.

“No.” Muawiya’s voice was sharp. “For defeat.”

Amr stood beside him for a long time before speaking again.

“Khalid has never been beaten in battle,” he said softly, as if trying to convince himself that there was still some hope for the survival of the world he knew.

Muawiya turned to face him, his eagle eyes piercing the other man’s soul.

“Khalid has never been defeated against men. But we are fighting something greater than any man.”

Amr breathed in sharply, surprise lighting his eyes.

“This invisible God?”

Muawiya smiled.

“History. I have read enough of the tales of the past to see when the end of an era is coming. My father is wedded to a dying way. We must be the vanguards of the future. If Mecca is defeated, as I believe it will be, we must secure for its leaders a role in the new order.”

Amr bowed his head, realizing the truth of Muawiya’s words. The end was coming and they needed to prepare.

“What do you propose?”

Muawiya thought for a moment, letting the quick mind he had inherited from his mother spin its threads. And then he realized that the answer was closer to home than he had expected.

“Muhammad is making alliances through marriage,” Muawiya said, his voice rising in excitement. “My sister Ramla is one of his followers, living in exile in Abyssinia. If she marries Muhammad, then the clan of Umayya may yet survive what is coming.”

A smile creased across Amr’s handsome face.

“I will serve as an intermediary, if Allah wills.” Amr had been to Abyssinia before in a failed effort to convince the Negus to surrender the Muslim refugees. He knew the country well, had established profitable relations with its merchants, and could get a message to Ramla without alerting the other Meccans as to Muawiya’s plans.

Muawiya placed a friendly arm on Amr’s shoulder and smiled shrewdly.

“You said Allah and not the gods,” he said.

Amr grinned widely.