Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (35 page)

I
was knitting in a corner of my tiny room when the Messenger’s adopted son Zayd entered. It was a bright winter day, the sun streaming in through my window and warming the crisp air. I was in a cheerful mood, as tonight would be my night with the Messenger. My husband followed a strict rule, rotating nights with each of his wives in order to make sure that each was treated equally as commanded by the holy Qur’an. Accordingly, as the harem steadily increased, my limited time with the Prophet was becoming more precious. There were now five women who bore the title Mother of the Believers: the elderly Sawda, myself, the fiery Hafsa, the ghostly quiet Zaynab bint Khuzayma, and most recently Umm Salama bint Abu Umayya. The latest addition to the household was another war widow whom the Messenger had married out of compassion. Umm Salama’s husband, Abdallah ibn Abdal Asad, had been killed at Uhud, leaving three children and a pregnant wife with no means of support. The Messenger had married Umm Salama after the four-month-and-ten-day
iddat,
her period of mourning, had ended, and she had given birth to her martyred husband’s son Durra shortly after the wedding.

When I had first learned of the Prophet’s intention to marry Umm Salama, I had been filled with jealousy. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with sparkling eyes and a gentle smile. And she was still of age to bear children, and I had failed to produce an heir. But I had grudgingly accepted Umm Salama after the wedding, as it was difficult to dislike her patient and pleasant personality. Unlike Hafsa, who was my chief rival to give Muhammad a son, Umm Salama already had many children from her former marriage and did not appear overly eager to bear more. And so life continued largely as it had for the past few months in the house of the Prophet, with the petty jealousies among wives at a low simmer.

I sat by my husband’s side, knitting a woolen scarf for him to keep him warm during early morning prayers. The Messenger was busy with his own handiwork, using a needle and thread to repair the torn leather straps of his sandals. I had never met any other man who enjoyed simple housework like fixing shoes or sewing patches in old clothes. It certainly did not fit the masculine ideals of his followers, who were perplexed by his strange affinity for what they dismissed as women’s work. But the Prophet seemed more comfortable around the quiet hearth of the home than around the boastful jousting of the battlefield. As I watched him slowly suture his footwear, his black eyes utterly focused on and absorbed in the task before him, I realized how difficult it must have been for a boy with a gentle temperament to grow up in a world where cruelty and aggression were the proud hallmarks of a man. It struck me in that instant that the Messenger’s admitted love of the company of women had less to do with sexual hunger than with an innate comfort with their feminine nature.

But I would soon be reminded that, however gentle and nurturing his soul was, his body still belonged to a man, with all the needs and desires of the masculine flesh.

As we quietly continued on with our work, a shadow fell across the open door and I saw that the Prophet’s adopted son Zayd ibn Haritha had arrived. He was tall and lanky, with thinning hair and a face that years of labor under the sun had brutally weathered. His eyes, which always appeared sad, seemed particularly distraught today.

The Messenger caught the haunted look on his face and turned to face him, setting the sandals on the floor with a hard thump.

“What brings you here, my son?” Even as the Messenger spoke, I heard a strange tone in his voice, which in other men I would have recognized as a hint of embarrassment. But that, of course, made no sense coming from God’s Chosen One, the most perfect man in creation.

Zayd knelt beside the Prophet, whose slave he had been before he had been freed and inducted into the family. He hung his head, not looking his adopted father in the eye.

“My wife told me what happened between you two.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“What happened?” I felt the scarf slip through my fingers. Zayd’s wife, Zaynab bint Jahsh, was the Messenger’s cousin and one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, her statuesque features only growing more elegant with age. I had always thought it strange that she was married to the ugliest man I knew. The Messenger had known Zaynab since she was a child and I was always relieved that he treated her like a little sister and was the only man who did not stammer or make a fool of himself in her presence.

The Messenger glanced at me and I could see discomfort in his eyes. And I realized that something had changed.

“It was nothing,” he said quickly. “The matter is closed.”

His words did not alleviate the growing alarm in my heart.

“Tell me,” I insisted.

The Messenger remained silent. And then Zayd spoke up. The Prophet had come to visit him a few nights before, but Zayd had been out. Zaynab had heard the knock on the door and assumed that it was her husband. She had run to the door, forgetting her cloak and dressed in all her finery, her luxurious hair flowing below her waist. But when Zaynab opened the door, she was startled to see the Messenger. He had been struck by her beauty and quickly walked away. But she thought she heard him say, “Praise be to God, Master of the hearts.”

I felt my own heart sink. I knew that my husband had always been fond of Zaynab. Could the sight of her in all her bedecked radiance have inspired love?

Zayd looked up and I could see that whatever emotions I was feeling were nothing compared to the poor man’s torment. It was well known that Zayd and Zaynab had an unhappy marriage. She was from a proud and wealthy family, while Zayd was a freed slave, a social outcast in Mecca. They had wed after the Messenger had asked Zaynab to marry Zayd as an example to the other Muslims that piety mattered more in a mate than social class. Zaynab had always been fiercely loyal to the Prophet and had acquiesced to his request. It was clear to all of the women of the household that Zaynab was very much in love with my husband. Yet the Messenger had never expressed any interest in her, and she had resigned herself to her fate by marrying poor Zayd. But now, if the Prophet’s heart had turned, I knew that Zaynab would seek to escape her loveless union and join with Muhammad.

“O Messenger, you are dearer to me than my family,” Zayd said. “I chose you over my own father.”

I remembered the story of how young Zayd, who had been kidnapped by slave traders as a boy, had found refuge in Muhammad and Khadija’s home. The couple had treated him with great love and respect and he had become for all intents and purposes a son to them after the death of their own infant boys. When the lad’s father had finally found him after years of searching through the desert towns, Zayd had refused to go back to his own family and chosen to stay as a slave to Muhammad. My husband had been so moved by the boy’s devotion that he had freed him and then taken Zayd to the Kaaba and formally adopted him. It had been a momentous occasion, for in Arab society an adopted son was considered to share a mystical bond that made him the same as a flesh-and-blood child. Zayd had risen in that moment from a lowly slave to the heir of one of the most influential families in Mecca.

I realized with a sick heart that Zayd was the Prophet’s son for all intents and purposes. If there were rumors of impropriety between Muhammad and his adopted son’s wife, it would be deemed by the people as vile a crime as incest. My husband’s standing as the Messenger of God and the moral exemplar of the community would be brought into question, and the foundation of our faith would collapse.

The Prophet must have been thinking similar thoughts, because he looked away, unable to face Zayd. But his adopted son leaned forward and took the Messenger’s hands in his, until the Prophet finally met his pleading gaze.

“If it be your desire, then I will divorce her today and you are free to marry her,” he said, making yet another sacrifice for the man whom he loved more than his own flesh and blood.

But this was madness. I felt my heart racing and I stood up, facing Zayd with balled fists

“What are you saying?! The Prophet is your father! It is forbidden for a father to marry a woman his son has lain with!”

My voice was shaking and I was unsure as to whether my rage came from horror at the violation of a taboo or from the thought of my husband in the arms of the radiant Zaynab.

Zayd looked at me indignantly.

“Those are the customs of the ignorant,” he said sharply. “The Messenger and I share no blood tie.”

I felt the bile in my stomach rise.

“That is not how the Bedouins will see it. They will accuse the Messenger of incest and our alliance will be broken.”

I looked at my husband, who managed to meet my gaze. I had never seen such shame in his eyes, and I felt suddenly lost.

“Keep to your wife, Zayd,” my husband said in a soft voice. “And be careful of your duty to God.”

Zayd rose and shook his head.

“Zaynab does not love me,” he said, and I could hear the deep pain in his voice. “Every time I lie with her, I will know that she wishes it was you there beside her. That I cannot bear.”

He looked at me for a moment and then turned his attention back to the Prophet.

“I will divorce her,” he said, with a tone of finality in his voice. “Her fate will be in the hands of God and his Messenger.”

The Prophet rose to his feet, alarm on his features. He moved to stop Zayd from leaving. But the tall man simply took the Messenger’s hand and kissed it with great love, tears flowing down his pockmarked cheeks. And then he turned and walked out.

The Messenger stood frozen for a long moment. I had never seen him look so confused. He finally turned to me, an abject apology on his face. He looked like a little child seeking absolution from his mother. But I could not bear to meet his gaze and I quickly stepped out and stormed over to Hafsa’s house to unburden the rage and jealousy that was threatening to drive me mad.

A
few days later, my husband called for a gathering of his followers to address the wild rumors that were spreading in Medina over the state of affairs in his household. A crowd of hundreds gathered in the courtyard of the Masjid, and dozens more stood outside, eager to hear what was happening in the strange drama between the Messenger of God, his son, and his daughter-in-law.

While the other wives of the Prophet stood near him as a sign of their support, I stayed by the threshold of my house, watching the proceedings with sullen intensity.

The Prophet looked at me eagerly and I could tell that he was hoping I would come to take my place beside Sawda and Hafsa, but I crossed my arms and held my chin up defiantly. He turned away and brought his attention to the jumbled gathering of believers. There was a crackling in the air like the coming hint of a thunderstorm, and I realized that this incident with Zaynab was the biggest threat to my husband’s credibility since the day that the Jewish chieftain Huyayy had tried to mock his knowledge of the ancient scriptures. Whispers abounded about the Prophet’s infatuation with his daughter-in-law and the terrible implications for the truth of the Revelation. How could God send a man capable of transgressing one of the most ancient of Arab taboos?

The Messenger raised his hand and the tense murmur of gossip abruptly ended, blanketing the courtyard with a silence so thick that all I could hear was the dull thud of my own heart.

“Today I received a Revelation from my Lord,” the Messenger said in a voice that seemed to echo past the mud walls and into the paved streets of the oasis. He hesitated, the first time I had ever seen him having difficulty relaying the Word of God. I saw the color rise in his pallid face and I realized he was blushing like a bride on her wedding night.

And then Muhammad took a deep breath and recited the Divine command:

And when you said to him to whom God had shown favor And to whom you had shown favor

Keep your wife to yourself

And be careful of your duty to God

And you concealed in your soul what God would bring to light

And you feared men

And God had a greater right that you should fear Him.

But when Zayd had divorced her

We gave her to you as a wife

So that there should be no difficulty for the believers

In respect of the wives of their adopted sons

When they have divorced them

And God’s command shall be performed.

I listened to the newly revealed words of the holy Qur’an. And then I stepped back as if I had been struck in the gut. Allah had nullified the oldest of Arab taboos that had made the sons of the flesh and the sons of oath equal in the eyes of men. I looked at the crowd, uncertain how they would react. If the people rejected the commandment, the Prophet’s standing in the oasis would disappear. He would be proclaimed a self-serving impostor, legislating away ancient values to satisfy the desires of his own flesh. If the people of Medina denounced this remarkable shift in the definition of family, everything we had worked for over the past decade would instantly dissolve. Abu Sufyan would not need to attack the oasis to kill Muhammad. The people of the oasis would do it for him.

There was a murmur of disbelief from some of the crowd. All eyes fell on Zayd, who stood quietly to the side, looking at his feet. For years he had prided himself on being Muhammad’s only lawful son. And now his inheritance had been invalidated by God Himself. If Zayd accepted this, he would no longer be the “son of the Messenger.” He would just be another ordinary freedman, a former slave with no money or standing in society. And he would no longer have a wife and family as well. My heart went out to the poor, ugly, unfortunate man. In this one moment, everything that Zayd had, everything that he could have laid claim to in this world, had been taken away.

And then Zayd raised his head and I was stunned to see a wide, genuine smile on his battered face. He fell to his knees and tears of joy were streaming down his cheeks and making the black tufts of his beard glisten.

He raised his hands in supplication and his voice boomed through the courtyard.

“Praise be to God, who honors this unworthy slave with mention in his Holy Book!”

And then Zayd fell prostrate on the ground, his forehead pressed hard against the stone floor of the Masjid. And then I realized that Zayd was right. Allah had mentioned him by name in the holy Qur’an, an honor given to no other Muslim. Even my father was called by his title “The Second in the Cave”—no mention of the name Abu Bakr was anywhere in the text. And as I looked down at the kneeling man, who was crying praises to his Creator even as his face was pressed to the earth in humility, I realized that the former slave had been given something far greater than everything that had been taken away from him.

Zayd ibn Haritha had been given immortality. Long after he died, after his bones had crumbled into dust, his name would be recited by millions of believers with awe and reverence every time they read the holy Qur’an.

As I watched Zayd’s complete surrender to the will of God, his joyful acceptance of his fate, a wave of shame and sorrow spread through the crowd of believers who had questioned the Messenger’s integrity. And then, one by one, they all fell prostrate in obedience to God’s command.

The tension that had gripped my heart vanished like dew exposed to the rising sun. The crisis was over. The people of Medina had been tested, and they had passed.

And then my eyes fell upon the sparkling beauty of Zaynab bint Jahsh, the source of all this madness. I realized that she had been standing discreetly in the shadows, her face covered by a black silk veil that she had lifted when it became clear that the community would not pounce upon her. Even though her hair was still covered by a dark scarf, her perfect features, her upturned eyelashes and thick, inviting lips shone forth. Zaynab stepped proudly to stand at the Prophet’s right hand, next to Sawda. I suddenly cursed myself for remaining aloof and giving my space up to this woman. Zaynab turned to face the Prophet and smiled at him, her ivory teeth flashing in the sun. And the fire of rage that had been kindled in my heart burst forth again.

Zaynab saw me looking at her and I thought I saw her lips curl in a victorious smile. She had won. I was no longer the crown jewel of the harem. Zaynab would be the most beautiful woman in the household and the Messenger would soon taste of her flesh and be satiated. And unlike all of his other marriages, his wedding to Zaynab was one that came from the heart. The Messenger wanted Zaynab for herself, not for a political alliance or as an act of charity. He wanted Zaynab’s body and soul, even as he had wanted mine.

My heart pounded in despair and I barely heard my father’s voice as he politely spoke to my husband.

“May I serve as a witness at your wedding ceremony to Zaynab?”

I flashed Abu Bakr an outraged look, even though I knew that he was being diplomatic. My father full well understood that Zaynab could easily become the Prophet’s new favorite and that his status as Muhammad’s closest adviser might be diminished as a result. Abu Bakr was trying to show the Messenger that he was a supportive friend, even if he must endure a loss of face for his family. It was a wise and generous act. But at that moment, I felt so alone that I could not bear to see my own father welcome this beautiful interloper and bless her union with my husband.

The Messenger put a gentle hand on my father’s shoulder, which had become even more stooped with age and the burdens of life over the past few years.

“There will no ceremony, my friend,” Muhammad said. “The wedding has already been performed in heaven, with angels as the witnesses.”

At this, I saw Zaynab beam widely. She would not even need to wait for the formalities of a wedding. She could take the Messenger to bed at once and consummate their union that very night.

I felt my face turn hot, and my cheeks burned brighter than my hair. And then I found my feet moving against my will and I was suddenly no longer safely ensconced in the doorway of my little home, but standing in the center of the crowded courtyard facing my husband, the Messenger of God.

“Your Lord is quick to fulfill your desires!” I screamed into his face.

The Prophet stepped back as if I had slapped him. I saw Zaynab’s face turn down in contempt, and I caught a look of warning in my father’s stern glance. I suddenly realized that every eye in the Masjid was on me, and I felt like the greatest fool on earth.

Somehow I managed to hold my head up in dignity. And then, without another word, I turned and stormed back inside my apartment, slamming the door shut and locking out the harsh world.

At that moment, my legs gave way. I fell to the ground and vomited. My body shaking violently, I crawled to a corner of my room and began to cry at the injustice of life and the cruelties of womanhood.