Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (36 page)

T
he desert filled with the thunder of hooves as the Meccan army marched steadily toward Medina for the final confrontation. Four thousand men, armored in the finest chain mail from Abyssinia, accompanied by three hundred horsemen and fifteen hundred warriors on camels.

At a wadi four days south of the oasis, they were met by their new allies, the displaced men of Bani Nadir. Huyayy ibn Akhtab led a contingent of two thousand seven hundred infantry and three hundred horses. Joined together, it was the mightiest force ever seen in Arabia.

As the combined juggernaut turned its red eye to the north, a figure hiding in crevices of an ancient lava mound watched their movements carefully. The Muslim scout, a tribesman from the allied Bani Khuza’a, quickly calculated the full extent of the invading army and then crawled back to his horse, which had been tied by the mouth of an old cave that burrowed deep into the ocean of sand.

Saying a silent prayer to Allah to grant him the speed of a falcon, the scout climbed on his mount and raced back toward Medina. If he continued for three days with no sleep, he might be able to get back in time to warn his people. He only hoped that his horse would survive the merciless pace. But if he was forced to complete the journey on foot, he would do so. The scout knew that the dogs of war were bearing down upon the unsuspecting oasis, and if he failed in his mission, the
Ummah
would be consumed in the jaws of their rage.

T
HE COUNCIL OF WAR
gathered in the courtyard of the Masjid. I walked among the worried men, carrying a bucket of water to help them quench their thirst or wet their brows as the cruel sun beat down upon them. The Messenger sat by the
mihrab,
the southern alcove facing Mecca that delineated the direction of prayer. His brow was furrowed and his shoulders bent. His black eyes were upon the dark earth at his feet, where his followers had drawn a rough map of Medina and its surrounding hills.

Umar had just explained that the best strategy would be to evacuate the women and the children into a network of caves in the volcanic fields while the men barricaded themselves inside the houses and prepared for hand-to-hand combat in the streets. There was no talk of moving out to confront the enemy as we had done at Uhud. The scout, before he had died of exhaustion and sunstroke, had given us a troubling estimate of the size of the invading army. Even with our Bedouin allies to the north, we would be outmatched two to one. Though Ali had been adamant that we could beat such odds—we had done so at Badr, and even at Uhud we had been winning until the archers betrayed us—there was another problem.

The Bani Qurayza, the last of the Jewish tribes in Medina, would be directly behind us if we chose to go out into the hills and battle against the invaders. Though the Jews had refused to participate in the past conflicts, even though our treaty required them to join us in the defense of the oasis, there could be no guarantee that they would remain neutral this time. According to the courageous scout, the Jews of Bani Nadir had joined in arms with Abu Sufyan, and it was unlikely that the Qurayza would sit back while their kinsmen fought the Muslims. If we risked going out into the fields, we risked opening ourselves to attack from the rear.

The only plan that made sense was Umar’s. But I could tell that my husband was not enamored of the idea of turning the city streets of Medina into a battleground. He had worked for five years to bring order and peace to the chaotic settlement and the thought of blood flowing through its cobbled streets was too painful to bear. But without other options, he had announced to the gathered believers his intention to lure the Meccans into the winding alleys of the oasis, force their troops to divide and scatter, and turn the houses themselves into death traps. It was a butcher’s job, but war was ugly no matter how it was executed.

There had been a long silence as the men looked at one another grimly. This would be the last battle. Either the Meccan army would be annihilated in the streets, or the Muslims would be massacred. And if the Muslim men were defeated, the women and children would be hunted down in the neighboring hills and captured or killed. There would be no quarter from the Meccans, not after so many years of bitter conflict. After watching Hind’s cannibalistic barbarism, they shuddered to think what would become of any survivors left in the hands of the enemy.

I heard a nervous cough as a man sitting outside the central circle of the Prophet’s advisers cleared his throat. It was Salman, a Persian who had been a slave to one of the Jews of Bani Qurayza. After he had adopted Islam, the Messenger had purchased his freedom and the foreigner had lived among the Arabs as one of them. Salman was short and thin, with blue eyes and the handsome chiseled features of his race. When he spoke, it was with a lyrical voice that made every word sound as if it had been sung, and his Persian accent was hauntingly beautiful.

“O Messenger of God, is your strategy revealed by God, or is it a matter of personal opinion?”

Umar scowled and turned red.

“How dare you question the Messenger?”

The Prophet placed a hand on his father-in-law’s massive shoulder.

“Gently, Umar,” he said with a patient smile, and then turned his attention to the freedman. “It is a matter of opinion. Do you have another suggestion, Salman?”

Salman hesitated and then moved into the circle of the Messenger’s closest aides. Umar gave him a furious flash of his eyes, but the Persian ignored it. He leaned down to look at the map of the oasis drawn in the upturned earth and ran a delicate finger through his perfectly groomed beard.

Salman took his fingers and clawed out several deep lines on the ground representing the northern face of the city. The lines connected and formed an arc that encircled the vulnerable northern passes where the Meccan army would be best positioned to invade. Salman finished his work and looked up at my husband with a nervous glance.

“In my native land, we would dig a trench around our cities to protect them from siege,” Salman said. “If it pleases God and His Messenger, perhaps a similar strategy would serve in the defense of Medina.”

I looked down over the shoulder of my brother-in-law Zubayr and suddenly understood what the Persian was saying. I was not yet a military strategist—my days as a commander of armies were still many years away—but I could see how a ditch dug at the intervals Salman suggested might work.

The Companions looked at one another in surprise but said nothing, each perhaps afraid to be the first to voice support for this unusual stratagem. And then, finally, Umar spoke, his gruff voice rumbling through the courtyard.

“A trench large enough to hold back an army? I have never heard of such a thing,” he said, with a hint of grudging respect.

My husband looked into Salman’s nervous eyes and smiled warmly, taking the Persian’s hand in his.

“Neither have the Meccans.”

T
he Confederates, as the unified Meccan and Jewish contingents called themselves, crossed waves of blackened sand dunes as they made their final approach to Medina. The size of the army had swelled to ten thousand as disgruntled Bedouins were recruited to join the behemoth as it marched toward the upstart oasis that had thrown the world into disarray

It had been twenty days since the Arab and Jewish forces had joined together in the wilderness and the steady march through the desert for the army had been exhausting. Water skins were running low, and the first sight of the palm trees that lined the southern boundaries of Medina had been welcome. The men had raided the wells on the outskirts of the town and had been surprised to find them utterly undefended. They had rejoiced, seeing their easy capture of the southern passes as a sign from the gods of imminent victory.

But their commander, Khalid ibn al-Waleed, was troubled. He sat upon his mighty black stallion and gazed out across the horizon, past the lava tracts that served as Medina’s natural defensive border to the south. He did not stir, even as Huyayy ibn Akhtab, the leader of the Jewish forces, rode up beside him, beaming.

“Smile, my friend! Victory is upon us.” Huyayy gazed across the dark stones that led to his lost homeland and breathed in the salty oasis air deeply. “Soon my people will reclaim their homes. And your people will regain their honor.”

Khalid turned to face him at last, his eyes burning darkly.

“Where are Muhammad’s advance guards? We are almost to Medina and there has been no sign of even a single horseman.”

The chief of the Bani Nadir shrugged, unwilling to let the dour Arab spoil his jubilant mood.

“He has likely taken refuge inside the city, like my forefathers did at Masada,” Huyayy said, although he disliked comparing the noble warriors of his ancestors with this self-serving impostor and his illiterate fanatics.

But the reference was lost on Khalid, who gave him a blank look.

“They held off the entire Roman army for years,” Huyayy explained proudly. “When the centurions finally breached the walls, they found that all the Jews had killed themselves rather than surrender.”

The chieftain’s eyes gleamed with pride at the memory of the noble sacrifice, the courage of his people in the face of unconquerable odds.

But if the Jew saw honor in this tale, the Arab found it less appealing. Khalid spit on the ground in contempt.

“The Arabs are not suicidal like your ancestors,” he said sharply. “They are nothing if not brave. They will meet us and fight.”

Huyayy bit his tongue before he said something that would wreck their hard-won alliance.

“If these Arabs are so courageous, then where are they?” Huyayy tried to keep the poison out of his voice, but he was not entirely successful.

Khalid shook his head

“That is what concerns me.”

Before Huyayy could respond, shouts echoed from ahead. Khalid roughly spurred his horse and rode past the front lines of the advancing army. Huyayy quickly followed and saw a group of Confederate scouts standing on top of a large lava tract that would give them a view down into the heart of the oasis.

When Huyayy reached the ledge, he felt his heart miss a beat.

A massive trench had been dug across the northern passes into Medina. From where he stood, Huyayy estimated that it was thirty feet wide and perhaps a hundred feet deep. The cavernous ditch wound across the borders of the city to the west until it vanished into the thick jumble of palm trees and rocky hills to the south.

He had never seen anything like it, and he could see no way to traverse this barrier.

As Huyayy’s heart sank, he heard the racing of hooves and saw the Meccan leader Abu Sufyan ride up to join them. The old man breathed in sharply at the sight of this surprising defensive tactic.

“What is this?” Abu Sufyan asked, his voice mixing fury and despair all at once.

And then Huyayy was stunned to hear the sound of deep laughter. He turned to see Khalid’s head thrown back in genuine delight.

“A work of genius,” the general said, without any hint of bitterness.

And then, like a child racing to collect a new toy, Khalid rode down the ash-covered dunes toward the edge of the pit. The Confederate army followed, although the soldiers’ faces were twisted in confusion at the sight of the barrier.

When Huyayy pushed his horse to follow, he saw that the trench was not the only obstacle facing them. The entire Muslim army, numbering perhaps three thousand men, stood on the far side of the ditch, bows pointed at the invading forces, spears held ready to fly across the divide at their adversaries.

And then he saw Muhammad standing there, bare-chested and covered in sweat and dust, and realized that the heretic leader had been among the workers who had torn open the earth in what must have been a backbreaking exercise over many days. Despite his hatred of the man, Huyayy had to admire his willingness to get his hands dirty along with his men. Such leaders always inspired the loyalty of their troops, and Huyayy knew that they would fight to the death for this man should the Meccans somehow break through their defenses.

Muhammad greeted the invaders with a broad smile and threw open his arms in a defiant welcome. Khalid stared across the divide and smiled, saluting his enemy an acknowledgment of a well-conceived plan. Whatever differences of faith divided them, the code of honor between warriors still held its sway.

And then Khalid turned and signaled to his best horsemen. Without a word spoken between them, the cavalry rode forward, knowing exactly what the Meccan general expected of them.

A dozen of the mightiest chargers raced through the desert plain and leaped across the trench. A swarm of arrows met them and the horses were hit in midflight. The terrified screams of the animals ended abruptly as they plunged to their deaths in the pit below. Most of the riders broke their necks in the fall, but those who somehow managed to survive and crawl away from their shattered mounts were immediately struck by a second volley of projectiles.

Khalid held up his hand to prevent more honor seekers from trying to leap across the ditch. As an experienced general, he knew that once a stratagem had failed, it was a waste of lives and resources to repeat it in the hope of securing a better outcome. The horses simply could not leap the distance and land safely on the other side, and if miraculously one or two made it across the chasm, their riders would be alone and surrounded by well-armed enemies.

He looked across the ditch at his adversaries and calculated. Khalid could send his men down into the pit with ropes, but the Muslims held the advantage of the high ground. They would easily cut down his soldiers before they ever managed to climb to the other side. It would be a waste of life with little likelihood of success.

“What do we do?” It was the despairing voice of Abu Sufyan, who looked increasingly too old and weary to lead the Meccans to triumph. Khalid had nothing but contempt for this man who had proclaimed himself king of Mecca and whose only claim to power came from his cowardly avoidance of battle at Badr, where the competing chieftains were killed. There had already been whispers that Khalid should dispatch the elderly fool and take his place in the Hall of Assembly.

But Khalid ibn al-Waleed was a warrior, not a king. He found purpose and joy in the heat of the battlefield among the brave men he loved, not in the coddled life of a ruler surrounded by bureaucrats and sycophants. Khalid had no interest in becoming a king, but he knew that one was needed at the moment. It was kings and chieftains who declared the wars that men like Khalid lived to fight. But in the past several years, he had become increasingly disgusted with the leaders of Mecca, who showed cowardice and avarice, who ruled by bribery and fear, without any sense of honor.

He gazed across the enemy lines at Muhammad again and realized that his enemy had all the qualities that his allies did not. He was noble and courageous and could inspire men to lay down their lives. As he looked at the man who had been denounced as a rebel by the lords of Mecca, Khalid began to wonder what life would be like leading armies under Muhammad’s command.

But before he could take the thought further, he heard the insistent braying of Abu Sufyan in his ear, demanding a solution to this unforeseen problem.

Khalid sighed heavily and turned his attention to the fields of grain that stood just outside the borders of the trench, the groves of olive trees that were budding with the coming of the spring. The Muslims had wisely built the trench in a circle as close to the city as possible, limiting the area that needed to be defended. But in the process, they had been forced to cut themselves off from their own farmlands.

Khalid knew what needed to be done. And a part of him regretted that it had to be this way.

He turned to face Abu Sufyan and his Jewish ally Huyayy.

“We wait. Hunger will accomplish what swords and spears cannot.”