Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (9 page)

A
shadow fell across the doorway behind me, and I looked up to see a bent old man with a frosty beard enter slowly, his hands wrapped around an ivory walking stick. Here was Abu Talib, the Messenger’s uncle and father of Ali. He had been like a father to Muhammad, raising him after he was orphaned and standing by his side as the lords of Mecca turned against his new religion. The Prophet rose when he saw him, a sign of his deep love and respect, even though Abu Talib still clung to the way of their ancestors and worshiped the pagan gods. We all followed suit. Ali walked across the room and helped his father step across the black-and-white marble floor until he came to sit by the Messenger and Khadija.

Abu Talib looked frail and his hands shook, but his voice did not waver.

“The leaders of Quraysh are meeting in the House of Assembly to tonight to determine how to deal with your people,” he said with an air of regret. “Son of my brother, please listen to reason,” Abu Talib said to the Prophet. “Once the fire of Quraysh’s wrath is kindled, it will not be quenched. Your followers will all be consumed, as that poor woman was today. If you do not wish to follow our gods, that is your right. But please do not speak out against them anymore. Let the people of Arabia follow their traditions in peace. Despite their misgivings about your beliefs, the Quraysh respect and admire you, and I am sure they will be willing to offer anything you ask—if only you desist from denouncing their gods.”

A silence fell over the crowd of believers. We looked at the Messenger uncertainly, wondering how he would respond to a plea from this beloved old man to compromise with the idolaters.

I saw the Messenger turn to Khadija, who looked him in the eye and nodded firmly. Whatever he decided, she would support him as the Mother of the Believers.

The Prophet looked down for a moment, breathing slowly and deeply. When he finally raised his head, I saw a fire in his eyes that both excited and terrified me. He took Khadija’s hand in his right, and Ali’s in his left.

“By God, even if they place the sun in my right hand and the moon in my left, I will not be dissuaded from my mission.”

That was it, and we all knew it. There would be no compromise, even if the Meccans declared war on the Muslims.

Abu Talib shook his head despairingly.

“But my nephew—”

Khadija interrupted, holding the Prophet’s hand high for all to see that her fingers remain firmly clasped in his.

“You have my husband’s answer, dear uncle. He is
Al-Amin,
the Truthful, and he can no more hide the truth than the sun can rise in the west. God has commanded him to speak the Truth to Mecca and all mankind, and he will do so, regardless of the schemes of those who spin webs in the shadows.”

Her words stirred my heart and I could see that they had the same effect on the others. One by one, each member of the community, man or woman, adult or child, loudly voiced assent.

Seeing our unity and determination, Abu Talib finally bowed his head, accepting his nephew’s choice. He rose to his feet, gripping his cane as he prepared to leave.

“Then I fear for you. All of you,” he said sadly. “May your God protect you from that which is coming.”

“But what is coming? What is it that they are planning? If we know, we can protect ourselves.” It was the quiet voice of Fatima, the Prophet’s youngest daughter. She was a shy girl, about ten years older than myself, with a perpetually sad face. Unlike her older sisters, who were gregarious and full of life, Fatima was like a ghost who appeared and disappeared wordlessly and was rarely noticed by others. I saw several people start at the unexpected sound of her voice and I realized that I was not alone in wondering when she had entered the room or if she had been there the whole time without anyone noticing.

Abu Talib answered the girl by turning to face his son Ali.

“The doors of the Assembly have been shut to me this night. But I fear the worst.”

Ali put a kind hand on his father’s arm.

“Fear not, my father. God promises us that
‘the righteous will neither fear, nor will they grieve,’”
he said, quoting the holy Qur’an.

“I wish I could share your faith, my son,” he said, and I heard real regret in his voice. “But alas, I am old and all I know is that nothing good can come out of secret counsels held by angry men.”

As Ali led his father out of the room, I looked around. There was a hubbub of commotion as the believers argued and debated among themselves as to what to do. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, but it was all speculation. Without knowing what was said in the Hall of Assembly, there would be no way to defend our people against this new threat.

And then an insane idea came to me. Of course I thought it was ingenious at the time, but I was a child, and did not know the difference between brilliance and madness. There are many who believe I have never learned the difference, and perhaps they are right.

I saw that my father was preoccupied by the debate, and my sister was preoccupied with staring at Zubayr. No one noticed or cared what I was thinking, and no one noticed or cared as I quietly slipped away toward the door.

But as I turned to leave, I thought I saw from the corner of my eye the Messenger watching me with an amused smile.

T
he Hall of Assembly sparkled like ruby in the moonlight. It was the second largest building in Mecca, with only the Kaaba standing taller. It had been built years before by Qusay, one of the most revered of the ancestors of Quraysh, a statesman who had ended the blood feuds of rival clans and created a unified oligarchy that brought stability to the Pilgrimage and prosperity to the city. The Hall of Assembly was the symbol of his legacy. A sprawling complex that spread out over two hundred feet of polished red stone and marble, it was the closest thing to a palace in the wastes between Yemen and Syria and served as a meeting ground for tribal leaders, as well as a festival hall and the seat of rough desert justice.

Normally, the arched doors, inlaid in silver and polished bronze, were flung open to the public, allowing the average citizen of Mecca the necessary illusion that he had access to the corridors of power. In truth, everyone knew that decisions made in the Hall were based on the cold calculations of gold and political expediency; but the semblance of justice was necessary to prevent complete social breakdown.

But today the needs of appearances were secondary to the demands of secrecy and the mighty doors were shut to all except those who wielded unquestioned power. Guards in heavy leather armor, ringed in steel, stood outside each of the doors, bearing long swords held to the ready. The deliberations tonight were essential to the future of the city, and they had been ordered to cut down anyone who attempted to enter without permission.

A sound like a footfall made one of the guards, a grim-faced brute named Husam, turn his head with a start. It had come from around the corner, where a small alley ran between the southern wall of the building and the gated home of Abu Sufyan. The guard signaled to his broken-toothed colleague Adham. Weapons poised, they stealthily turned around the corner, prepared to kill anyone hiding in the shadows.

They saw nothing except a gray cat looking up at them with unblinking yellow eyes. Satisfied, the two men returned to their posts protecting the eastern gate to the Hall.

I
LOOKED DOWN FROM
my precarious perch ten feet above the ground as the two angry-looking guards exited the alley. I had often played hide-and-seek with my friends and the alley beside the Hall of Assembly was one of my favorite haunts. I had always been a limber child and I had climbed up the iron drainpipe before, confident that the playmates trying to find me would not think to look up. I loved spying on them while they were unaware. That little skill had proved useful to me that night and had likely saved my life.

When the guards had disappeared from my sight, I allowed myself to breathe again. Looking up, I saw a window on the second floor that was partially open, the gap just small enough for a cat to climb through. Or a small child.

My heart beat with the excitement that comes more from doing the forbidden than from any awareness of the danger I was placing myself in. I dug my fingers into the pipe, my fingernails already black with grime and pigeon droppings, and climbed higher, until I was just parallel to the window. If I had looked down, I probably would have fainted from vertigo, but I had always been a focused girl, and right now my eyes were on nothing except the small sill that jutted out beneath the window. I closed my eyes for a second and said the benediction that I had been taught almost as my first words:
Bismillahir-rahmanir-raheem,
In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate.

And then I swung over like a monkey and grasped the sill, clinging to its jagged stone outline. With a grunt that I prayed would not be heard by the nearby guards, I heaved myself higher until my skinny body was lying flat on the sill. Then, with the impossible dexterity of youth, I managed to squeeze through the window opening and tumbled inside.

I blinked, adjusting my eyes to the dark interior. I was on the floor of what appeared to be a circular walkway overlooking the central assembly chamber. Doors spread out to either side, leading to smaller meeting lounges. For an overly inquisitive girl, this vast building, with its many passages, doors and mysteries was a treasure trove of discovery. But I had a self-appointed mission tonight and exploration would have to wait for another day.

The sound of voices pulled me toward a wood railing made of expensive acacia imported from the Sinai. I peered through the lattices that had been designed in swirling geometric forms—stars, octagons, and other pretty shapes that I didn’t recognize—and peered down on the meeting in progress.

I immediately recognized most of the men as tribal chiefs who had come to my father’s house at various times to plead with him to end his preaching and abandon the new religion that was undermining their trade. My heart froze at the sight of Abu Jahl, dressed in robes of rich blue, a black velvet vest covering his broad chest. Of course he would be here. His decision to elevate the persecution of the Muslims to murder had been the basis of tonight’s emergency council.

And then I saw something that surprised me. Among all the men with their bright turbans and ceremonial daggers tied to leather belts was seated one woman.

Hind bint Utbah, the wife of Abu Sufyan and daughter of one of the most powerful chieftains of Quraysh. I had seen her before in the marketplace, examining jewelry or rows of cloth with an expert eye. Unlike the other women of Mecca, she did not haggle over prices. She immediately knew what an item was worth and never asked the merchant. She would the name the price, and there would be no argument. The traders often gave her an extra discount in a kind of backward negotiation where they sought to gain more in Hind’s favor and political patronage than they lost on their merchandise.

She had a proud, steady walk, graceful and terrifying at once, like a lioness in motion. She was the tallest woman I had ever seen, easily dwarfing many of the men in the room. Her hair fell to the small of her back in waves, the dark locks fashionably streaked with henna. Her skin was olive and glistened like a polished mirror. But it was her eyes that always caught my breath. Yellow green like a cat’s, piercing in their intensity. They exuded pride and disdain, as well as a clear hint of danger. Whatever demons hid behind Hind’s cruel gaze, it was safer to leave them undisturbed.

“Muhammad’s followers have become a grave problem for the people of Mecca,” Abu Sufyan proclaimed, his voice booming with authority. “It is time that we take action.”

Abu Jahl stepped forward smoothly.

“Today the first of their blood was spilled. More must follow if we are to put an end to this.”

The crowd murmured its assent and I saw Hind smile. And then I noticed that there was a friend among the gathered nobles.

The Messenger’s uncle Abbas rose. While he had not embraced our faith, he was always kind to Muslims and we counted on him to be a voice of reason among the lords. A role that he was clearly alone in tonight.

“It is time for patience, not hasty deeds,’” Abbas said, his silky voice seeking to quench the fire that had been ignited by Abu Jahl.

But his sympathies were an open secret among the chiefs, and Abu Jahl turned to face Abbas with a cold eye.

“Is it patience that stays your hand, or cowardice?”

Abbas bristled with the pride of his clan, the Bani Hashim. He walked right up to Abu Jahl until their beards were almost touching.

“You dare call me a coward? How much courage does it take to kill an old woman tied to a tree?”

Abu Jahl’s handsome smile suddenly curled into a cruel grimace. A dead silence fell over the crowd. For an instant, I thought he would draw his dagger and plunge it into Abbas’s chest to avenge this open attack on his honor.

And then Hind stepped between the men, her long elegant fingers positioned on the chests of the adversaries as she separated them gracefully.

“Enough! Save your rage for our common enemy, Muhammad.”

Amr ibn al-As, the Meccan envoy with the honeyed tongue who had unsuccessfully sought to repatriate the Muslim refugees from Abyssinia, politely raised his hand. I saw that it was covered in silver rings with expensive stones—garnets, carnelian, and amber.

“But alas, what can we do against Muhammad? He is protected by the clan of Hashim.”

Even as he spoke, all eyes fell on another member of the Messenger’s tribe, his uncle Abu Lahab. Fat, bald, and perpetually sweating, he always reminded me of a garden slug, although with a less appealing personality.

Abu Lahab snorted in contempt at the thought of his wayward nephew. Unlike his half brothers Abu Talib and Abbas, Abu Lahab despised Muhammad, may God’s blessings and peace be upon him, and had made no secret of his belief that the Messenger was simply creating a new religion to monopolize the city’s lucrative Pilgrimage trade.

“The sanctuary of our clan will not last forever,” Abu Lahab said. “My brother Abu Talib is old. When he dies, I will lead the Bani Hashim and will revoke his protection.”

Abbas gave his brother a contemptuous stare, which Abu Lahab met with studied indifference.

Abu Jahl shook his head.

“We cannot wait that long,” he said bluntly. “The tribes will grow weary of his disruption of the Pilgrimage. They will take their pilgrims—and their gold—to Taif and the temple of the goddess Allat.”

Abu Jahl had chosen his words well. Taif was a prosperous trading center to the southeast, on the caravan route to Yemen. The denizens of that settlement had long envied Mecca’s preeminence and had built a sprawling shrine to the “daughter of Allah” to rival and, they hoped, one day eclipse the Kaaba. If Muhammad’s preaching against their gods made the annual Pilgrimage an inconvenience and source of turmoil for the desert tribes, it made sense that many would switch their allegiance to the goddess. And take their trade with them.

Seeing that he had hit he proper nerve with the other chiefs, Abu Jahl smiled.

“We must make a decisive move now,” he said forcefully. “Muhammad must die.”

There was an immediate uproar as various members of the Assembly shouted their opinions on this extremely controversial suggestion. I could see Hind smiling, her eyes glowing. She stood motionless in the middle of the loud debate, like the heart of a whirlwind. There was something both terrifying and mesmerizing about her at that moment, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.

Finally Abu Sufyan raised both his hands and spoke loudly, asserting his authority over the tumult.

“No,” he said firmly. “If we attack Muhammad, his clan will be forced to avenge him against the murderer. It will start a blood feud that will consume Mecca.”

He glanced at Abbas, who nodded coldly. Abu Lahab looked to his feet, knowing that no matter how much he wished it were otherwise, what Abu Sufyan said was true. His cousins in the Bani Hashim would slaughter anyone who attacked Muhammad.

Abu Sufyan’s calm voice served to quell the passion of the crowd, to Abu Jahl’s clear annoyance. But the weight of his words had put an end to this dangerous line of talk. Abu Sufyan, perhaps better than any of them, understood the threat posed by Muhammad’s movement, but he also knew that killing him would be like using oil to put out a kitchen fire.

Satisfied that he had cut off Abu Jahl’s provocations before they could grow like weeds in a garden, killing the fruits of wisdom that kept the peace in Mecca, he stepped back.

And then Hind spoke, and everything changed.