Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (10 page)

W
hy do you fear the spilling of a little blood, my husband?” Hind said in a husky voice. “No nation can stand that will not pay the price of order.”

All eyes were on her as she moved toward her husband. Abu Sufyan saw the hungry yet terrified gaze of the crowd on his beautiful wife and his face reddened at her blatant defiance of his authority.

“A wise merchant always weighs the price with a cold heart,” he said, an edge entering his voice. “He does not allow himself to be swayed by the emotions of a woman.”

Hind turned to face her husband and I saw a dangerous look in her eyes. I saw her right hand move back as if to slap him, and my eyes fell on a golden armlet that wrapped around her olive-colored forearm. It looked Egyptian in design, two snakes curling around her wrist, their jaws meeting behind her hand, a glittering ruby held between their savage fangs. It was beautiful and terrifying, much like Hind herself.

But if she had desired to strike her husband in public for his de-meaning words, Hind thought the better of it, and she merely turned her back on him in open contempt.

Seeing the spell her sultry voice had cast on the men and their looks of despairing desire as she moved, Abbas walked to the center of the room to regain their attention.

“Abu Sufyan is right,” he said loudly. “Killing Muhammad will prove too costly. Even if the blood feud were settled, his followers would proclaim him a martyr. A ghost is the most dangerous adversary, for it can never be killed.”

Abu Sufyan nodded in assent, although he could not completely hide his irritation that his wife’s gambit had allowed one of his rivals to state his primary case. But before he could add a word in support of Abbas, Abu Jahl clapped loudly, his hands coming together in slow, mocking strokes.

“Spoken like a true advocate for your nephew.” he sneered. “I think it is safe to say that your loyalties lie with your kinsman and not with the people of Mecca. And it is the people of Mecca who are suffering under the lies of this sorcerer. Our city cries for a hero, a man who stands tall and does what needs to be done, without fear of consequences.”

This high-flown but calculated appeal to idealism struck an immediate chord with the Arabs, a people who prided themselves on their epic stories of heroes who risked their lives for the honor of the tribe. Abu Sufyan watched in frustration as the fire of aggression he had extinguished began to blaze brightly again.

It was a shift in sentiment that Hind sensed as well. She raised her hands above her head, posing like the alluring idol of Astarte, the Phoenician fertility goddess, which stood in the Sanctuary.

“Who among you is a real man? A man who does not fear retribution? A man who will stand for Mecca and the religion of our fathers, even if it means his own death? A man who prefers the honored sleep of eternity to the shameful comfort of a coward’s bed? Is there no such man among you?”

Her words were dripping with promise and warning. Even as a little girl, I knew what was being said beneath those words. Who among you is man enough to please me? To give me everything that is inside you, even if it means losing yourself in the flame of my heart?

I saw the lords of Mecca looking at one another in confusion and uncertainty. Hind’s passion was too extreme, even for them. And then a man arose, one of the few who stood taller than the queenly Hind. It was Umar. There was a dark intensity in his face similar to what I had seen earlier in the day when Talha had humiliated him.

“I will do it. I will bring you the head of this liar who has profaned the Holy Kaaba.”

There were gasps of surprise—or perhaps relief—that Umar had taken up Hind’s challenge. He was essentially agreeing to his own death. While no one had any doubt that Umar had the courage and pure physical viciousness to take on the role of assassin, even he would not be able to defend himself against the retaliation of the men of Hashim.

Hind smiled at him and I saw a glance pass between them that I did not understand. But whatever it was that I saw, I was not alone, for Abu Sufyan caught it as well and looked away, his face red from anger. Or humiliation.

Realizing that Umar’s declaration meant almost certain death for his nephew, Abbas tried to reason with him.

“Think, Umar, of what you are saying—”

Umar responded by unsheathing his sword.

“No! I have thought enough!” Umar turned to face Abbas and Abu Lahab, the two representatives of the Messenger’s clan. “Know, O sons of Hashim, that I fear not your reprisals. I will kill this renegade, and if any among you has the courage to hold me accountable, then do so. You will find my blade a worthy match.”

Abbas saw the madness in Umar’s eyes and looked down quickly, before the giant brute lost control and smashed that broadsword on his skull. I saw his brother Abu Lahab smirk with glee. If Umar succeeded in ridding Mecca of his troublesome nephew, Abu Lahab would counsel his clansmen to forgo retribution and allow Umar to pay a blood debt to Muhammad’s family rather than risk an all-consuming blood feud that would destroy Mecca. With the Prophet out of the way and the clan divided over how to respond to Umar’s act of violence, Abu Lahab would be perfectly positioned to seize the scepter of authority from his aging brother Abu Talib.

I watched as Hind moved forward, her body flowing like silk in the wind, and touched Umar on the cheek with affection.

“I always knew you were the greatest man of Quraysh,” she said, her words like nectar dripping from her full, red lips.

Her husband Abu Sufyan turned and walked out, unable to bear the humiliation of his wife’s open flirtation with the son of al-Khattab. In later years, I would learn that Umar’s affair with Hind had been the worst-kept secret of Mecca, but the two had been discreet in public until this moment.

A strange look came over Umar’s face as he gazed at Hind. The harshness vanished and for a moment he looked like a child seeking to please his mother. Or perhaps more accurately, a condemned soul seeking forgiveness from his judge.

“Tomorrow, I will end this scourge,” he said, his booming voice suddenly soft like a dove. “Muhammad will die. And the gods will be appeased.”

He broke free of Hind and walked out, preparing to kill and be killed. And I later learned the thought that tore through his heart at that moment. That when he died under the vengeful blows of the men of Hashim, perhaps the child he had buried alive would be avenged.

T
he next morning Umar set out to fulfill his mission. As he rounded a corner, the Messenger’s house came into view and he froze, looking at it with the perverse curiosity of a man peering into his grave. Umar hated Muhammad with a passion and was glad that he would be the one to eliminate this blot on the holy city. It was not that Umar cared deeply for the cult of his ancestors. He was intelligent enough to sense that most of the rituals of worship in the Sanctuary were a cheap amusement offered to the gullible and the hopeless, two categories of mankind that were predominant in Arabia and perhaps in all the world. He didn’t care for the crude idols and icons that littered the Haram like prostitutes around an army camp.

But ever since he was a boy, he had felt something special around the Temple, the Kaaba itself. He was not a poet and had difficulty putting the emotions the House of God inspired into words. Perhaps it was impossible for any man to do so when faced with the Divine.

As a youth, Umar and his friends had made a sport of spending evenings inside old caves or abandoned huts that the superstitious claimed were haunted by djinn. But he had never felt anything supernatural at any of those places. Yet whenever he approached the granite cube that soared over Mecca, his heart skipped a beat. Every time he entered the confines of the Sanctuary, he felt as if he were being watched from all sides. Umar had a reputation for being fearless, a reputation that he nurtured and protected with great care, and in truth nothing on earth really did frighten him. Not the sword of an enemy nor the jaws of a lion. He knew how to deal with foes that bled, enemies that had weaknesses, that could be killed by strength and cunning.

But whenever he approached the Kaaba, he was afraid. Whatever spirit was there, it was invincible and could not be killed. And that truly terrified him. The night after he murdered his infant daughter, Umar had gone to the Kaaba in hopes of silencing the guilt and horror that gripped his heart. But when he crossed the circle of the Sanctuary and stood before the gold inlaid door of the House, his knees had given way and he felt something pressing him from all sides.

He was alone in the courtyard, but he kept hearing terrible whispers all around him. Whenever the wind rose, he could have sworn he heard cold laughter in its echo. The world began to dissolve and swim before his eyes and Umar felt as if he were falling. Convinced that he was dying, that the power that haunted the Kaaba had come to claim him, he had cried out to Allah, begging for mercy and a chance to expiate his sins by serving as a protector of the Holy House.

And then the delirium left him and all was silent. Yet he felt that whatever presence dwelt in those ancient stones had heard him and would hold him accountable to his oath. Since that day, Umar had lived up to his vow, standing watch whenever the pilgrims came, a self-appointed Guardian of the Kaaba. If a drunk or beggar profaned the grounds, he quickly tossed them off. Once he had caught and beaten a teenage thief who had picked the pocket of a wealthy pilgrim from Taif who was circumambulating the shrine. When the grateful merchant offered him a reward of silver from his purse, Umar had refused, explaining proudly that he was there to serve the Sanctuary and could not accept any compensation.

With Umar’s formidable presence, the Pilgrimage had become a safer experience and the numbers of pilgrims had increased every year. He had fulfilled his vow to the Spirit whom he could still feel watching him every day.

But now Muhammad and his heretics had decided to use the Pilgrimage as a venue to preach and spread their new religion, and the peace of the Sanctuary was again threatened. Incidents like the one the day before, when slaves spoke arrogantly to their betters, threatened to tear apart the social fabric of Mecca and poison the atmosphere for worship and trade. Umar realized that the Spirit of the Kaaba was testing him and he resolved that would not be found wanting. If killing this sorcerer Muhammad would restore peace to the Sanctuary, then Umar would fulfill his oath—even at the risk of his own life.

With these thoughts raging in his head, Umar stepped onto the cobbled path leading to the Prophet’s house. As he approached the gates, his hand moved closer to the hilt of his sword. He would likely have only one chance to tear it loose from the scabbard and strike the deathblow before the sons of Hashim brought him down. But Umar was not afraid. The Spirit of the Kaaba was with him, and it was greater than this magician. He muttered a final prayer to himself as he stood outside the iron gate from which he would likely not emerge again.

“O Allah, give me the strength to do what is right, that Your House may forever be sanctified.” With that, he reached to push open the latch.

And then a shadow fell on him from behind.

Umar whirled, his hand reaching for his sword instinctively. And then he saw that it was a member of his clan, a slight fellow named Nuaym who was perpetually cheerful and posed no threat.

Nuaym smiled and clasped his hand and then looked carefully at his tall clansmen’s face.

“Umar! Are you all right? You look feverish.”

Umar stared at the little fellow with irritation. He was not about to be distracted from his mission by this silly fool.

“I burn with the fire of justice.”

Nuaym raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise.

“What are you talking about?”

There was no harm in telling him. He was a member of his own clan and could be trusted. And if Umar did not emerge alive from the house, Nuaym would tell the other sons of the Bani Adi to sing songs of his heroism.

“Today I have sworn a vow to kill that heretic Muhammad and end this sedition in our city.”

Nuaym’s mouth fell open in shock.

“Are you mad? The Bani Hashim will kill you in retaliation!”

Umar shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling like two mountains in an earthquake.

“So be it.”

Nuaym put a friendly hand on his clansmen’s arm as if to pull him away from this madness.

“Come, let us return to my house,” he said brightly. “The heat of the day makes it hard to think wisely. We can talk about this over a cold drink in the shade.”

Umar removed Nuaym’s hand, squeezing the fingers painfully in warning.

“Get out of my way, old friend.”

“Umar, listen to reason—”

Umar gabbed Nuaym by his collar and lifted the small man off his feet until their eyes met.

“No! I have sworn a vow to set things right today, and no man can stop me.”

He dropped his clansman and turned back to face the house. Unsheathing his sword, he pushed open the gate.

“If you wish to set things right, you should look closer to home!”

Umar froze. Slowly, like a stubborn boulder finally giving way under the force of an avalanche, he turned to face Nuaym.

When Umar spoke, his voice was soft. But there was an edge there that was more terrifying than the roar of a thousand charging elephants.

“What are you saying?”

Nuaym looked deeply frightened, but he managed to meet Umar’s gaze. He hesitated, his eyes flicking to the sword that now glittered lethally in the assassin’s hand.

“Your sister Fatima is one of them.”

Umar’s eyes went wide. Of all the possible things that Nuaym could have said, this was the one he had not expected.

“You lie!” Umar’s sword began to rise into attack position.

“She has embraced Muhammad and follows his path. Ask her yourself.”

Umar’s face turned bright red. He stepped forward and for a moment Nuaym believed the sword would soon slice open his neck. Umar bent down until his face was right next to his clansman and Nuaym could see the redness that ringed his dark eyes.

“If you are spreading calumny against my family, your blood will join Muhammad’s on my sword.”

And then, without another word, Umar turned and stormed down the path toward his sister’s home.

Nuaym fell to his knees and buried his head in his hands, grateful to still be alive. At that moment, I emerged from the shadows of the alley where I had been secretly watching Umar’s approach.

I walked over to Nuaym and saw that he was shaking. Not knowing what else to do, I put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Nuaym started at my touch, half expecting that Umar had returned to finish him off. When he saw it was just me, he breathed deeply to calm himself. And then he took my hand in his. I could feel the cold dampness on his palm.

“Thank you, little one, for your warning.”

Even though I was a child, I knew what Nuaym had done. He had run out of options, but I was still upset that he had betrayed Umar’s sister Fatima, who had been a secret believer for the past year and had always been kind to me and my family.

“But Umar’s sister—”

Nuaym shook his head, and I could see shame written on his gaunt features.

“I had no choice,” he said, regret filling his voice. He stared down the path where Umar had charged off, still bearing his sword. “May God protect her from Umar’s wrath.”