Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (12 page)

A
few hours later, Umar strode through the streets of Mecca, walking as if in a dream. Everything had changed the moment he had read the Words of God. It was as if someone had reached inside his breast and torn out a deadly snake that had been wrapped around his heart, squeezing out any love for life or his fellow man. And then he had understood. The Spirit that he sensed around the Kaaba, the Being that he had vowed to serve at the cost of his own life, had a voice, and it had spoken to him through a book revealed to an illiterate man. All this time, he had been fighting the very force to which he had dedicated his soul.

Umar had read the words that were painted on the leather strip and had fallen back as if struck by an invisible hand. He had started shaking with violent tremors and his head had felt warm and dizzy. But he knew that he was not suffering from fever or plague. It was the same dizzying sensation that had torn through him the day he had sought solace for murdering his daughter by kneeling at the Sanctuary. But this time, instead of cruel laughter mocking him, he heard a gentle voice in his heart, filled with compassion, saying: “Go to him.”

And like a child who does not dare question his elders, Umar had gotten up without a word to his sister and walked straight to the Messenger’s house. When he had declared his newfound faith, he felt as if a stone had lifted from his shoulders and that someone who had been imprisoned inside of him had suddenly been set free. The man Umar had once been was gone, like a shadow that vanishes when light is shone upon it.

He had not cried since he was a child. His father, al-Khattab, would beat him ferociously each time he sniffled, calling him weak and threatening to cut off his male organ if he kept weeping like a girl. But today he had wept for hours, as if a dam had burst and all the pain he had bottled inside himself for years had come out. He could not control it if he wanted to. And, in truth, he did not want to.

The Messenger had accepted him and forgiven him his treachery, but Umar found he still could not stop crying. He kept seeing the image of his precious baby daughter looking up at him with a smile even as he covered her tiny body with stones. She had kept squeezing his finger until the breath had finally left her and her little hand had dropped.

He had looked at the Messenger and asked that God punish him for his sin. He had handed his sword to Muhammad and begged him to avenge the girl and cut off his head. But the Prophet had put a gentle hand on his arm, his own black eyes welling with tears of empathy.

“You have already punished yourself enough, son of al-Khattab,” he had said softly. “Islam is like a river. It cleans those who immerse themselves of their past sins.”

Umar had bowed his head, still not willing to accept the forgiveness he was offered.

“You say that all men will be resurrected one day and the girls who were slain by their fathers will confront them on the Day of Judgment,” he said, repeating the teachings that he had reviled and mocked only a few hours before. “What will I say to my little girl when I face her?”

The Prophet looked past Umar’s shoulder, as if staring at some grand vision on the horizon of his mind’s eye.

“I see her holding you by the hand, squeezing your finger, as she leads you to Paradise.”

At that moment, Umar ibn al-Khattab was freed. The man he had been, the murderer, the drunk, the adulterer, died. And the man who now walked purposefully through the cobbled alleys of Mecca had been born.

He noticed that people in the streets were staring at him, looking confused as he passed them. And then he realized it was because he was smiling. Not the smile of a man with a deadly scheme in his heart, but one of pure and unconditional joy. As he passed by a street merchant selling coral combs, agate rings, and vials of rosewater perfume to a group of black-veiled Bedouin women, he caught a reflection of his face in the polished silver mirror the merchant had erected to promote his wares to the vanity of his customers.

He did not recognize himself. The cruel scowl that he had once believed to be a sign of power and masculinity was gone, replaced by a look of childlike wonder. Umar grinned and found that he liked the way the lines around his lips and cheeks crinkled when he did so.

And then he forced himself to adopt a serious, stoic face. For now he was on a new mission and he could not allow himself to be distracted by the unfamiliar face that stared back at him from the mirror.

Umar moved forward with steady strides, his eyes focused on a grand house of yellow stone, the walls decorated with carved flowers and wreaths of silver. He knocked harshly on the dark wooden doors made of cedar imported from Lebanon.

He heard the sound of movement and caught a glimpse of a dark eye gazing at him through a tiny peephole. And then the door swung open and Abu Jahl emerged, his face eager with expectation.

“Is it done? Is the man dead?”

Umar looked at him for a long moment. He had once secretly envied Abu Jahl’s chiseled good looks, but now he saw only a demon whose ugliness was evident in the cruel gaze of his eyes.

“One man is dead,” Umar said slowly, pronouncing each word as if it would be his last. “Another has been born.”

Abu Jahl furled his brow in confusion.

“What are you saying?”

Umar leaned close to him, a triumphant smile slowly crossing his face.

“I have come to tell you that I believe in God and His Messenger, Muhammad, and that I testify to the truth of what he has brought.”

Abu Jahl stared at him blankly. And then his face twisted into a violent scowl, and his handsome mask was shattered, revealing a darkness that few had ever witnessed beneath his studied diplomatic veneer.

“God curse you, and may His curse be on the tidings you have brought!”

Abu Jahl slammed the door in Umar’s face. The redeemed assassin stood quietly for a moment and then burst out laughing, his beard shaking with violent mirth at the precious sight of Abu Jahl’s discomfiture.

He turned and walked back toward the Kaaba, where he would proclaim his rebirth before the entire city. And for an instant, he thought he heard in his ears the joyful laugh of a little girl who should have lived to see this day.

A
bu Sufyan leaned back on the dais as the dancing girls whirled before him. Their dark skin contrasted vividly with their pink and saffron robes, their skirts twirling sensually with their measured steps, revealing just enough to ignite a man’s desire before disappearing in a swirl of mystery.

His eye fell on a doe-eyed girl of fourteen who smiled at him, flashing ivory teeth that seemed to sparkle in the torchlight that lit the audience hall of his grand manor. He felt a stirring within his loins and he glanced over to his wife, Hind, who had her eyes on the same courtesan. She met his gaze and winked, and he knew that she would be open to having the harlot join them in their bed tonight.

Normally the thought would have pleased him, but his mind was distracted tonight. He brooded over the mad scene at the Sanctuary that morning, when Umar had proclaimed his conversion to Muhammad’s religion and had announced himself a guardian of the Prophet. With Umar and his terrifying sword in Muhammad’s hands, the balance of power in the city had shifted decisively. The Muslims were no longer a troublesome cult of dreamers but an influential tribe of their own, backed by the protection of one of the most powerful leaders of Mecca.

As he glanced sideways at Hind, who was watching the buxom dancer like a cat waiting to devour a mouse, he thought bitterly that the only good thing that could come out of Umar’s betrayal was that he would no longer be a cloud darkening their marriage. Abu Sufyan had endured the rumors and innuendoes, publicly denouncing any who would sully the reputation of his honorable wife. But he secretly knew that her frequent evening visits to “her aunts” were mere diversionary tactics and that her true destination was Umar’s bed.

Why had he put up with it for so long? He had a wise fear of Umar’s temper like everyone else. But in his heart he knew that he would not have interfered even if Hind had taken up with some lesser man whose sword was more easily faced in battle. Was it because his marriage to her had sealed his alliance with her powerful father, Utbah, and guaranteed his unchallenged leadership of Mecca? No, he would like to think that he was politically skilled enough to retain his position as the chieftain of chieftains even if he divorced Hind or killed her to restore his honor.

But the thought of leaving her, or worse, murdering her, left him feeling cold and sick. He looked over at her and saw the faint smile on her lush lips, the savage glint in her eyes that hinted at dark thoughts and darker lusts. And he knew the truth, painful as it was. He loved Hind, more than he loved anything else in this world. Abu Sufyan could not imagine life without her, and he was willing to turn away from her dalliances with men—and women—if only to preserve their marriage. Even after all these years, she ignited his passion as no other woman could. And even more important, she comforted his soul with her innate understanding of the difficulties of leadership and the loneliness of power. She was the only person he could talk to, to unburden his mind when the pressure became too great.

As it had tonight. Abu Sufyan clapped to signal he was tired of the performance. The musicians who had been steadily pounding drums made of camel hide and bone ended their play and the girls stopped their sensual dancing, the rustle of their skirts quieting like the sudden fall of a heavy wind.

Abu Sufyan threw them a handful of gold coins and waved them away. The dark-skinned dancer with the luminous eyes looked at Hind, who nodded, and then she joined her sisters in the adjoining antechamber, where they would be fed roasted lamb and poured wine by the servants before being sent on their way.

When the last of the dancers had left and they were alone, Hind turned to face Abu Sufyan, putting her long-fingered hand over his. He always marveled at the heat she exuded, as if she were a walking torch.

“What is wrong, my husband?” she said softly, her piercing eyes tearing into his soul.

“Umar’s conversion is a turning point,” Abu Sufyan said with a sigh. He quietly noted the flicker of emotion that crossed her face at the mention of the man who had only days before been her lover and was now an open enemy. “These Muslims are no longer afraid. They will spread their poison openly now, knowing that Umar will protect them.”

Hind looked away for a second, her eyes on the lush maroon carpet where the dancers had been swaying only moments before.

“Umar is but one man,” she said, as if trying to convince herself. “He cannot hold back the wrath of Quraysh.”

Abu Sufyan laughed bitterly.

“What wrath? Our tribe is like a hamstrung camel. Even Abu Jahl is now afraid of igniting an all-out war with these heretics. We cannot risk killing any of them as long as Umar’s sword hangs over our heads.”

Hind turned to face him, and he saw the raw cunning in her eyes that both excited and terrified him. She stroked the golden snake armlet that she always wore, and he felt his desire rising.

“You men always see things so simply. Night and day. Sun and moon. There are no stars in your world, no clouds or mists. You lack subtlety.”

Abu Sufyan leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

“One does not need to kill another man in order to wage war on him,” she said, squeezing his hand until he winced in pain. “What is Mecca known for, besides its gods?”

Abu Sufyan had learned over the years to answer her questions, as they were usually meant to guide him to a truth he had not yet seen but was already evident to her.

“Its trade. Our merchants are the heart of all commerce between Yemen, Byzantium, and Persia.”

Hind leaned even closer and he could feel her firm breasts rub against him, arousing his desire again.

“And what happens when blood from the heart fails to reach an organ?”

His own organ was engorged with blood and he had difficulty thinking because of the pounding in his loins. But as he let her words penetrate the haze of lust, understanding began to dawn on Abu Sufyan.

“It dies,” he said simply.

Hind smiled, and her hand touched his excited flesh.

“Exactly.”

He ran a finger across her neck, long and elegant like a gazelle’s.

“We will use trade as a weapon.”

Hind smiled, delighted as always that the pupil had finally caught up to the teacher. She reached over to a basket of red grapes and took one in her lips. And then she kissed Abu Sufyan and let the grape fall into his mouth. He sucked on it and her tongue at the same time.

She finally broke off the kiss and looked him deep in the eyes.

“You do not need to kill them. If you starve them, they will kill themselves.”

The full plan was now coming into view, with all its cold brilliance. Abu Sufyan gazed at Hind with admiration.

“If the Quraysh would accept a woman as their leader, they would have chosen you,” he said.

Hind did not deny this. She ran her nails across his chest, feeling the harsh beating of his heart.

“But since they would not, I chose you.”

Abu Sufyan smiled.

“I thought you married me because you loved me.”

She kissed him again, letting her soft pink tongue play across his lips.

“I do.”

And then Abu Sufyan leaned back and looked at her as if appraising the true value of a rare gem.

“Is it me, or is it my power that you love?”

Hind smiled mischievously.

“Defeat Muhammad, and you will never need to know the answer to that question.”

She leaned forward and kissed him for a long moment. When she broke free, he saw that they were not alone. The dancer with the lustful eyes had returned to the hall unbidden, perhaps summoned by the magnetic heat that Hind’s body exuded.

His wife smiled and pulled Abu Sufyan up with her right hand. She held out her left and grasped the dancer’s small fingers, and then she quietly led the two back to her bedchamber.