Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (33 page)

T
he Messenger married Zaynab bint Khuzayma a fortnight later, and a fourth apartment was built, the newest, just north of Hafsa’s stone hut. Abu Bara, the head of Bani Amir, attended the wedding of his cousin and publicly proclaimed that the Bedouin tribe was now bound by blood to Medina. The alliance had been successfully formed, and the Messenger’s political marriage had closed the chinks in our armor after the humiliation of Uhud.

And it was an alliance that was tested almost immediately. Abu Bara’s ambitious nephew tried to disrupt the pact by leading a renegade group of his tribesmen to attack a Muslim hunting party that wandered into Bani Amir territory. The survivors of the attack hid in the wilderness and took their vengeance on a group of Bani Amir shepherds who were innocent of complicity in the plot.

The dangerous cycle of retaliation had begun and the Prophet wisely offered to ease tensions with the Bedouins by paying a hefty sum to settle the claims of the shepherds’ grieving families. The sum demanded—a thousand gold dirhams—was substantial and posed a significant strain on the
Bayt al-Mal,
the Muslim treasury. And so the Prophet sent Ali to seek financial support from the Jewish tribes in accordance with our old treaty.

When I heard this, I shook my head in disbelief.

“The Jews have long forgotten our treaty,” I said to him one day as we sat in my room eating roasted lamb from a wooden bowl.

The Messenger’s hand brushed against mine as he reached in for a shank, and I could feel the coolness of his fingers beside my own. He took the soft shoulder meat and bit down, savoring its delicate taste.

“If our friends have forgotten the pact, then perhaps it is time to remind them,” Muhammad said, as if he were discussing a small bill of goods to be paid in the bazaar.

But I knew that it was not as simple as that. Blood had been spilled and one of the Jewish tribes was now in exile. Pressuring the remaining Jews to pay for a blood feud between the Muslims and the Bedouins would place an even greater strain on relations between the two communities.

And then as I looked into the Messenger’s twinkling black eyes, I realized that he understood this. This was a test of Medina’s power in the aftermath of Uhud. If the Jews failed to honor the treaty, there would no longer be any question as to where their allegiance lay. And with Mecca now assuredly plotting to fan the brushfire that been ignited at Uhud, we could not afford to have neighbors whose intentions were hostile. The Jewish fortresses guarded the mountain passes into the city. Their disloyalty could prove disastrous should Abu Sufyan’s forces again march up the hills toward the heart of Medina.

There was no more time for guessing—the truth of our political situation had to be assessed now. And the blood settlement provided an innocuous means of testing the waters. If the Jewish tribes renounced their obligations under the treaty, the Messenger would have ample reason to expel them from the oasis.

It was an utterly ingenious stratagem. If the Jews paid the Bani Amir, they would be held accountable for any future treaty obligations by a well-armed third party. And if they refused to pay, the Bani Amir would join forces with the Muslims and remove their threat from the doorstep of Medina. I realized that the Messenger would win either way.

I saw the Prophet smile as if he read my thoughts. As he continued to eat heartily of the lamb, I felt a surge of relief that I was his wife and not his adversary.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, I was walking alone through the marketplace. My husband had been invited to a dinner at the home of Huyayy ibn Akhtab, the leader of the Jewish tribe of Bani Nadir. His request for their help in paying the blood money to the Bedouins had been received with surprising graciousness. Huyayy had sent word that he wished to begin a new era in relations between their peoples. They worshiped the same God, after all, and both communities had a vested interest in the security and prosperity of the oasis. And so he offered to host a feast of reconciliation at which the Messenger would be his honored guest.

The Prophet had departed to attend the gathering with a small band of his Companions. In his absence, I decided to make a trip to the bazaar and see what new goods had arrived on the morning caravan. As I walked through the paved alleys of the city, I marveled at how things had changed in the past few years. Medina had been a dirty and unkempt town, where the streets were littered with refuse and camel dung. Women could not step outside alone without fear of harassment or worse by drunken tribesmen. The heady smell of
khamr
had hung over the town like a drunken cloud.

But now the cobbled stones were whitewashed and crumbling walls had been rebuilt. Women and children now walked about freely, although the imposition of the Muslim head scarf was still the subject of grumbling by some of the prettier girls, who were accustomed to parading their luxurious locks as a means of enticing a husband.

But the most remarkable change was the ban on wine. Initially Muslims were permitted to drink alcohol, even though the Messenger himself would not touch any strong drink that befuddled the senses. But as the institution of communal prayers was formalized at the Masjid, incidents of believers showing up drunk and disrupting the services had become increasingly problematic. Finally, after a drunken brawl among youths almost erupted into a street battle between the old enemies of Aws and Khazraj, the Messenger received a Revelation prohibiting the consumption of alcohol altogether. Some of the Companions voiced concerns that such a ban would be hard to enforce, as wine and
khamr
were a traditional part of Arab culture. And yet when Ali recited the new verses in the marketplace, the streets were soon running with wine as the citizens emptied their flasks. It had been a remarkable testament to how deeply faith had transformed these people—although I guessed that there were still a few bottles of wine being consumed in secret every night among the less devout.

Still, law and order had been achieved, and the visiting traders who arrived from all over the peninsula departed Medina with a sense of new possibilities. Perhaps the people of Arabia did not have to live like wild animals, crudely struggling for survival in the wilderness. Perhaps they could build cities and roads and establish courts of law that would end disputes without bloodshed. Medina was becoming a model for a new Arabia, and the word that Muhammad’s way led to peace and security was already spreading like an unstoppable sandstorm through the lonely wastes beyond the hills.

I walked through the stalls that day feeling happier than I had in some time. The sky was crystal blue with nary a cloud in sight. The air was warm and buzzing with life. Despite the horrors I had witnessed at Uhud, life was moving forward. And now that the Jews had renewed our pact, Mecca was unlikely to attack again. The sweet smell of peace was in the air.

I stopped before a cloth dealer and saw a lovely roll of saffron-colored silk. I ran my fingers through the fabric, letting its softness send shocks of pleasure down my wrist. The merchant, a grizzled old man with one eye, leaned forward conspiratorially.

“The finest cloth from India,” he said in a whisper, referring to a mythic land that was said to be south of the even more magical China. A land of vibrant colors and spices that could be found nowhere else on earth. A land where tigers and monkeys roamed the streets and armies fought with the aid of elephants. A land that was said to have so many gods that the idols of the Kaaba were like tiny stars lost amid the glory of the Milky Way.

All rubbish, of course. I doubted that this fabled realm existed anywhere outside the fevered imaginings of campfire storytellers. And in any event, whenever a merchant mentioned India, you knew you were in trouble. Traders always claimed that their goods had been imported from there when they wanted to charge exorbitant prices.

True to form, the merchant smiled widely, revealing a jungle of broken and blackened teeth.

“Only twenty gold dirhams,” he said, after glancing around to make sure no one had heard what a magnificent bargain he was offering the pretty young lady before him.

I suppressed a smile at the old fraud.

“I’m just looking. Thank you.”

And then I saw the silk dealer’s face change. He had recognized me. Suddenly the practiced showmanship vanished and I saw fear and awe in his eyes.

“You…you are the Mother of the Believers…Please, take it as a gift…”

He handed the roll of silk to me reverently, his wrinkled hands trembling, and suddenly it was I who felt like the fraud.

“My husband would not let me take something without paying,” I said hastily. I suddenly regretted having come here alone.

I saw tears well in the old man’s eyes.

“Then take it in exchange for a prayer,” he said in a voice that cracked with emotion. “My daughter Halima is sick with the oasis fever. Please pray for her. I know that God listens to the Mother of the Believers.”

I suddenly felt sorry for this kindly old man. He looked at me with the eyes of a child, completely trusting that I could do something for him. But I could not even find an answer for my own fervent prayers. I had now been with the Prophet for almost four years and my womb was barren. I had been praying every night for the past year for God to quicken my body with new life. And there had been no answer.

“I will ask my husband to pray for her,” I said softly. “And
insha-Allah
she will be healed.”

The merchant’s face lit up in a smile of pure glee. He fell to his knees and praised Allah so loudly that people in the bazaar stopped what they were doing to stare.

I felt my face flush red. I wished the old man peace and quickly turned to walk away.

And then I walked right into a tall woman whose face was almost completely covered by a black veil. All I could see were her gray eyes, which pierced into me like an arrow.

“Alms for a poor woman…”

She held out her hand and I saw that her fingers were finely manicured, not rough and callused like those of all the other beggars in the town. And yet there was something about the intensity of her gaze that suggested she carried more sorrow than all the hungry women and children who came to the Bench every day asking for food.

I reached into my small leather purse and took out a few silver coins. As I placed them in her outstretched palm she gripped my hand with terrifying strength.

“Let go of me!” I was suddenly afraid, even though I knew that if I cried out, the entire bazaar would rush to the aid of the Mother. But something about the mournful way that she looked into my eyes filled me with greater dread than the violent threats of any enemy.

The woman leaned close to me and I could smell rosewater about her. Even though she was dressed in rags, her flesh had the unmistakable scent of luxury.

“Your husband is in danger.”

My heart forgot to beat for an instant, and then made up for it by hammering with wild abandon.

“What are you saying?” I had to raise my voice to hear my own words over the pounding in my ears.

“The Bani Nadir plan to kill him outside the walls of their fortress,” she said softly, her gray eyes shimmering with tears. “Save him. Or war will be upon us and Medina will be washed in blood.”

I felt all color drain from my face. The woman let go of my hand and I felt my legs moving even though I had not willed them to do so. And suddenly I was racing away from the strange woman, away from the stands of olives and spices and jewelry, away from the cobbled streets of Medina into the palm groves that stood between the oasis and the mighty walls of the Jews.

I did not look back. Had I done so, I would have seen the woman in black bow her head in shame before removing her veil.

And I would have recognized the cold, statuesque beauty of a girl I had seen on a handful of occasions when the Messenger had met formally with the chieftains of the Jews.

A girl named Safiya, who had just betrayed her own people.

I
tore through the palm grove, blinking wildly as the wind blew grains of dust into my golden eyes. The sun had set and a blanket of darkness was rapidly descending on the grove. I managed to clamber up the path and suddenly I could see the ominous walls of the Bani Nadir blocking my path.

I was relieved to hear the gentle tones of my husband’s voice in prayer. He was reciting a sura of the Qur’an that had recently been revealed, a beautiful poetic verse meant to ward off evil.

Say: I seek protection from the Lord of Daybreak,

From the evil of that He has created

And the evil of darkness when it falls

And the evil of witches who cast spells

And the evil of the jealous when he envies.

My eyes adjusted to the fading light and I saw the Messenger leading the
Maghrib
prayers at the base of one of the towers of the wall. I breathed a sigh of relief that he was safe. Suddenly I felt very stupid. I had no idea who the veiled woman was, and yet I had taken her ramblings as truth. Feeling my cheeks flush in embarrassment, I turned to go home.

And then I heard something. A sound coming from above. I looked up and my falcon’s eyes fell upon the old turret high above the ground and I saw the distinct outline of figures pushing hard against the old stone from above.

A tiny cascade of pebbles streamed down the side of the tower and then I understood. My eyes went wide with horror and I ran across the path, hurtling toward the Prophet like a crimson arrow.

“No! It’s a trap!”

And then I crashed against my husband with such force that I knocked him aside in the midst of his prayers. The Prophet fell backward and his followers immediately stopped the ritual and leaped to his defense.

And then with a mighty roar, an avalanche of stone blocks larger than my head came tumbling down the side of the tower as the turret crumbled and collapsed. The heavy boulders crashed right where the Messenger had been standing and would have buried him in their deadly cascade had God not used me to push him out of the way.

I heard a tumult of cries as the Companions grabbed the Messenger and pulled him back from the wall into the safety of the garden. They took refuge under a thick palm tree and formed a protective circle around him. The men had come unarmed to the feast, but I saw such frenzy in their eyes that I knew they would fight any attackers, using their fingers and teeth if need be.

I looked down at my husband, who appeared to be in shock. And then I saw the familiar tremor racing through his bones and I knew that he was having a Revelation. And then he went still and his eyes opened.

He looked at me in surprise, and then at his followers, and finally at the pile of sharp rocks that covered the space he had occupied only moments before. He blinked rapidly as his sense of self returned.

“Gabriel appeared to me as I prayed and said my life was in danger…but God would protect me…”

He ran a hand across my face, which was smeared with dirt.

“Thank you,” he said softly. I suddenly realized that I was trembling as wildly as he did during his mystical trances, and I hugged myself tight and tried to end the shaking.

I heard footsteps approaching and I saw my husband’s face darken. The smile vanished and was replaced by something so terrible that I quickly looked away.

Huyayy, the chieftain of the Bani Nadir, came running to our side.

“My friends! Are you all right?” he cried with an obsequiousness that did not come naturally. “What a terrible accident! I will order our masons to fortify the wall so that something like this will never happen again.”

It was such a transparent ruse that I stared at Huyayy in surprise. And then I saw beneath his protestations of innocence a mix of desperation and fear. This mighty statesman, this merchant renowned for his influence in worldly affairs, had been reduced to employing this crude and ultimately ineffective scheme to eliminate the Prophet.

The Messenger looked at him with both pity and contempt.

“You will not need to rebuild your wall,” he said, ice in his words.

“I don’t understand,” Huyayy said, continuing to feign innocence.

My husband stepped forward with dignity and took hold of Huyayy’s richly embroidered lapel.

“The Bani Nadir have broken the Treaty of Medina with their treachery. Your lands are forfeit.”

Huyayy’s fawning mask fell and his face twisted into an ugly sneer.

“You do not have enough men to compel the Bani Nadir to abandon their homes.”

The Messenger did not move. His eyes remained locked with his adversary’s poisonous gaze.

“Once the Bani Amir learn of your intention to kill a guest under guise of sanctuary, they will stand by Medina,” he said with the power of absolute certainty. “As will their allies among the Bedouins. By God, you will leave your homes. Whether alive or dead, the choice is yours.”

And with that, the Messenger let go of Huyayy and stormed down the path back to the safety of Medina. The men immediately followed, but I lingered for a second. I stared at Huyayy, who suddenly looked lost, as if he could not understand how the journey of his life had led him to this moment.

I saw the sadness in his gray eyes, and I felt a chill race down my spine as I remembered the veiled woman with the same eyes who had betrayed the Bani Nadir. And then I ran to join my husband, the full tragedy of Huyayy ibn Akhtab branded on my heart.

A
FEW DAYS LATER
, I stood at the edge of the oasis, watching as the Jews of Bani Nadir evacuated their homes and prepared for the long march north. The rumor was that they would take refuge in Khaybar, a Jewish stronghold at the edge of Byzantine territory. As I watched the men load their possessions on camels and mules, my eyes fell upon a young girl with sandy hair sitting alone upon a horse. Her gaze met mine and I immediately recognized the gray eyes, which now shimmered with tears.

I nodded to Safiya in gratitude, but she looked away. And then the daughter of Huyayy ibn Akhtab turned and rode out into the desert, the secret that we shared a burden that would forever haunt her days.