Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (38 page)

I
approached the stout housewife and handed her a dagger.

“Take this,” I said with as much authority as I could muster. The woman hesitated and I grabbed her by the wrist and placed the hilt of the blade in her hand. “It is not a request.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice quivering with fear.

I had spent the entire morning performing this ritual and was weary of the question. I was about to respond with a sharp retort, but I peeked at the woman and suddenly felt compassion for her. She could not have been more than thirty, but years of toiling under the cruel sun had left her as withered and wrinkled as a dried fig, her hair colored red with henna to hide the early streaks of white. She was not ready for what was coming. None of us were.

“The Messenger says we must be ready to fight in the streets,” I replied with a conscious effort to be gentle. “Every Muslim, man or woman, who can lift a weapon must do so when the time comes.”

The frightened woman—Nuriya was her name—looked closely at the weapon with a trembling hand. I heard the rustle of her skirt and looked down to see a toddler, a boy of perhaps two, clinging to her and staring up at me with wide eyes. The child’s cheeks were sunken and his stomach was distended, a sign that famine had struck this home with particular fury.

Nuriya lowered the weapon and looked at me with dead eyes.

“So this is the end.”

I reached out and took her bony fingers in mine, squeezing them gently.

“Only God knows.”

Fear had gripped the oasis ever since our spies had returned with word that our enemies had been secretly meeting with our putative allies, the Bani Qurayza. The Messenger did not know what their plan was, but one thing was clear. The last of the Jewish tribes had renounced its pact with us and was now poised to help the Confederates. We had to prepare for the worst.

Nuriya began to cry and pray desperately to Allah for the deliverance of her children. She tried to reach out to me, as if she wanted my comfort, but I turned away, ready to continue my rounds. My straw basket was heavy and overflowing with small weapons—knives, arrows, anything that could be spared by the defenders at the trench in order to arm their families. I had two dozen homes to visit before the sun went down and did not have time to soothe this woman any further.

And then the sound of a newborn crying from inside stopped me. From the desperate wails, I could tell that the infant could not have been more than a week old. My heart sank as I wondered whether this poor baby’s destiny was to enter this world only to leave it again in a few days in the chaos of flames and destruction. It was an unjust fate and I felt a flash of anger at the Meccans, at the arrogance and heartlessness of men, at the cruelty of life in this miserable desert wasteland.

I looked at Nuriya, saw the terror and uncertainty on her features. And the anger I felt building inside me was suddenly released on the poor, cowering woman.

“Stop it! Stop crying!”

Nuriya looked up at me, stunned and hurt.

I leaned forward to her, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Listen to me,” I said with grave intensity. “Your children will not be saved by your whimpering! They need you to be as strong and as cold as a man. If the enemy knocks at your door, do not let the softness of your heart be your undoing. They will give you no quarter. Give them none as well.”

The steel in my voice cut through her grief and her tears stopped. I saw a stony mask come upon her lined face as she slew the weak housewife she had been and gave birth to the warrior that is buried inside every woman’s heart, one who is unleashed when her children’s lives are at stake.

She wiped her tears and nodded, gripping the dagger like a lion locking its jaws on the throat of its prey.

I nodded and moved away. And then, when I could find shelter in the nook of an abandoned alley, I dropped the basket and fell to my knees. My body trembled violently as the emotions I had been suppressing all morning erupted from inside me like a volcano. I vomited and then buried my face in my hands, letting the tears I had forbidden Nuriya to shed flood my cheeks.

A dark cloud covered the sun and the world looked utterly black, without any hint or hope of light.

The shadow of death hung over Medina. War would soon cover the streets in blood. And I could see no escape from the final doom that my people had somehow avoided up until this day. The end was near and I surrendered to despair, closing my eyes and forgetting everything. My duty. My family. My life. I just wanted to go to sleep and never awaken again.

To let the darkness take me into the eternal void.

And then I heard a soft voice. Whether it was in my ears or in my heart, I will never know.

God leads from darkness to light, Humayra.

I opened my eyes in shock. It was my husband’s voice, as clear and as loud as if he were standing above me. But the alley was empty, except for a small gray cat that looked at me from atop a pile of rubbish with its mysterious yellow eyes.

The shadow that had covered the city began to lift. I looked up to see small rays of light tearing through the angry clouds. And then, as each ray broke through, opening a way for another beam of light to cut a path out of the gloom, the cloud began to shatter and disperse until the golden disk burst forth in all its glory.

I realized in that moment that the sun was a fire composed of an infinite number of tiny sparks, each playing its role in creating the light that drove away the darkness. Even the tiniest and most insignificant ray had a part in the heavenly dance.

I found myself rising to my feet and reclaiming my store of weapons. The people of Medina needed me. And even if it was all meant to end under the harsh steel of our enemies’ blades, I would play my part to the last.

K
ab stood outside the southern gate as the sandstorm raged all about him. The devil’s wind had risen with no warning an hour before sunset, sending a wall of earth crashing down on the oasis like a wave in a turbulent ocean. By nightfall, the winds had worsened and the stars were blotted out by the fury of the desert squall. It had taken ten men to push open the massive doors that protected the fortress as the wind fought back with the force of a thousand battering rams. Kab had managed to step into the chaos, his body and face covered by a heavy woolen cloak, but tiny particles of sand slipped through his protective wrap and stung him like a cloud of angry wasps.

The chief of the Bani Qurayza had stayed by the threshold of the gate for nearly three hours, braving the merciless winds, his burning eyes peering through the maelstrom for any sign of the expected delegation of Meccan lords. It was a futile hope, of course, as no man could have successfully navigated the swirling sand in the darkness of night. The torches Kab had ordered lit on the battlements of the fortress as a beacon had blown out in seconds and proved impossible to ignite again in the midst of the raging storm. If any of the Quraysh had undertaken the journey through the southern passes, they had likely perished as sand clogged their lungs and a rain of tiny pebbles shredded their flesh raw. Their corpses would likely be lost forever in the dunes that would serve as their anonymous graves for eternity.

Kab bowed his head. He had failed. Tonight was their only window for attack. His spies had alerted him to the Muslims’ defensive preparations earlier that day. Somehow Muhammad had learned of the Qurayza’s intrigues with the Confederates and had begun arming the citizens of Medina in preparation for the invasion. The elders of the tribe had made emergency deliberations that afternoon and had agreed—against Kab’s better judgment—to commence the attack that night, even if the Quraysh failed to send the hostages that would secure their support during the chaos that was to follow.

And then the wind had changed from a gentle spring breeze into an angry tempest and the world had been plunged into darkness even as the sun still kissed the horizon. The offensive was now impossible, and the small window of time the Qurayza had before the Muslim defenses were erected was gone. Even if the sun rose on a clear morning, Muhammad would have shifted enough warriors from the trench to the Jewish quarter to make the initial onslaught a pitched battle rather than an easy victory. With the Meccan forces likely to be in disarray because of the sandstorm, there would be no intervention by the Confederates to shift the scales back in favor of Kab’s people.

The battle was over before it began, but the consequences would linger.

Kab finally turned back and stepped inside the protective walls of the fortress.

“Close the gate,” he said to the weary men who had braved the elements and kept the passage open for the past several hours. They quickly complied, their dust-covered faces revealing relief that Kab had finally faced reality.

As the mighty doors slammed behind him with a thunderous crash, Kab saw a small figure step toward him, bearing a robe. Even in the dark he caught sight of a lock of flaming red hair and knew immediately who had come to greet him. It was Najma, his beloved niece, who had been like a daughter to him over the years. She wrapped him in the soft linen and led him back home by the hand.

K
AB SAT BY THE
stone fireplace, sipping a cup of warm goat’s milk that Najma had prepared for him. He stared at the far wall of the chamber, which was lined with tiny cracks that spidered out across the sturdy mud bricks. Najma had insisted for many years that he should refinish this room, which served as his personal study, but Kab had refused.

The chamber was one of the original structures in the Jewish settlement, having been built over three hundred years before when Kab’s forefathers had found the oasis after a deadly journey through the Arabian sands. The small room had once housed entire families, before succeeding generations had added a dozen more rooms and turned the modest home of the tribal chief into a palatial estate. The remaining chambers were elegantly decorated with marble tiles and furnished in a style that befitted the prosperity of his people, but this central room, with its plain walls and harsh stone floor, remained as it had in the days when the first Jew had found refuge in Yathrib.

This room had been the seed from which the grand fortress that protected them had grown. And Kab felt that it was fitting that he spend this night, when the fate of their people had been sealed, here.

Najma saw the sadness in his eyes and put a gentle hand on his arm.

“Once the storm ends, we can begin preparations for the liberation,” she said with a hopeful smile. “And then you can reclaim the oasis for our people and there will be peace.”

Kab looked up and met her dark eyes, saw in them the absolute trust of a child, even though Najma was a grown woman pursued by many suitors. He felt a pang of grief as the thought crossed his mind that he might not get a chance to see her marry. Confronted with her innocence, her misguided belief in his great wisdom and leadership, he suddenly felt very small and alone. Part of his soul wanted to let her keep believing that things would turn out well for their people, that his grand sagacity would turn this minor setback into an easy victory.

But he couldn’t. Najma needed to be prepared for what was coming.

“There will be no liberation, my dear,” he said, and the words burned his throat more than all the fiery sand he had inhaled that night. “The siege has failed.”

Najma’s brow crinkled as it always did when she was confused.

“Then we will bide our time,” she responded, trying as always to find the flicker of light in the shadows. “God will provide us another day.”

Kab hesitated. And then he took her tiny hand in his and squeezed.

“No. There will be no more days.”

She sat down beside him, looking up at Kab with uncertainty.

“I don’t understand” was all she said. Kab felt his heart break as he gazed into her wide eyes, filled with disbelief.

“Our allies are running out of food and water. The storm will decimate their supplies further. They have no choice but to break camp. And once the Confederates evacuate, Muhammad will turn his dogs on us.”

He saw the color drain from her rosy cheeks. She took her hand out of his grasp as if she had been scalded by a flame.

“You can’t be sure of that,” she said forcefully.

“It is what I would do in his position,” he said softly.

Najma rose to her feet and turned away from him. Kab looked away, unable to bear her grief at the revelation that he had led their people to disaster.

And then, after a long moment in which the only sound was the roaring of the wind outside, Najma turned to face her uncle again. But instead of sorrow or recrimination, her eyes burned with an intensity that he had never seen before.

“Then I will stand by your side, as Esther stood by Mordecai in the face of Haman,” she said.

Kab felt his eyes water. He rose from his carved cedar chair and put his arms around this beautiful girl who was worth more to him than all the treasures of Arabia.

“I’ve failed you,” he said in a quaking voice.

But Najma wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and pressed him tight.

“You can never fail me, uncle,” she said softly. “Where there is love, there is only victory.”

The two stood together, holding each other tight as the roaring winds echoed like the beat of war drums, coming steadily closer.

T
he siege was over and the defeated army of the Confederates had fled the oasis. The sandstorm had devastated their base, killing men and animals and burying precious food supplies under mountainous dunes. Horses had bolted at the first sight of the black cloud racing across the horizon, decimating the ranks of the Meccan cavalry. It had been a final humiliating rout for the forces of the Quraysh and their allies. Despite desperate pleas from Huyayy, Abu Sufyan had ordered the evacuation, disgust and exhaustion written on every line of his aged face.

Muhammad had won again. But this time the victory was far-reaching. The failure of the unified armies of the Arabs and Jews to dislodge him from Medina had solidified his rule of the northern peninsula. Trade with Syria and Persia was now completely in the Muslims’ hands and the entire economic future of Arabia depended on making accommodations with the new city-state. The Muslim nation had survived onslaught upon onslaught and proved itself to be a lasting power that would reshape the course of history in the region.

Only one threat remained to Muhammad’s total domination of the northern lands, and his people swiftly moved to bring it to an end.

I watched as the Muslim army surrounded the fortress of the Bani Qurayza. The moment our scouts had confirmed that the Quraysh were in retreat, my husband had ordered the entire defensive force to abandon the trench and regroup at the enemy stronghold. Ali had ridden forward to the grand gates of the citadel and issued a challenge to the leaders of Qurayza to emerge and account for their treachery. His words had been met with an explosion of arrows from archers hidden in the walls. Ali evaded the missiles and turned to the men behind him. The mighty battering ram that had been prepared for the tribe of Qaynuqa years before was brought forth to be used against their brethren, the sole surviving Jewish residents of the oasis.

A dozen armored soldiers took hold of the mighty pole made of palm wood and reinforced with steel. And then they heaved forward, smashing it with terrifying force against the towering gates. The iron doors trembled but held.

As the men pulled back for a second blow, a shower of stones fell upon their heads, and several of the soldiers dropped, blood pouring from their shattered helmets. I looked up to see a surprising sight. My breath stopped for a second as I thought I was looking into a bizarre mirror. A young girl no older than myself, with bright red hair like my own, was lifting rocks that were impossibly large for her tiny size and throwing them down from the turret just above the gate.

Ali signaled and Muslim archers immediately targeted her. The girl dropped beneath the protection of the stone walls just as a curtain of arrows flew high upon the turrets like upside-down rain. For a long moment, there was silence. And then the girl raised her head above the ramparts just long enough to send another boulder crashing down on the head of one of the soldiers. There was a flash of gore as the man’s head burst like a squashed grape and he collapsed and did not move again.

The girl ducked as another volley of arrows tore at her position. But when the missiles were past, I could her hear childlike voice, laughing and taunting us.

I shook my head in wonder at this girl’s resilience.

Ali approached and filled a stone cup from a bucket I held. He sipped the water and then passed the cup among the men nearest us. I was surprised to see them each drink heartily from the small container and then pass it along as if it were still full.

Ali glanced at the girl high above us, who was still flinging rocks from behind the wall. Our archers had decided not waste any more arrows on her, and two dozen men carrying shields had gone out to protect the troops by the wall as her onslaught continued.

“She is brave,” I said.

And then Ali’s ethereal green eyes met mine and I felt suddenly uneasy, as I often did in his presence.

“Yes. She is brave. But she is also unwise.” He paused and looked at me as if seeing something in my eyes that even I was unaware of. “When a woman fights, she takes away from herself the cloak of honor which shields her. Remember that, young Mother.”

I felt a chill as Ali turned his attention back to his men. It was as if his words held a strange premonition, and for a moment I felt the veil of time shift and I saw a vision.

A vivid and terrifying image of me standing in the desert, surrounded by a thousand corpses washed in a river of blood.

I dropped the bucket and hurried back to the oasis. I suddenly wanted to be far away from the battlefield, from the stench of blood and the sickening fog of fear and rage that hung over the oasis. I wanted to be a little girl again, whose only occupations were playing with my dolls and brushing my mother’s soft hair.

I ran until I found refuge in my small apartment in the Masjid, far away from the ominous thunder of the battering ram, the singing of the arrows as they cut through the dry desert air. But it was not far enough to escape my destiny.

There are times when I wished that I could have kept on running and never stopped. For it is when we take a moment for breath in the struggle of life, when we let our guard down and allow ourselves a second to exult in a false sense of security, that the terrible wave of our doom is finally able to catch up with us.