Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (42 page)

T
he next several months were among the most difficult of my young life. Accustomed to freedom of movement in the oasis, given deference and right-of-way anywhere I went as a Mother of the Believers, I was suddenly trapped inside the confines of my tiny chamber. The small window that looked on the Masjid courtyard was covered with a thick black curtain made of coarse wool, and a similar sheet blocked the threshold of my door. Not that it mattered. Once the commandment of the veil had been revealed, the men of Medina had assiduously avoided my company, fearful of bringing the wrath of God down upon their heads. Even if the walls of my apartment had been torn down and I sat open and exposed to the sun, not even a blind man would have dared approach me.

Even the women of Medina were now nervous about keeping my company, and I had few visitors aside from my sister, Asma, and my mother. The other wives, similarly trapped behind the veil, blamed me for their predicament. Even Hafsa, with whom I had developed a friendly alliance against our beautiful rival Zaynab bint Jahsh, was bitter and rarely spoke to me anymore.

My lonely days were spent reading the holy Qur’an, which was no longer being secretly inscribed on palm leaves or the shoulder bones of goats but was being preserved on pieces of sturdy parchment bought from Egyptian traders. I found comfort in the stories of the prophets who had endured great tribulations during their sacred missions, men like Moses, who had been forced to leave behind the riches of his princely life and flee into the desert, where he would hear the Voice of God. Or of my forefather Ishmael, who had been expelled from a life of comfort in Abraham’s home and sent into the arid wastes of Arabia to found a new nation that would renew God’s covenant with man. These stories of exile and redemption had always held great meaning for the Muslims, who saw in the painful journeys of the past an echo of their own lives. But they began to take a greater personal meaning for me, as I found some comfort in the hope that even as these holy ones of God had endured deprivation and loss in the service of a higher cause, perhaps my own confinement would serve some purpose beyond a punishment for my sinful flirtations.

In those difficult weeks, the Messenger continued to follow his policy of spending alternating nights with each of his wives. Even though he had been clearly angered by my behavior, once the commandment of God had come, the Prophet had been conciliatory, recognizing that any further harshness would only add salt to our wounds. I would look forward to our time together once a week and would inundate him with questions about life outside my prison walls, the state of affairs in Medina, and the ongoing war with the Meccans. The Prophet seemed surprised and even delighted by my interest in political matters, something he rarely discussed with his other wives, and he was able to release the weight of his daily life as a statesman in my presence. So, despite my resentment at the new limitations placed on my life, I found that my relationship with my husband actually improved in the aftermath of the veil.

Our hours of conversation were my only relief from the monotony of my life, and I found our bond growing deeper, more intimate, even as the demands of the world grew heavier on his shoulders. For the past several years, I had been afraid that I was becoming less important to the Prophet, as his harem steadily expanded and every beautiful woman in Medina vied to become one of the Mothers. Yet the irony of my caged existence was that the love between us was reignited, and the rumors that I had been displaced as the Prophet’s primary consort were replaced by whispers of envy at my unbreakable hold on his heart.

One day, the Messenger came and asked if I would join him on an excursion into the desert west of the oasis. His spies had learned that one of the Bedouin tribe of Bani Mustaliq had reached a pact with Mecca and was planning a raid on Muslim caravans returning from Syria along the seacoast. The Prophet had decided that the best course of action was a preemptive strike against the tribe. The Muslims could no longer afford to cower behind a defensive posture. In the aftermath of our near extermination during the Meccan invasion, we needed to take the offensive at the first sign that our enemies were regrouping. And so the Muslim army would go out and defeat the Bani Mustaliq before they could prepare their attack. And the Messenger wanted me to accompany him on the expedition.

I felt a flush of joy that brought tears to my eyes. This would be the first day in weeks that I would leave the confines of my home and see the world again. Even though I would be required to wear a full veil, hiding my face from mankind, I would at least be able to walk again in the sun and breathe the rich musky air of the desert. And most important, I would have several nights alone with the Messenger.

I jumped up and down like a little girl, clapping my hands, and my husband smiled at my enthusiasm. And I could see the flame of desire lighting in his eyes and my heart pounded faster. I ran to the small acacia chest in the corner that held all of my meager personal belongings and removed the long dark cloak and veil that had become my prison outside my prison. The cloak was made of thick cotton that covered my body like the black shadow of an eclipse, the flowing robes specifically designed to hide any hint of my delicate curves. It was like a shroud for a living corpse, which is what I had come to feel like in the lonely days of the past month. But I donned it now with pride and excitement, as if it were a glorious wedding dress made of silk and gold. And in a way, it was. For tonight I would have a chance to bind myself to the Messenger all over again, to convince him with my persistent kisses that he was the only man I would ever love.

I slipped on the heavy curtain that was my shield against the world and was about to close the chest when I saw something glittering to the side, beneath a pair of pretty bronze bangles and a coral comb that my father had given me upon my arrival in the oasis. It was the onyx necklace, the Messenger’s wedding gift.

I reached down and took the necklace in my hand and tied it above my slender collar. A smile of memory played on my lips as I wrapped my face behind the black veil, the
niqab,
such that only my golden eyes peeked out from behind the soft cotton. The Prophet reached out and took my hand before opening the door. I blinked for a second, blinded by the ferocity of the now-unfamiliar daylight.

And then I took a deep breath and strode back out into the world from which I had been banished. The Masjid courtyard was full of worshipers who turned with surprise to see me emerge. Some quickly looked away, while others gazed in fascination at the bulky black mass that had once been a beautiful girl. A girl whose familiar face none of them would ever see again as long as they lived.

The Messenger led me through the throng of believers who always crowded about him, hoping to touch his hand or the hem of his robe and absorb the
baraka,
the divine blessing, that emanated from his body.

As my husband led me through the streets of Medina that seemed so alien to me now, I had a strange thought that the disorientation I was feeling was akin to the confusion of a soul resurrected from the grave and wandering toward the terrible Throne of God’s Judgment.

It was an impression that would prove far more apt than I could have ever known.

T
he attack on the Bani Mustaliq was a resounding success. The Bedouin tribesmen had been caught wholly unprepared for the assault, and their raiding party was no match for the thousand well-armed Muslim warriors who descended on their camp at the break of dawn.

I witnessed the battle, such as it was, from the back of my she-camel, a sturdy beast I had nicknamed Asiya, after the wife of the Pharaoh who had secretly embraced the religion of Moses. I was inside a heavily armored howdah that had been specifically built for the protection of any of the Prophet’s wives who accompanied him on a military expedition. I peered through the curtain of steel rings into the heart of the blazing desert, where the Messenger’s troops struck down the treacherous Bedouins. The fighting lasted barely an hour, and the Bani Mustaliq capitulated after their chieftain, al-Harith, was decapitated by the sword of a Companion named Thabit ibn Qays.

I watched with grim satisfaction as the Bedouin fighters dropped their weapons in despair and fell to their knees, prostrate in surrender. The Messenger strode out on the battlefield and walked up to the nearest man, a dark-skinned warrior with broken teeth, and lifted him to his feet.

“Do not prostrate yourself before men,” he said to his defeated adversary. “Bow only before God.”

The enemy soldier looked at him in gratitude and I knew that the Bani Mustaliq would soon be won over to our cause. They were a clan of mercenaries who blew with the wind, and the surprise attack by Medina had shown them that the climate in Arabia had changed permanently. The Prophet had wisely shown them that their future lay with us rather than Mecca. The loss of nearly two dozen of their warriors was a heavy blow, but had they made the mistake of serving as Abu Sufyan’s proxies, they would have lost many more.

As Umar and Ali began the process of herding the defeated tribesmen into rows and binding them with solid ropes, I heard a cry of anguish and saw an old woman emerge from the dusty tent city that served as the shelter of her people. She was elderly and her face was lined with years of struggle against the cruel life of the desert. But she moved with startling speed for her age and raced across the bloodstained sand toward the headless corpse of al-Harith. I realized from her piercing wails that she was the chieftain’s wife, and I felt sorry for her.

And then another woman, a girl of about twenty years, emerged from the brightly colored pavilion that must have been al-Harith’s dwelling and ran over to the old woman. The girl looked away from the sight of the dead chieftain, but she did not cry out. Instead she put her arms around the old woman and comforted her, whispering softly into her ear until the elderly lady stopped shaking and collapsed into her arms, resigned to the loss that had struck their tribe that morning.

I saw the men staring at the girl, who had flowing brown hair, flecked with gold, and olive skin that matched the color of her eyes. She was quite attractive, and I realized that the Muslim warriors would soon be competing to lay claim to her as a captive of war.

The girl sensed their eyes on her and stood tall, throwing her head back in defiance.

“I am Juwayriya, daughter of al-Harith, whom you have slain,” she said without any hint of fear. “This is my mother and the mother of my entire clan. Treat her and her kin with dignity if you fear Allah.”

Her words were brilliantly chosen and had the desired effect. The lustful men turned their heads away, embarrassed at their own crassness, and I grinned inside my armored howdah. The girl had spirit.

And then I saw my husband watching her intently with a smile, and my own quickly vanished.

W
E CAMPED NEAR THE
tents of the Bani Mustaliq for two days, during which the booty was divided among the troops. The tribe had been successfully raiding caravans for years, and their robbery had brought them considerable wealth that would soon be apportioned among their conquerors. A fifth of the spoils would go to the Messenger, including the tribe’s store of rare gems—opals, emeralds, and sapphires that made my heart stop with their glittering beauty. I touched the jewels with a wistful sigh, knowing that they would soon be redistributed to the needy and the Prophet’s own household would remain as impoverished as ever.

The thorniest issue remained the fate of the captives from the tribe, especially the proud Juwayriya. Arguments erupted over who had the best claim to the daughter of the chieftain, who had shown the greatest bravery and prowess on the battlefield to merit a slave girl of such rare beauty. The rivals turned to Umar, who had been designated by the Messenger as the judge over all disputes regarding division of spoils. The grim-faced giant listened impatiently to each man, cutting him off when he had heard enough of his case, and then made his decision without hesitation. The girl belonged to Thabit, the man who had personally killed the chieftain of the Bani Mustaliq, her father.

While the other claimants were disappointed, none had the courage to grumble about the judgment before the mighty Umar, and the matter was resolved in everyone’s eyes.

Everyone except Juwayriya herself. When informed of her fate, she loudly demanded to speak with the Messenger of God himself. Her furious and stubborn insistence made even her captors cower, and shortly thereafter I accompanied the Prophet to the slave tent where she and the other women were being housed.

The moment we entered, Juwayriya was transformed from a haughty and demanding princess into a humble slave girl, her head lowered, tears instantly flooding her cheeks as if by command. She begged the Messenger to save her from her ignominious fate. She was the daughter of one of Arabia’s chieftains, a princess of her people. It was the height of degradation and shame for her family that she should now become the property and sexual plaything of a lowly soldier in the Muslim army.

I watched her through the heavy cloth of my veil, grudgingly impressed with her performance. Juwayriya alternated between sorrowful dignity and emotional hysteria as she made her case, and I could see my husband was moved by her pleas. I could feel the familiar sting of jealousy as the Messenger agreed to free her from her bondage—on the condition that she marry him and serve as a voice of conciliation that would bring the remainder of her tribe into a treaty with Medina.

Juwayriya readily assented to the proposal, and I shook my head in wonder at what a strange day this girl had experienced. She had risen with the dawn as a Bedouin princess. By midday, she was a captive and a slave. And by sundown, she had become a Mother of the Believers, one of the queens of Arabia.

That night, as I slept alone in my tent and the Prophet enjoyed the charms of his beguiling new wife, I fingered the onyx necklace, letting all the fury and envy in my heart flow into the dark beads. No matter how hard I tried, I could never be the center of Muhammad’s life. He was too vast for any one woman, and his life’s mission was greater than the call of any marital union.

I wanted desperately to be the most important of his wives, the one who would even replace Khadija in his memories, but I knew this would never happen. I would have to settle for being the first of an ever-expanding circle of consorts, one name lost among many in the annals of history.

I felt my angry heart scream at the injustice of my life. The most shining star in the firmament of Arabian women, I was nonetheless being buried like a diamond in a sand dune, my delicate beauty hidden from the world, my sharp mind unable to sparkle in the open light of the sun. I was more than this fifteen-year-old girl wrapped in a black veil and sleeping on a rough mat in the desert. But the world would never see me as such. I was a queen who could never claim her crown.

I made a silent oath that of all the Messenger’s wives, I would be the one whom the world would still talk about a thousand years from now. The one whose name would play on the lips of men and women when all the others had been forgotten.

It was a terrible vow, and one that should never have been made. For the Lord heard my dark prayer that night and granted it, but not in any way that I could have hoped or desired.