Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (48 page)

I
watched from the Messenger’s battle tent set high in the hills of Khaybar as the Muslim army launched its surprise attack on the Jewish fortress. We had been warned by spies among the neighboring Bedouin tribes of the Byzantine army’s intention to use the oasis as a launching ground for an invasion of the peninsula and the Prophet had made immediate plans to take the city before the Romans could dispatch soldiers.

I was accompanied by my sister-wife Umm Salama. Together we were charged with the duty of caring for the wounded, and we had already spent much of the morning bandaging wounds and applying ointments made from crushed belladonna leaves to ease the pain of the dying.

The Muslim army was a small force of just over fifteen hundred soldiers and one hundred horses, but men and animals had been chosen specifically for their speed and agility. We knew that the fighting men of Khaybar numbered nearly ten thousand, so victory would come not by brute force but by craftiness and unpredictability. The Messenger intended to mount a series of raids on the oasis, which was guarded by three separate walled encampments, forcing the enemy to engage us on our terms. The hope was that our seemingly puny force would make the Jews overconfident and that our hit-and-run tactics would keep them confused as to our real plan of attack. My husband reasoned that the defenders of Khaybar would expend their energy fighting on several small fronts rather than concentrating on a single battlefield, disorienting them long enough for us to make a break in their defenses. It was the strategy of the bee, buzzing around its victim just long enough to confuse him before delivering the sting.

And so far, it was working. Ali had been placed in charge of the army that laid siege to Khaybar, a controversial decision that had caused some discontent among the Muslims. Though no one could argue with his military prowess, many felt that placing a man who was not yet thirty in charge of older and more experienced fighters would damage morale. There were many rumblings that an elder statesman such as Abu Bakr should lead the battle, but my father had quickly silenced the talk as he had silenced Umar at Hudaybiyya. Abu Bakr unquestioningly accepted Ali’s leadership on the battlefield, and my husband, natural diplomat that he was, gave his house a special honor. The Messenger had taken one of my black cloaks and had it fashioned into the war standard for the army, giving both my father and myself a special distinction in the eyes of the soldiers. And yet the rumblings against Ali did not fully subside, a fact that gave me secret pleasure.

But once the swords were unsheathed, all such idle talk ended and the blood rush of war replaced political posturing. Ali led the first wave on the surprised stronghold, and the Muslims advanced as far as the city walls before we were met with a shower of arrows. The archers of Khaybar were the finest in all of Arabia, and nearly fifty of our men were hit, forcing Ali to withdraw as thousands of defenders spilled out of the fortress of Natat on the outskirts of the settlement.

After our initial advances on the field, we were pushed back into the hills. But the Prophet’s strategy was working. The Muslims would emerge from different locations every hour, first from the east, then north, then southwest, and hit the enemy’s forces with lightning speed before vanishing like ghosts into the wilderness. The Jewish fighters became increasingly frustrated at our unpredictability and they were forced to divide their forces to patrol the countryside, which was exactly what the Prophet had expected.

The on-again, off-again battle had now been raging for six days, and we could tell that our adversaries were becoming exhausted by the intermittent raids followed by hours of wasted efforts chasing us into the shadows. We had enough food and water to keep up our pinprick attacks for at least another week, but I knew that we would not need that long. For last night, Umar ibn al-Khattab had captured one of the Jewish commanders in a surprise raid, and the man had saved his own life by betraying his people’s one military weakness. The castle of Naim was a small outpost at the western edge of the settlement that was not as well guarded as the other links in the defense chain. And it apparently contained stores of hidden weapons that would help us break through the walls into the heart of the oasis.

And so Ali had led a surprise attack on Naim this morning while the rest of the Muslim army engaged the sons of Khaybar at the eastern wall as a diversion. The fighting had been brief but vicious. Ali had dueled the famed Jewish champion Marhab at the gates, and as was the usual outcome of any encounter with the glowing
Dhul Fiqar,
Ali had sliced his enemy’s head off in seconds. Zubayr had joined Ali on the field and dispatched Marhab’s equally well regarded brother Yasir, swinging a blade in each of his hands as only Zubayr could. The death of the Jewish heroes had led to disarray among the small band of protectors at the castle and the Muslims had managed to break through its fortified gates and storm the outpost.

And then Ali emerged with a triumphant smile and returned to the Messenger’s base camp, where he advised my husband that the breach of Naim had provided the Muslims a back door into the oasis. But more important, the intelligence Umar’s captive had provided was accurate. Hidden inside storage rooms underground was an array of weapons that would facilitate our efforts to take the city, the most important being a ballista, a small Roman catapult that the Byzantines had apparently given as a gift to their new allies. And there were two testudos, covers of overlapping shields that the Romans wheeled up to walls to defend themselves from attackers. In a delicious twist of irony, these foreign contraptions that had been stockpiled for use against the Muslims would now be used against our enemies to break through the walls.

My father rose to congratulate Ali on the victory that had changed the course of the battle, as did the other Companions. As the men embraced and clasped hands with the young hero, the Prophet beamed like a father who had finally seen a misunderstood son receive honor in the world.

Ali’s sparkling eyes fell on me and in them I saw the desire for reconciliation, for an end to the rancor between the two of us who were beloved by the Messenger of God. But whatever grudging respect I could give him for his prowess as a warrior, I could not forgive him for his betrayal, which had nearly cost me my marriage and my life.

I turned my back on Ali and went to help Umm Salama comfort a youth who had lost his hand in the siege.

S
afiya gazed out in grief across the ranging maelstrom of death that had once been a city. The Muslims had breached the outer walls and had brought the battle to the heart of the oasis. Her people had been taken by surprise for a second time in the past week, and most of the Jewish army was scattered outside the fortified battlements in a fruitless hunt for an attacker that was hiding in plain sight.

With the fall of the defensive outpost at Naim, the dam had been broken and the flood of Arab soldiers had reached the streets near the grand council chamber where, only days before, the elders had been celebrating the new alliance with Byzantium. Even as the elite soldiers led by Ali decimated the few Jewish defenders inside the beleaguered city, other Muslim troops were busy securing the wells and taking positions on the mighty walls, where their archers were busy raining death on the surprised warriors of Khaybar, who were now trapped outside their own walls. It was a humiliating turnaround, as Jews desperately attempted to get back inside the homes that were now occupied by the Arabs they had been pursuing.

Safiya stood on the roof of the council chamber, staring down over the stone ramparts as her people emerged from their homes in surrender, begging Muhammad’s men for clemency. On the horizon she could see clouds of black smoke hovering over the mighty castles of Natat and Shiqq, and she knew the battle was over. The fortresses were the pride of the people of Khaybar, capable of resisting any attack from without. But no one had thought to protect them from within, and the Jewish defense was now overrun.

She looked over to her father, who was staring in utter shock at the ruins of the city that was to have been the capital of the new Byzantine province of Arabia. Huyayy’s gray eyes were brimming with tears, as the complete defeat of his people could no longer be denied. And she knew that he realized, at long last, that there was no one to blame for this tragic outcome but himself.

Safiya should have felt sorry for him. She should have reached out and embraced him like a dutiful daughter, succored him as he faced the failure of his life’s work. But there was no sympathy left in her heart for Huyayy, a man who had stubbornly marched his nation over a precipice. Her father had deluded himself into imagining that he was capable of orchestrating the defeat of all their enemies, not only conquering Arabia but restoring the Jewish birthright to the Holy Land.

Huyayy knelt down and began to pray fervently to God, asking for mercy on the Jewish people. And then her miserable husband, Kinana, knelt beside him and patted Huyayy’s hair like a woman comforting a child.

“Do not despair,” Kinana said in his lisp that she found so repulsive. “There is still hope for victory.”

Safiya finally exploded. “No!” she screamed, with such ferocity that Kinana recoiled in surprise. “There will be no victory! Have you men learned nothing? We were the last Jews of Arabia and you have brought doom upon us with your intrigues!”

“None could have foreseen this,” Huyayy said, desperately trying to shirk responsibility for the disaster that he had wrought.

Safiya had had enough. She grabbed her father by his robes and lifted to him to face her.

“Only a fool could not have foreseen this!” she said, no patience for self-deception left in her heart.

Kinana placed a cold hand on her wrist and pushed her away from the old man.

“How dare you speak to your father this way!” he said, his lips curled into an ugly snarl.

But Safiya no longer cared what he or anyone else thought. If she was to die today as Khaybar fell to the invading forces, she would die with truth on her lips. Consequences be damned.

“I wish I had spoken this way years ago!” she said, spitting at Kinana’s feet. “Then perhaps my father would have listened to reason and we would not be facing extinction!”

Her husband moved forward, his hand raised to strike her, but Huyayy stopped him.

“She is right,” the Jewish chieftain said, his voice trembling with shame. “My pride has brought us to this place.”

Kinana looked at him in shock. “It is not over!” he shouted, stamping his foot like a spoiled child. “The soldiers of Byzantium will soon come to our aid!”

Huyayy shook his head.

“No. It will take weeks for Heraclius to mobilize his army. Even if we push the Arabs back outside the walls, we will run out of food and water long before then.”

Safiya saw that her father had finally accepted the truth. The fire of her rage flickered and went out, and she was left with a dull emptiness in her heart. Anger and grief were pointless now. All that was left was to do her duty, to save as many of her people as she could in what little time they had left. Safiya stepped forward, taking her father’s hand and looking into his eyes, to help him do what needed to be done.

“We must negotiate a surrender,” she said, and her voice sounded very tired and old.

Huyayy blinked as the truth of her words began to sink in. But even as her father faced reality, her accursed husband fled into delusion.

“Surrender? And suffer the fate of Bani Qurayza? Never! We will defend our homes to the last man!”

“And I’m sure you will live long enough to be that last man, considering what a coward you are!”

Kinana’s face turned an ugly purple, but she ignored him, her eyes focused on her father.

“Let me go to the Muslims. I can speak with Muhammad. He will listen to me,” she said.

Huyayy stared at her in confusion. And then she described the dream she’d had, of the moon resting in her lap and bringing life again to the oasis.

“It is a sign from God. A portent.” She hesitated and then said the words that had been imprinted on her heart since the night of the strange vision. “It is my destiny.”

Huyayy looked at her with wide eyes. But before he could respond, Kinana grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face against the brutal stones of the parapet. Safiya cried out in agony and for a second the world spun around her as blood poured into her eyes.

“You treacherous whore!” he screeched like a vulture. “All of this time you lay in my bed, you have been dreaming of that desert snake! Go to him, then! You are no longer one of our people!”

As pain flooded her senses, Safiya felt Kinana grab her hand and push her down the stairs from the roof.

“Father!” she managed to cry out. “Please! Help me!”

But Huyayy simply stood there, looking alone and confused as the world he had fought so hard to create came crashing down all around him.

T
HE HEAVILY GUARDED DOORS
of the council chamber were flung open for a brief instant and Safiya was thrown unceremoniously into the middle of the street, where the battle raged with fierce intensity. Swords clashed with terrifying brutality as Muslim men and their Jewish adversaries fought house to house, hand to hand, for control of the governing seat of the oasis.

Safiya screamed in horror as a turbaned horseman rode toward her, his sword glinting unnaturally bright as if it reflected a thousand suns. And then she recognized the legendary dual blade of
Dhul Fiqar
and knew that she was in the presence of the famed Ali, the legendary warrior who had single-handedly slain many of the Muslims’ most hated enemies. Her heart leaped into her throat as she wondered if her name was about to be added to that long and illustrious list of kills.

But the sword did not come down on her head. Instead, Ali lowered the blade and climbed down from his black stallion. He looked at her with no surprise, as if he had somehow expected her to be there, lying in the middle of a blood-soaked avenue as the Angel of Death claimed its victims all around her.

And then he offered a gloved hand to her and helped her to her feet.

“Do not fear, daughter of ibn Akhtab,” he said, and she wondered in shock how he knew her name. “I have been sent to offer you sanctuary.”

Safiya was too stunned to ask who had sent him, who could have known that she would be out here in the midst of this deadly fight at this exact moment. But as men from both sides fell about her in a maelstrom of carnage, she decided it was not the time to ask such questions.

As she climbed onto Ali’s horse, she turned a pleading face to the noble warrior, whose green eyes seemed to shine with a light of their own.

“My people…please have mercy on my people.”

Ali leaped onto the saddle in front of her and kicked his horse forward just as a spear struck the spot where he had been standing only seconds before.

“Only God and His Messenger can decide their fate,” Ali said, seemingly unperturbed by the madness of death all around them. He paused and then glanced back at her. “But you can plead their case before him.”

And with those words, Ali took Safiya away from the eye of the storm and rode through the chaos back to the Muslim camp. As Safiya passed through the devastated streets, riding with the man who had defeated her people, she should have felt a rage of emotions—confusion, guilt, shame. But instead there was a quiet serenity even as the cries of the dying echoed all around her.

It was as if some part of her had known that this day would come. That she would leave her father and go to the man he hated the most. It was a destiny that had been written that first day when Muhammad had arrived in Yathrib, when Safiya had refused to condemn him because he sought to remind the sons of Ishmael of the God of their father Abraham. Her empathy for the Arab prophet who had turned the world upside down had created a rift between her and her family, between her and her people, a divide that had grown so large that she no longer felt that she belonged with them. But if she was no longer a Jew, then who was she?

It was a question that she had found troubling and painful, and one that she could never voice aloud with anyone. For the answer was one that she could not face without cutting the final bond between herself and the only world she had ever known. But that world was dead now, consumed by the fires of its own hubris. Her family, her home, her nation were all gone forever. She had lost everything that had mattered to her, everything except the truth of who she really was.

And so it was that when she finally stood before Muhammad, his black eyes looking at her with deep compassion, she understood the role she had been destined to play in the history of nations. She knelt before the man who should have been her enemy and softly said the words that she realized had long been branded into her heart.

“There is no god but God, and Muhammad is His Messenger.”