Muhammad (18 page)

The emissary chose the right poison. The Qurayza wavered. What side did they want to be on when Medina fell? Up to that point, the pact with the Prophet had been
honored on both sides. In return for remaining neutral, the remaining Jews in Medina had sent baskets and tools for digging the trenches.

By then the siege had become a battle of nerves. Every day the two sides stood close enough to hurl insults at each other, but far enough apart that arrows couldn't reach them. Food shortages hurt both camps. The rain and cold eroded morale. In the tensest hour we got news that the Qurayza had torn up the treaty with us. They would open up the city's southern flank, which they controlled, and once that happened, the trench on the north would be useless. Worse than useless, since the men stationed there all day and night had grown exhausted.

I sat in council with the trusted couriers who brought this news to the Prophet. Quietly he gave two orders. “Tell no one that the Qurayza have turned, or there will be panic in the streets. Bring several hundred soldiers and their horses into the center of town, to defend the women and children from attack.”

The situation was dire. Muhammad turned to the Ghatafan, a nomadic tribe who had recently ignited the wrath of the Muslims, first by joining the Quraysh and lending them a major contingent of fighters and arms, but also by their relentless greed. God told the Prophet that he must break the alliance of his enemies. Looking to the weakest link, he landed upon the Ghatafan, because they could be bought off. The Prophet offered them a third of the date harvest if they abandoned the war.

This was an excessive offer as far as Ali and the other fighters were concerned, but then the Ghatafan spat in our faces, demanding not a third but half the year's crop as their
bribe. At that moment God spoke in a mystifying way. He told the Prophet to agree. This decision was greeted with stunned silence.

I was made deputy and ordered to take the agreement to the Ghatafan chiefs. It was a degrading mission, and my heart was heavy. Before I left, I went to the Prophet's tent to make sure that this was his will. He nodded silently. As I was leaving, though, he said in a mild voice, “Out of respect, show the agreement to the Muslim chiefs.” It seemed like no more than a casual reminder.

I went to the stronghold in the center of town where the Muslim chiefs had gathered for safety. When I presented them with the parchment on which the agreement was inked, they flew into a rage and tore it up. The Prophet was shamed in many eyes, and defeat, it seemed, had gotten one day closer with the Ghatafan still against us.

When everyone had disbanded in great discouragement, the Prophet kept me behind. “Remember the anthill you stamped out in a rage?” he asked. “Do you still think you can kill them all?”

I hung my head.

“I am not shaming you, dear friend,” he murmured. “But do you also recall that I held a single ant on my fingertip?”

I nodded. “Did that mean something?”

The Prophet smiled. “Not then. But God has now brought me the key to victory, and it's a single ant.”

As I stared in amazement, he explained. During the previous night, Nuaym, an elder of the Ghatafan tribe, had sneaked across enemy lines. He demanded to see the Prophet, but was turned away with insults. Nuaym persevered until eventually he came into the Prophet's holy pres
ence. The two met in secret, and when Nuaym departed, the Prophet was wreathed in smiles.

“God tests me with an army of ants, but then He sends me the only one who matters.”

Unknown to anyone, it turns out, Nuaym had become a Muslim convert. He could circulate freely among all the enemy factions and was trusted by them. He now began to sow discord as the Prophet secretly instructed him.

To the Qurayza, Nuaym said, “Before you switch sides to the Quraysh, consider this. If they lose this battle, they will march home and abandon you. Ask for some hostages among their chiefs in exchange for your cooperation. If you've picked the right side, all is well. If you haven't, you can ransom the hostages to Muhammad for your own safe release.”

The Qurayza thanked him for his counsel and sent word to the Quraysh that they needed hostages before agreeing to anything. Nuaym was there when the demand arrived. To the Meccans he whispered, “Why do they want hostages from their protectors? It can only be to trade them to Muhammad the minute they are turned over.”

Both sides believed him, and the next time they met, it was with narrowed eyes and suspicious minds. The Quraysh refused to give hostages. The Qurayza refused to fight against the Muslims, falling back on neutrality as their best hope. God saw other, more hidden weaknesses among the enemy. Wherever Nuaym went, he found it easy to open old wounds and festering distrust. Never had one ant wreaked so much havoc.

The wind blew strong that night. Standing on the city walls, I could see the enemy's campfires winking out. Hosts
of soldiers would sleep fitfully on the cold ground without a fire.
If God isn't doing this to them, who do they think is?
But I never expected to witness the sight that greeted us at dawn—an empty field where thousands had been camped the day before. It was as if the angel Gabriel had descended and swept the ground clean. The foe left behind their wounded horses and camels, whose pitiful groans were carried to us on the same wind that had blown the enemy back to Mecca.

I fell at the Prophet's feet. “It's a miracle!” I exclaimed.

But he shook his head. “Only a few, like Abu Sufyan, deeply hate us. The rest came for plunder. The weakest reed flattens before the wind.”

Actually, the ones who truly needed a miracle were the Qurayza, who had no protection now against the wrath of the Muslim hordes that descended on them, crying traitor. The Jews retreated to their stronghold and held out bravely. After almost a month, when starvation threatened their existence, they held council. Three outcomes would end the siege. They could convert to Islam and renounce all ties to their Jewish God. As a second choice, they could murder their wives and children, giving themselves no reason to live, and launch a suicide attack on the Muslims. Finally, they could pretend to observe the Sabbath and turn the day into a surprise attack. None of these alternatives was acceptable, though, which left total surrender as the only possibility. The Qurayza straggled out to meet their fate.

The crowd was hungry for blood. What was the Prophet to do with the traitors? He chose a course no one expected. “Let there be a judge who has nothing to gain by his judgment.” The man he chose was Sa'd ibn Mua'dh, who was no more than a well-respected trader. But when the name
was announced, the mob gasped and drew back as he was dragged into the public square on a litter wrapped in bloody sheets. Sa'd had fought at the trench and received a wound from which he was slowly dying. On all sides it was agreed that such a man had no stake in any judgment. The Jewish captives took heart, because Sa'd was their former ally. Law and custom bound him to them, even if they had done ill to anyone else.

The Prophet withdrew, declaring that the judge's rendering would be final. The Qurayza pleaded for leniency, offering all their worldly goods and their women and children as slaves if their lives could be spared. Other allies kneeled before Sa'd and joined in the cries for mercy. For all the anxiety and panic they had caused, the Qurayza had never formally joined the enemy.

Sa'd listened as his bandages oozed. He was gray and weak. In a croaking voice he spoke his decision, and I ran to deliver it to the Prophet.

“Death to all the men. Slavery for the women and children.” It was the harshest possible sentence. The Prophet made no comment except to order that the executioners should come from every tribe in Medina. This would assure that no single one would take the blame and all would share the guilt. Over four hundred Jews were bound and lost their heads. The Prophet received no revelation about sparing them or killing them, either way. He became stoic and grim. After the tension of the siege, he seemed to retreat into himself even more, and what time he spent in company was almost always with his wives, especially Aisha, the youngest, who had risen in his favor.

Months later I took her aside. “What does he really think of the judgment?” I asked.

Aisha said nothing, but she must have run to the Prophet. The next day, when he saw me hanging back during prayers, he said, “Walk with me.”

I obeyed, keeping quiet. I have the stomach for any battle, but the blood of the Qurayza was another thing.

“Do you have a question?” the Prophet asked after we had reached a cool stand of trees in the woods.

I hesitated. “Do I have a right to question?”

“A good answer. Allah is to be feared. He is also to be loved. From one moment to the next, I cannot be sure which He wants. Do you understand?”

“I'm not sure.” I wasn't sliding under the question. The Prophet was talking about doubt, and yet he taught that doubt would destroy us faster than any enemy.

He said, “God does not hand down the truth all at once. He hands it down the way a wildflower scatters its seed, sending it in all directions. Life brings a thousand situations, and there must be a truth for each one.” The Prophet glanced sideways at me. “Can you begin to understand?”

“I think so. For every moment there is a revelation. What is true one time isn't always true the next.”

“Yes. But if peace is true today and war tomorrow, how are the faithful to live? The choice cannot be left up to each of us. We are weak and blind. We are corrupted by sin. What should we do?”

I thought of the tale I had heard. “We can run when God whistles.”

The Prophet gave the first smile I had seen in a month. “You may abhor his judgment, but Sa'd gave me hope.”

“By killing God's enemies?”

“No. To one who loves this life, any death is a reason to mourn. Sa'd could have sided with his tribe. That was the
easy way and the way every Arab has known forever. He didn't. He sided with his soul, for he told me afterward that he couldn't face his Creator if he allowed those who hate Allah to go free.

“Do you see the spark of hope? When a man can decide life or death not because he wants revenge, but because he has thoughts of God, human nature is changing. I thought that was impossible, or that it might take twenty generations. By the grace of Allah, we are seeing it in our lifetime.”

I listened. I understood. I accepted. In my heart, however, I thought only one human had really changed—him. The Prophet has become his revelations. He sees beyond life and death, and his mind cares only to be part of God's mind. As for the rest of us, we will stamp out anthills for a long time to come.

O
nly once since I was born have I been soaked to the skin. Black clouds moved toward Medina from the hills. Usually they disappoint. I see wisps of rain that stop in midair and never reach the earth. On that day, though, the day the promise was made, thunder cracked overhead like a blacksmith's hammer. It rained so hard that rivers ran down the street.

I would have hidden in a doorway until the storm passed, but something arose in me that I couldn't fight. I ran out into the downpour, stomping in the muddy water until it splashed up to my waist and stained my shift brown. The other women at the well looked at me as if I was crazy.

I was inspired, not crazy. You'll understand, if not now, then soon.

When the downpour ended, I dragged myself back to my little room. It has no windows, so I had to open the door to let in light. I stood in the doorway pulling off my dress, which was so heavy with water that I could hardly lift it over
my head. A modest woman would never stand there naked, open to men's eyes. Modesty is a luxury I couldn't afford.

When you live on the streets you get devoured one way or another. I would be dead except for the shelter of that suffocating little room. It was added to the back of my brother's house.

When my brother came to the well and took me by the hand, I was amazed. You see, he had been content to let me starve. And then suddenly and without a word he led me to his house.

“You can't come in. My wife won't have a woman like you inside. Your place is in the back.”

I gave him a baffled look, and he said, “Don't ask me why. It's a gift from Allah.”

I'm grateful. I don't ask why Allah couldn't have added a window. But with certain men, as they grope and grab, darkness is a blessing. One day a different sort came to the back.

This man was young and nervous. From his accent I could tell he was a Bedouin, just in from the country. I told him to sit on the bed; I knelt and began to remove his sandals.

“Don't,” he mumbled.

Just then the last ray of sunlight peeked through a crack in the door, and I saw a tiny red glow, as if a spark had dropped from the sky and landed on his head. A second later the glow was gone.

When the young man didn't move, I took his hand and placed it on my breast. He snatched it away. I asked him what the matter was. He hesitated, saying nothing, and I held my breath. He was nice-looking. His beard curled at the corners, which gave him a whimsical look, like a poet. I don't lie down with many poets. I felt under the mattress for
the dagger I keep there. Nice looks are no guarantee that he hadn't come to rob me. Then his hand wandered back to my breast. He moaned softly, and I relaxed.

Nature would have taken its sweaty course, but I hadn't pulled the door tight enough. There was a small crack to let in the sound of the call to evening prayer. The moment he heard it, the young man jumped to his feet with a startled cry. A Muslim, like my brother. He unrolled a small rug that he was carrying on his back and knelt to the floor.

Not that I could really see him in the dark. I heard him saying the words, in a soft mumble. “Praise be to Allah, the Lord of creation, the compassionate, the merciful.”

“So God is more important to you than love?” I asked, watching him from the bed.

“God is more important than life,” he said. I wondered if my mocking tone would make him hit me. Yet quite the opposite happened. He sat beside me and began to weep. I didn't know what to do. Something about his tears touched me.

“Lie down,” I said soothingly. “We don't have to do anything, but if you want, I can teach you about love.”

I felt his neck stiffen under my fingers. “Love? You're just a common—” He caught himself and stopped.

“Perhaps not so common. You haven't given me a chance.” I hadn't eaten that day. It would be a shame to lose the few coins he'd pay.

The young man roughly pushed my hand away. He got up and went for the door. Instead of leaving, though, he stood there a moment, pulling at his ear. He thrust something tiny and sharp into my palm.

“Keep this. I will return one day for it, and then I will teach you about love.”

In a second he was gone. I opened my hand. How amazing. In the candlelight I saw a small perfect ruby. It was shaped like a teardrop and set into an earring. So that was the red spark that had shone in the dark. I could hardly sleep that night thinking about the curly-haired young man.

The next day I caught a glimpse of him. I wore the earring brazenly to the well. Its shine would attract the eyes of more men. But as it turned out, nobody had time for me. Soldiers were milling about the square. They were infantry mixed in tight with horses and camels. So tight that when I caught a glimpse of my young man, I couldn't press my way to reach him. He turned his head away before our eyes met. I cried out, but the din was too great. Then some busybody got the other women to shout “Slut!” because they thought I was there to grab a holy warrior, a
mujahid,
for myself.

With a clatter of arms and followed by loud cries, the
mujahidin
marched off, and the square grew quiet. I stood apart, in the corner under a half-dead palm tree reserved for my kind. My finger went to my ear and I touched the ruby my soldier had given me.
My soldier?
He hadn't even touched me except over my shift. And yet I couldn't get him out of my head. His memory didn't comfort me. Every day got more lonely instead. I lay in the dark kissing the ruby as if he was there, and the last words I heard were, “When I return, I will teach you about love.”

My passion grew like a coal fanned by the wind. I couldn't tell anyone. I made up my mind to ready myself before the army came home. They had marched far away to Syria. It would be days or weeks. God's reach is far, and he rewards any man who fights for him. My soldier would drop gold at
my feet and then he would marry me. I know a whore's logic is worth less than the ridicule it takes to scorn it. In secret, I followed the reciters around the streets. They have taken up the Koran as their stock-in-trade. People listen hypnotized. They say that the best reciters make strong men weep and convert infidels on the spot.

As for me, I didn't weep for God. Not at first. I wept for my soldier; a strong trembling came over me when I thought of him. Even so, the calls to prayer no longer irritated me. They felt comforting, like a faraway voice calling to me. I knew what I had to do.

The day it poured down rain was the day I knew something must change. The rain was a sign and the joy I felt a path toward something yet to be uncovered. After I dried off, I reached under my bed for the small bag of silver coins I had saved up over many years. I bought myself a modest dress and veil. I locked my door against the men. The only course left was begging. I went to the well and looked the other women in the eye.

“I want to repent. Help me save my soul. Whatever dirty chore you want done, give it to me. It doesn't matter how menial or filthy.”

They stared, those who would stoop to look at me. But one old woman heard something in my voice. She took pity and led me to her house. We scrubbed the floor on our knees together. Her stiff joints wouldn't let her do the work alone. After that, when she was certain that God wouldn't strike her dead for bringing impurity to her home, she asked me back. She had cousins, and after a while I cleaned latrines and picked nits out of children's hair. I became known for
my willingness to do things only a slave would do. It helped when I entered a house and recognized one of the men. They were eager to hire me if I kept my mouth shut.

The old lady was named Halimah, and God must have sent her. Not only did she hire me, but she had been the wet nurse to Muhammad. Old age had brought her out of the desert, and she followed the Prophet to Medina.

“He saw his first angels when he was with me. Two of them, who reached into his heart, and he wasn't seven yet,” she said.

After that, I became eager for more. I had glimpsed Muhammad in the streets. Everyone did. As he passed by, he was like a shadow. I never knew he talked to angels. His old nurse wasn't ready to reveal anything, not just yet.

“I still smell what you were, and it's too early to see what you might become,” she said leaving me to my scrubbing.

Then one day Halimah offered to walk me back to my room. We said nothing on the way, until a rich man's house came into view. To one side stood a gazebo where the family took the cool evening air. Halimah stopped and gazed at it. A graceful white dome was held up by pillars carved from twisted wood to imitate vines.

“I've never had time to rest, and no one has ever invited me inside such a lovely place,” the old lady said quietly.

“Are you jealous?” I asked.

“You mean, do I feel the way you do? No.” She cocked her head in my direction. “The dome of heaven is held up by five pillars. I own them. Here.” She touched her heart, but instead of explaining she rushed on. We parted at my corner. I suppose my little room also smelled too much of who I was.

News of the Syrian campaign reached Medina. The Muslim
force had been savagely attacked without warning. Someone had warned the emperor's deputy in Damascus, and the Byzantines were ready. There was a bloody skirmish. Many were lost. I heard all this in scraps as the wind carried the words from the well, where the women looked anxious and afraid. I was afraid too. It wasn't just his presence that I longed for. There was something else, and I didn't understand how to find it. I told Halimah that I was growing desperate. Then she surprised me.

“I already knew that. I felt your desperation before you did.”

“How?”

I looked up. She was standing over me, straightening out her creaky knees.

“The wage of sin is desperation,” she said. There was no sermon that followed. Instead she taught me to pray, my face to the floor, facing toward Mecca because God's house was there. She gave me the same prayer I had heard my soldier mumble. “Praise be to Allah, the Lord of creation, the compassionate, the merciful.” I was glad for that.

Halimah warned me that I must pray at exactly the appointed hours of the day when the muezzin called, and then one last time before I went to bed. I nodded, wrung the last drops of water from my scrubbing rag, and started to leave.

Halimah shook her head. “You haven't asked why we pray.”

I blushed. I couldn't tell her that I was praying for a soldier whose name I didn't even know.

“We pray out of gratitude to God. He has given us everything. Remember that, child.” She caught a look in my eyes. “You don't believe me. Because you think God hasn't given you much.”

I didn't dare speak or even nod. If she sent me away, I'd have no more work or bread.

“Let me tell you what you are,” she said.

My heart sank. “I thought that you, of all people, wouldn't tell me.” I heard my voice shake.

Halimah took my hand. “Listen to me, my dear. You are not what you seem. You are God's child. Fate has taken you far away from Him to show you what it is like to be lost. But it's the will of God to bring you back, all the more to rejoice.”

Something inside me cracked. I trembled like a virgin stripped naked before a stranger. Halimah and I wept together, and that was the start. I learned what I must do to deserve God's grace. I prayed, a reminder in thought and word that God is here. The world pulls us away; the voice of sin is never silent. But if we remember God throughout the day, our souls approach his glory.

I followed Halimah around and watched her. She wrapped up pieces of bread and thrust small coins into each one. These she gave to the street beggars. That's how I learned to remember the poor, as the Koran tells us. It was autumn, and when Ramadan came, Halimah sat in her room for most of the day. I brought her a tray of food, but she barely touched it or the jug of water I put by her bed. She didn't have to tell me that she was fasting, or that the Koran told her to, but I had to know why.

“For a month we remember who we are,” she said. “We are not this body that is nourished by food and water. We are made for God, and so it is right to repent of the flesh, and to abstain from the flesh's craving.”

She smiled like a child. “Of course, there are cravings I gave up long ago. We won't speak of that.”

Her simplicity moved me. Halimah trusted me. I was welcome in her house without suspicion or scorn. Nothing was locked away from me. So it was an easy step to accept her trust in God.

As for my soldier, he never returned. The
mujahidin
marched home. The calamity of the Byzantine attack was written on their faces. They dragged the corpses of the fallen behind them, wrapped in white winding sheets. I couldn't look. If my soldier was one of them, it would be unbearable. Halimah noticed, of course, but she didn't say anything when she found me weeping in a corner.

One day when I came to scrub the floors, she surprised me with a table spread out for a guest.

“Why didn't you tell me I shouldn't come?” I asked.

“Why should I? You are the guest.”

I had never seen lamb and apricots in her larder before, and the fresh oil she dripped over the soft warm bread smelled like an orchard in spring.

“What's this for?” I asked. I couldn't imagine where she found the money, and suddenly a pang of worry struck me. Perhaps this was her leave-taking. Was the old woman ready to die?

Instead of answering me, Halimah said, “Which is better, to dream of a feast or to eat it?”

“To eat it,” I replied mechanically.

Halimah passed me a platter of shredded lamb steamed in spiced rice. “It's time you realized that.”

It took me time to understand her teaching. For that moment, I was just glad to be her guest. In the past hunger had been my constant companion during the month of Ramadan, which had just ended. Muslims led such quiet
lives then that there were almost no calls for me. Halimah stopped eating long before I was full, but she was content to watch me. When I took my sleeve and wiped the last bit of lamb grease from my mouth, she smiled.