Mother of the Believers Part 18

And fight them until there is no more persecution and wors.h.i.+p is only for G.o.d.

But if they cease, let there be no hostility except for those who practice oppression."

I saw the excited looks on the faces of the wors.h.i.+pers, who murmured in delight that Allah had given them permission to fight back against their persecutors. The verses were repeated and pa.s.sed among them, although I noticed that the words counseling restraint were not mentioned as readily by some believers as those counseling military action.

It was a fact that was noted by Uthman, who shook his head at the fury he saw in the eyes of some of the younger men. Ali, who stood beside him, saw Uthman's gesture of disgust and looked at him sharply.

"Why do you not rejoice at the commandment of G.o.d?"

His voice rang out in the Masjid and suddenly everyone's attention was on Uthman.

"I rejoice at the words of G.o.d, but I sorrow for this Ummah, Ummah," the kindhearted man said. "I fear that once blood has been spilled by the believers, it will flow with no end."

The Messenger met his eyes and I could see the sadness in his glance, as if in his heart my husband feared the same outcome.

But Uthman's words of gentle reproach were seen by some of the hotheaded youths as treason.

"You are a coward, old man," said a brown-haired boy who could not have been older than thirteen. "The only blood you are afraid of spilling is your own. May Medina be washed in it one day!"

The youth's words were met by a stream of laughter from some of the people in the crowd, and a few of the urchin's friends spit at the helm of Uthman's rich blue robe. The Prophet's lovely daughter Ruqayya put her hand protectively on her husband's arm as the jeering worsened into threatening catcalls. She had been ill for several days with the oasis fever. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale, and dark circles marred the beauty of her eyes. But I saw in the firmness of her jaw her defiance of those who would insult her husband or malign his loyalty.

In the sudden rage of that mob, for the first time in my young life I saw the possibility that Muslims might turn against Muslims. And my stomach was sick with the thought that the bloodl.u.s.t that had been kindled to defend our community might one day tear it apart. Standing there, my heart pounding in self-righteousness disgust at this rabble, I could never have imagined that I would be the one who was destined to release that dam of death upon on us.

I saw Muhammad's face grow dark, and he suddenly moved with his lightning speed to stand at Uthman's side. He took Uthman's right hand in his and sheathed the sword that he had been bearing moments before. The Messenger raised the red leather scabbard for all to see.

"Know that G.o.d has a sword which remains sheathed in its scabbard as long as Uthman lives," the Messenger said sternly. "If he is slain, then the sword will be drawn and it will not be sheathed until Judgment Day."

His powerful words immediately silenced the crowd, and I saw Uthman's eyes well with tears. This gentle man who alone among the Quraysh shared my husband's revulsion at bloodshed was horrified to be the cause of turmoil in the community. Seeing the anger in the Messenger's eyes and the sorrow in Uthman's, the believers were ashamed and began to disperse.

As the crowd parted, my eyes fell on the urchin boys. These young troublemakers, whom the Prophet had reprimanded in the past for their antics, stared at Uthman with undisguised hatred. And a chill closed in on my heart. A premonition of something terrible to come.

I fervently prayed to Allah that the preparations we were making for war would prove unnecessary. The Messenger was dispatching a raiding party to the outskirts of Medina. Once the Syrian caravan pa.s.sed by, the men would surround it with their horses and disarm the guards, taking the goods back to Medina. If this could be accomplished without the loss of life, perhaps wiser heads in Mecca would prevail.

The Meccans knew they had stolen from us and we were retaking what was ours, so perhaps they would consider the matter closed with honor. As long as no blood was shed in the raid, there was hope that war would be avoided and the sword would forever remain in its sheath.

I raised my eyes to heaven and saw storm clouds gathering on the horizon, and I knew in the cold pit of my stomach that my prayer would not be answered.

4 The Wells of Badr-March 17, AD 624

In the end, war came to us with the dread certainty of death itself. It could no more be resisted than the angels who arrive at the appointed hour to claim the soul. And like the inexorable force of death, the war brought both an end and a beginning for our people.

The caravan, with its riches of gold and spices from Jerusalem and Damascus, had been a ruse to bring us out of our homes onto the battlefield. Abu Sufyan had followed Hind's carefully crafted strategy to the letter. Instead of pa.s.sing by the black hills of Medina along the normal trading route, he had ordered the caravan to follow the coastal road along the great sea that separated Arabia from Egypt and Abyssinia.

And even as the Messenger ordered a small party of three hundred men to lie in wait for the caravan at the outskirts of Medina, an army of a thousand heavily armed Meccans was marching north to trap us.

We would meet our destiny on a rocky strip of land to the southwest called Badr. It was a regular stopping point for traders headed toward Yemen, as it contained reliable wells of clean water that could replenish a caravan's most precious resource. The Messenger set out with his raiding party, which was equipped for only a minor skirmish and was woefully unprepared for what was awaiting us. We were accompanied by a train of seventy camels and three horses, and I rode behind my husband on his favorite red she-camel named Qaswa. Though it may have surprised the sheltered ladies of Byzantium and Persia, used to hiding behind perfumed walls while their men risked their lives, Arab women regularly accompanied our warriors to inspire them and remind them what they were fighting for. It was a tradition that the Messenger respected, and as a result, I would be witness to many battles over the years to come. It was perhaps this comfortable familiarity with the heart of warfare that would cause me to overreach on that day of infamy that was still decades away.

We rode through the northeast mountain pa.s.s until we entered the valley of Badr. It was almost completely surrounded by hills and there were only three gateways into or out of the watering hole-the route we had come upon, a pa.s.s leading northwest toward the Syrian road where we expected the caravan, and a southern track that faced Mecca. The valley itself was surprisingly cheerful, with verdant foliage watered by the rich collection of wells. The Messenger pitched camp near the Medina road and the men set up a cistern with which they could more easily access the well waters. A small command station was established by placing several poles made of palm trunks in a circle and then covering the top with a black canvas to s.h.i.+eld it from the cruel sun. Here the Prophet held strategic meetings with his generals, while I looked to the north, my heart racing with the nervous antic.i.p.ation that is the breath of a battlefield.

We were elated. The wells had fallen to us with ease and the caravan would follow suit soon. And then word came from a pair of sentries we had sent to check on the caravan's progress that Abu Sufyan had diverted his train, and excitement turned to frustration. The Messenger had been prepared to pack up the camp and return home, when the steady roll of drums echoed from the south.

The trap had been sprung and Mecca's armies were at our doorstep.

Soon the southern pa.s.s was swarming with warriors in glittering mail, waving defiant flags of red and blue. Their cries of challenge and their mockery of our puny force echoed across the valley and a terrible dread fell upon our camp.

I sat beside the Prophet, who had retired to the command station at first sight of the Meccan expedition. He knelt on the ground in quiet prayer, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed as he attempted to contact the angels and find some guidance. My father stood behind, a heavy broadsword in his hand, ready to defend the Messenger should the Meccans break through the line of defense that was even now forming around the command post.

As I shaded my eyes from the blazing sunlight, I looked down at the advancing Meccan army and my heart fell. We were heavily outnumbered, although the haze that covered the southern pa.s.sage made it difficult to determine the true numbers of our adversaries. I guessed that Mecca had a two-to-one advantage (I would later learn that it was three to one) and the odds of victory against this numerically superior and better-armed foe were not worth calculating.

A sad thought crossed my mind. After everything I had been through in my young life, at only eleven years of age it might all come to an end right here, before the sun went down. Though even the pagans did not condone killing women and children (I was both), I could smell the bloodl.u.s.t from across the valley-feral, animal, unthinking. When the fire of war was ignited in men's hearts, women and children could and would die, as they always had throughout history, and I had no guarantee of clemency. Then again, perhaps death beside my husband and my father would be preferable to what would be done to me if I were captured and taken back to Mecca as a slave.

And then I heard a shout from the enemy lines. I looked across the valley and saw three men step away from the Meccan forces and walk fearlessly into the rocky plain between camps. I recognized them immediately as three of the most prominent leaders of Mecca. Utbah, the father of Hind, led his brother Shaybah and his son Waleed, their swords sparkling under the glare of the cloudless sky. This was an ancient ritual of warfare that I had heard about but never witnessed with my own eyes. Before the Arab tribes fought, they always sent their most feared warriors to face each other in a duel of honor. And the Meccans had sent Utbah, whose yellow-green eyes were so much like his daughter's that I wondered if Hind herself had come disguised as a man.

As Utbah approached the middle ground between armies, he looked over the rows of Muslim men, wearing old leather armor and carrying rusty blades and spears, and laughed. He spit at the ground before him, as if challenging men of this lowly caliber were an insult to his honor. And then I saw his eyes fall on a young man who stood by Hamza at the front line and Utbah's sneer twisted into a gape of shock.

And then I realized that the thin and tall youth he gazed at was Abu Huzayfa-his son. Like Abu Sufyan's daughter Ramla, Utbah's son Abu Huzayfa had defected to the Muslims, adding to the enmity between Muhammad and the tribal chiefs, who accused him of seducing their children with sorcery. I saw the troubled look on my husband's face as he saw father and son stare at each from across the battle lines, and I realized that the Messenger would never have allowed Abu Huzayfa to come with the raiding party had he known this would be the outcome.

But then Utbah regained his composure, a mask of iron covering his raging emotions. He waved his sword defiantly and issued the ancient words of challenge.

"Muhammad! Here stand the lions of Quraysh," Utbah said. "Send forth worthy men to face us-or surrender in shame."

To my horror, I saw Abu Huzayfa unsheathe his sword and move forward, ready to duel his own father to the death. And then Hamza caught the stern look on my husband's face and he put a restraining arm on the boy's shoulder.

"No. Not you."

Abu Huzayfa stepped back and his own mask of defiance fell, and I saw in his eyes terrible grief.

And then I felt a rustle of movement beside me as the Prophet rose and chose the champions who would defend the Muslims. He gazed at the eager faces of his warriors, and then made a decision that I knew was tearing his heart in two. The best men to face Utbah's challenge were those who shared his own blood. He pointed to three of his most beloved family members-his cousin Ubayda ibn Harith, his uncle Hamza, and Ali, the boy he treated like a son. I felt tears burning my eyes. I could not imagine how hard it was to send the people he loved the most to face the possibility of death before his very eyes.

The three chosen ones of the Ahl-al-Bayt, Ahl-al-Bayt, the House of the Prophet, stepped forward proudly onto the field, facing their opponents. Hamza had tossed aside his bow for a broadsword, and Ubayda held aloft a saber with a jewel-encrusted hilt that s.h.i.+mmered in his hands. the House of the Prophet, stepped forward proudly onto the field, facing their opponents. Hamza had tossed aside his bow for a broadsword, and Ubayda held aloft a saber with a jewel-encrusted hilt that s.h.i.+mmered in his hands.

And then Ali unsheathed his sword and I heard a gasp and realized with some surprise that it was my own. He held in his hand a blade unlike any I had ever seen. Two blades actually, for the sword split in half as it tapered to the point, making it look like a forked serpent's tongue. The hilt was made of polished silver, and gold filigree was etched onto the dual blades, which had a black sheen that suggested they were forged not from steel but from some other metal I had never encountered. I would later learn that this sword was called Dhul Fiqar Dhul Fiqar and belonged to the Messenger himself. Whenever I asked him in later years where he had acquired such an unusual and magnificent blade, he merely smiled and changed the subject. and belonged to the Messenger himself. Whenever I asked him in later years where he had acquired such an unusual and magnificent blade, he merely smiled and changed the subject.

Ali flicked his wrist and Dhul Fiqar Dhul Fiqar cut through the air, making a strange singing sound that added to its mystery. He moved forward to face his opponents, and I saw his eye fall on Waleed-one of the men who had tried to a.s.sa.s.sinate the Prophet the night he escaped Mecca. There was a strange look between them, and I remembered what Ali had said of that night and the promise he had made to Waleed that the next time they would meet, the brother of Hind would die. cut through the air, making a strange singing sound that added to its mystery. He moved forward to face his opponents, and I saw his eye fall on Waleed-one of the men who had tried to a.s.sa.s.sinate the Prophet the night he escaped Mecca. There was a strange look between them, and I remembered what Ali had said of that night and the promise he had made to Waleed that the next time they would meet, the brother of Hind would die.

A shadow fell over the battlefield and I looked up to see that a heavy cloud blanketed the sun. Which was peculiar, as the sky had been absolutely clear only moments before.

There was a moment of terrible silence, as if history itself were holding its breath. And then, with a cry of fury, Utbah rushed at the men who had answered his challenge. Ubayda moved to intercept him and their swords met with a terrifying crash. And then Hamza was upon Shaybah and Ali faced young Waleed.

Sparks flew as the three men struck at one another, and there was a terrifying beauty to their dance. Despite his age and bulk, Hamza spun and parried like a youth, and Ubayda struck at Utbah's sword with such fury that I was surprised it did not shatter under the blows.

My eyes flew to Ali, who seemed to be moving at a different speed from the others. It was as if time around him slowed; his sword movements were elegant and beautiful, like those of a fish swimming in a gentle stream. Waleed looked confused as he met Ali's attack, as if he also sensed something was different about his opponent. I saw the looks of consternation from men on both sides of the divide as Ali fought from inside the strange dreamworld that he alone seemed to inhabit.

And then I thought the sun must have emerged from behind the cloud, as Dhul Fiqar Dhul Fiqar began to sparkle and glow, the blade s.h.i.+ning brightly as if it were a torch in Ali's hand. But I soon realized with some shock that the field was still covered in shadow and I could not account for the strange light that was emanating from the sword. began to sparkle and glow, the blade s.h.i.+ning brightly as if it were a torch in Ali's hand. But I soon realized with some shock that the field was still covered in shadow and I could not account for the strange light that was emanating from the sword.

Waleed saw it, too, and his mouth fell open in shock. And at that moment, Ali raised the sword and, with the grace of an eagle racing toward its prey, he ran the blade through Waleed's neck. The young man's head fell cleanly off its shoulders with one stroke and blood erupted like a volcano from the severed neck. Waleed's headless body stood frozen as if in disbelief and then fell to the side.

Ali's prophecy had at last come true.

I heard a soft moan and saw that Abu Huzayfa was struggling to keep his composure at the sight of his brother's decapitation. And then the cloud that had unexpectedly covered the sun evaporated just as mysteriously, and the field was burning with light again. I saw Utbah's face go white as he saw his son's head lying only a few feet away from him, and then, with the terrible cry of a man who no longer wished to live, he threw himself at Ubayda.

An instant later I saw Hamza slash down onto Shaybah's shoulder. Hamza's broadsword tore through muscle and bone until Shaybah's sword arm was ripped away, and the champion of Quraysh died in a flood of blood and convulsions.

Utbah now stood alone against three men, and yet he continued to fight as if he were supported by an army. There was a madness in his eyes that gave him a ferocity I have never seen before on any battlefield. The Prophet's cousin Ubayda fell back under Utbah's furious blows and then suddenly made a swift kick with his leg, catching the Meccan chieftain behind the ankle. Utbah stumbled and fell.

But as he did so, he swung his ugly sword and cut off Ubayda's leg above his knee. Ubayda screamed in agony as a river of gore erupted from his stump, and I heard a terrible sound of grief erupt from Muhammad's throat.

Utbah managed to get to his feet and moved toward Ubayda, ready to deliver the deathblow. He raised his sword high...and Ali threw Dhul Fiqar Dhul Fiqar across the battlefield. It spun in the air like a disk, flying with perfect precision, until the double blades connected with Utbah's sword arm and severed his wrist. across the battlefield. It spun in the air like a disk, flying with perfect precision, until the double blades connected with Utbah's sword arm and severed his wrist.

Utbah did not cry out, did not appear to feel any pain. He stood weaponless and alone, his eyes glistening as he stared at the headless body of his beloved son. And then Hamza was upon him and the mighty broadsword tore through Utbah's rib cage and emerged from his back, like a knife cutting through a milk curd.

Utbah stood there, impaled through the heart. I saw him gaze across the field to his surviving son, his traitorous boy who had chosen Muhammad over him. Abu Huzayfa's face was frozen in horror as he met his dying father's gaze.

And then Utbah did something that I will never forget or perhaps understand. He smiled at Abu Huzayfa and nodded, as if he were proud of him. With a final shudder, the father of Hind fell to his knees and returned to the G.o.d he had denied.

Silence reigned over the battlefield as the horrified Meccans dispatched sentries to recover the bodies of their slain champions. Hamza and Ali lifted Ubayda, who was swimming in a pool of his own blood but somehow managed to live. They carried their kinsman to the Messenger's command post, resting his head in my husband's lap. My father immediately knelt down and tried to bandage the stump and cut off the bleeding, but we all knew that Ubayda had lost too much blood for Abu Bakr's efforts to matter.

A shadow fell over us and I saw Abu Huzayfa standing there, looking down at the men who had killed his father, uncle, and brother. He reached for his belt, his hand floating toward the hilt of his own blade. I felt a scream of warning rising in my throat...and then Abu Huzayfa removed a wolfskin flask that was buckled near his scabbard. And he knelt down and poured water into Ubayda's lips, giving him one final drink before the angel took him.

Ubayda sucked on the flask, and then coughed up blood. He looked gratefully at Abu Huzayfa, and I thought I saw in his eyes a plea for forgiveness. Abu Huzayfa did not smile in return, but he nodded slowly and walked off to grieve alone.

Ubayda turned to his cousin Muhammad, whom he had followed to his death.

"Am...am I not a martyr...?"

I saw tears glistening in my husband's black eyes.

"Indeed you are."

Ubayda smiled at that and went still.

The Prophet closed Ubayda's eyes with his hand and then rose to face the Meccan army. The ritual of challenge had been completed.

The Battle of Badr was about to begin.

5.

I gazed across the field to the ma.s.sive army that was ready to move and avenge the deaths of its heroes. The acrid smell of blood was in the air, and I could taste the sweat and fear that covered the valley like the cloud that had appeared during the challenge. gazed across the field to the ma.s.sive army that was ready to move and avenge the deaths of its heroes. The acrid smell of blood was in the air, and I could taste the sweat and fear that covered the valley like the cloud that had appeared during the challenge.

And then I saw a tall and handsome figure emerge from the Meccan lines and my blood ran cold. Abu Jahl moved forward with dignity to stand near the pool of blood that marked Utbah's fall. He stared across the field to the command post and then clapped his hands contemptuously.

The Prophet met his gaze without a word. And then I saw Abu Jahl's eyes fall on me and a smile played across his sensuous lips. I wrapped my scarf closer across my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and he smiled wider at my discomfiture, like a wolf that had found the weakest lamb in the flock. I suddenly had a terrible image of what would happen if our men were defeated and I was taken back to Abu Jahl's tent as a slave. The memory of how his well-manicured hands had torn apart Sumaya's womb without any hesitation haunted me.

"It appears that consorting with pretty girls has not drained you Muslims of your valor," Abu Jahl said with an exaggerated bow. "But three against three is an even match. Is your puny band ready to face the might of a thousand? You will all die before the sun sets."

The Messenger bent down to the ground. I watched in confusion as his st.u.r.dy fingers reached for the earth underneath my sandals. He picked up a handful of orange pebbles and then closed his fist around them.

And then my husband rose and stepped forward until he, too, stood alone on the battlefield, his eyes locked on Abu Jahl only twenty feet away from him.

"By Him in whose hand is the soul of Muhammad," he began, "no man will be slain this day, fighting against them in steadfast hope of his reward, advancing, not retreating, but G.o.d shall straightaway enter him into Paradise."

His words reverberated throughout the plain as if the rocks themselves were speaking. And then I saw the front lines of our raiding party move into perfectly straight formation behind the Prophet, heads held up, weapons at the ready. The contrast between them and the disorganized and slouching Meccan soldiers was striking. At that instant, I understood why the Prophet had insisted that men and women line themselves in perfectly straight rows every Friday for communal prayers. The discipline and the unity they had practiced for the past few years was now second nature. The Muslims were not three hundred individual men facing a thousand. They were one giant body that moved and acted in unison. As I witnessed the martial discipline on display, I felt a stirring of hope in my heart that we might just survive this encounter.

The Messenger stepped forward and raised his clenched fist as if he held an invisible javelin. Abu Jahl moved back warily, sensing something was about to happen. His eyes darted to the Muslim archers, whose deadly arrows were all trained on him.

At that instant, the wind rose and began to howl like a jackal. The sudden gusts stirred the sands, causing clouds of dust to rise from the rocky earth.

And then I saw Muhammad, may G.o.d's blessings and peace be upon him, shake his fist and then throw the pebbles he had gathered from beneath my feet toward the army of Quraysh. The tiny rocks flew across the plain like a thousand spears hurtling forward to rain death.

"Defaced be these faces!" The Messenger's words rang with authority, and I felt a flash of awe when I recognized the Voice that came during Revelation thundering from his lungs.

And then all h.e.l.l broke loose. The Muslims charged straight at the Meccan army even as the wind raged and sent a cloud of sand toward the Quraysh. I heard screams of rage and triumph as our soldiers tore across the field and engaged the surprised enemy. The Meccans fought back desperately, but their efforts were impeded by the sudden raging sandstorm that had descended on them from all sides.

I strained to see what was happening, but the whirling clouds of dust made it almost impossible. I could hear the clang of metal and the painful screams of the injured. The dry air was suddenly filled with the terrible scent of blood, gore, and feces, the three odors that dying men exude as their final curse on a cruel world that brought them this fate. My mouth was painfully dry and I could taste fiery salt from the wind as it tried to find its way into my lungs. I fell back, coughing and struggling to breathe. The earth beneath me felt cold and clammy, as if I were already locked inside a grave.

The madness of battle always plays tricks on the mind, and as I staggered to find refuge from the biting wind, I thought I heard the sound of horses thundering all around me. Since we had brought only three and the Quraysh had dozens in their camp, I felt a flash of panic as I looked around for any sign of enemy hors.e.m.e.n racing up to deliver death.

But the whinnying and hooves that I heard seemed to be moving toward the Quraysh, not away from them. I looked up in confusion and for a moment the cloud of dust parted and I thought I saw men dressed in white riding mighty stallions racing through the sand, trampling the Meccans under their relentless a.s.sault.

Whatever it was that I saw, whether an illusion of the wind or a ghostly army riding down from heaven, Abu Jahl seemed to see it as well. I could see him standing alone amid the chaos, looking around in disbelief as his men fell to the slaughter. And then he dropped to his knees amid the whirling sand and raised his hands to the sky, calling out to his G.o.ds.

"Allat! Al-Uzza! Manat! Daughters of G.o.d, help us!" he cried out in despair. "Hubal, lord of Mecca, vanquish your enemies!"

And then I thought the wind changed and I could hear cold, terrifying laughter in its midst. The sand flew around us and it appeared that we were alone in the center of a dust devil that swirled up into heaven. I struggled to stay standing as earth and air became one flowing dune.

As I fell to my knees and tried to cover my face from the burning sand, I saw something that I will never forget. Abu Jahl was kneeling, his hands in front of his face, his mouth contorted in horror. And then out of the wall of flying sand, I saw what looked like a figure emerge, dressed in a gown of flowing white and gold.

It was Sumaya.

The phantom raised a hand and reached out to the man who had ended her life. But I saw no anger or bitterness in her gaze. Just an infinite compa.s.sion that overwhelmed my heart.

Whether it was the product of my fevered imagination or a vision from the afterlife, perhaps I will never know. But Abu Jahl recoiled as if he, too, saw something in the veil of dust. I heard him scream and strike out at the ghostly figure with a sword.