Mother of the Believers Part 8

Fatima finally handed him the strip of cowhide, the text standing out in bright green paint. Umar looked down at the page, his brow creasing as he read the mysterious letters that opened the text.

Ta Ha...

11.

We waited inside the Messenger's house in silence, a cloud of dread hanging over the small community of believers. I saw my father looking down at his hands, unable to meet the eyes of Nuaym, who sat across from him on the cold marble floor. It was Abu Bakr who had asked Nuaym to intervene with his clansman after I returned that night, breathless from my tale of intrigue inside the Hall of a.s.sembly. I had expected my father to be angry with me for taking such a mad risk, but he had listened gravely and then gone to the Messenger with news of the plot. My mother, however, had been furious when she heard how I had risked my life and had spanked me until my throat was sore from crying.

My rump still sore from the beating, I sat on my haunches. I had never seen the Messenger so quiet. The Prophet had been deeply distressed to hear that his life had been saved by placing Umar's sister, Fatima, at risk. He stared out a window at a palm tree that grew just outside the wall of his wife's home, as if he could find some hope in its steady defiance of the desert winds that buffeted the city that morning. Perhaps I imagined it, but I did not see him blink at all for minutes. He seemed to be in a trance, but it was not like the terrifying seizures that overtook him when the Revelation came. He seemed like a man sleeping with his eyes awake, his powerful chest moving up and down steadily as he breathed.

The silence in the Prophet's house was so strong that it was an eerie sound in itself. And then a loud steady knock resounded through the hall, like the trumpet of the angel shattering the stillness of death and summoning men to the Resurrection.

Ali rose from his place at the Messenger's feet. He walked over slowly to the main door and peered through a tiny peephole before turning to face the gathered crowd.

"It is Umar," he said matter-of-factly. "He comes bearing a sword."

A murmur of fear spread among the believers. My sister, Asma, suddenly burst into tears, a.s.suming the worst for poor Fatima. The Messenger's uncle Hamza stood up.

"Let him in. If he has come with good intent, we will give him a mountain of good in return. And if his intent is evil, we will kill him with his own sword."

Ali looked to the Prophet, who stood up with dignity and moved toward the door. I noticed again how his strides were not like those of any other man I had ever seen. Though the Messenger was not as tall as Hamza, he walked with a speed and determination that made those with longer legs pant to keep up with him. It was as if he were the wind itself, forever outracing the fastest of the sons of Adam.

The Prophet stopped a few feet away from the door. He was now positioned so that his followers were grouped behind him, as if he would single-handedly s.h.i.+eld us from Umar's vengeance. Hamza stood behind his right shoulder and Ali was to his left. The Messenger nodded to his young cousin, who threw open the door.

We all stopped breathing. I thought I could hear the steady thrum of our hearts, as if they were pounding in unison.

And then Umar stepped inside, his sword unsheathed and glistening in his hand. I looked with morbid curiosity to see if there was any blood drying on the blade. But if he had killed his sister, as we all expected, Umar had wiped the sword clean before returning to fulfill his vow.

I watched his face with fascination. He appeared different from the man I had seen only a few hours before. There was no more rage on his face, and he appeared uncertain, almost afraid, as he stood before the Messenger.

For a moment, no one moved. It was as if the slightest tremor would set into motion events that would change everything.

And indeed it did.

The Prophet stepped forward and grabbed Umar by his studded belt, suddenly pulling the giant who towered a full head over the tallest men in the room as if he were an unruly child. He dragged Umar unceremoniously to the center of the hall, where the a.s.sa.s.sin was forced to stand among a crowd of two dozen believers staring at him with fear.

"What has brought you here, O son of al-Khattab?" the Messenger said, his eyes never leaving his adversary's bushy bearded face. "I cannot see you desisting until G.o.d sends down some calamity on you."

Umar hesitated. I saw him move his sword arm and Hamza instantly had his bow in his hand, an arrow nocked and pointed right at Umar's chest.

And then I saw something that made my heart leap into my throat.

Tears welled into the giant's eyes and poured down his weathered cheeks like the well of Ishmael suddenly erupting from the bowels of the desert and bringing hope of life where there had been only death.

Umar dropped the sword at the Messenger's feet and knelt in humility until his head was positioned beneath the Prophet's chest. And then he said words that no one in all of Mecca would have ever expected.

"O Messenger of G.o.d, I have come to you that I may declare my faith in G.o.d and in His Messenger and in what he has brought from G.o.d."

There was moment of stunned silence. This had to be a trick, some ruse Umar had devised to startle us and lower our guard so that he could strike unexpectedly.

But then the Prophet smiled warmly, his face glowing like the sun breaking through dark clouds.

"Allahu akbar!" the Messenger cried in a voice that thundered throughout the hall and poured out into the dusty streets of the holy city. "G.o.d is great!" the Messenger cried in a voice that thundered throughout the hall and poured out into the dusty streets of the holy city. "G.o.d is great!"

And then Muhammad, may G.o.d's blessings and peace be upon him, embraced Umar like a brother whom he had not seen in many years.

We looked at one another in wonder. And then I started clapping, a flurry of giggles erupting from my lips. The sound of my laugh was throaty and contagious, and soon others joined in. We raised our voices in joy, marveling at the power of faith and the inexplicable depths of the human heart.

12.

A few hours later, Umar strode through the streets of Mecca, walking as if in a dream. Everything had changed the moment he had read the Words of G.o.d. It was as if someone had reached inside his breast and torn out a deadly snake that had been wrapped around his heart, squeezing out any love for life or his fellow man. And then he had understood. The Spirit that he sensed around the Kaaba, the Being that he had vowed to serve at the cost of his own life, had a voice, and it had spoken to him through a book revealed to an illiterate man. All this time, he had been fighting the very force to which he had dedicated his soul. few hours later, Umar strode through the streets of Mecca, walking as if in a dream. Everything had changed the moment he had read the Words of G.o.d. It was as if someone had reached inside his breast and torn out a deadly snake that had been wrapped around his heart, squeezing out any love for life or his fellow man. And then he had understood. The Spirit that he sensed around the Kaaba, the Being that he had vowed to serve at the cost of his own life, had a voice, and it had spoken to him through a book revealed to an illiterate man. All this time, he had been fighting the very force to which he had dedicated his soul.

Umar had read the words that were painted on the leather strip and had fallen back as if struck by an invisible hand. He had started shaking with violent tremors and his head had felt warm and dizzy. But he knew that he was not suffering from fever or plague. It was the same dizzying sensation that had torn through him the day he had sought solace for murdering his daughter by kneeling at the Sanctuary. But this time, instead of cruel laughter mocking him, he heard a gentle voice in his heart, filled with compa.s.sion, saying: "Go to him."

And like a child who does not dare question his elders, Umar had gotten up without a word to his sister and walked straight to the Messenger's house. When he had declared his newfound faith, he felt as if a stone had lifted from his shoulders and that someone who had been imprisoned inside of him had suddenly been set free. The man Umar had once been was gone, like a shadow that vanishes when light is shone upon it.

He had not cried since he was a child. His father, al-Khattab, would beat him ferociously each time he sniffled, calling him weak and threatening to cut off his male organ if he kept weeping like a girl. But today he had wept for hours, as if a dam had burst and all the pain he had bottled inside himself for years had come out. He could not control it if he wanted to. And, in truth, he did not want to.

The Messenger had accepted him and forgiven him his treachery, but Umar found he still could not stop crying. He kept seeing the image of his precious baby daughter looking up at him with a smile even as he covered her tiny body with stones. She had kept squeezing his finger until the breath had finally left her and her little hand had dropped.

He had looked at the Messenger and asked that G.o.d punish him for his sin. He had handed his sword to Muhammad and begged him to avenge the girl and cut off his head. But the Prophet had put a gentle hand on his arm, his own black eyes welling with tears of empathy.

"You have already punished yourself enough, son of al-Khattab," he had said softly. "Islam is like a river. It cleans those who immerse themselves of their past sins."

Umar had bowed his head, still not willing to accept the forgiveness he was offered.

"You say that all men will be resurrected one day and the girls who were slain by their fathers will confront them on the Day of Judgment," he said, repeating the teachings that he had reviled and mocked only a few hours before. "What will I say to my little girl when I face her?"

The Prophet looked past Umar's shoulder, as if staring at some grand vision on the horizon of his mind's eye.

"I see her holding you by the hand, squeezing your finger, as she leads you to Paradise."

At that moment, Umar ibn al-Khattab was freed. The man he had been, the murderer, the drunk, the adulterer, died. And the man who now walked purposefully through the cobbled alleys of Mecca had been born.

He noticed that people in the streets were staring at him, looking confused as he pa.s.sed them. And then he realized it was because he was smiling. Not the smile of a man with a deadly scheme in his heart, but one of pure and unconditional joy. As he pa.s.sed by a street merchant selling coral combs, agate rings, and vials of rosewater perfume to a group of black-veiled Bedouin women, he caught a reflection of his face in the polished silver mirror the merchant had erected to promote his wares to the vanity of his customers.

He did not recognize himself. The cruel scowl that he had once believed to be a sign of power and masculinity was gone, replaced by a look of childlike wonder. Umar grinned and found that he liked the way the lines around his lips and cheeks crinkled when he did so.

And then he forced himself to adopt a serious, stoic face. For now he was on a new mission and he could not allow himself to be distracted by the unfamiliar face that stared back at him from the mirror.

Umar moved forward with steady strides, his eyes focused on a grand house of yellow stone, the walls decorated with carved flowers and wreaths of silver. He knocked harshly on the dark wooden doors made of cedar imported from Lebanon.

He heard the sound of movement and caught a glimpse of a dark eye gazing at him through a tiny peephole. And then the door swung open and Abu Jahl emerged, his face eager with expectation.

"Is it done? Is the man dead?"

Umar looked at him for a long moment. He had once secretly envied Abu Jahl's chiseled good looks, but now he saw only a demon whose ugliness was evident in the cruel gaze of his eyes.

"One man is dead," Umar said slowly, p.r.o.nouncing each word as if it would be his last. "Another has been born."

Abu Jahl furled his brow in confusion.

"What are you saying?"

Umar leaned close to him, a triumphant smile slowly crossing his face.

"I have come to tell you that I believe in G.o.d and His Messenger, Muhammad, and that I testify to the truth of what he has brought."

Abu Jahl stared at him blankly. And then his face twisted into a violent scowl, and his handsome mask was shattered, revealing a darkness that few had ever witnessed beneath his studied diplomatic veneer.

"G.o.d curse you, and may His curse be on the tidings you have brought!"

Abu Jahl slammed the door in Umar's face. The redeemed a.s.sa.s.sin stood quietly for a moment and then burst out laughing, his beard shaking with violent mirth at the precious sight of Abu Jahl's discomfiture.

He turned and walked back toward the Kaaba, where he would proclaim his rebirth before the entire city. And for an instant, he thought he heard in his ears the joyful laugh of a little girl who should have lived to see this day.

13.

Abu Sufyan leaned back on the dais as the dancing girls whirled before him. Their dark skin contrasted vividly with their pink and saffron robes, their skirts twirling sensually with their measured steps, revealing just enough to ignite a man's desire before disappearing in a swirl of mystery.

His eye fell on a doe-eyed girl of fourteen who smiled at him, flas.h.i.+ng ivory teeth that seemed to sparkle in the torchlight that lit the audience hall of his grand manor. He felt a stirring within his loins and he glanced over to his wife, Hind, who had her eyes on the same courtesan. She met his gaze and winked, and he knew that she would be open to having the harlot join them in their bed tonight.

Normally the thought would have pleased him, but his mind was distracted tonight. He brooded over the mad scene at the Sanctuary that morning, when Umar had proclaimed his conversion to Muhammad's religion and had announced himself a guardian of the Prophet. With Umar and his terrifying sword in Muhammad's hands, the balance of power in the city had s.h.i.+fted decisively. The Muslims were no longer a troublesome cult of dreamers but an influential tribe of their own, backed by the protection of one of the most powerful leaders of Mecca.

As he glanced sideways at Hind, who was watching the buxom dancer like a cat waiting to devour a mouse, he thought bitterly that the only good thing that could come out of Umar's betrayal was that he would no longer be a cloud darkening their marriage. Abu Sufyan had endured the rumors and innuendoes, publicly denouncing any who would sully the reputation of his honorable wife. But he secretly knew that her frequent evening visits to "her aunts" were mere diversionary tactics and that her true destination was Umar's bed.

Why had he put up with it for so long? He had a wise fear of Umar's temper like everyone else. But in his heart he knew that he would not have interfered even if Hind had taken up with some lesser man whose sword was more easily faced in battle. Was it because his marriage to her had sealed his alliance with her powerful father, Utbah, and guaranteed his unchallenged leaders.h.i.+p of Mecca? No, he would like to think that he was politically skilled enough to retain his position as the chieftain of chieftains even if he divorced Hind or killed her to restore his honor.

But the thought of leaving her, or worse, murdering her, left him feeling cold and sick. He looked over at her and saw the faint smile on her lush lips, the savage glint in her eyes that hinted at dark thoughts and darker l.u.s.ts. And he knew the truth, painful as it was. He loved Hind, more than he loved anything else in this world. Abu Sufyan could not imagine life without her, and he was willing to turn away from her dalliances with men-and women-if only to preserve their marriage. Even after all these years, she ignited his pa.s.sion as no other woman could. And even more important, she comforted his soul with her innate understanding of the difficulties of leaders.h.i.+p and the loneliness of power. She was the only person he could talk to, to unburden his mind when the pressure became too great.

As it had tonight. Abu Sufyan clapped to signal he was tired of the performance. The musicians who had been steadily pounding drums made of camel hide and bone ended their play and the girls stopped their sensual dancing, the rustle of their skirts quieting like the sudden fall of a heavy wind.

Abu Sufyan threw them a handful of gold coins and waved them away. The dark-skinned dancer with the luminous eyes looked at Hind, who nodded, and then she joined her sisters in the adjoining antechamber, where they would be fed roasted lamb and poured wine by the servants before being sent on their way.

When the last of the dancers had left and they were alone, Hind turned to face Abu Sufyan, putting her long-fingered hand over his. He always marveled at the heat she exuded, as if she were a walking torch.

"What is wrong, my husband?" she said softly, her piercing eyes tearing into his soul.

"Umar's conversion is a turning point," Abu Sufyan said with a sigh. He quietly noted the flicker of emotion that crossed her face at the mention of the man who had only days before been her lover and was now an open enemy. "These Muslims are no longer afraid. They will spread their poison openly now, knowing that Umar will protect them."

Hind looked away for a second, her eyes on the lush maroon carpet where the dancers had been swaying only moments before.

"Umar is but one man," she said, as if trying to convince herself. "He cannot hold back the wrath of Quraysh."

Abu Sufyan laughed bitterly.

"What wrath? Our tribe is like a hamstrung camel. Even Abu Jahl is now afraid of igniting an all-out war with these heretics. We cannot risk killing any of them as long as Umar's sword hangs over our heads."

Hind turned to face him, and he saw the raw cunning in her eyes that both excited and terrified him. She stroked the golden snake armlet that she always wore, and he felt his desire rising.

"You men always see things so simply. Night and day. Sun and moon. There are no stars in your world, no clouds or mists. You lack subtlety."

Abu Sufyan leaned closer. "What do you mean?"

"One does not need to kill another man in order to wage war on him," she said, squeezing his hand until he winced in pain. "What is Mecca known for, besides its G.o.ds?"

Abu Sufyan had learned over the years to answer her questions, as they were usually meant to guide him to a truth he had not yet seen but was already evident to her.

"Its trade. Our merchants are the heart of all commerce between Yemen, Byzantium, and Persia."

Hind leaned even closer and he could feel her firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s rub against him, arousing his desire again.

"And what happens when blood from the heart fails to reach an organ?"

His own organ was engorged with blood and he had difficulty thinking because of the pounding in his loins. But as he let her words penetrate the haze of l.u.s.t, understanding began to dawn on Abu Sufyan.

"It dies," he said simply.

Hind smiled, and her hand touched his excited flesh.

"Exactly."

He ran a finger across her neck, long and elegant like a gazelle's.

"We will use trade as a weapon."

Hind smiled, delighted as always that the pupil had finally caught up to the teacher. She reached over to a basket of red grapes and took one in her lips. And then she kissed Abu Sufyan and let the grape fall into his mouth. He sucked on it and her tongue at the same time.

She finally broke off the kiss and looked him deep in the eyes.

"You do not need to kill them. If you starve them, they will kill themselves."