Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (32 page)

I
could hear the cries of joy from the Meccans and the terrible weeping of despair from our people as the chant of “Muhammad is dead” spread through the valley. As Ibn Qamia rode away in triumph, I stared down at the Messenger, unable to move. If he truly was gone, I wanted to climb to the top of Uhud and throw myself into the darkest gorge below.

And then I saw the impossible. His eyes flickered and opened and he looked up at me in confusion.

“Humayra…”

I was suddenly flying, my heart breaking through the boundaries of time and space even as Muhammad had on the sacred Night Journey. My vision blinded by tears, I stood up and cupped my hands around my mouth as I cried out to the valley below.

“Muhammad lives!”

At first my words echoed and were lost in the din of madness below. And then I heard it. The steady thrum of a cry that resounded all around Uhud.

“Muhammad lives! Muhammad lives!”

The earth below began to shimmer with the glint of armor as our surviving warriors, energized by new hope, defiantly fought off the Meccans and climbed back up the side of the mountain.

As the Muslim soldiers returned to the safety of the high ground, I knelt down beside the Messenger and saw that his shattered helmet had absorbed most of the blow. My husband had lost two teeth and a good deal of blood, but he would survive with little more than a scar on his cheek that would be easily concealed under the rich black curls of his beard.

And then I heard the whinny of horses and realized that the danger was not yet over. Khalid’s men were regrouping and would launch another raid up the mountainside unless we could get the Prophet to safety.

Ali and Zubayr had returned to his side, and they helped the Messenger to his feet. Working together, we helped my husband climb to higher ground. Zubayr saw the crevice of a cave above us that would provide shelter and hide the Messenger from potential assassins until our army had retaken control of Uhud. Ali climbed up first and held his hand out to the Messenger. But the Prophet was disoriented from the pain and could not navigate the steep rock face to reach the ledge. I saw him desperately search for a handhold as he began to swoon.

And then, despite everything he had already done and sacrificed, poor broken Talha somehow managed to hoist the Messenger on his back and climbed the sheer rock wall until he had cleared the ledge. I cannot imagine the pain that must have racked his shattered hand as he pulled them both up and I felt a deep welling of love for Talha, a bond that would make him closer than a brother in my heart.

With the Messenger safe, I could turn my attention to the world below. The battle was over. The Muslim victory had been reversed and both sides had been left bloodied and exhausted. The last of our survivors clambered up the hill and the Meccans pulled back, realizing that it was futile to pursue the fight further.

I felt my heart pounding in my chest and I had to force myself to calm my breath before I lost consciousness. I had seen too much horror that day and I could not imagine that there was any more evil that could poison my eyes.

But Hind would soon show me that the pit of darkness had no bottom.

T
he battlefield smelled like a corpse that had been rotting for a week. The black volcanic ash mixed with the odor of disemboweled intestines, punctured hearts, and the rubbery gray slime of brain matter. It was a smell that would stay in my nostrils for weeks. It would penetrate my nightmares and cause me to wake up in the middle of the night and vomit.

As I looked down with grief at the many young and old who had suffered gruesome deaths on the field below, the sky darkened. The sun was blotted out by a vast flock of vultures, and the sound of their wings flapping impatiently above the valley made my skin crawl.

And then, as I peered through the battlefield for signs of any victims I knew by name, I saw a flash of color as Hind led her party of brightly clad dancers out among the corpses.

I watched in dread fascination as Hind moved among the fallen, gazing dispassionately at the muck and grime and exposed rib cages, until she found what she was looking for.

Hamza. The man who had killed her father still lay on his side, the javelin embedded deep inside his stomach. She knelt down as if to check to see if he were indeed dead, which was, of course, laughable, as he had lain there, skewered, for hours. And then Hind spoke, in a cold voice that sounded as dead as the men whose remains littered the ground beneath her dainty golden slippers.

“So here is the great Hamza,” she hissed like a cobra, her voice echoing through the valley. “They said you had the heart of an eagle and the liver of a lion. Let’s see if that is true.”

Hind grabbed a bloody knife from among the many weapons that had been dropped in the heat of battle. And to my horror, she cut deep into Hamza’s side and tore open his flesh. With her bare hands, she dug into the dead man’s flesh like a butcher ripping off fat from a shank of lamb. And then she tore out Hamza’s liver.

My stomach quivered violently in disgust as I watched Hind hold up Hamza’s liver high for the men of both camps to see. And then she put it in her mouth and ate it, the blood of Muhammad’s beloved uncle dripping down the sides of her mouth. She chewed it and swallowed, and then retched violently. Hind doubled over, vomiting back a portion of the human flesh she had consumed before all.

And then her gagging cough turned into a maniacal laugh and she grabbed the knife and proceeded to cut off Hamza’s nose and ears.

I heard moans and cries of horror from both camps. The pagan Arabs had strict taboos against disfiguring the dead of their enemies, and what Hind was doing was beyond even the meager moral restraints that their primitive religion imposed on their souls. But Hind seemed utterly oblivious to the disgust of her own people, and she began to sway like a kite in the wind.

And then, human blood still dripping from her plump lips, Hind began to dance and sing around the mutilated body of her enemy. She tore open her robes and smeared the blood of Hamza across her breasts. I could see the curve of her ample bosom as she stripped off her gold necklaces.

“O beauties of Mecca, throw off your jewels! Renounce gold and pearls! For there is no greater treasure than the flesh of our enemies!”

And with these words she whirled victoriously around the corpse of Hamza. Her madness spread to the other women like a disease. Suddenly they, too, descended on the bodies of our martyrs, tearing off their noses and ears. And then following her lurid example, they tied their bloody trophies with string and wore the human remains as jewelry. With their new prizes, they began to spin and swoon, their eyes thrown back so far into their skulls that only the whites remained. Their dance was raw and sexual.

Even though I wanted to close my eyes, it was impossible to stop watching. It was as if I were seeing a ritual so dark and ancient that it outdated the memory of man. The absolute purity of her evil was both revolting and mesmerizing, and I felt my heart pound. It was as if Hind had awakened some dark part of the soul that is buried so deep that touching it would unleash a force of transformation that went beyond life or death. It was at once terrifying and seductive and I felt myself being swept into the maelstrom of her madness.

And then Abu Sufyan rode up beside his wife and the spell was broken. He looked down at her obscene dance with unmitigated disgust.

“Enough! This is beneath us!”

Hind stopped spinning and crouched low on the ground, like a wolf prepared to strike. And then she took her hands, smeared with Hamza’s blood, and ran them across her face until her cheeks were streaked in human offal.

Abu Sufyan turned away from her, unable to comprehend how far his wife had fallen. He rode toward the base of Uhud and called out to us.

“War goes by turns, my friends, and today was our day,” he said in a booming voice. “All praise be to Hubal and the gods of Mecca! The dead of Badr have been avenged. We are now even.”

And then I saw Umar arise from among the survivors gathered on the hill. With Hamza dead, he was now the most feared and revered of our warriors.

“God is Highest, Supreme in Majesty! We are not equal. Our dead are in Paradise, and your dead are in Hell!”

Abu Sufyan stared up at Umar, and then he shook his head as if he would never understand this strange tribe that was in its own way as mad as his wife. He rode back to the camp to begin preparations for the long trek home.

The battlefield was now empty, except for the desecrated corpses. Unable to bear the sight, I turned my attention to Abu Sufyan, who was leading his forces out of the pass, and saw the different flags and markers of the tribes. I recognized the symbols of the clans of Mecca like the wolf of the Makhzum and the eagle of Bani Abd ad-Dar. But other pennants belonged to the rival tribes that had little friendship with Mecca, from the double-headed snake of Taif to the horned rams of the Bedouins of the Najd. These old adversaries had come together to defeat their common enemy—Muhammad.

It suddenly struck me that Abu Sufyan had successfully marshaled the warring Arab tribes to the south, even as the Messenger was attempting to unify the north. Arabia was on its way to becoming one nation, and its character would be determined by which alliance ultimately gained the upper hand in this bitter conflict.

In that moment, I realized what we were fighting for. Islam stood as a lonely light flickering in a wasteland covered in darkness. If Hind and her ilk were allowed to win this struggle, barbarism would prevail and eventually spread beyond the boundaries of Arabia like a plague. Our people would become a living curse on mankind, a nation diseased at heart that would pull the world into turmoil from which it would never return.

We had been defeated at Uhud, and now the pagan tribes would see us as weak. They would prepare to pounce on us like hyenas on a wounded lamb. If we surrendered to their combined might, the light of hope would vanish in the sands and something even more monstrous would be born in its wake. Either Arabia would unite under our banner, or it would fight beneath the veil of Hind. And the unsuspecting nations that surrounded us, torn apart by centuries of warfare and corruption, would either be rejuvenated by the message of Islam or fall victim to the unified might of a barbarian horde bent on destruction.

I understood now that the battle for Arabia was not about the survival of a new religion. It was about the survival of civilization itself.

W
e buried the mutilated dead on the slopes of Uhud and returned to Medina, where news of our loss sent waves of grief and panic among the people. Suddenly small voices could be heard wondering why God had abandoned us on the battlefield, unlike at Badr, where He had sent angels to our aid. Soon the voices become louder and some began to question whether our first victory had been merely the product of dumb luck and there had not been any divine intervention in the first place.

The grumbling was silenced by the revelation of verses in the Qur’an that placed the blame for our defeat squarely on our own shoulders. Had the archers not been overcome with greed and fled their posts, victory would have been certain. We could not blame God for our own failings. It was an important lesson, and the people began to see Uhud as a sign from God that His favor was bestowed on the Muslims not because of who they were but because of how they acted. And this point soon became another way to differentiate us from our increasingly antagonistic Jewish neighbors. The Prophet warned that some of the Jews—although, he stressed, not all—had come to see themselves as deserving of God’s blessings as a birthright, without any corresponding moral obligations on their own end, and this had led to their downfall throughout history. Islam had come to erase that sense of tribal entitlement and replace it with individual moral responsibility.

The Jews did not deign to respond to this new charge against them, but their leaders made it clear that Muhammad’s humiliation at Uhud should serve as a reminder that the future of the oasis was not as clear as the Muslims would like to believe. And they were right.

It was the realization of our precarious position in the aftermath of defeat that forced the Messenger to hold a secret a council of his closest Companions. A handful of the most influential members of our community met inside my tiny apartment, with guards placed in the courtyard of the Masjid to ward off any eavesdroppers.

My father pulled his beard, which had begun to turn from gray to cloudy white.

“Now that the Meccans have tasted victory, they think we are weak,” he said grimly. “It will not be long before they attack Medina again with a stronger force.”

Umar grunted in assent.

“We must make new allies among the Arab tribes if we wish to mount a defense,” he said, leaving unspoken the obvious fact that our Jewish neighbors could not be relied upon to uphold their end of the treaty if Abu Sufyan invaded.

Ali leaned forward.

“The Bedouin tribe of Bani Amir is well armed, and they have no love for Mecca.”

I wrinkled my forehead at the mention of the unfamiliar tribe, and then I remembered that the Bani Amir were shepherds who brought their flocks to pasture in Medina every spring. Their wool was actually quite decent, with thick curls that made excellent blankets during the cold winter months, and their shearings sold well in the marketplace. They had remained neutral in our conflict with Mecca, but they definitely had a vested economic interest in the prosperity of the settlement.

Uthman nodded favorably at Ali’s suggestion.

“I know their chieftain, Abu Bara. He is an honorable man and would be a useful ally.”

My father coughed, as if he often did when he had to make an indelicate comment.

“I have heard that Abu Bara’s leadership is in question,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Rumor is that his nephew Husam is seeking to displace him.

Uthman frowned. The complex nuances of such a power struggle could not be grasped by his simple and straightforward nature. A fact that would cause much grief to the
Ummah
in years to come.

“Husam has many friends in Mecca,” he conceded with some difficulty. “If he seizes control of the Bani Amir and allies them with Abu Sufyan, we will face a formidable enemy.”

Umar banged his hand on his knee.

“Then we must unite his tribe clearly with the Muslims,” he said with his customary intensity. “If we can forge relations of blood and marriage between us, it will cement an alliance.”

There was a long silence as the Messenger’s counselors considered their options. Marriage as a means of establishing treaties between peoples had a long and honored tradition in Arabia. But the question remained as to who among the notoriously independent Bani Amir would be amenable to a match with the Muslims and whom they could be paired with to forge an alliance that would justify the Bedouin risking their lives in Medina’s wars.

And then Ali spoke, his voice ringing like a bell in the small room.

“Zaynab, the daughter of Khuzayma, is a member of the Bani Amir.”

Umar’s bushy eyebrows rose.

“The widow of Ubayda?”

Ali nodded. And then I had a flash of memory of courageous Ubayda on the plain of Badr, his leg cut off by the dying Utbah. He had been the first Muslim to be killed in battle and had expired with his head in the Prophet’s lap. I knew his young widow, Zaynab bint Khuzayma, in passing. She was a quiet soul, who spent most of her time helping Fatima by feeding the People of the Bench or distributing alms to the needy. I had heard the Messenger once refer to her admiringly as “the Mother of the Poor.”

Zaynab was a frail woman whose body was malnourished and small, and I found it hard to imagine that this plain, ghostly lady would find a suitor easily. Glancing at the dubious looks on the faces of the other men, I gathered that they were thinking similar thoughts.

Ali turned to face the Prophet, who had sat uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire discussion. My husband looked worn and tired, and I knew that he was still grieving for Hamza and the dead of Uhud.

“Zaynab is a cousin of the chief of Bani Amir and can turn his heart in our favor,” Ali said. And then he added words that immediately shook my world. “If the Messenger were to marry her, it would create a powerful bond between the Muslims and the Bedouins.”

I felt bile rising in my stomach.

“You are quick to offer my husband’s hand in marriage!”

Ali looked at me with those unreadable green eyes. If he was stung by the vehemence of my reaction, he did not show it.

“I meant no offense,” he said simply. “But the Messenger is the head of our community. For the Bedouins, only a marriage between leaders of tribes would be sufficient to earn their allegiance.”

I sat back sullenly, my arms folded across my chest in defiance. Of course what Ali said made perfect sense from a practical point of view. But I was in no mood for practicality. I had already been forced to contend with one young sister-wife because of the Messenger’s political needs. And now I was being asked to accept another woman in Muhammad’s bed for the sake of state policy.

The Messenger did not look at me. He sat quietly, considering Ali’s words. When he spoke, there was a calm decisiveness in his voice that I had not heard since the tragedy at Uhud.

“Zaynab bint Khuzayma is a good woman,” my husband said. “She is kind to the poor. And she is the first widow of Badr. I know of none worthier to become a Mother of the Believers.”

I felt my heart sink as the Messenger turned to face Ali.

“Send her my proposal. If she accepts, invite Abu Bara to the wedding and let us make a treaty with his tribe.”

Ali nodded and rose to leave. I could not help but give him a furious look as he walked out. He met my eyes, and for a second I saw cold disapproval in his glance. I felt a sudden flash of outrage at his judgmental stare, as well as an inkling of shame at my own jealousy. But as Ali walked out, my wounded pride won the struggle inside me, and I bit my lip in fury until I drew blood.