Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (45 page)

A
fter I had heard that the Prophet was being advised to divorce me by his closest allies, I left the confines of my apartment and returned to my mother’s home. It was not that I felt safer or more accepted there. On the contrary, my parents’ doubts were like claws scratching at my heart, and it was difficult for me to look either of them in the face. But I could not continue to dwell in the household of the Messenger, sleep in the bed we had once shared, as long as there was a cloud of suspicion hanging over me. And if I were to be cut off from the marriage bond—or worse, placed on trial for adultery—then I did not want to face the indignity of being taken forcefully from my own house. And so I donned my veil and left of my own accord one morning, with Burayra my only protection against the accusing stares of the crowds as I walked down the cobbled streets of Medina.

My mother gave me a small room in the back of her stone hut, little larger than the cell that had been my apartment in the Masjid. She tried to comfort me, but I brushed aside her clumsy efforts at reconciliation and kept to myself. I spent the days in prayer, kneeling before God and asking Him to remove this lie that had been branded on my name. And every night I slept alone on the rough cot, the mattress made of knotted palm fiber that cut my skin raw as I tossed and turned with a thousand nightmares. But no matter how horrible the dreams were, the faces of djinn and demons that haunted my nights, I preferred the troubled madness of sleep to the greater nightmare that awaited me when I awoke.

I remained in that room for six days, emerging only to visit the rickety toilet shed behind the back wall of the house. My mother tried to coax me to join the family for meals, but I would simply take rough pieces of meat and bowls of wheat porridge back into my room and eat alone. After two days, she stopped asking me to come out and simply left the food on a tray by my door.

And then, on the seventh day, I heard a knock and my father’s voice asking me to let them in, for he had brought a visitor. The Messenger of God had finally arrived to speak with me. And I could tell from my father’s grave tone that he feared the worst.

I was numb from the unrelenting pain of the past few weeks and I felt nothing in my heart as I went to greet my husband. No anger, no fear. No despair. And even the love that had always bonded us was hidden so deep in the void of my heart that I could not find it. I was a corpse, without life or sensation, a dead tree whose branches rustled under a cold wind.

I opened the door to see the Messenger of God, his face drawn and solemn, looking down at me. I offered a perfunctory greeting of peace and then sat down on the hard cot and stared straight ahead, ready for whatever judgment he had brought.

The Prophet entered, followed by my mother and father, who looked more frightened than I had ever seen them. Even during the tense flight from Medina, their faces had been calm, their demeanor untroubled and steady. And yet now they looked as if everything they had was about to be taken away from them. I would have appreciated their fear for my future, a sign of their love for me despite their doubts and misgivings about my character. But my heart was like winter frost on the palm leaves, sharp and unyielding.

My husband sat beside me and looked at my face for a long moment. His dark eyes were impenetrable, and the hint of rose normally found on his cheeks was gone, leaving him as pallid as a ghost.

When he finally spoke, I barely recognized his voice, for its fluid melody had been replaced by a hoarseness, as if he had not spoken in years.

“O Aisha. I have heard these things about you, and if you are innocent, surely God will declare your innocence,” he said, measuring every word carefully. “And if you have done wrong, then ask forgiveness of God and repent unto Him. Truly if a servant confesses to God and repents, God relents toward him.”

So here it was. The Messenger of God was sitting beside me, asking me if indeed I had betrayed him with Safwan in the desert. After all our years together, after everything we had endured, he still did not trust me. His words cut through me and suddenly a hidden well of emotion was unleashed. Tears welled in my eyes and fell down my cheeks, but I made no effort to wipe them away. My eyes were blurring wildly, as if I had been thrust face-first into a river, and for an instant I thought I might go blind, like the prophet Jacob, whose grief at the loss of his son Joseph tore away his sight.

I turned my face to my father, who stood by the doorway.

“Answer the Messenger of God for me,” I said, pleading with Abu Bakr to intervene and save me from this final disgrace.

But my father bowed his head.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Through my tear-filled eyes, I could make out the figure of my mother standing behind him, her hands held to her breast in a sign of terrible grief.

“Mother…please…tell him…”

But Umm Ruman turned away from me, sobbing.

I looked at my parents and realized that I was truly alone in this world. And then something strange happened. I could feel a warmth spreading in my breast, a fire that had been kindled in my heart. The flame of dignity and honor that was my birthright.

I wiped my tears and stood up, my head held high.

“I know you have heard what men are saying, and it has settled on your souls and you believe it,” I said with pride, my eyes passing from my parents to my husband. “If I say to you that I am innocent—and God knows that I am innocent—then you will not believe me. But if I confess to something of which God knows I am not guilty, then you will believe me.”

And then I remembered again the prophet Jacob and his response when confronted with the lie that a wolf had eaten his son.

“So I will say as the father of Joseph said.
It is best to be patient, and God is He to whom I ask help against what they say
.”

And with that I climbed back onto my hard bed and turned my back to them, lying crumpled in a ball like a baby in its womb, my arms wrapped around my shoulders in an embrace that no one else would give me.

I heard the Messenger of God stir, and then I felt the bed shaking violently. It was a sensation that I immediately recognized, having experienced it so many times when he was lying beside me.

It was the convulsion of the Revelation.

I felt him slip off the bed and heard a thud as he fell to the ground. Despite my anger, despite my feelings of loss and betrayal, I turned to see if he was all right. The Prophet had fallen on his side and I saw him bent and shivering, his knees pulled up to the chest. Sweat poured down his face, even though the air was so cold that I could see the mist of his breath.

Abu Bakr and Umm Ruman were immediately at his side, but there was nothing they could do but gaze in awe as the divine communion played out before their eyes. The Messenger’s shaking slowed and finally stopped, and his eyes blinked open. He looked around, disoriented as he often was after a Revelation. And then he saw me on the bed and his face broke into a wide smile.

The Messenger struggled to rise to his feet, and my parents helped him as he steadied himself. And then he laughed, the first sound of joy that I had heard from his lips in weeks.

“O Aisha, praise God, for he has declared you innocent!”

The words hit me in the pit of my stomach. The world spun around me and I suddenly felt as if I were about to faint.

My parents stared at the Prophet with wide eyes and then embraced each other with joy. I saw the relief on their faces, but I did not move. My legs felt dead beneath me, and my heart pounded so loudly that I could feel my bones shake.

My mother looked at me with a broad smile and then bent down to kiss my forehead. And yet even then I sat still, staring at the three of them without a single word.

“Rise and thank the Messenger of God!” my mother said, with both joy and a hint of reproach in her voice.

And then I felt my face turn hot red, and all the poison of the weeks before came rushing into my veins. I rose to my feet and threw my hair back in defiance.

“No!” I shouted in a deadly voice that even I did not recognize. “I will not rise and go to him, and I will not praise anyone except God!”

God had believed me even though the whole world had turned against me, including my own flesh and blood. Including the man I loved. Had it not been for the Creator of the heavens and the earth intervening in this sorry state of affairs, I would have lived my life and possibly met my death under the cloud of a lie.

I turned and stormed out of the room, wishing to escape all those who had not believed me and bow my head to the One who had. To the only one whom I could trust unconditionally, the only one who mattered. A Being whose Face was everywhere I looked and nowhere at the same time. A God whose words I read every day and yet whose voice I had never heard.

I realized that day that Muhammad was exactly what he claimed to be—a man and nothing more. I had loved him with such youthful ferocity that I had turned him into an idol, a pristine icon of perfection, when in truth he was of the same flesh and blood as the rest of us, with the same doubts and fears that plagued the hearts of other mortals. I knew that when the fire of my anger had faded, my love for my husband would return, as it always does between those whose souls are bonded. But it would be a healthy love, of two people learning to live together in an imperfect world, not of a trembling supplicant bowing before an angel.

It would be a human love from that day forward, without the taint of idolatry, a sin that had been cleansed from my heart through the fire of scandal and injustice. And though the mystique of girlish romance, of a union that was a rose free of thorns, was lost forever to me, it had been replaced with a steady and honest view of life and the difficulty of living and loving in a broken world.

As I look back upon my life in these final hours, I realize that at that moment, I truly changed from a girl into a woman.

I
RETURNED TO MY
apartment that afternoon, and word spread throughout Medina of my divine vindication. Not only had God cleared me of the false charge, He had commanded a new law in the holy Qur’an, which required that anyone accusing a woman of adultery must produce four eyewitnesses to the act itself. And if four witnesses do not step forward, then the accuser himself must be lashed eighty times for besmirching the honor of an innocent woman.

But in the immediate aftermath of my own rehabilitation, the Prophet urged me to forgive the gossipmongers and end the rift that had threatened to tear the nation apart. I agreed, and a parade of apologetic men and women came to my door, weeping and begging my forgiveness, which I readily gave. The matter was closed, and I had no desire to pour further poison onto the wounds of the community.

But when the final supplicant came, I found that my heart had run out of generosity. Ali arrived at the threshold of my apartment and gently sought my pardon.

I stared at my nemesis through the curtain of my thick veil. His humble gestures of regret were sincere. And yet his apology did nothing to lessen the rage burning inside me. Ali, alone of all people, had the power to sway my husband’s heart for good or ill, and he had chosen to use that power against me.

Staring at Ali, his head bowed before me in apology, I felt as if talons were closing around my neck, and the ugly taste of bile rose in my throat. And then, without responding to his repeated requests for forgiveness, I rose and closed the door in his face.

K
halid ibn al-Waleed, the general of Mecca’s forces, stared out at the approaching throngs of his enemies. But they were not garbed in steel armor or carrying mighty weapons of war. Instead they were clothed in the
ihram,
the simple white linen of pilgrims coming to visit the Sanctuary at the heart of Arabia. The men of Medina wore a two-piece costume, a sheet wrapped around their loins with a second draped across their shoulders, while the Muslim women wore flowing robes and head scarves.

Khalid sat on his mighty stallion, his eyes fixed on the sea of fourteen hundred Muslims marching unarmed and defenseless on the sacred city from which their leaders had been expelled almost a decade before. He heard their emotional cries of the ancient Pilgrimage evocation:
Labayk, Allahumma, labayk!
“I answer your call, O God, I answer!” And even his heart, which had little room for sentiment, was moved.

But though his emotions may have been softened by this remarkable sight, his duty as a warrior remained unchanged. Khalid clicked his tongue and spurred his horse forward and raced to the approaching throng of worshipers.

The leaders of Mecca had just received word of this incoming wave of Muslims and the city was in a frenzy. It was a sad testament to the fall of Mecca’s prestige since the failed Siege of the Trench that none of the allied Bedouin tribes had bothered to give Abu Sufyan and his cronies sufficient warning of the approaching pilgrim caravan from Medina. Perhaps their spies in the neighboring hills did not think the arrival of unarmed worshipers to Mecca posed any threat, but Khalid wondered whether the same silence would have greeted Muhammad’s arrival on a mission of war.

Muhammad. Khalid shook his head in admiration. The man had proven to be not only an inspiring teacher and political leader but also an apt general and a truly brilliant military strategist. This most recent surprise tactic, of sending his people out to join the Pilgrimage like the other Arab tribes, was a brilliant stroke, the play of a master at the top of his game. For even as Khalid rode out to meet his foes, he knew there was little he could do to stop them. Pilgrims were protected by the ancient taboos of his people, and he could not lay hands on them without inciting the wrath of Mecca’s few remaining allies.

Which, of course, Muhammad understood. He was sending to Mecca a force large enough to invade and occupy the city, but one that carried no weapons that could invite retaliation. Muhammad would in essence bind Mecca with a chain of peace and there was nothing that Abu Sufyan or the elders could do about it.

As Khalid rode over a hill, he heard the thunder of hooves behind him and could smell the sweat of his men who were riding out to support their commander. Two hundred of the finest cavalry of Mecca would be behind him in moments, and the dust of their approach was likely already visible on the horizon to the approaching pilgrims. And yet the crowd did not slow its advance, and the Muslims continued walking toward the sacred city from which they were banned.

As his legion of horsemen raced toward the peaceful invaders, Khalid rode forward until he was within shouting distance from the men at the front lines. He recognized Umar ibn al-Khattab, the fierce warrior who had abandoned his people for this new faith, and he spurred his horse toward the towering figure.

Umar must have seen him ride up from over the dunes, even as he must now see the oncoming wave of Meccan horses. But the grim man simply stared straight ahead, chanting the pilgrim’s call even louder as the rumble of hooves echoed closer.

Khalid rode up straight to him and called out.

“I have been sent by the lords of Mecca to say that you are not welcome here. Go back to your land and disturb not the Pilgrimage.”

Umar finally looked at him, but there was no fear in his eyes, only mild contempt, as if he were being barked at by a rabid dog. And then Umar strode forward and continued to walk past Khalid as if he did not recognize the most acclaimed soldier of their nation.

Khalid reared his horse, which struck out its hooves defiantly at Umar. A single blow from his stallion’s powerful legs could easily kill a man. And yet Umar continued to ignore him and raised his voice louder in prayer.

Khalid watched as the throng of Muslims passed around him as if they were a raging river and he a mere stone that could in no way inhibit their flow. And then he felt a welling of deep respect for the heretics who had turned his world upside down.

The warrior pulled on his reins and his horse began to move through the crowd. As he rode back up toward the hill, he saw that his men were waiting at its top. They were gazing down in awe at the confident progress of the crowd, and even though each man was armed with a bow and arrows that could easily decimate their enemies, his soldiers did not move to challenge the Muslims.

As Khalid reached the front lies of the now-impotent Meccan defense force, he saw his old friend Amr ibn al-As at its forefront. Khalid saw in Amr’s eyes the same respect that he had felt, and he knew that he could share his innermost thoughts with his comrade.

“These men are braver in their rags than a thousand soldiers hiding behind armor and blades,” Khalid said.

Amr kept his eyes on the mass of thousands, moving in perfect unison, their march steady and timed with almost military precision. And then he turned to face Khalid, a glint in his eye.

“Imagine what such bravery could accomplish if they had the power of armor and blades as well,” Amr said.

Khalid smiled as he suddenly understood what Amr was thinking. And for a second, he no longer felt the weariness of his years of leading Mecca in a losing war against a smarter foe. His heart swelled with unexpected pride that his kinsman Muhammad had somehow united a raggedy band of disorganized Arabs with such bonds of power. It was an ambition that Khalid himself had always nurtured, of forging the barbarian desert tribes into a nation worthy to stand against the mighty armies of the surrounding empires. Of harnessing the ferocious, warlike blood of his people with the military discipline that they had lacked for centuries. But he had dismissed the notion as an empty dream of his youth, a monumental task that was beyond the skills of any man.

Any man except Muhammad.

And as he gazed down at the steadily approaching, utterly fearless legion of men, the warrior of Mecca had a vision of the future that made his heart race faster in excitement.

“They would conquer the world,” he said, his eyes growing wide in wonder, as if a lifelong riddle had been answered in the most unexpected of ways.

Amr smiled at him knowingly, and then the two men led the Meccan cavalry back to the stables, allowing the Muslims to approach the holy city unmolested for the first time in a decade.