by Kamran Pasha
But now she was back, come to claim the position that she had always desired and felt entitled to. She was to become the newest Mother of the Believers. Her husband, Ubaydallah, had proven feckless and weak-minded, and had abandoned Islam for the Christian faith while he stayed at the court of the Negus. Under the law of God, Ramla could not remain married to an apostate, and her divorce left her and her infant daughter, Habiba, in a precarious situation, living in a foreign land without economic support and protection.
The Messenger had heard of her predicament through the most unlikely of sources—her brother Muawiya, who had sent his friend Amr ibn al-As on a secret mission to the oasis in the aftermath of the Battle of the Trench. The Prophet had immediately agreed to take responsibility for Ramla and her child, and Muawiya himself had brought her to Medina for the wedding.
And so it was that I sat inside the spacious manor of Uthman ibn Affan, the Prophet’s gentle son-in-law, as the Messenger greeted the son and daughter of his greatest enemy. I saw many of the Companions looking at Muawiya with open distrust as he moved forward to kiss my husband’s hand. He had been a child when I last saw him and had changed greatly since then. Gone was the perpetual gloom that had followed him in youth, replaced by an energy and eagerness that was seductive.
As the grand hall was set for the wedding festivities, Uthman’s white-clad servants rushing to and fro with baskets of dates and jars of honey, Muawiya mixed easily with men who should have been his enemies. He had a natural tact and grace of movement that was disarming, and I could feel the steady heat of his gregarious charm cause the initial cloud of suspicion that hung over the room evaporate. Even Umar seemed impressed with Muawiya’s courage in coming alone to the oasis, without the retinue of bodyguards that one would expect to protect the boy who was for all intents and purposes the heir to the throne of Mecca.
As the son of Abu Sufyan, he was, of course, well aware of his potential value as a hostage, but Muawiya moved among us with the confident ease of a trusted guest rather than an open enemy. He spoke to each man as if he were an old friend rather than an adversary and even congratulated the Muslim elders on their brilliant defensive tactics that had thrown off the Meccan invasion.
I was impressed with Muawiya’s diplomatic genius. Within minutes of arriving at the oasis, he had won over many of his detractors with honeyed words and carefully calculated compliments. Watching Muawiya charm his opponents was like watching a master swordsman in action—each stroke was both beautifully executed and perfectly timed.
Ramla, for her part, had nothing to fear, for she had long earned the trust of the community, if not my own. Many had once believed that her conversion had been some kind of tactic conceived by Abu Sufyan to infiltrate the Muslim ranks. But word from Abyssinia was that she had shown commitment to the faith over the years and had proven a tactful advocate in the court of the Negus, protecting Muslim interests in the foreign land. Even I did not really doubt the sincerity of her spiritual convictions, but I hated the hungry way she looked at my husband, as if he were a prize that she had been long denied. Her bright eyes met mine and she raised an eyebrow in defiance, and I frowned. Ramla would be a true rival in the harem, one who combined beauty with a deadly sharp mind, and I knew that I would have to keep a close eye on her. And then I saw the Messenger looking at me with an amused glance as if he could read my thoughts.
My husband smiled knowingly and then turned to his young guest, who had just finished making the rounds of the Companions, healing old wounds and cementing new alliances. Muawiya turned to the Messenger and bowed his head low.
“I am honored that my sister has found such a noble match,” he said in a rich voice that was deep and masculine.
The Messenger took the youth’s hand in his and squeezed it tight.
“May this wedding be the first step in ending the long enmity between your clan and mine,” he said.
As the Prophet went to stand by his new bride, wrapped in a wedding dress of dark blue, a red-striped veil covering her dark hair, Muawiya lifted a bowl of goat’s milk in honor of the nuptials and then drank with a slow flourish.
A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see the towering form of Umar ibn al-Khattab, the man who, before his defection, had been Mecca’s greatest hope of destroying Muhammad.
“Your father must be angry that you came,” Umar said, looking closely into the eyes of the guest as if searching for any hint of deception or intrigue.
“He was livid,” Muawiya said with a broad smile filled with devilish amusement. “But I am my own man. I realize that the old ways are dying. The Quraysh must accommodate the new reality or vanish into irrelevance.”
Uthman, our kindhearted host, came up to the young man’s side and put an affectionate arm around him. Muawiya was a distant cousin of his and Uthman had always been close to the boy in his youth, before the divisions of faith had torn apart the clan of Umayya.
“You always had great foresight,” Uthman said warmly. “The river of the world is changing its course, and only the wise anticipate its new direction.”
And then I saw Ali approach. He alone among all the Companions had remained aloof, despite Muawiya’s persistent efforts to charm him.
“It is one thing to foresee the course of a river,” Ali said softly. “It is another to foresee the fate of one’s own soul.”
Silence fell over the room and I could suddenly feel the tension that had abated over the past hour reassert itself like a cold wind. Ali and Muawiya stood in the center of the room, looking at each other without speaking. Even though they were only a few feet apart, there seemed to be a divide between them that was greater than the distance between the east and the west. Between heaven and earth. Ali was from another realm, a strange bird soaring above mankind, observing but never quite participating in the world. And Muawiya was his direct opposite, a man who had mastered that world and had little interest in the ethereal dreamland that Ali called his home.
And then I saw the Messenger step between them, as if to place himself diplomatically in the path of any confrontation between these young and passionate men that would mar the wedding.
But as I saw my husband come between them, smiling graciously as he placed a hand on each man’s shoulder, I suddenly realized that there was another meaning to the scene before me. Muhammad stood between these two poles as no other man could. He was both a resident of the ethereal realms of the spirit and a master of the worldly plane, and he alone understood how to bridge the gap between these opposing realities. In the years that would come, after the Messenger had returned to his Lord, the precarious bond that he had forged between these planes would shatter, and the history of Islam would forever be a war between the soul and the flesh.
And then Muawiya turned away from Ali and the spell was broken. The Meccan prince smiled brightly at the Messenger and spoke loudly, as if intending everyone in the hall to hear his words. It was unnecessary, as there was absolute silence at that moment and his words would have carried to each corner even if they had been whispered.
“The fate of my soul I leave to the judgment of my Creator,” Muawiya said with dignity. “But this I know. Before you came, O Muhammad, none of our people ever thought about a world different from what they had experienced for centuries. A world of barbarism, cruelty, and death. But you have given them a vision that has brought them together. Forged them from warring tribes into a nation. I know of no man who could have done this without the aid of God.”
And then to everyone’s shock, Muawiya stretched out his right hand in the formal sign of allegiance, and the Prophet clasped it in his own. Muawiya knelt down and kissed the Messenger’s hand. And then he spoke the words that would change everything.
“I testify that there is no god but God, and that Muhammad is the Messenger of God.”
The room exploded in a commotion of cries. Surprise, disbelief, and jubilation mixed together in an air of heady celebration. Abu Sufyan’s son, the heir of our greatest e
nemy, had embraced Islam, and in that one instant, the two forces that had torn the peninsula apart were reconciled. I felt my heart racing in excitement. Once the other tribes learned of Muawiya’s conversion, the final vestiges of support for Mecca would collapse and the war would end.
It was the thought on everyone’s mind, except perhaps for Ali, who continued to gaze down at the young man with those unreadable eyes. But Muawiya ignored his stare and kept his attention focused on the Prophet.
“If it please you, O Messenger of God, I wish to stay here and support your cause,” he said. Which was, of course, what was needed. If Muawiya settled in Medina, his superb political skills and vast network of allies would help bring order to the nascent state. With Muawiya’s crafty guidance, we would bring together the recalcitrant tribes and then wage a final battle against Mecca. We had hidden in our homes in terror so many times as the armies of Arabia came down upon us that it seemed like justice that Hind and her followers should do the same now.
And then the Messenger of God said something utterly unexpected.
“No. Return to your father and tell no one of your faith,” he said, and the rejoicing in the room stopped cold.
Muawiya’s brow wrinkled.
“I don’t understand,” he said, sharing our surprise. “I am prepared to shed the blood of my father’s men so that you may be triumphant.”
“You will prepare the way,” the Messenger said gently. “The day is coming, insha-Allah, when we will meet in Mecca. But there will be no bloodshed.”
Muawiya appeared confused, but he lowered his head in acceptance. I saw his cousin Uthman give the Prophet a grateful look. The destruction of Mecca’s forces would mean the annihilation of Uthman’s own clan, and the softhearted nobleman was clearly delighted that the Prophet intended to find another way to retake the city.
The room now buzzed with a flood of conversation, as Companions and their wives talked animatedly, trying to understand what the Prophet’s words meant. And then Uthman rose and clapped his hands to end the sudden tumult of conversation.
“Come, my friends, let us feast, for there is much to celebrate tonight.”
19
We all gathered in Uthman’s spacious dining hall. The walls were covered in delicate floral tiles made of ceramic, said to have been imported directly from Constantinople, and the arched ceiling was held aloft by sturdy marble pillars. It was a palatial room set for banquets that would have made the kings of Persia feel welcome. I wondered at Uthman’s good fortune.
Even though much of the oasis remained mired in poverty, wealth seemed to flood him wherever he went. The Prophet had given Uthman the title Al-Ghani, which meant “the generous,” and he was always ready to share his vast stores with anyone who needed help. But no matter how much he gave away, more money seemed to rush toward him and his coffers were always overflowing. There was a legend I had heard of a Greek king whose touch could turn anything to gold, and I would joke that Uthman was the Midas of our people.
And for the Prophet’s wedding to a woman of Uthman’s own clan, he had thrown together one of the most extravagant banquets I had ever seen. The Messenger himself appeared uncomfortable with the vast wealth on display—the silver bowls filled with succulent red grapes, trays stacked with fresh breads steaming from the ovens, delicate raisins on plates decorated with fresh desert roses, their tiny leaves spiraling toward the soft petals. Goat stew, spiced with saffron and rich salts. Cakes dripping with honey and powdered with a sugary substance said to have been brought from Persia. And a seemingly endless supply of roast mutton, cut thin, the meat mouthwatering and tenderized to perfection.
The Companions, many of whom had never eaten anything beyond coarse bread and grizzled meat, stared at the feast in awe, and a few threw jealous glances at Uthman, who sat beside the lovely Umm Kulthum, the Prophet’s daughter whom he had married upon the death of Ruqayya. It was as if this gentle pacifist of a man had everything any of them could ever want, and yet he seemed blissfully unaware of how lucky he truly was. In the years to come, the feelings of resentment that I sensed from some of the younger men would worsen, and Uthman’s opulence would come with a price that would be paid by an entire civilization.
I walked among the believers, carrying trays of spiced chicken, a highly prized delicacy as the fowls were rarely found in the desert wastes and were mainly shipped from Syria. And then I saw Ramla looking at the Messenger with her delicate eyes and I could tell that my husband was smitten.
The thought of him spending the night with her, exploring the arts of love with this cosmopolitan and sophisticated woman, made me sick. A flash of jealousy raged inside me and I found myself turning to the man closest to me, the giant Umar, who was hungrily tearing off pieces of a chicken bone with his fingers.
“Why bother, Umar? Just swallow it whole already!” I said in my best teasing voice. He looked at me with surprise and then burst out laughing. I made the rounds of the men at the long cedar table, cheerily mocking them for their uncouth manners and desert coarseness. But I would follow my harsh words with a coquettish smile, a wink of my golden eyes, and they would respond as all men do to the flirtation of a beautiful woman. With zest, amusement, and subtle desire.
I soon found myself the center of attention at the banquet as I traded jokes with Talha or mocked Zubayr’s tales of his adventurous exploits as a youth before my sister, Asma, had turned him into a trained kitten. I caught Ramla looking at me with irritation for having stolen all her thunder on her wedding day, and I smiled at my little victory against my rival.
As I made the rounds of the men playing my childish games, I saw from the corner of my eye my husband watching me with a stern look. I knew that I was making him jealous, something that I had never tried to do before, and I thrilled secretly at the thought that I could still sway his heart. Even as he took Ramla in his arms tonight, part of his mind would be consumed with the memory of my little performance, my demonstration that I was still the youngest and most desirable of his consorts in the eyes of the world.
I was a silly girl of fifteen and thought nothing more of my behavior than I did of the daily gossip sessions I held with the other Mothers. I had no idea that my little game would have such dire consequences, that my foolish flirtations would change my life so drastically. And I could not have foreseen that the freedom I had treasured from birth would soon end behind the walls of a prison forged from my own folly.
20
Talha let the loud commotion of the marketplace, the crowing of merchants, and the laughter of children run through him. He was feeling dejected, and a walk through the bazaar did him good. Though there was much jubilation among the believers these days, Talha was farsighted enough to see that the Messenger’s efforts to forge the Arabs into a nation would not end the war but were likely expand it. But their new enemies would not be a few thousand poorly armed desert dwellers. They would be the legions of Persia and Byzantium, empires that had mastered the art of warfare over centuries of bloodshed.
That terrible day of imperial conflict was coming upon them fast, and the Muslims would need the best and the brightest of the Arab nation to hold their ground. Men like the fearsome general Umar ibn al-Khattab and now the brilliant politician Muawiya. The role that these great leaders would play in the war to come was clear.
But the role that he would play was not.
Talha, his hand forever shattered by the sword that had been meant for the Messenger, was no longer an able warrior, like his friend Zubayr. He was not a revered statesman like his cousin Abu Bakr or a wealthy merchant like Uthman, who could single-handedly fund an entire military campaign.
He was a poor cripple who could barely afford to keep food on the table for his wife, Hammanah, and his infant son, Muhammad. His wife was a sweet and gentle woman and had never complained. But he felt like a failure. One of the first Meccans to embrace Islam as a young man, he remained the only one of that inner circle who had failed to turn the poverty of the early y
ears into prosperity in Medina. It was that perpetual struggle that prevented him from being of greater service to the cause. And it had prevented him from proposing to a young girl before she had been chosen for a greater destiny.
Although he never said it aloud, everyone among the Muslims knew of his feelings for me. He had tentatively approached Abu Bakr to ask for my hand when I came of age. But my father had been reluctant to engage his precious daughter to a boy whose hard work had never quite lifted him from the ranks of the poor. Instead, he had promised me to Jubayr ibn Mutim in the hopes of enticing the influential young Meccan aristocrat into Islam.
Talha had been bitterly disappointed, but he had held hope that Jubayr’s loyalty to the old ways would prevent the wedding from ever happening. And he was proven right. But when my betrothal to Jubayr had indeed been abrogated, Talha had been stunned to learn it was because I had been promised to a husband with whom he could never compete, even if he had all the wealth of Arabia. And so he had forever closed that door in his heart. For Talha revered the Messenger, and he accepted God’s will, sacrificing one love for another.
Talha tried to turn his thoughts away from the past. But the world would not let him.
“The daughter of Abu Bakr was in fine form last night,” a deep voice said.
Talha looked up to see two merchants standing beside him. They examined a parcel of leather goods that had recently been smuggled from Taif in defiance of the Meccan ban on trading with Muhammad.