Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam

by Kamran Pasha

  And so it was that I gazed now across the plain toward Mecca without any worry as to what would come next, for I knew that God was with us. The sun began to dip toward the horizon, the disk turning from blinding gold to dull ocher, and then I saw it.

  A figure riding on a horse over the hills of Mecca, the billowing purple standard of an emissary held aloft in his hand.

  WE GATHERED TO MEET with the ambassador of the Quraysh, a honey-tongued nobleman named Suhayl ibn Amr. The Messenger had greeted Suhayl graciously, and after ascertaining that Uthman was still alive and securing an agreement for his safe return, he invited the emissary to negotiate an end to the impasse.

  I watched from a corner of the tent as Suhayl raised his manicured hand, each finger wearing a ring of precious stones, and laid out the Meccan proposal.

  “We will not begrudge you the rites of Pilgrimage,” he said calmly. “But your arrival is unexpected and we need time to calm the passions of the people. So we are willing to let you perform the Hajj—next year.”

  There was an immediate grumble of outrage from the Companions. Never before in the history of Arabia had a group of pilgrims been turned back from the Kaaba and told to return at another time.

  The Prophet appeared ready to answer Suhayl’s proposal, when hotheaded Umar stepped into the negotiation with his usual bluntness.

  “You have no right to turn back peaceful pilgrims!” he shouted, the soothing effects of the Sakina having apparently worn off. “We will enter Mecca, and I dare you to stop us!”

  My husband raised his hand and turned to Umar, who was seated on his left.

  “Gently, Umar,” Muhammad said pleasantly, but I knew my husband well enough to note the edge of warning in his voice. The Messenger turned his attention back to Suhayl and smiled.

  “The son of al-Khattab is correct. We are within our rights before all Arabia. But we are reasonable men. What could you offer us to forgo our rights and turn back?”

  I saw Umar and several other men look at the Prophet in shock. They had expected him to negotiate their entry into the holy city, not their retreat.

  Suhayl hesitated, as if he was having difficulty saying the words out loud.

  “A treaty,” he said, and I saw his cheeks pinch inward as if the very word were as sour as lemon on his tongue.

  I heard several gasps of surprise from the men seated around the Prophet, but he himself betrayed no emotion. The Muslims had been at war with the Meccans for so long that no one had ever expected a treaty between us. We had always assumed that victory would be absolute, with one side destroying the other, even as the Bani Qurayza had been annihilated for their treachery.

  My husband leaned closer, his handsome face passive and impossible to read.

  “What are your terms?”

  “We will secure a truce between us of ten years, during which neither of our people nor our allies will attack each other,” Suhayl said swiftly, as if each word were a hot coal that he needed to expel from inside his mouth. “Starting next year, you will be allowed to perform the Pilgrimage. We will evacuate the city for three days so that there are no…misunderstandings…between us.”

  The Companions spoke loudly their opinions of Mecca’s proffered terms, but Suhayl raised his hand and again silence fell.

  “And one more thing,” Suhayl said almost apologetically. “If, during this period, any man among your people wishes to return and subject himself to the authority of Mecca, we will not be obliged to return him. But if any man leaves Mecca against our wishes and seeks refuge with you—you must return him to us, even if he is of your faith.”

  There was dead silence for a long moment. And then I heard Umar laugh, but there was no humor in the sound. The towering man pulled at his gray beard in fury and appeared ready to speak, when he saw the stern glance from my husband that conveyed a command to be silent.

  The Messenger sat looking at Suhayl for a long moment. And then, to everyone’s surprise, he leaned forward and took the pagan emissary’s hand in his.

  “I accept your terms.”

  There was an immediate explosion of voices as the Companions registered their shock and dismay. How could the Prophet accept such a blatantly one-sided agreement? The Meccan offer was a clear insult, one that even a poorly skilled negotiator would have seen as an opening ploy in what was meant to be a long and complex discussion. And yet the Prophet had accepted the initial terms without protest.

  The Messenger seemed utterly oblivious to the cries of his followers, and I saw a strangely triumphant smile play on his lips as he looked at Suhayl, who appeared as shocked by his acquiescence as we were.

  Umar stood up and towered over the Messenger. He ignored Suhayl and vented all his fury at the man whom he had only hours before sworn to stand beside, even if it meant death.

  “This is outrageous!” Umar shouted at the Prophet, his voice booming so loudly that all other conversation stopped. “We will not make peace with these murdering idolaters!”

  I felt a sudden tightening in my throat. Umar, the most fanatically loyal of the Muslims, was now openly disparaging the Prophet’s judgment. The Prophet frowned at him and said nothing, but I saw the vein in his forehead throb as it did whenever he was angry. And then my father, who sat to the right of the Messenger, rose and stared up into Umar’s eyes. When he spoke, his words were simple and yet carried the weight of terrifying authority.

  “Be quiet, Umar,” Abu Bakr said, and I saw Umar step back as if he had been slapped. The son of al-Khattab moved away from the Messenger and Abu Bakr and stood alone in a corner, like a child who has been punished for naughty behavior.

  Suhayl watched this entire exchange with clear fascination. Once my father had silenced Umar, Suhayl cleared his throat and lifted a sheet of parchment from inside his fine silk robes.

  The Meccan emissary unrolled the sheet, which was blank, and placed it at the Messenger’s feet.

  “I have been authorized to draw up a document of truce,” Suhayl said, and I could hear the eagerness in his voice. He clearly wanted to get the terms down in writing before the Messenger changed his mind.

  My husband looked across the room to Ali, who stood alone by the entrance to the grand tent, his hand on the hilt of Dhul Fiqar.

  “Ali will serve as my scribe,” the Prophet said.

  I had been ignoring Ali’s presence until then, and I felt a flash of dislike as he went to sit beside my husband. Suhayl produced a quill pen made from the feather of a gray heron and offered it to Ali, along with a small clay vial containing ink.

  Ali took the writing implements and began to make marks on the parchment as the Prophet dictated.

  “Bismillah Ar-Rahman Ar-Raheem. ‘In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate—’”

  Suhayl interrupted with a cough.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know who this Ar-Rahman is,” he said in a tone dripping with mockery. It was an old joke, as the Meccans had claimed in the early days of the Prophet’s mission that Ar-Rahman, a name for God in the holy Qur’an meaning “the Merciful,” was actually the name of some secret teacher, Jewish or Christian, who had been allegedly supplying the Prophet with his knowledge of their Book.

  I could feel the heat in the room rising, but Suhayl continued, apparently enjoying playing with the Prophet’s patience.

  “We would prefer the traditional honorific—Bismik, Allahumma, ‘In Thy Name, O God.’”

  At this instant I saw Talha rise and shake his scarred fist at the emissary.

  “You swine! You mock the holy words of God Himself!”

  The Prophet smiled at Talha, but there was steel in his eyes, and my sweet cousin blushed bright red and sat back down. The Messenger then turned to Ali.

  “Write ‘In Thy Name, O God,’” he said softly.

  Ali hesitated and then complied, his fingers moving swiftly across the sheet as the Prophet continued.

  “These are the terms of the truce between Muhammad, Messenger of God, and Suhayl, son
of Amr…”

  Suhayl giggled, an obnoxious sound that made me want to slap him.

  “Pardon me, but if we believed you to be the Messenger of God, we really wouldn’t be in this position, would we?”

  The Messenger looked at him, and I expected his patience to finally break. But I was surprised to see my husband’s eyes twinkle, as if he were a child playing a game with a mischievous friend.

  “Strike out ‘Messenger of God’ and replace it with ‘Muhammad, son of Abdallah,’” the Prophet said to Ali.

  Ali looked up at him and I saw the young man’s mysterious green eyes filling with surprise. He lifted the pen and brought it to the parchment, and then lowered it again without making a mark.

  “I…I cannot.”

  There was a murmur through the crowd, as some whispered their shock at Ali’s uncharacteristic defiance of his elder cousin, while others expressed their pride in his refusal to give in to Suhayl’s offensive niggling.

  The Prophet sighed in exasperation and looked around at the men as if peering into their souls to see who would assist him. And then his eyes fell on me.

  “Aisha, show me where the words are,” he said.

  I felt every eye in the tent on me and for once I was glad that my face was hidden behind a black veil. I did not want the Companions to see the wicked smile on my face as I walked past Ali and leaned over the Prophet’s shoulder. I stared down at the page and saw where Ali had written my husband’s name and his title as Messenger of God. And then I pointed my forefinger at the simple swirls of the Arabic alphabet, indicating to the Prophet where the troublesome language lay.

  The Messenger took the pen from Ali’s hands and without any hesitation crossed out his sacred designation. My task fulfilled, I stepped back, but my eyes locked with Ali’s, and I savored my tiny victory over the man who had sought my downfall.

  Muhammad handed the pen back to Ali, who bit his lip and wrote over the deleted honorific “the son of Abdallah”…

  A SHORT WHILE LATER, the treaty was signed and Suhayl departed to take the news of the Prophet’s capitulation to his masters in Mecca. I saw the sullen and disappointed faces of the Companions, but none had the courage to press the matter further with my husband.

  None except Umar.

  The Prophet sensed Umar’s eyes on him and he turned to face the father of Hafsa, the man who had once been considered the most stalwart of his followers. My husband raised his eyebrows and stood patiently, waiting for Umar to explode.

  But when the giant of a man spoke, it was not with outrage but with deep confusion and mistrust.

  “Are you truly the Messenger of God?” he said softly, a question that was shocking in its implications. I heard several Companions gasp loudly. Had Umar lost his faith? Had the great defender of Islam become an apostate?

  Whatever thoughts may have run through his mind, the Prophet merely raised his head with dignity.

  “I am” was all he said. All he needed to say.

  “Your promised us victory!” The fight had seeped out of Umar and his usually deep and raging voice was now more like the whine of a disappointed child.

  The Prophet stepped forward and put a gentle hand on Umar’s forearm.

  “And I have delivered it you,” he said confidently. “This treaty will be the greatest victory of Islam.”

  Umar’s shoulders fell, as did his voice, which was now almost a whisper.

  “But you said that God promised us we would conduct the rites of Pilgrimage…” he croaked out.

  The Prophet turned to my father, and Abu Bakr spoke loudly, as if he intended his words to be heard by all the secret doubters in the tent, not just by Umar.

  “God did not promise us that it would be this year,” Abu Bakr said, and I saw people lower their heads in shame as his soothing voice put out the last fires of rebellion in their hearts.

  As my father’s words sank into his heart, Umar knelt down at the feet of the Messenger and kissed his right hand, tears streaming from his face.

  “Forgive me, O Messenger of God,” he said, his voice trembling with grief.

  My husband took Umar’s hand and helped him rise to his feet.

  “You are forgiven, my friend,” he said warmly. “Come, let us spread the good news to the pilgrims. The war is over. Peace has come to Arabia at last.”

  At these words, I saw the sad looks evaporate, replaced by beaming faces and mouths opened wide in laughter. I suddenly felt a rush of joy as the truth of it came home to me at long last. We had made a treaty with the Meccans. A peace treaty that would end a war that now spanned almost two decades. There would be no more horrific battles, no more agonizing cries of mothers as they looked down upon the corpses of their sons. There would be no more Hamzas struck down in the prime of their lives, their bodies mutilated and dishonored. No more Talhas to lose the use of their hands and be forced to live like cripples, the cruel repayment for heroism in this world. My heart soared at the thought that the ten-year truce could become permanent and that Arabia would never be cursed with the misery of bloodshed again.

  But I was wrong, and I would soon learn that the peace we embraced that night, like the gentle caress of the Divine Sakina, was a fleeting moment to be savored but could no more be held in one’s grasp than the fickle kiss of the wind.

  32

  Word had reached the Jewish fortress at Khayber of Muhammad’s peace treaty with the Meccans, and Huyayy had raged and cursed for days about the betrayal of the Quraysh. The Arabs were two-faced dogs, he had ranted, and they had abandoned their promises to their allies in the hopes of securing some temporary security against the expanding influence of Medina.

  Safiya had tried to calm him, but her father had refused to listen. The Treaty of Hudaybiyya was the proof that Huyayy had been seeking of the treachery of his erstwhile Meccan allies. Ever since the failure of the Siege of the Trench, Huyayy had become obsessed with speculation that Abu Sufyan had betrayed him and made a secret agreement with the Muslims to withdraw, leaving his Jewish compatriots of the Bani Qurayza to face annihilation. She knew that the guilt he felt about the destruction of the last remaining Jewish tribe of Medina weighed heavily on her father’s heart, and the only way that he could bear the pain was to find someone besides himself to blame for the tragedy.

  Though few among her people shared in Huyayy’s increasingly elaborate conspiracy theories, there was no denying that the treaty between Muhammad and his pagan enemies had forever altered the balance of power in the peninsula. And the new reality did not favor the people of Khaybar, the last remaining Jewish settlement in Arabia. Without the support of the Meccans, the tiny enclave was isolated and exceedingly vulnerable to conquest by the ambitious Arab prophet.

  And so it was that the elders of Khaybar opened their ears to the words of the Byzantine envoy. Donatus had arrived earlier that morning at Khaybar with a small contingent of Syrian guards bearing the seal of Heraclius, Emperor of Constantinople. Even though Heraclius was no friend of the Jews, Safiya’s father had convinced the elders of the settlement to offer him a dignified welcome, for they shared a common enemy.

  Safiya eyed the Byzantine emissary with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. He was dressed in the flowing dalmatic of the Romans, the long-sleeved robe partially covering his brightly striped tunic and tight breeches. A blue Phrygian cap covered his flowing brown hair and bracelets of gold glittered on his wrists. All in all, Donatus looked more like a primped and pretty girl than a man of power, and his authority was based on aristocratic blood rather than achievement. She had no patience for such weak men, especially after her father had compelled her to marry Kinana, a prissy nobleman of Khaybar whose touch she found repellent.

  Safiya listened intently as Donatus explained how the Byzantine emperor had become aware of the new power rising on his southern borders. Apparently Muhammad had himself reached out to the imperial court with a letter inviting the Romans to surrender to his God. News of this startling development set the co
uncil room ablaze with excited talk until Huyayy called for silence so that Donatus could give more details.

  According to Byzantine intelligence agents, the Arab prophet had similarly written to the Persian emperor Khusro at Ctesiphon, who had been so stunned at the audacity of this illiterate Arab chieftain that he had the letter torn up.

  Though the Persians had laughingly dismissed the idea that the newly rising power in Arabia was of any concern to them, the Byzantines had been sufficiently alarmed by the speed of Muhammad’s consolidation of the tribes to decide that it merited a response. Heraclius had instructed his generals to begin preparations for a preemptive invasion of the peninsula before its ambitious prophet-king became a problem for the empire’s lucrative trade routes. And the Byzantines wanted the help of the people of Khaybar in mounting their attack.

  “Your fortress would be an important staging ground for the imperial army,” Donatus said in his awkwardly accented Arabic, clearly taught to him by those who spoke the dialects of the Syrian desert.

  There was a moment of tense silence as the elders considered the ramifications of the proposed alliance. Safiya saw that all eyes were on Huyayy, whom the Jewish chieftains deferred to as the most experienced man in dealing with Muhammad and his troublesome religious movement. As the rapid spread of Islam was now the primary topic of conversation among the political elites, her father had become the de facto leader of the Khaybar community, even though he was a refugee who had survived only because of the generosity of local citizens.

  Huyayy eyed the Byzantine ambassador coolly, his brows knitted in deep thought. Safiya knew that her father was glad to have found a potential new ally against Muhammad, but his inherent distrust of Gentiles was holding him back from embracing the envoy’s offer.