by Kamran Pasha
I could see the air steam from my breath, and the chill only worsened as we left the city behind and crossed into the moonlit hills. I began to feel a tug of fear. What was this all about? Where was my father taking me in the dead of the night? For a moment, I had a terrible vision of Abraham leading his son into the wilderness in order to sacrifice him to God. I loved Allah and I loved my father, but I did not think that I could surrender willingly to the knife as the boy had.
Now that we were far away from Mecca and no one was likely to hear us, I tentatively spoke up.
“Where are we going?”
My father hesitated, as if debating whether to reveal his true purpose yet.
“To Aqaba,” he said finally, and pulled me along faster across the rocky earth.
Aqaba? That made no sense. It was barren area at the base of a volcanic mound where caravans stopped to let their camels rest before the final climb through the hills and into the heart of Mecca.
“But there is nothing there except stones and sand!” Suddenly I didn’t like this mystery at all.
“Tonight there will be more,” my father said. Despite my continuous barrage of questions, he said nothing else.
We climbed over the last hill that formed the official boundary of the holy city. My father stopped at the peak and looked down into the valley of Mina below. I could see a haze of campfire in the distance, illuminating a vast tent city that must have housed a thousand pilgrims. These were people who could not afford lodgings in Mecca itself and camped outside while they were performing the rites of Pilgrimage.
We started to climb down and I nearly lost my footing. My father grabbed my hand and held it tight as I saw a shower of pebbles race down the hill to shatter on the jagged rocks below. When we finally made it to the base of the hill, I started to move toward the tent city on the horizon, assuming it was our destination. But my father tugged on my hand and pulled me back. He started walking across the base of the hill away from the brightly lit camp until we reached a place shadowed between two hills and surrounded by rocky boulders.
The moon was behind the hills and no light shone down upon this craggy section of desert. It was pitch black, nearly impossible to penetrate, even after my eyes had adjusted to the darkness.
As we moved forward into this void that was darker than any cave, I finally saw the outlines of figures up ahead, heard the soft murmur of voices.
I suddenly heard a clink of metal and saw the quick flash of a blade in the dark. My father stopped dead in his tracks as a boulder moved and I realized that it was not a stone, but a mountain of a man—the Prophet’s uncle Hamza.
“Who goes there?” he snarled, and I sensed that the sword would slash down without any hesitation if he didn’t like the answer.
“Softly, Hamza. It is I.”
Hamza leaned forward until he could see my father. He nodded, but then his eyes went wide when he saw me standing beside Abu Bakr.
“You brought this child?” he asked incredulously. Whatever was happening here tonight, it was clearly not the place for a small girl. A conclusion I had already come to on my own.
“She is not like other children, a fact you know well,” my father said, a hint of pride in his voice. “It is fitting that she should be present at the Messenger’s side tonight.”
The mighty Hamza scowled, but he stepped aside.
My father led me toward the voices, and I saw a circle of unfamiliar men, along with a few women I also did not recognize. The Messenger of God was speaking in hushed tones to these strangers. When he saw my father and me, he smiled widely, but he continued conversing with the people in the group.
I tugged on my father’s sleeve.
“Who are these men?”
He bent down to whisper in my ears.
“Tribesmen of the Aws and Khazraj in Yathrib.”
Of all the possible answers, that was one I did not expect. Yathrib was an oasis ten days’ camel ride to the north of Mecca. It had the blessing of fresh water and plentiful date trees and was a regular stop for merchants heading to the markets of Syria and Persia.
But despite its strategic positioning, the city had failed to achieve the level of prosperity of Mecca, which lacked agriculture but had the benefit of peace. Yathrib was a cautionary tale for the people of Arabia. Divided between two rival clans, the Aws and the Khazraj, the city had been consumed by a century of blood feuds whose origins were long forgotten. Several Jewish tribes lived in the vicinity and had survived the constant state of warfare by strategically shifting alliances whenever the balance of power necessitated. I knew little about the politics of Yathrib, but I did know that the men of Aws and Khazraj hated each other, and I could not understand what these bitter enemies were doing here, meeting the Messenger in the dead of night.
“What do they want?” I asked, my curiosity having reasserted itself as apprehension waned.
My father looked at the Messenger with warm eyes.
“An arbitrator.”
And suddenly it all began to make sense.
The Messenger finished his converse with these foreigners and waved with his right hand to Abu Bakr to come join him. I walked rapidly by my father’s side, almost tripping over a troublesome rock that rolled under my slippers.
When I entered the circle by the Prophet, I saw his uncle Abbas talking animatedly with the newcomers.
“Why is he here?” I whispered. “He’s not a Muslim.” Abbas was known to be sympathetic to his nephew, but like Abu Talib, he had not formally embraced the new Way and had never been included in the secret deliberations of our community.
“No,” my father acknowledged. “But he loves his nephew and will do what he must to protect him.”
Abbas looked at the Messenger, who nodded, and the lord of Quraysh turned to address the small crowd.
“People of Yathrib!” he said, and his voice echoed in the small enclosure. “You know the esteem in which we hold Muhammad, and we have protected him from his enemies. But he has resolved to turn to you and bind himself to you. So if you think you can keep your promises to him and protect him, the burden will be upon you. But if you fear that you will betray him and fail in your obligations, then leave him now.”
I did not fully understand what he was saying, but the words he has resolved to turn to you hit me in the stomach. Was the Prophet leaving us?
A chief of the Khazraj, a thin man with a prominent wart on his left cheek, stepped forward. I would later learn that his name was Bara.
“We are ready, Messenger of God,” Bara said solemnly. “What say you?”
The Messenger raised both his hands. And when he spoke, it was as if a lion were thundering through the darkness.
“I make with you this pact on condition that the allegiance you pledge to me shall bind you to protect me even as you protect your women and children.”
Muhammad, may God’s blessings and peace be upon him, then lowered his left hand and extended his right. Bara stepped forward and took his hand, his head lowered in humility.
“By Him who sent you with truth, we will protect you as you protect him,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “So accept our pledge of allegiance, O Messenger of God!”
As I watched, one by one the men stepped forward and took the Prophet’s right hand and pledged the same. Then my father lifted a silver bowl that was at the Messenger’s feet and I saw that it was filled with clear water. Muhammad dipped his right hand into the bowl, and the women of Yathrib came and placed their fingers at the other end of the bowl, the water linking them, a symbolic act through which the Prophet accepted the allegiance of the women while respecting their dignity.
As the women proceeded to make the same oath, I turned to my father, confused.
“What does this mean?”
His answer would change my life. As well as the history of the world.
“It means, sweet girl, that we are leaving Mecca.”
23
Despite our best efforts to keep o
ur plans secret, the steady flow of Muslims out of the city soon became evident. An emergency council of elders was called, and the men gathered in Abu Sufyan’s sitting room. The chieftains had been summoned hastily when the word first spread of the silent exodus of Muhammad’s followers. Normally they would have met inside the lofty-pillared Hall of Assembly, but even the seat of Mecca’s power was infested with the spreading disease of rebellion and was no longer a safe haven for discussing matters of state. It was for this reason, more than any other, that Abu Sufyan hated Muhammad. His stubborn movement had forced the tribal leaders to deliberate in secret like criminals, for fear of inciting further strife. To Abu Sufyan, it was a sad—and dangerous—world where kings hid like rodents from their own subjects. And it was a state of affairs that could not be allowed to continue.
Abu Sufyan turned his attention to a tall man with a well-trimmed beard, a scar under his left eye marring his otherwise well-crafted features: Khalid ibn al-Waleed, the mightiest warrior of the Quraysh and captain of its armies. Khalid had been charged with organizing nightly patrols to make sure that no Muslims escaped the city, but his efforts had clearly failed.
“How could this have happened?” Abu Sufyan barked. “Where were the sentries?”
Khalid stepped forward. His robes were of midnight black and silver, and his leather belt was studded with dozens of emeralds—allegedly one for each man he had slain in battle.
“My men were positioned to the west to prevent escape by the sea,” Khalid said, no hint of apology in his proud voice. “But the refugees have turned north.”
Abu Sufyan raised his eyebrows. There was only one place he could imagine they would go. But it made no sense.
“To Yathrib?”
Khalid shrugged, but his brown eyes suggested that this was his own suspicion.
“The rumor is that they are seeking Muhammad to serve as an arbitrator in their never-ending disputes with each other,” Abu Lahab said, rising with some difficulty from the purple cushions that had been crushed by his generous posterior.
Abu Sufyan considered this. It was a surprising development. But perhaps a welcome one. The Aws and the Khazraj had been at one another’s throats for a century. Perhaps the gods had given them a great gift. Muhammad would eventually become a victim of their fratricidal hate, and the hands of the Quraysh would be clean of his blood.
“Good. Let them have this troublemaker,” Abu Sufyan said.
There was a murmur of agreement among the nobles, and Abu Sufyan saw on their weary faces the same light of hope that had just been lit in his heart. Maybe this nightmare would at last be over.
“Letting Muhammad go to Yathrib is a mistake.” Hind chose this moment to speak, and the tentative looks of relief vanished across the room.
“And why is that, my dear?” Abu Sufyan, said, hiding his irritation.
Hind stood up, ignoring her husband and addressing her response to the chieftains. He saw her move among them like a cheetah, exciting their passion as she had the night she had entranced Umar into her web.
“The men of Yathrib have long looked upon this city with envy,” she said, her voice cold with calculation. “They could use Muhammad’s religion as a rallying cry to attack us.”
Abu Sufyan snorted, trying to regain his authority.
“Unlikely,” he said flatly. “Mecca has always had good relations with the Jewish tribes of Yathrib, who benefit from the perpetual war between Aws and Khazraj. They will never allow them to unite.”
But Hind, as always, cut away at his confidence.
“And what if the Jews embrace him?” she taunted. “His religion is much like theirs, and he claims to be a prophet like their Moses. Would you risk bringing down their wrath upon us as well?”
Abu Sufyan tried to find a response, but for once he was struck dumb. He had never paid much attention to Muhammad’s theology. It was enough that his One God would obliterate the multiple deities of the Arabs, leading to the end of the Pilgrimage and Mecca’s prosperity. That was all he had cared about. But now, as he thought about what Hind was saying, he was furious to discover that she had a point. The Jews also worshiped One God and were expecting a prophet to come and grant them victory over the nations. If they fell for Muhammad’s delusions, a new and more devastating war might be ignited in Arabia.
The grotesquely obese Abu Lahab spoke out loud what Abu Sufyan was thinking but was still too proud to admit.
“Your wife is right,” he said. “Letting Muhammad go is too dangerous. Here in Mecca, we have some control over his poison. But once he is free from our watchful gaze, his words will spread like the sands on the wind.”
“We’ve been down this path before,” Abu Sufyan said. “Even if Muhammad is killed, the men of your clan will be honor bound to avenge him. Umar was willing to face the daggers of Bani Hashim. But who among us is willing to sacrifice his life to silence this man?”
As he looked at the perplexed men, he realized that there were no Umars among them. Even the brave Khalid had no desire to subject himself to the wrath of Muhammad’s fanatics.
He looked up to see Hind scanning their faces. Her cheeks flushed as she came to the same conclusion. Whatever hold her flesh had once held over Umar’s heart, she did not have any lovers among these old and tired men, at least as far as Abu Sufyan knew. And if she had bedded any of the chieftains, her charms had clearly proven to be a poor enticement.
Hind suddenly stormed over to Khalid and tore his jeweled dagger from its scabbard. She held it high and let the blade glint in the harsh sunlight. Her pose was like that of a goddess of war in an old Arab poem, and it had its desired effect.
“You men are such simpletons! Why must you send a single assassin to kill this heretic? If one man from each major clan of Quraysh joins in the deed, you will all share the blood guilt. Is there any among Bani Hashim who can take on all of Quraysh?”
She looked directly at Abu Lahab.
“Regrettably, the task would be too great for even the most avid supporter of Muhammad in my clan,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “I would be forced to accept compensation to end the matter.”
Abu Sufyan looked at his wife’s triumphant smile and he shook his head, both surprised with the simple elegance of her plan and exasperated that it had taken a woman to come up with it. Maybe he should just step aside and let Mecca be ruled by this ruthless queen rather than his circle of impotent old fools.
Abu Jahl clapped loudly his assent, his eyes looking with approval at Hind.
“Then it is settled,” he said, beaming with satisfaction. “We will join together and kill Muhammad. And this madness will finally be at an end.”
“So be it,” Abu Sufyan said, rising to remind them that it was he, rather than his wife, who made the decisions in Mecca.
“When shall we act?” Abu Lahab asked, his pudgy hands clasped in excitement at the thought of his nephew’s imminent death.
“Tonight,” said Hind. “The new moon will provide a cover of darkness for the assassins.”
“Darkness for dark deeds,” Abu Sufyan said wearily. “I never thought we, the rulers of Mecca, would be forced to hide in the shadows like thieves in our own city.”
Hind reached forward and ran her hand across his leg. Despite his best efforts at control, his member hardened. She took the studded leather pouch from his belt and poured into her hands a dozen gold dirhams. And then with an instinctive flair for drama, Hind turned and threw the gold across the room into the crowd of chieftains. She smiled with contempt as the powerful men fell to their knees to pick up the valuable coins. It was a simple moment that revealed everything, as Hind had intended. For, like Muhammad, the nobles of Mecca had only one god, and they bowed even now before it.
“Never fear, my husband,” she said in a soft voice, meant only for him. “Once Muhammad is dead, we shall return to stealing openly under the sun.”
It was the sultry tone Hind used exclusively in bed, and suddenly Abu Sufyan had to fight the
urge to throw her on the ground and take her like a dog in heat. The lord of Mecca looked at her with both desire and despair. The chieftains worshiped a god of gold. And he, a goddess of fire.
THE ASSASSINS GATHERED OUTSIDE Muhammad’s home, their black cloaks melding perfectly into the shadows cast by the small sprinkling of stars in the overcast sky. The Meccan general Khalid crouched beside his old friend Amr ibn al-As and Hind’s arrogantly handsome brother Waleed ibn Utbah. They could see the lights flickering on the second level, in the family living quarters, and the distinct sound of women’s lyrical voices could be heard from within. The heavy iron gate, normally left open, had been chained, a precaution that the Muslims were taking in all their homes since the death of Abu Talib.
Waleed argued for scaling the wall and taking Muhammad by surprise. Amr was shocked at the suggestion, reminding Waleed that there were women inside. Waleed sneered at Amr’s sense of propriety, but Khalid silenced him.
“Amr is right,” the warrior said, his shrewd eyes taking in everything at once as he developed a strategy of attack. “Muhammad’s followers will defend him to the death. If we hurt one of the women, the honor of Quraysh will be sullied, and even Abu Lahab will be unable to quell the fire of revenge among his clan.”
Waleed shook his head, unconvinced.
“Muhammad emerges every morning before sunrise to pray,” Khalid continued. “He uses the well in his yard for ablutions.” The Meccan general nodded to an ancient circle of stones at the edge of the property.
“We will kill him the moment he steps outside,” Amr said with a smile, satisfied that decorum would be preserved even in the act of murder.
Khalid lay back against the cold pebbles of the earth and slowed his breathing. He needed to preserve his energy for the moment the door opened. Khalid closed his eyes and time passed in silence. The world seemed to slip away from him. And then he jolted upright. The eastern sky was brightening in herald of the sun god. Khalid looked at the others and saw their eyes were closed, too. He stifled a curse. In all his years as a sentry, he had never once fallen asleep as he spied on an enemy camp. His eyes immediately flew to the gate, which he saw with some relief was still chained. Unless Muhammad had scaled the wall as Waleed had planned to do, he was still inside.
