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

by Kamran Pasha

  The sudden thunder of hooves echoed from the valley below, and I saw Khalid lead his horsemen toward a tiny pass at the base of the mountain. The Prophet raised his right fist and Talha grabbed a black flag and twirled it. The sign was seen by a group of archers hidden in a ridge to the east of our position and a volley of arrows suddenly rained down on the Meccan cavalry. The horses reared in surprise and Khalid pulled his men back, his eyes scanning the mountain until he located the source of the projectiles. The cavalry did not retreat to the Meccan camp but held position just outside the range of our arrows.

  The Messenger rose and shouted across the hill, his voice echoing to the archers.

  “Hold your positions,” he cried. “You are the vanguard of the Muslims. Do not lower your bows until I command you!”

  The archers nodded and I felt a stirring of hope. As long as they remained in place, Khalid would be unable to ride through the pass and attack our forces from the rear. The Muslims held the benefit of high ground, which somewhat mitigated the Meccan advantage in numbers.

  The rumble of drums caused my eyes to flash back to the Meccan camp. As one figure moved forward and I recognized the scarlet-and-gold turban.

  “O men of Aws and Khazraj!” Abu Sufyan called out. “Quit the field now and leave my cousin to me. Once we have killed this troublemaker, Mecca will leave your lands. We have no fight with you!”

  Perhaps his offer would have carried weight three years before, when the people of Medina had still seen one another as members of one tribe or the other. But since we had arrived, I heard less and less the mention of these ancient clans as the citizens began to think of themselves first and foremost as Muslims. As if reading my thoughts, the leaders of the Aws and Khazraj responded to Abu Sufyan’s challenge with a unified thunder of war drums.

  “So be it.” Abu Sufyan nodded, as if he had expected this response. As the leader of Mecca turned back to his people, I heard the rattle of timbrels and a familiar sensual voice rose up from the camp, sending shivers down my spine.

  It was Hind, leading a group of women in a dance around the soldiers. They were dressed in tight-fitting tunics and skirts cut high to reveal flashes of their thighs as they whirled and chanted, arousing the lust of their men, a fire that would soon be stoked to white-hot rage.

  “Advance and we embrace you, and soft carpets spread,” they sang in throaty voices, like lovers crying out at the height of passion. “But turn your backs and we leave you. Leave you and never love you.”

  It was an ancient verse, sung by women of every generation to goad their men to battle. And I could see its power. The Meccan soldiers clashed their swords to shields and bared their teeth like wolves as Hind ignited their loins and their hearts to a frenzy.

  Watching Hind, I was both fascinated and repelled by her power. There was something both beautifully feminine and ruthlessly feral about her. I wanted to run from Hind, and at the same time I wanted to learn from her all the terrible secrets she held, the secrets of women’s power over men.

  As Hind crouched and spun to the thrumming beat of the women’s timbrels, I saw Hamza step forward, watching her. And then Hind saw him, recognized the ostrich feather he always proudly wore on his helmet, and bared her teeth in what could have been a smile or a snarl. Or both at once, if that were possible.

  “That woman is the devil,” Hamza said, his eyes focused on her sensuous, swaying form. Bilal stood beside him, his eyes poring over the front lines of the enemy forces.

  “They have even brought their slaves today,” he said with clear regret. “I see Wahsi, my friend.”

  Hamza placed a comforting hand on the shorter man’s shoulder.

  “There are no friends on the battlefield, Bilal,” he said without hesitation, but I could hear the compassion in his voice. “If you face him in the heat of war, do what you must.”

  Bilal nodded sadly. And then the thunder of drums stopped. The women fled from the front lines and disappeared into the Meccan camp as the true dance of death began. As at Badr, the Meccans sent forth a champion, a young man I did not recognize but who strode onto the field proudly, jeering confidently at his opponents. He swung his mighty sword and twirled it like the African fire-eaters I had seen perform when a caravan from Abyssinia stopped at Mecca years before. It was a powerful show, meant to mock and terrify the Muslims at the same time.

  The Prophet dispatched Ali, who strode out onto the battlefield, his dual-bladed sword, Dhul Fiqar, glowing in the sunlight. And then, without any words or performance, Ali struck out and in one blow tore through the Meccan champion’s breastplate. The man fell over dead, the mocking smile still frozen on his lips. I heard a horrified cry, and another man, who distinctly resembled the thin-faced champion, rushed out onto the battlefield. This second warrior, almost definitely the brother of the first, ran after Ali, who was facing away from the attacker. And then Hamza charged out onto the plain and hacked the brother to death with his terrifying broadsword before he could stab Ali in the back.

  Silence fell over the battlefield as both sides stared in shock at this duel that had lasted no more than a half a minute. It was such a similar moment to what I’d seen at Badr that I had that strange feeling that sometimes comes when the veil of time is tangled and past and present become one. The Meccans must have felt the same, because the sight of their most feared champions struck down again like unarmed children sent a wave of rage and fear through the enemy camp.

  And then, without further ceremony, the warriors of Mecca charged.

  This time no cloud of dust arose to block my view of the battle, nor did I witness any ghostly riders come to our aid. What I saw beneath me was raw and brutal and would forever haunt my memory.

  The Meccans flew at our men with unbridled savagery. Their swords flashed red as the sun reflected off the volcanic rock and soon the ancient stones were splattered with a darker shade of crimson. The clash of blades against shields was deafening, as if a thousand bolts of lightning had struck at the base of Uhud, the thunder reverberating with such painful force that I covered my ears with tightly clenched fists.

  Wave upon wave, they came upon us like an ocean of metal racing to flood the valley with death. And yet the Muslims held their ground. We had the protection of the mountain, and even as our front lines held up their shields to the unrelenting onslaught, those behind them rained spears and arrows upon the attackers.

  I heard screams everywhere—the cries of pain and triumph, as well as the whimpers of the dying. To my surprise, many of the mortally wounded who had only moments before fought with such animal ferocity now became like little children, crying out for their mothers as the horror of death came upon them. It was that desperate weeping that shocked me more than anything else I witnessed that day, and suddenly the curtain of glory was stripped away and war was presented in it naked ugliness. As the smell of gore and entrails wafted up to me, I looked away, trying to hide the tears that were welling in my eyes. Tears for an enemy that would have no qualm slicing my body to shreds should any escape death and penetrate our defenses. It made no sense and I felt shame and disgust and horror all at once.

  Despite my best efforts to hide my conflicted feelings, the Messenger saw the grief on my face and nodded. He understood.

  I forced myself to look, to watch this deadly massacre that was unfolding only fifty feet away from me. I saw Hamza tear through the front lines, his ostrich feather splattered with grime and human remains as he cut down men with the ease of a farmer using a sickle on shafts of grain.

  And then suddenly the Muslim defense became an offense. With Hamza in the lead, our warriors began to push through, forcing the Meccans to give ground and tumble back toward their camp in disarray. The reversal of momentum only increased the courage of our forces and the confusion of the enemy, and suddenly the Muslims were streaming across the battlefield and the Meccans desperately seeking to stave off our advance. I heard cries of joy as the stalemate broke and the advantage went to the followers of
Muhammad. Despite my own complicated feelings at the sight of the dreadful slaughter, I called out to the warriors, even as Hind had encouraged her own men to fight.

  “Victory is within your grasp, my sons!” I cried out, unsure and uncaring whether they could hear me over the din of battle. As a twelve-year-old girl, I always felt awkward referring to grown men as my children. But it somehow felt right at this moment. I saw Talha look down at me and wink, and I flashed him a smile that made color rise to his cheeks.

  And then I felt the Messenger stiffen. I thought perhaps I had done wrong by calling out to the troops as Hind had done, but when I looked at my husband, I saw that he was paying no attention to me. His eyes were on the battlefield as the Muslims advanced near the Meccan camp at the other end of the valley.

  I strained my eyes to see the source of his consternation. As the armies battled like raging ants below, I saw one figure who stood out distinctly in the chaos. Tall, black, and unarmored, he moved like a bird, flitting through the madness without engaging in combat. It was the slave Wahsi, whom Bilal had sorrowed over, and I saw that he was unarmed except for a long javelin that he held like a third arm.

  Down on the battlefield, Hamza was striking down his opponents like a living tornado. He struck off the head of one unlucky warrior and then spun and sliced off the arm of a second, who had tried to stab him from behind. Wherever Hamza went, howls of pain erupted and were quickly silenced.

  And then the Prophet’s uncle stopped in the middle of a swing of his blade, his head raised as if he had heard something distinct in the midst of that horrible cacophony. He suddenly turned to his left and the jumble of warriors all around him parted for an instant, like the waters under the staff of Moses. And across that gap, less than thirty feet away, stood Wahsi.

  And then Wahsi threw his javelin, which flew across the plain faster than my eye could see. In one instant, it was in the black slave’s powerful grasp. And then a moment later, I saw it tear through Hamza’s abdomen and explode out through the small of his back.

  I heard the Messenger sob next to me, but I could not look at him. I was transfixed at the sight of this mighty warrior, standing with absolute dignity as a river of blood poured out of his wound. And then this mountain of a man fell, and my heart crumpled with him.

  A shocked silence seemed to descend over the battlefield as soldiers on both sides stared at Hamza’s corpse. And then I heard something that made my blood chill. It was the terrifying laughter of Hind and it seemed to echo from every stone in the valley.

  But it was laughter that was cut short. For the sight of their commander dead on the field only filled the Muslims with fury. And then, as if Hamza in death had given a share of his lion’s heart to each man present, the Muslims charged with renewed passion. There was a frenzy in them that was terrifying. The Meccan forces were unable to defend against this rage and I saw the front lines of our advance break through until the Muslims were swarming the heart of the Meccan camp, dealing out death like children swatting flies.

  “Retreat!” Abu Sufyan’s despairing and humiliated cry rang out through the valley even as Hind’s bloodlust had echoed only minutes before. I saw the Meccan shields shatter and the mighty warriors flee for the security of a mountain pass that would facilitate their escape.

  I looked at the Messenger, whose cheeks were stained with tears. Hamza had been his uncle, but they were of similar age and their bond had always been more like that of brothers. Hamza had helped fill the heart of a boy whose mother and father had left him an orphan without any other siblings. I took my husband’s hand and squeezed it, and he nodded gratefully.

  The Muslims had won the Battle of Uhud even as they had won Badr. But each time there was a terrible price for Muhammad personally, the price of blood that God exacted on him and his family. First Ruqayya and now Hamza. For a man who hated fighting, whose message had always been one of peace, it was as if the cosmos were seeking to ensure that his heart would never become hard to the horror of warfare. Many kings thought of their soldiers as expendable, their deaths on the battlefield no more meaningful than a hill of ants crushed by a passing chariot wheel. But for the Messenger of God, war would always be personal, and the cost would have to be borne by those he loved the most.

  Still, the victory was a remarkable one, which made Badr look like a small skirmish. Now the legend of the Muslims would spread throughout the desert and more tribes would join us in alliance. A victory of this magnitude would change the history of Arabia forever. And perhaps it would not be long before the Muslims would lay siege to Mecca and liberate the Sanctuary. And then the war would end and all Arabia would become Muslim.

  I tried to think like a man, forcing my reason to subdue my raging grief. I told myself that it was a victory that was worth the terrible cost. But that same day I learned that victory should not be counted until the last man has fled the battlefield.

  20

  The archers positioned at the eastern ridge of Uhud watched with delight as the Muslims ravaged the Meccan camp, tearing its haughty pavilions to shreds and grabbing weapons and gold dropped by the fleeing pagans. The men cheered as the battle thundered toward its conclusion.

  A young archer named Madani threw down his bow and began to climb down the hillside, gesturing excitedly to his colleagues.

  “Let’s go, or we’ll lose our share of the booty!”

  Their hearts wild with joy, the archers began to climb after the youth. But their commander, a short Aws tribesman named Safi who could shoot a rabbit a hundred feet away, signaled to his men to halt.

  “Hold your positions! The Messenger has not relieved us!”

  “No need! The battle’s over!” Madani’s voice was followed by a loud cheer from his friends as they tore down the mountainside and broke into a run toward the besieged Meccan camp.

  Safi stared after them, despairing. He turned to look at the Prophet’s base camp across the hillside and saw that Messenger was standing, his face filled with alarm.

  “No! Turn back!” The Prophet’s voice thundered across the ridge. And then the horsemen under Khalid’s command emerged from the shadows at the base of the mountain and rode like lightning toward the tiny pass that would allow them to attack the Muslims from the rear.

  Safi fell to his knees in horror, shame and guilt tearing through him at his failure to enforce discipline. Khalid rode up right behind the poor Madani, whose youthful laughter was cut short by one blow from the mighty warrior’s blade. The other archers who had broken ranks were either slain or fled in terror at the sight of the Meccan cavalry that their shortsightedness had now unleashed on the Muslim army.

  I COVERED MY MOUTH in horror as I witnessed Khalid’s horsemen ride up in a cloud of red dust to strike at our men from behind. There were shouts of confusion that quickly turned to screams of agony as Khalid expertly cut down the surprised Muslims. And then I felt the ground around me shake as the men who surrounded the Messenger raced down the face of Uhud to help their fallen comrades. But they were now trapped between the Meccan army to the south and the cavalry that rode down to them from the north, like mollusks caught between the crushing pincers of a giant crab.

  In a matter of seconds everything had changed. A clear victory was beginning to look like a horrific defeat.

  And then I saw a cloud of dust heading in our direction and I realized that some of the cavalry had broken off their rearguard assault when they realized that the Prophet’s base camp was relatively undefended. My heart flew into my throat as I saw a group of warriors racing toward us, spears drawn.

  The few Muslims who remained at the camp included women who had accompanied their husbands to the battlefield and were now in danger of being swept into the heart of battle. Talha leaped to his feet to protect us, as did my elderly father. They were only half a dozen men, but they quickly formed a circle around the Messenger. And then I saw the women grab discarded bows and fire upon the onrushing cavalry. The unexpected rain of arrows from these courageou
s ladies surprised the horsemen and slowed their advance.

  But slowing the cavalry was like trying to dam a raging river. One of the horsemen bravely rode through the wave of oncoming missiles and approached the edge of our camp. His sword was raised in challenge, and the sun illuminated his familiar face. And my heart forgot to beat.

  It was my brother Abdal Kaaba, my father’s eldest son, who had rejected Islam and his family. And now he was bearing down upon us with deadly hate in his eyes.

  “Who has the courage to face me?” he bellowed. The sun was in his eyes and I was unsure whether he recognized the people he threatened, his own flesh and blood. And then I saw my father move faster than I could have imagined possible for a man of his age. Abu Bakr’s sword was drawn and he moved to face his son in a deadly duel. I wanted to scream for this nightmare to end, for me to wake up in my small apartment and realize that none of theses horrors existed outside my fevered imagination.

  As my father moved forward, I saw Abdal Kaaba look down at him and recognition dawn. A flash of shock lit his features, so similar to Abu Bakr’s that it was as if a spirit from inside a mirror had emerged to engage in battle. But then a shadow fell over my brother’s face and his shock was replaced by a mask of steel. If father and son were meant to fight to the death in this bitter contest, then so be it.

  And then my husband rose and put a restraining arm on Abu Bakr.

  “Sheathe your sword,” he said gently. “Go back to your place and give us the good of your company.”

  The Messenger’s words penetrated to my father’s heart. He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees as if the tendons in his legs had suddenly been cut. I saw tears flowing down his face and I stared across the rocky hillside at my brother, wondering whether he would ride forward and kill us.

  Abdal Kaaba looked at my weeping father, and then at me. And then he cursed loudly and turned back, riding away from this madness as if pursued by flying djinn. But even as he retreated, others rode forward and the small company of defenders prepared to engage them. As I looked at the stony faces in our tiny circle, I said a silent prayer to God, telling Him that if I died today, I would be thankful that death came while I had these remarkable people at my side.