by Kamran Pasha
Along with the ever-loyal Talha, my sister’s newly wed husband, Zubayr, stood at the edge of the circle with a sword in each hand. He was the only man I knew who could use each hand equally well and he had mastered the rare ability to wield two blades at once. As a second horseman galloped up the rocks toward our camp, Zubayr began to spin as if he were a dust devil. And then, with a dancer’s grace, he swung with his right hand and struck the approaching stallion in the breast. The mighty beast threw its rider as it flailed in agony, and as the stunned horseman fell, Zubayr continued his spin, his left hand traveling in a smooth arc through the air and slicing the man across the neck. Blood spurted from his severed jugular, and the Meccan warrior was soon lying dead next to his horse.
And then Ali was beside Zubayr, Dhul Fiqar glowing with that inexplicable light, and the two fought side by side, cutting down any Meccan foolish enough to ride up that hill of death. They were a wondrous pair, cousins who moved and acted like twin brothers who could read each other’s thoughts. There was a symmetry in the way Ali and Zubayr’s bodies moved, as if they were two wings of a giant butterfly, flapping with terrifying beauty. I had never seen two men act in such perfect unison and I admired the bond of love and kinship that forged their hearts together.
I regret many things in my life, dear Abdallah, and none more than the dagger I wedged between their hearts in the years to come. Your father was one of Ali’s few friends, and the poison that I sowed in that pure field of love would reap a better fruit for our nation. Perhaps God will forgive me. But I do not know how I can ever forgive myself.
That day, trust was not a matter of faith, friendship, or blood. It was a matter of life and death. My heart, which soared to see Zubayr and Ali protect our northern flank from attack, suddenly plunged as I saw a group of men abandon their horses and clamber up the southern rock face to attack us from behind.
I screamed and pointed to the incoming wave of Meccan soldiers, their swords held in their teeth as they spidered up the boulders. Talha was instantly at my side, and when he saw the new threat, he threw himself at the warriors.
I watched in horror as three pagans set upon my beloved cousin, who was now the only shield protecting the Messenger from certain death. Talha fought with madness in his eyes, a ferocity unlike anything I have ever seen. He struck blow after blow, even as enemies’ blades tore through his mail, leaving deep red gashes.
And yet Talha remained standing. He spun and lashed out, slicing off the arm of one assailant and then plunging his sword into the chest of a second. Talha’s sword caught inside the dying man’s rib cage and he could not remove it in time to deflect a blow from the last survivor, which cut cross his back with sickening eruption of gore. I watched in horror as Talha swayed and appeared ready to collapse. And then he somehow found the strength to raise his leg and kick his attacker in the abdomen. The man screamed as he went over the rocks and fell fifty feet, landing with a sickening crunch.
Talha staggered back to the Messenger, who was looking at him in wonder. I have no idea how he managed to walk. His armor was shredded and blood was pouring from a dozen wounds. He smiled down at the Messenger, and then his eyes fell on me. Somehow, Talha managed to wink. And then he collapsed.
“Tend to your cousin!” the Prophet cried, and I was immediately at his side. I checked his neck and felt the vein pulsing weakly with life. My father leaned over Talha, opened a water flask made from camel hide, and sprinkled the contents over his wounds. I tore strips of cloth from my cotton robe and began to bandage his numerous injuries.
Talha had protected our rear flank, but Khalid’s men were now charging en masse up the hill from the north. There were too many even for Ali and Zubayr to hold back and several of the riders broke through the pass and thundered toward us. And then I saw two women, Nusayba and Umm Sulaym, who had been firing arrows at the attackers, drop their bows and grab swords. These plump housewives with no training in the art of warfare rushed at the horsemen, swinging their blades with terrifying screams of rage. The Meccans stopped in midcharge, startled to be facing these crazed women. Their hesitation proved fatal, as Nusayba plunged her sword into the neck of one stallion, which threw his rider over the edge of a cliff, while Umm Sulaym lopped off the leg of another. When the horseman fell to the ground in shock, Nusayba cut off his head.
But even these fervent defenders could not hold everyone back. I saw a warrior whose name I later learned was Ibn Qamia ride past Ali and Zubayr, who were occupied with fighting two horsemen each, and thunder past the women, who were forced to jump aside as his warhorse nearly trampled them to death.
And then Ibn Qamia saw the Messenger seated on the rocky ground, and he gave a bloodcurdling cry. My eyes went wide as I realized there was no one to defend us from this onrushing wave of death.
I saw my elderly father reach for his sword and race toward the enraged stallion. But Ibn Qamia swatted out with one hand, striking Abu Bakr on the face with the flat of his sword and knocking him to the ground. I screamed for my father, tears blurring my sight. Ibn Qamia was nearly upon us and I saw the Messenger rise, facing death with a courage that would escape lesser men. I watched Ibn Qamia’s sword flash in the angry sunlight as he swung out in a wide arc, aimed perfectly to cut Muhammad’s head from his shoulders.
“No!” I screamed so loudly that I am sure my voice rattled the gates of Hell itself.
And then I felt movement beside me, and before I could understand what was happening, Talha’s eyes flew open and he jumped to his feet, his left hand rising to block the razor sharp blade.
I watched in disbelief as the sword cut through Talha’s palm, shattering the fingers of his hand as if they were made from dried mud. As the warrior tore Talha’s hand in half, Ibn Qamia’s flawless motion was disrupted and the arc of the sword was deflected higher. Instead of striking the Messenger in the throat, the blade slashed up and smashed into the steel of his helmet.
Blood erupted from my husband’s cheek and he fell like a doll thrown to the earth by a temperamental child. The Messenger of God lay unmoving at my feet, his handsome face marred by torn flesh and metal.
Ibn Qamia looked down, stunned at his accomplishment. He had done what the greatest warriors of Quraysh had failed to do over the past fifteen years. His eyes wide with the promise of glory, he raised his sword and called out from the mountainside, his voice carrying across the valley like a trumpet blast.
“Muhammad is dead! Muhammad is dead!”
21
I could hear the cries of joy from the Meccans and the terrible weeping of despair from our people as the chant of “Muhammad is dead” spread through the valley. As Ibn Qamia rode away in triumph, I stared down at the Messenger, unable to move. If he truly was gone, I wanted to climb to the top of Uhud and throw myself into the darkest gorge below.
And then I saw the impossible. His eyes flickered and opened and he looked up at me in confusion.
“Humayra…”
I was suddenly flying, my heart breaking through the boundaries of time and space even as Muhammad had on the sacred Night Journey. My vision blinded by tears, I stood up and cupped my hands around my mouth as I cried out to the valley below.
“Muhammad lives!”
At first my words echoed and were lost in the din of madness below. And then I heard it. The steady thrum of a cry that resounded all around Uhud.
“Muhammad lives! Muhammad lives!”
The earth below began to shimmer with the glint of armor as our surviving warriors, energized by new hope, defiantly fought off the Meccans and climbed back up the side of the mountain.
As the Muslim soldiers returned to the safety of the high ground, I knelt down beside the Messenger and saw that his shattered helmet had absorbed most of the blow. My husband had lost two teeth and a good deal of blood, but he would survive with little more than a scar on his cheek that would be easily concealed under the rich black curls of his beard.
And then I heard the whinny of horses and re
alized that the danger was not yet over. Khalid’s men were regrouping and would launch another raid up the mountainside unless we could get the Prophet to safety.
Ali and Zubayr had returned to his side, and they helped the Messenger to his feet. Working together, we helped my husband climb to higher ground. Zubayr saw the crevice of a cave above us that would provide shelter and hide the Messenger from potential assassins until our army had retaken control of Uhud. Ali climbed up first and held his hand out to the Messenger. But the Prophet was disoriented from the pain and could not navigate the steep rock face to reach the ledge. I saw him desperately search for a handhold as he began to swoon.
And then, despite everything he had already done and sacrificed, poor broken Talha somehow managed to hoist the Messenger on his back and climbed the sheer rock wall until he had cleared the ledge. I cannot imagine the pain that must have racked his shattered hand as he pulled them both up and I felt a deep welling of love for Talha, a bond that would make him closer than a brother in my heart.
With the Messenger safe, I could turn my attention to the world below. The battle was over. The Muslim victory had been reversed and both sides had been left bloodied and exhausted. The last of our survivors clambered up the hill and the Meccans pulled back, realizing that it was futile to pursue the fight further.
I felt my heart pounding in my chest and I had to force myself to calm my breath before I lost consciousness. I had seen too much horror that day and I could not imagine that there was any more evil that could poison my eyes.
But Hind would soon show me that the pit of darkness had no bottom.
22
The battlefield smelled like a corpse that had been rotting for a week. The black volcanic ash mixed with the odor of disemboweled intestines, punctured hearts, and the rubbery gray slime of brain matter. It was a smell that would stay in my nostrils for weeks. It would penetrate my nightmares and cause me to wake up in the middle of the night and vomit.
As I looked down with grief at the many young and old who had suffered gruesome deaths on the field below, the sky darkened. The sun was blotted out by a vast flock of vultures, and the sound of their wings flapping impatiently above the valley made my skin crawl.
And then, as I peered through the battlefield for signs of any victims I knew by name, I saw a flash of color as Hind led her party of brightly clad dancers out among the corpses.
I watched in dread fascination as Hind moved among the fallen, gazing dispassionately at the muck and grime and exposed rib cages, until she found what she was looking for.
Hamza. The man who had killed her father still lay on his side, the javelin embedded deep inside his stomach. She knelt down as if to check to see if he were indeed dead, which was, of course, laughable, as he had lain there, skewered, for hours. And then Hind spoke, in a cold voice that sounded as dead as the men whose remains littered the ground beneath her dainty golden slippers.
“So here is the great Hamza,” she hissed like a cobra, her voice echoing through the valley. “They said you had the heart of an eagle and the liver of a lion. Let’s see if that is true.”
Hind grabbed a bloody knife from among the many weapons that had been dropped in the heat of battle. And to my horror, she cut deep into Hamza’s side and tore open his flesh. With her bare hands, she dug into the dead man’s flesh like a butcher ripping off fat from a shank of lamb. And then she tore out Hamza’s liver.
My stomach quivered violently in disgust as I watched Hind hold up Hamza’s liver high for the men of both camps to see. And then she put it in her mouth and ate it, the blood of Muhammad’s beloved uncle dripping down the sides of her mouth. She chewed it and swallowed, and then retched violently. Hind doubled over, vomiting back a portion of the human flesh she had consumed before all.
And then her gagging cough turned into a maniacal laugh and she grabbed the knife and proceeded to cut off Hamza’s nose and ears.
I heard moans and cries of horror from both camps. The pagan Arabs had strict taboos against disfiguring the dead of their enemies, and what Hind was doing was beyond even the meager moral restraints that their primitive religion imposed on their souls. But Hind seemed utterly oblivious to the disgust of her own people, and she began to sway like a kite in the wind.
And then, human blood still dripping from her plump lips, Hind began to dance and sing around the mutilated body of her enemy. She tore open her robes and smeared the blood of Hamza across her breasts. I could see the curve of her ample bosom as she stripped off her gold necklaces.
“O beauties of Mecca, throw off your jewels! Renounce gold and pearls! For there is no greater treasure than the flesh of our enemies!”
And with these words she whirled victoriously around the corpse of Hamza. Her madness spread to the other women like a disease. Suddenly they, too, descended on the bodies of our martyrs, tearing off their noses and ears. And then following her lurid example, they tied their bloody trophies with string and wore the human remains as jewelry. With their new prizes, they began to spin and swoon, their eyes thrown back so far into their skulls that only the whites remained. Their dance was raw and sexual.
Even though I wanted to close my eyes, it was impossible to stop watching. It was as if I were seeing a ritual so dark and ancient that it outdated the memory of man. The absolute purity of her evil was both revolting and mesmerizing, and I felt my heart pound. It was as if Hind had awakened some dark part of the soul that is buried so deep that touching it would unleash a force of transformation that went beyond life or death. It was at once terrifying and seductive and I felt myself being swept into the maelstrom of her madness.
And then Abu Sufyan rode up beside his wife and the spell was broken. He looked down at her obscene dance with unmitigated disgust.
“Enough! This is beneath us!”
Hind stopped spinning and crouched low on the ground, like a wolf prepared to strike. And then she took her hands, smeared with Hamza’s blood, and ran them across her face until her cheeks were streaked in human offal.
Abu Sufyan turned away from her, unable to comprehend how far his wife had fallen. He rode toward the base of Uhud and called out to us.
“War goes by turns, my friends, and today was our day,” he said in a booming voice. “All praise be to Hubal and the gods of Mecca! The dead of Badr have been avenged. We are now even.”
And then I saw Umar arise from among the survivors gathered on the hill. With Hamza dead, he was now the most feared and revered of our warriors.
“God is Highest, Supreme in Majesty! We are not equal. Our dead are in Paradise, and your dead are in Hell!”
Abu Sufyan stared up at Umar, and then he shook his head as if he would never understand this strange tribe that was in its own way as mad as his wife. He rode back to the camp to begin preparations for the long trek home.
The battlefield was now empty, except for the desecrated corpses. Unable to bear the sight, I turned my attention to Abu Sufyan, who was leading his forces out of the pass, and saw the different flags and markers of the tribes. I recognized the symbols of the clans of Mecca like the wolf of the Makhzum and the eagle of Bani Abd ad-Dar. But other pennants belonged to the rival tribes that had little friendship with Mecca, from the double-headed snake of Taif to the horned rams of the Bedouins of the Najd. These old adversaries had come together to defeat their common enemy—Muhammad.
It suddenly struck me that Abu Sufyan had successfully marshaled the warring Arab tribes to the south, even as the Messenger was attempting to unify the north. Arabia was on its way to becoming one nation, and its character would be determined by which alliance ultimately gained the upper hand in this bitter conflict.
In that moment, I realized what we were fighting for. Islam stood as a lonely light flickering in a wasteland covered in darkness. If Hind and her ilk were allowed to win this struggle, barbarism would prevail and eventually spread beyond the boundaries of Arabia like a plague. Our people would become a living curse on mankind, a nat
ion diseased at heart that would pull the world into turmoil from which it would never return.
We had been defeated at Uhud, and now the pagan tribes would see us as weak. They would prepare to pounce on us like hyenas on a wounded lamb. If we surrendered to their combined might, the light of hope would vanish in the sands and something even more monstrous would be born in its wake. Either Arabia would unite under our banner, or it would fight beneath the veil of Hind. And the unsuspecting nations that surrounded us, torn apart by centuries of warfare and corruption, would either be rejuvenated by the message of Islam or fall victim to the unified might of a barbarian horde bent on destruction.
I understood now that the battle for Arabia was not about the survival of a new religion. It was about the survival of civilization itself.
Book Three
Birth of a Nation
1 Medina—AD 625
We buried the mutilated dead on the slopes of Uhud and returned to Medina, where news of our loss sent waves of grief and panic among the people. Suddenly small voices could be heard wondering why God had abandoned us on the battlefield, unlike at Badr, where He had sent angels to our aid. Soon the voices become louder and some began to question whether our first victory had been merely the product of dumb luck and there had not been any divine intervention in the first place.
The grumbling was silenced by the revelation of verses in the Qur’an that placed the blame for our defeat squarely on our own shoulders. Had the archers not been overcome with greed and fled their posts, victory would have been certain. We could not blame God for our own failings. It was an important lesson, and the people began to see Uhud as a sign from God that His favor was bestowed on the Muslims not because of who they were but because of how they acted. And this point soon became another way to differentiate us from our increasingly antagonistic Jewish neighbors. The Prophet warned that some of the Jews—although, he stressed, not all—had come to see themselves as deserving of God’s blessings as a birthright, without any corresponding moral obligations on their own end, and this had led to their downfall throughout history. Islam had come to erase that sense of tribal entitlement and replace it with individual moral responsibility.
