Mother of the Believers Part 1

Mother of the Believers.

A Novel of the Birth of Islam.

by Kamran Pasha.

Author's Note

This book is a work of fiction. Though based on historical events, it is not a history of those events. Readers who are interested in learning more about the history of Islam and the lives of Prophet Muhammad and his wife Aisha are encouraged to read some of the wonderful reference works that I have relied on to write this tale. These books include the brilliantly crafted biography by Martin Lings ent.i.tled Muhammad: His Life Based on the Earliest Sources, Muhammad: His Life Based on the Earliest Sources, as well as the excellent works by Barnaby Rogerson, including as well as the excellent works by Barnaby Rogerson, including The Prophet Muhammad: A Biography The Prophet Muhammad: A Biography and and Heirs of Muhammad Heirs of Muhammad.

Those interested in seeking a Western scholarly perspective on Muhammad's life and legacy are referred to Montgomery Watt's seminal work Muhammad: Prophet and Statesman, Muhammad: Prophet and Statesman, as well as Karen Armstrong's influential book as well as Karen Armstrong's influential book Muhammad: A Biography of the Prophet Muhammad: A Biography of the Prophet.

Readers seeking more knowledge about Aisha will find a wealth of information on her and other prominent Muslim women in Jennifer Heath's The Scimitar and the Veil: Extraordinary Women of Islam The Scimitar and the Veil: Extraordinary Women of Islam. For those fascinated by the military history surrounding the rise of Islam, a wonderfully readable a.n.a.lysis can be found in Richard A. Gabriel's Muhammad, Islam's First General Muhammad, Islam's First General. Hugh Kennedy's The Great Arab Conquests The Great Arab Conquests is also a fine resource for those seeking insight into how a small band of desert warriors improbably created a vast empire and a civilization that remains vibrant and influential in the world today. is also a fine resource for those seeking insight into how a small band of desert warriors improbably created a vast empire and a civilization that remains vibrant and influential in the world today.

Readers interested in a general introduction to the faith and practices of Islam are referred to The Complete Idiot's Guide to Islam The Complete Idiot's Guide to Islam by Yahiya Emerick and by Yahiya Emerick and No G.o.d but G.o.d No G.o.d but G.o.d by Reza Aslan. Those who wish to gain deeper insight into the spiritual values of Islam and what the religion offers the world today are referred to by Reza Aslan. Those who wish to gain deeper insight into the spiritual values of Islam and what the religion offers the world today are referred to Islam and the Destiny of Man Islam and the Destiny of Man by Charles Le Gai Eaton and by Charles Le Gai Eaton and The Heart of Islam: Enduring Values for Humanity The Heart of Islam: Enduring Values for Humanity by Seyyed Hossein Nasr. A deeper look at the spiritual heart of Islam can be found in by Seyyed Hossein Nasr. A deeper look at the spiritual heart of Islam can be found in The Vision of Islam The Vision of Islam by Sachicko Murata and William Chittick and in the cla.s.sic text by Sachicko Murata and William Chittick and in the cla.s.sic text Understanding Islam Understanding Islam by Frithjof Schuon. by Frithjof Schuon.

There are many translations of the holy Qur'an on the market today, but I have found three to be particularly helpful to Western readers. Abdullah Yusuf Ali's The Qur'an: Text, Translation and Commentary The Qur'an: Text, Translation and Commentary is one of the most beloved of English translations and is helpful to those who are new to studying the Muslim faith. Muhammad Asad's monumental translation is one of the most beloved of English translations and is helpful to those who are new to studying the Muslim faith. Muhammad Asad's monumental translation The Message of the Holy Qur'an The Message of the Holy Qur'an is both scholarly and written from the point of a view of a European convert who understands how to explain the scripture to the Western mind. For those seeking a simple translation that is not bogged down with commentary, I recommend is both scholarly and written from the point of a view of a European convert who understands how to explain the scripture to the Western mind. For those seeking a simple translation that is not bogged down with commentary, I recommend The Qur'an, The Qur'an, translated by M.A.S. Abdel Haleem and published by Oxford University Press. An older but still popular translation is translated by M.A.S. Abdel Haleem and published by Oxford University Press. An older but still popular translation is The Glorious Qur'an The Glorious Qur'an by Muhammad Marmaduke Pickthall, a British convert. by Muhammad Marmaduke Pickthall, a British convert.

Writing a novel about the birth of Islam and the remarkable personalities of the Prophet Muhammad, Aisha, and the rest of the early Muslim community has been an extremely challenging and rewarding process. Compared to the limited historical data available on Jesus, the origins of Islam and the life of the Prophet have been doc.u.mented with a degree of historical detail that is mind-boggling to many Westerners. It has been said that we know more about Muhammad than we do about any other man in history, as his followers meticulously recorded everything they could about their beloved teacher, from how he looked, to his daily mannerisms and eating habits, to surprisingly intimate details about his personal life with his wives. Much of this can be credited to the remarkable memory of Aisha, who was responsible for transmitting over two thousand individual hadiths, or oral accounts of her life with the Prophet and his teachings.

The corpus of historical data about the Prophet Muhammad is staggering in its depth and detail, but his life remains a matter of controversy. Believers and nonbelievers will obviously interpret the tales about Muhammad in accordance with their own perspective about the truth of his spiritual mission. And within the Muslim community itself, interpretation of historical events is often hotly debated among the different sects of Sunni and Shia Islam.

For the record, I am a believing and practicing Muslim. Theologically I consider myself a Sunni, and spiritually I am drawn to Sufism, the mystical heart of Islam. By lineage, I am a sayyid, a direct descendant of the Prophet through his daughter Fatima and his grandson Husayn. For me, this novel has been both a rewarding journey into the heart of my religious tradition and an eye-opening study of the pa.s.sionate and complex people who were my ancestors. They were simple men and women, living in a remote desert, who should have been forgotten by history. And yet through the sheer power of faith, they managed to turn the world upside down.

I would like to take a moment to comment on one of the most controversial aspects of my story, at least for many modern readers. In recent years there has been a great deal of discussion regarding Aisha's age when she married Prophet Muhammad. Estimates of her age have ranged from early teens to early twenties. The most controversial account is that she was nine years old at the time of her wedding, which some modern critics have attempted to use to smear the Prophet with the inflammatory charge of pedophilia. In response to these charges, many Muslims are now performing all kinds of historical a.n.a.lysis to attempt to clear his name and reputation. What is evident is that Aisha was a young woman at the time of the wedding, but that her marriage was not in any way controversial and was never used by the enemies of the Prophet as a critique in his lifetime, unlike his marriage to Zaynab bint Jahsh. So clearly whatever Aisha's age was, it was irrelevant to her contemporaries and considered mainstream in the social context of seventh-century Arabia.

In my novel, I have chosen to directly face the controversy over Aisha's age by using the most contentious account, that she was nine at the time she consummated her wedding. The reason I have done this is to show that it is foolish to project modern values on another time and world. In a desert environment where life expectancy was extremely low, early marriage was not a social issue-it was a matter of survival. Modern Christian historians have no problem suggesting that Mary was around twelve years old when she became pregnant with Jesus, as that was the normal age for marriage and childbearing in first-century Palestine. Yet no one claims Mary's youthful pregnancy was somehow perverse because it is easy to understand that life expectancy was so low in that world that reproduction took place immediately upon menstruation.

An interesting anthropological a.n.a.lysis of the onset of p.u.b.erty in ancient and modern times can be found in Mismatch Mismatch by Peter Gluckman and Mark Hanson. Their study shows that modern social norms have evolved in ways that conflict with evolutionary pressures for girls to menstruate and bear children at a young age. These conflicts were less apparent in ancient times, when survival trumped other concerns. Girls in many ancient cultures were considered adult women immediately upon the onset of their cycles. To project modern social norms backward into that environment is disingenuous and reflects a failure to understand history and human nature. by Peter Gluckman and Mark Hanson. Their study shows that modern social norms have evolved in ways that conflict with evolutionary pressures for girls to menstruate and bear children at a young age. These conflicts were less apparent in ancient times, when survival trumped other concerns. Girls in many ancient cultures were considered adult women immediately upon the onset of their cycles. To project modern social norms backward into that environment is disingenuous and reflects a failure to understand history and human nature.

It is for that reason that I have chosen to use the most controversial account as a framework for my story.

In closing, I should note that not all Muslims would agree with my interpretation of Islam in these pages or with my portrayal of the Prophet's life and of Aisha's role in Muslim history. And that is fine. I encourage those who disagree with my presentation to write books that reflect the truth as their hearts see it. In fact, I hope a day comes when novels about Prophet Muhammad, Aisha, and Ali become as commonplace in Western literature as the diverse and beloved books on historical figures such as Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Cleopatra, and Queen Elizabeth I.

My intention in writing this novel has been to give Westerners a glimpse of the richness that exists within the Muslim historical tradition and to invite all my readers to learn more about Islam and draw their own conclusions. To the extent that I have succeeded, the credit belongs to G.o.d alone. The failures, however, are all mine.

Prologue.

The Beginning of the End

In the Name of G.o.d, the Merciful, the Compa.s.sionate What is faith?

It is a question I have asked myself over the years, dear nephew, and I am no closer to the answer now than I was when my hair was still crimson like the rising dawn, not the pale silver of moonlight as it is today.

I write this for you, because I know I am dying. I do not complain, for there are times I wished I had died many years ago or, better yet, had never been born. My heart looks at the trees, whose life consists of no more than dreams of the sun and memories of the rain, and I envy them. There are times when I wish I were one of the rocks that line the hills beyond Medina, ignored and forgotten by those who tread upon them.

You will protest, I am sure. How could I, Aisha the daughter of Abu Bakr, the most famed woman of her time, wish to trade in my glorious memories for the sleep of the deaf and the dumb of the earth? That is the tricky thing with memories, dear Abdallah, son of my sister. They are like the wind. They come when they wish and carry with them both the hope of life and the danger of death. We cannot master them. Nay, they are our masters and rejoice in their capriciousness, carrying our hearts with them wherever they wish.

And now they have taken me, against my will, to this moment, where I sit in my tiny bedroom made of mud brick, only a few feet away from the grave of my beloved, writing this tale. There is much I do not want to recall, but my memories cry out to be recorded, so that they can live in the memories of others when I am gone.

So I shall start at the beginning. At a time when one world was dying and another was about to be born. There is much glory in my tale, much wonder, and a great deal of sorrow. It is a story that I hope you will preserve and take with you to the farthest reaches of the empire, so that the daughters and granddaughters of those who are still being suckled today will remember. Much of what I shall relate, I witnessed with my own eyes. The rest I recount as it was recounted to me by those who were present.

It is a tale of great portent, and the bearer of my words must shoulder a weighty burden before G.o.d and man. And of all those who dwell on earth, there is none whom I can trust more than you, Abdallah, to carry my tale. In my days of honor and of disgrace, you have stood by my side, more loyal than any son of my flesh could have been. I look upon your smiling face and see all that I have gained and lost as the price of my destiny. A fate that was written in the ink of dreams when I was still a child.

I was six years old when I married the Messenger of G.o.d, although our union was not consummated until I began my cycles at the age of nine. Over the years, I became aware that my youthful marriage was considered shocking, even barbaric, by the haughty n.o.blewomen of Persia and Byzantium, although none would have dared to say so to my face. Of course I am used to the cruel whispers of the gossipmongers. More so than most women of my time, I have been subjected to the hidden daggers of jealousy and rumor. Perhaps that is to be expected. A price I must pay as the favorite wife of the most revered and hated man the world has ever known.

Tell them, Abdallah, that I loved Muhammad, may G.o.d's blessings and peace be upon him, and that he loved me, for all that I proved unworthy of it. Of the many twists and turns that have guided the caravan of my life, there are none that I treasure more than my ten years with him as his wife. Indeed, there are many days that I wished I had died with him, that Gabriel would have taken my spirit with his and I could have left this valley of tears for others to conquer. I torment myself with the knowledge that many thousands would have lived had I simply died that day. An army of believers who followed me to their doom. Good men, who believed that I acted out of idealism rather than pride and a hidden l.u.s.t for revenge. Good men like your father. Had my soul departed along with the Messenger, he and so many others would have lived.

But that was not my destiny.

My fate was to be the mother of a nation, even though my womb has never borne a child of its own. A nation that was chosen by G.o.d to change the world, to destroy iniquity, even as it is forever tempted to succ.u.mb to it. A nation that defeated every adversary, despite all the forces of Earth marshaled against it, and then became doomed to fight itself until the Day of Resurrection. A nation whose soul, like mine, is filled with G.o.d and yet consumed with earthly pa.s.sion. A nation that stands for victory and justice, yet can never hide its own failures and cruelties against the terrible judgment of the One.

This is my Ummah, Ummah, my nation, and I am its face, even though no man outside my family has looked upon my face since I was a little girl. my nation, and I am its face, even though no man outside my family has looked upon my face since I was a little girl.

I am the harbinger of joy and anger. The queen of love and jealousy. The bearer of knowledge and the ultimate fool.

I am the Mother of the Believers, and this is my tale.

Book One

Birth of a Faith

1 Mecca-AD 613

I was born in blood, and its terrible taint would follow me all my life. was born in blood, and its terrible taint would follow me all my life.

My mother, Umm Ruman, cried out in agony as the contractions increased in severity. The midwife, a stout woman from the tribe of Bani Nawfal named Amal, leaned closer to examine the pregnant woman's abdomen. And then she saw it. The line of blood that was running down her patient's thigh.

Amal looked over to the young girl standing nervously to the side of the wooden birthing chair where her stepmother was struggling to bring forth life.

"Asma," she said in a soft voice, trying to mask the fear that was growing in her chest. "Get your father."

Your mother, Abdallah, was no more than ten years old at the time, and she paled at Amal's words. Asma knew what they meant. So did Umm Ruman.

"I am dying," Umm Ruman gasped, her teeth grinding against the pain. She had known something was wrong the moment her water broke. It had been dark and mottled with blood, and the subsequent horror of the contractions was far beyond anything she had experienced at the birth of her son, Abdal Kaaba, so many years before.

At the age of thirty-eight, she had known that she was too old to bear another child safely and had greeted the news of her pregnancy with trepidation. In the Days of Ignorance before the Revelation, perhaps she would have turned to Amal or the other midwives of Mecca for their secret draft that was said to poison the womb. But the Messenger of G.o.d had made it clear to his small band of followers that the life of a child was sacred, despite the many pagan Arab customs to the contrary. She had sworn an oath of allegiance to his hand, and she would not go against his teachings, even if they meant her demise. Unlike most of her neighbors and friends still clinging to the old ways, Umm Ruman no longer feared death. But she grieved to think that her child, the first to be born into the new faith of Islam, might not survive to see the sunrise.

Amal took her hand and squeezed it gently.

"Do not despair. We will get through this together." Her voice was kind, but Umm Ruman could see in the stern lines around her mouth that Amal had reached her professional conclusion. The end was nigh for mother and child.

Umm Ruman managed to turn her head to her stepdaughter, Asma, who stood frozen at her side, tears welling in her dark eyes.

"Go. Bring Abu Bakr to me," she said, her voice growing faint. She stroked the girl's still plump cheeks. "If I die before you return, tell him my last request was that the Prophet pray at my funeral."

Asma shook her head, refusing to face that possibility. "You can't die! I won't let you!"

The girl was not of Umm Ruman's flesh, but the bond between them was as strong as that of any mother and daughter. Perhaps stronger, for Asma had chosen her over her actual mother, Qutaila, who had refused to accept the new faith. Abu Bakr had divorced his first wife, for it was forbidden for a believer to share a bed with an idol worshiper. The proud Qutaila had left their home in a furious rage, vowing to return to her tribe, but Asma had refused to go with her. The girl had chosen the Straight Path, the way of the Messenger and her father, Abu Bakr. That had been three years ago, and Asma had not seen her mother since. Umm Ruman had felt sorry for the abandoned child, still too young to understand the enormity of her choice, and had raised the girl as her own.

She wondered what would happen to Asma once she was gone. Abu Bakr would likely look for a new wife, but there were only a handful of believers, and the Message was spreading slowly because of the need for secrecy. If the pagan leaders of Mecca learned the truth of what the Prophet was teaching, their wrath would be kindled, and the tiny community the believers had founded in the shadows would be exposed and destroyed. In all likelihood, Asma would be alone, without any foster mother to guide her through the journey of womanhood. The girl was past due for her cycles, which usually began at the age of ten or eleven for those born under the harsh Arabian sun. The men-strual flow would erupt any day now, but Umm Ruman would not be there to comfort her through the shock of first blood.

She ran her hand through Asma's brown curls, hoping to bequeath a soft memory with her touch that would comfort the child in the days to come. And then a shock of pain tore through Umm Ruman's womb and she screamed.

Asma broke free of her stepmother's grasp. She fell back, stumbling over one of the bricks that the midwife had placed at Umm Ruman's swollen feet. As Amal searched desperately through her midwife's stores for a salve to ease her patient's agony, the girl turned and ran in search of her father.

Umm Ruman closed her eyes and said silent prayer even as her body burned from within.

As her uterus contracted with increasing urgency, she could feel the baby shifting, preparing to emerge into the world. A process that in all likelihood would lead to her death, and possibly the baby's as well.

It was the beginning of the end, she thought sadly.

Umm Ruman was right. But in ways she could not have expected.

MY FATHER, ABU B BAKR, walked through the quiet streets of Mecca, his head bowed low, his back hunched slightly, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Which, of course, it was.

Tonight everything had changed. And he needed to tell someone. Normally he would have gone straight home after emerging from the Prophet's house, as their dwellings were next door to each other. But after what he had seen and heard tonight, he needed to take a walk.

And besides, his wife had entered labor earlier that day, and his home was now the exclusive domain of the midwife. Abu Bakr had learned through the birth of two sons and a daughter to give the tribe of women its privacy at such moments. A man could only serve as a b.u.mbling annoyance or a dangerous distraction to the sacred rituals of birth. And the safe delivery of this child, the first to be born into the Revelation, was important not just to him, but to the entire Muslim community.

All twenty of them.

His child. Abu Bakr wondered for a moment what kind of world the baby would grow into. For years he had hoped that the Truth would spread discreetly and in secret until the masters of Mecca were surprised to see that their tribal religion had died in its sleep, to be replaced quietly with the worship of the One G.o.d. But tonight had shown him that whatever path Islam would take among these people, it would not be a quiet one.

He paused to look up at the heavens. There was no moon tonight and the sky was aflame with a legion of stars, the sparkling strands of a cosmic web that testified to the glory of the Lord. The foolish among his people believed that the future could be discerned in the shimmering patterns that played across the heavens. But Abu Bakr knew that such superst.i.tions were a delusion. Only G.o.d knew the future. The greatest of storytellers, every day He surprised man with a new tale. Those who thought they could encompa.s.s His grand plan with their puny calculations were always humbled.

Turning a corner in the walled district of Mecca where many of the chieftains of the city lived, he found himself looking out past the hills that surrounded the desert valley to Mount Hira-the place where G.o.d had spoken to a man, even as He did to Moses at Mount Sinai to the north. The mountain, which soared two thousand feet above the desert floor, tapered into a rocky plateau, at the pinnacle of which was hidden a tiny cave. A small, cramped s.p.a.ce where no light could enter. And from which Light itself had sprung forth.

When his childhood friend Muhammad, the orphan son of Abdallah of the clan of Bani Hashim, had emerged from that cave three years ago, he was transformed. He had seen a vision of an angel named Gabriel who had proclaimed him to be G.o.d's Messenger to mankind, the final Prophet sent to bring the world out of darkness into light. It was an audacious claim, one that would understandably invite ridicule had it been made by any other man. But Muhammad was different.

Abu Bakr had known him since they were excited boys traveling with a caravan to the markets of Palestine and Syria. And from the first day he had set eyes on the young Muhammad, Abu Bakr had known that his friend had a destiny. Raised in poverty and humiliation, the boy nonetheless exuded a dignity, a power, that seemed to emanate from another realm. While other youths quickly embraced the sharp business tactics of the Meccan traders as a means of getting ahead in the harsh world of the desert, Muhammad had gained a reputation as Al-Amin Al-Amin-the Honest One. His reputation for fair dealing brought him respect but little profit, and Abu Bakr had been heartbroken to see his friend live in dest.i.tution while less scrupulous young men advanced rapidly.

And he had been overjoyed as Muhammad's luck finally turned, when he won the heart of Khadija, a lovely-and wealthy-widow who had employed the youth to manage her caravans. Khadija had proposed to the penniless Muhammad, and Abu Bakr took great pleasure in seeing his boyhood comrade finally living in affluence among the n.o.bles of Mecca. But Muhammad had never seemed comfortable around wealth, and his sudden prosperity and entry into elite society had only increased his concern for the many who remained poor in the desert valley.

Abu Bakr had spent many nights talking with his friend through the years as he expressed agitation over the worsening plight of the lower cla.s.ses of the city. Women and children starved in the valley of Mecca, even as flourishing trade with the Byzantine and Persian empires to the north enriched its tribal chiefs. Muhammad had become increasingly distraught at the daily injustices he witnessed, as the strong preyed on the weak and men used and discarded women, leaving their b.a.s.t.a.r.d children to fend for themselves-in the worst cases, killing infant girls, whose birth was seen as socially undesirable.

Abu Bakr had not been surprised to see his tormented friend embark on a spiritual path, meditating every night and spending his days conversing with people of other nations and faiths he met on the caravan routes. Muhammad had never been interested in the religion of their people. The crude idols that the Arabs worshiped had repelled him, and he was drawn instinctively to the People of the Book, Jews and Christians, and their remarkable stories of the One G.o.d who stood for justice and compa.s.sion. And the People of the Book would remind him that this G.o.d had once also been worshiped by the ancestors of the Arabs, who had been descended from the prophet Abraham through his firstborn son, Ishmael. This G.o.d, whom the Jews called Elohim, Elohim, was still known to the Arabs as was still known to the Arabs as Allah, Allah, the Creator G.o.d. But the Arabs now worshiped hundreds of other deities that were seen as intermediaries of Allah, who was too powerful and remote to care about the daily lives of men. Every tribe in the desert had its own G.o.d, and each held its G.o.d out to be better than the others, leading to division and warfare among the clans. These competing deities, like the untamed elements of nature they symbolized, were capricious and lacked any sense of morality or justice. Seeing the chaos engendered by these warring and cruel G.o.ds, Muhammad longed for his people to return to the old ways of Abraham and his simple, pure vision of Allah. the Creator G.o.d. But the Arabs now worshiped hundreds of other deities that were seen as intermediaries of Allah, who was too powerful and remote to care about the daily lives of men. Every tribe in the desert had its own G.o.d, and each held its G.o.d out to be better than the others, leading to division and warfare among the clans. These competing deities, like the untamed elements of nature they symbolized, were capricious and lacked any sense of morality or justice. Seeing the chaos engendered by these warring and cruel G.o.ds, Muhammad longed for his people to return to the old ways of Abraham and his simple, pure vision of Allah.

When Abu Bakr would come to visit him, Muhammad would often stay up late into the night sharing tales he had heard from these foreigners, stories about Moses and the haughty Pharaoh, Joseph and his conniving brothers among the Children of Israel, and Jesus the son of Mary, G.o.d's most recent Messenger to mankind, who had healed the blind and raised the dead. Abu Bakr was swept away by his friend's pa.s.sion for this G.o.d and His prophets, which awakened within him a similar longing for the Divine. Like Muhammad, Abu Bakr found the G.o.ds of the Arabs to be petty and small. But Allah, this G.o.d of Abraham, had never spoken to the Arabs, and Abu Bakr longed to hear from this mysterious, invisible being who had forgotten the children of Ishmael.

And then it had happened. Muhammad's vision on Mount Hira had left his friend shaken and confused. Seeing the winged angel first inside the cave and then standing on the horizon, its wondrous form expanding in a cloud of light until it stretched to the heavens, Muhammad became convinced that he was mad or possessed by a djinn. He had wanted to kill himself in despair, but his wife, Khadija, had comforted him. She told him that a man of his character would not be misled or abandoned by Allah, and that his experience must be true. Over the next several months, the visions intensified, and the angel told Muhammad that he had been chosen to follow in his ancestor Abraham's path-to abolish idolatry and establish the worship of the One G.o.d among the Arabs, who would then spread the faith of their forefather to all mankind.

Muhammad was overwhelmed. He was being asked to undertake an impossible task. To turn a land of warring tribes who venerated hundreds of tribal deities into a unified nation under one G.o.d. How could he begin? Unable to find an answer beyond the loving circle of his wife and family, he had taken a risk. Muhammad had turned to his friend Abu Bakr and shared what was happening to him.

So it was that one peaceful evening three years ago, Abu Bakr had sat on the floor in the quiet of Muhammad's spa.r.s.ely furnished private study as his old friend revealed the angelic visions and the Voice that had called to him from the heavens. As Abu Bakr heard him speak, he felt something stirring inside his heart. It was as if he had been waiting his whole life for this moment. It was as natural and inevitable as falling in love. Even before Muhammad finished speaking, Abu Bakr knew that his inner longing had been answered. Allah, the G.o.d who had spoken to Moses and Jesus, had not forgotten the Arabs, the children of Abraham. Abu Bakr had known Muhammad for over thirty years and had never had reason to doubt one word spoken by Al-Amin Al-Amin. If G.o.d would choose anyone to prophesy to the Arab nation, it would be this man. It had to be this man.

Without hesitation, Abu Bakr had accepted his claim to be the Messenger of G.o.d and promised that he would be Muhammad's right-hand man on his mission. And for the next three years, he had quietly spread the word to a few trusted friends and kinsmen that there was a Prophet in their midst, one who would bring their people to salvation. Abu Bakr acted in absolute secrecy, as the leaders of Mecca, whose trade was done in the name of the ancient G.o.ds, would have moved quickly to destroy this new religious movement.

While he succeeded in persuading a small handful of a.s.sociates to accept Muhammad's teachings and join his faith, he was devastated that he failed to win over some in his own family. His first wife, Qutaila, had refused to break the idols of her G.o.ds and he had divorced her. And to add to his grief, his beloved son Abdal Kaaba also proved unwilling to turn his back on the ways of their people. Their arguments grew so bitter that Abdal Kaaba had left his home and gone to live among kinsmen, refusing to speak with him until Abu Bakr renounced his foolish new ideas. His alienation from his son weighed heavily on his heart, and the Prophet gently reminded Abu Bakr that Noah, too, had been estranged from his son, whose resistance to G.o.d's message had ultimately led to his death in the Flood. Abu Bakr understood that a father could not be responsible for the choices of his son, but his failure haunted him nonetheless.

Despite the personal losses he had endured in his family, Abu Bakr had not faced any major social consequences for his involvement in Muhammad's new group. The chieftains of Mecca had heard rumors that Al-Amin Al-Amin was quietly playing the role of spiritual teacher to a handful of locals, but they paid little attention. As long as his small band of followers kept to themselves and did not create trouble in Mecca, they could worship whatever G.o.d they wished, believe whatever they wanted. As long as Muhammad's teachings remained quiet and did not disrupt the profits of the tribal chiefs, everything would be fine. was quietly playing the role of spiritual teacher to a handful of locals, but they paid little attention. As long as his small band of followers kept to themselves and did not create trouble in Mecca, they could worship whatever G.o.d they wished, believe whatever they wanted. As long as Muhammad's teachings remained quiet and did not disrupt the profits of the tribal chiefs, everything would be fine.

But that had all changed tonight.

Abu Bakr turned away from the towering vision of Mount Hira and looked back to the Prophet's home in a distant corner of the city. The two-story edifice sparkled under the starlight, its white stone walls shimmering with a faint, unearthly glow. For the past few years, that house had been a secure gathering place for Abu Bakr and the nineteen other believers. There they prayed together and listened to the Prophet as he shared G.o.d's words that had been revealed through Gabriel. That home was their sanctuary.

It would now have to be their fortress. For the leaders of Mecca had learned tonight what Muhammad's true message was.

And they had declared war.

ASMA RACED OUT OF her father's home. She had seen Umm Ruman's ghostly pale face, the blood on her thighs, and had known that the birthing had gone terribly wrong. Asma had already lost one mother-she could not bear to lose another. her father's home. She had seen Umm Ruman's ghostly pale face, the blood on her thighs, and had known that the birthing had gone terribly wrong. Asma had already lost one mother-she could not bear to lose another.

The girl ran down the steps and stepped out into the narrow alley between her father's home and the house of the Prophet. She splashed her feet in a pool of dark mud, residue of the rare and welcome rainfall of the night before. Her friends had all gone this morning to pray at the sacred temple-the Holy Kaaba-and thank their G.o.ds for the life-giving water that so rarely fell from the sky in the desert valley. But Asma had not joined them. Her father had taught her that the idols in the Kaaba were abominations, false G.o.ds whose worship angered Allah. The believers had gathered instead inside the Prophet's home to thank the One G.o.d in secret. They had bowed in unison, their foreheads touching the dark earth as the Prophet recited the most recent verses of the Qur'an, the Book that G.o.d was revealing to him bit by bit, in small poetic stanzas, every day.

Asma always enjoyed their services, partly because of the secrecy, the thrill of doing something that was forbidden. And partly because it was a special time that she could share with her father. Abu Bakr was a prosperous merchant who was forever busy inspecting caravans from Yemen, buying and selling frankincense, carpets, and pottery in the marketplace, and serving as an arbiter of commercial disputes among the various trading parties of Mecca. She rarely saw him during the day and relished the few hours every night when he would set aside the ledger of a businessman and take on the robes of a believer.

Asma had always been amazed by how he would change in the presence of the Prophet at these meetings. Abu Bakr was a dignified man, masculine and strong, a man accustomed to quiet leadership. But in the presence of the Messenger, he became as a slave before its master-enthusiastic, nervous, anxious to please. The stern cynicism of the trader was replaced with wonder, the complete and absolute trust of a child. His long face, tired and worn from a day of haggling with Abyssinian, Greek, and Persian traders, would suddenly come alive with enthusiasm and joy. When her father had first approached Asma and told her of his new faith, she was too young to understand the intricacies of theology. But she saw how the Revelation had changed him, how it breathed life into a man who once seemed like a stone, perennially weary of the world, and she knew she that she, too, would embrace this path.

Her love for her father had given her the strength to turn her back on her mother, Qutaila, and her half brother, Abdal Kaaba, who had refused to join the new movement. When they left, a pall had fallen over the house of Abu Bakr. They were outcasts in their own home, adherents to a strange new religion that had the temerity to put the bonds of the soul before the ties of blood. Asma had felt her father's silent despair grow as his efforts to spread the Prophet's teachings among his kinsmen were met sometimes with incomprehension, more usually with laughter, and a few times with anger. As fewer and fewer of Abu Bakr's clansmen and family members came to visit their home, she had felt her own growing isolation. The girls she played with would sometimes whisper about the rumors spreading through Mecca, that Abu Bakr and his family had been possessed by djinn or had been placed under a spell by a sorcerer. She wanted to tell them, tell everyone in the city, the truth. That G.o.d had spoken to them, was speaking to them every day, through the lyrical voice of a man who had never before recited any words of power or poetry. That they were being told truths far greater than any relayed by the kahins, kahins, the mystical soothsayers who wandered through the villages of Arabia, sharing their visions for a price. the mystical soothsayers who wandered through the villages of Arabia, sharing their visions for a price.