Mother of the Believers Part 42

Time lost all meaning during those weeks, and yet I did not stop counting the hours before the ban would be lifted and-I hoped-my husband would return to us. Still, I was terrified at the thought of where we would go from there. Would he still love me, or had Mariya forever taken my place in his heart? Would the glorious fire that had once linked our souls be reduced to a smoldering ember, a pale echo of days long past?

And then one night, as I sat alone in my room, looking down at my husband's threadbare mantle, the musky scent of his flesh still emanating from its fibers, I heard the sound of footsteps. And then the door opened, revealing the silhouette of a man standing on the threshold. Startled, I reached for my veil, and then the figure stepped inside and I saw that it was the Messenger of G.o.d.

For a moment, I sat utterly still, convinced he was just a waking dream, a shadow of my imagination. He looked down at me for a quiet moment, and then his pale face broke into a small smile.

I rose to my feet, my heart caught in my throat.

"But...it's been only twenty-nine days..." was all I could croak The Prophet raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"How do you know that?"

I moved toward him, pulled like a drop of water toward the ocean.

"I have been counting the days. And the hours."

And then I realized that this month, Rajab, had only twenty-nine days instead of thirty because of the early sighting of the new moon. The Prophet had waited exactly as long as he had promised and not a moment less. And he had chosen to come to me first of all of his wives.

The Messenger of G.o.d took my hand in his and squeezed tightly until I could feel the steady pulse of the blood in his veins, matching the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

"Aisha, G.o.d has revealed these words to me," he said gently, but I sensed a hint of sternness still lingering in his glance as he recited the newest verses of the holy Qur'an.

O Prophet, say to your wives If your desire is for the present life and its finery, Then come, I will make provision for you And release you with kindness.

But if you desire G.o.d, His Messenger And the Home of the Hereafter Then remember that G.o.d has prepared great rewards For those of you who do good.

I listened with my head bowed as Allah presented me with two paths, the way of the world or the way of eternity. The G.o.d who had rescued me from disgrace, who had saved my honor when even my husband had doubted me, was now warning me that my future with Muhammad and the believers lay on the path toward which I turned my heart at this instant.

"So, Humayra, Humayra, what do you choose?" the Messenger asked in a voice that was a whisper. what do you choose?" the Messenger asked in a voice that was a whisper.

Hot tears ran down my cheeks and I looked up into the obsidian eyes of my husband, and I knew there had never been any choice in the matter.

"I choose G.o.d and His Messenger, and the Home of the Hereafter," I said, trembling with an ache that threatened to tear my heart in two.

And then the Prophet smiled warmly. He took me in his arms and kissed me, and the waves of pa.s.sion soon took us beyond the veil of this harsh world into the timeless mystery of man and woman and the infinite joy of their union.

A WEEK LATER WEEK LATER, I learned that the slave girl Mariya had missed her courses for the second month in a row.

She was pregnant with Muhammad's child.

38.

Seven months later, the wives gathered around Mariya as she went through the final, horrific pangs of childbirth. I held her hand while Hafsa wiped the flood of sweat that bathed her soft curls and Umm Salama crouched low over the birthing chair, gently coaxing the poor girl to push just a little harder.

Whatever jealousies we had felt-whatever lingering bitterness had hung over the household of the Messenger since we'd heard the news of the slave's conception-all of it had finally been forgotten in the long hours we'd spent beside Mariya since her water broke. The girl was as fragile as a bird, and each contraction produced such wrenching screams that the coldness of our hearts melted in the flame of empathy. She was no longer our rival for the love of the Messenger, no longer the usurper who had come in and taken the honor that was meant for one of the n.o.ble women of free birth who had shared Muhammad's bed. That night, she had become just another terrified girl, enduring the agony that was also the glory of womanhood.

I looked into Mariya's soft eyes, as kind and lost as those of a doe in the wilderness, and tried to send into her soul the strain of indomitable strength that flowed in my own blood. She looked up at me, confused and frightened, but I could see a light deep inside her eyes that said we had made a connection and I could see a hint of grat.i.tude in her bloodless face.

And then Mariya clutched my hand with such fury that I thought she would shatter my fingers, and gave a scream that was more horrible than any cry of a dying man I had heard on the battlefield.

And then a new sound filled the stone barn that now served as a makeshift birthing chamber. The wondrous, improbable, heart-stirring sound of a baby crying.

I turned in awe to Umm Salama, who was kneeling on the ground, holding the child who was the hope of a nation. And then the gentle woman with the motherly smile looked up at us with reverence, thick tears welling in her eyes.

"Tell the Messenger of G.o.d...he has a son..."

I HAD NEVER SEEN HAD NEVER SEEN such rejoicing in Medina. In the days that followed, the sober oasis was transformed into a city of grand festivities as the Muslims celebrated the birth of Muhammad's son, who had been named Ibrahim. Hundreds of camels, sheep, and oxen were sacrificed by overjoyed believers, the meat distributed to the poor. Merchants heavily slashed prices in the marketplace and sometimes simply gave away their goods as gifts. Poets raced to compose verses in honor of the new boy in whose blood lived the hope of the entire Muslim such rejoicing in Medina. In the days that followed, the sober oasis was transformed into a city of grand festivities as the Muslims celebrated the birth of Muhammad's son, who had been named Ibrahim. Hundreds of camels, sheep, and oxen were sacrificed by overjoyed believers, the meat distributed to the poor. Merchants heavily slashed prices in the marketplace and sometimes simply gave away their goods as gifts. Poets raced to compose verses in honor of the new boy in whose blood lived the hope of the entire Muslim Ummah Ummah. Had alcohol not been banned by the holy Qur'an, the streets would have been flowing in beer and khamr, khamr, and I suspected a few of the less pious were secretly toasting away in the privacy of their own homes. and I suspected a few of the less pious were secretly toasting away in the privacy of their own homes.

It was a glorious time, and the joy was shared by all in the Prophet's household, including the Mothers. Our envy of Mariya had been replaced by a fierce protective instinct toward her and the baby, who had become the son of us all. I remember the first time I held Ibrahim, after his mother had suckled him and the Messenger had wept over his tiny fingers. The Prophet had given him to me first in a sign that, even now, I remained foremost among his consorts.

I had held the tiny bundle in my arms as if he were a precious jewel and looked down at his face. Ibrahim's hair was a ma.s.s of brown curls like his mother's, but his eyes were indisputably those of his father, gazing up at me like black pearls filled with ancient wisdom. His skin was softer than a dove's, and he radiated that mysterious coolness that always surrounded Muhammad, even in the hottest days of summer. And then those mesmerizing eyes seemed to twinkle at me as he smiled, and I fell in love with Ibrahim in that instant. It was a love as ferocious and all-consuming as I had for the Messenger, and I vowed that I would lay down my life to guard him and his mother, even if all the demons of h.e.l.l were unleashed upon us.

On the seventh day of Ibrahim's life, the Messenger held the ceremony of the aqiqa, aqiqa, where the baby's hair is cut for the first time and weighed, with the weight in gold then pa.s.sed along to the poor. The People of the House gathered to celebrate this first milestone in the child's life, and a pavilion of green and yellow stripes was placed outside the Masjid, where the faithful could come see the beautiful boy and the indigent could find alms. where the baby's hair is cut for the first time and weighed, with the weight in gold then pa.s.sed along to the poor. The People of the House gathered to celebrate this first milestone in the child's life, and a pavilion of green and yellow stripes was placed outside the Masjid, where the faithful could come see the beautiful boy and the indigent could find alms.

The women of the household were gathered in a closed section in the back, separated by a woolen curtain from the excited crowds. Along with my fellow sister-wives were the daughters of Muhammad-Zaynab, with her little daughter, Umama; the childless Umm Kulthum, who had married Uthman after Ruqayya's death; and the Prophet's favorite, Fatima, with her sons, Hasan and Husayn. All of us gathered reverently around Mariya as if she were the queen of the nation, jostling with one another for a chance to hold the baby, the little Chosen One who was the light of the Ummah Ummah. I heard Hasan giggle as he chased his little brother, Husayn, around the room and I glanced at Fatima, who for once did not look sad and distant but was laughing heartily as her new baby brother looked up at her with the utter trust and absorption that only infants untainted by the world possess.

In the early days of Mariya's pregnancy, some gossipmongers had spread vicious tales suggesting that Fatima and Ali were sad about the news that the Prophet would soon have an heir, displacing their own sons as the sole custodians of Muhammad's bloodline. But despite my own unwavering antipathy for Ali, I did not believe for one second that he or his wife held anything but happiness for the Messenger, and, seeing the sincere look of joy on the normally taciturn Fatima's face, I knew that such talk had been malicious and misguided.

And then the curtain parted and my husband walked inside the women's chamber, his eyes twinkling. He went over to Mariya, kissed his infant son on the forehead, and then whispered something into the Egyptian girl's ears. She giggled mischievously and nodded as the Prophet turned his attention to us. And I saw for the first time that he held in his hands a pretty necklace-an emerald pendant on a silver chain.

"In honor of my son's aqiqa, aqiqa, today I will give this necklace to the girl I love most," the Messenger said, holding the pendant aloft for all to see. today I will give this necklace to the girl I love most," the Messenger said, holding the pendant aloft for all to see.

There was an immediate rustle of excitement and I suddenly felt my heart pounding in my chest. The Messenger glanced at me for just a brief moment and then began to walk slowly past each of his wives, dangling the necklace near their eager faces.

I saw Hafsa turn to Zaynab and whisper. Her voice was too low for me to hear, but I had mastered the art of reading lips during my years of fending off-and partic.i.p.ating in-harem gossip.

"He will give it to the daughter of Abu Bakr," Hafsa said, and I could see the irritation on Zaynab's beautiful features as she nodded her agreement.

I felt a flash of pride as the Messenger walked by all of his wives and approached me. For a moment, he lingered before Safiya and I felt my heart sink. And then he pa.s.sed by the disappointed Jewess and strolled toward me, the last in the circle of the Mothers.

I smiled triumphantly and raised my hand to take the jewel......and the Messenger walked right past me! I flushed red, shocked and confused. He had gone by each of his wives and yet the necklace remained in his hands. And then I saw him approach little Umama, who was sitting in her mother, Zaynab's, lap. The Messenger bent down and tied the necklace around his granddaughter's neck, then kissed her on the lips.

We all groaned, realizing that the Prophet had played a poignant little joke on us, the women of the household, who were perennially creating drama in our rivalry to be the first in his heart.

The Prophet looked at me in amus.e.m.e.nt. I crossed my arms in mock irritation, but I could not suppress the smile on my face. I finally burst out laughing, and soon everyone joined in.

And the mirth of the afternoon was interrupted by the sound of a dog barking wildly nearby, and I saw the Prophet's face grow dark. He began to tremble and I saw beads of sweat on his forehead, and I leaped to my feet on the a.s.sumption that the tremors of Revelation had set in. But the Messenger did not fall to the ground in convulsions as often happened during these moments of spiritual ecstasy. He stood where he was, his eyes gazing out across the pavilion as if he were looking through the cloth walls and seeing something far beyond the confines of time and s.p.a.ce.

And then the moment pa.s.sed and the Prophet blinked rapidly, looking around as if trying to remind himself where he was. He turned to face us, his eyes gazing long and deep at each one of his wives, his handsome face suddenly tense with anxiety. His gaze fell upon me and I felt a strange chill in my heart.

"O Messenger of G.o.d, what is it?"

The Prophet continued to look at me, as if his eyes were peering deep into my soul.

"The dogs of al-Haw'ab...they bark so fiercely..."

Al-Haw'ab was a valley to the northeast, on the caravan route to Iraq. I did not understand why the Prophet was mentioning this remote and desolate place, but there was something about his tone that suddenly frightened me. I looked at my sister-wives and saw that they were unnerved as well.

The Prophet now looked away from me and stared across the room. He continued to speak, but it was to himself and not to us.

"They bark at the Angel of Death...who follows her skirts...so much death in her midst..."

A terrible silence followed and the only thing I could hear was the pounding of blood in my ears. And then the Jewess stood up, her eyes filled with the terror that we all now felt.

"Who is she? Who do the dogs bark at?"

The Prophet stirred from his silent reverie and then looked again at each of us, sorrow etched on to his features.

"I...I don't know...but I grieve for her..."

The air of festivity was gone, replaced by a terrible sense of doom hanging over us. The Messenger of G.o.d shook his head as if trying to free himself from the awful vision that had captured his heart. He turned to leave and then stopped, his eyes suddenly focused on me. He leaned close so that only I would hear.

"Please, Humayra, Humayra," he said softly. "Don't let the dogs bark at you."

He walked out, leaving me with an unearthly sense of foreboding. I suddenly threw on my veil and ran outside. As I fled the pavilion and raced back to the security of my little home, I felt like a terrified gazelle charging through the wilderness, escaping an unseen predator that was coming closer every moment.

In years to come, when the Messenger's prophecy came true, I learned that we are all gazelles, and the lion that is bearing down upon us is the heartless hunter called fate. And the tragedy of life is that no matter how fast we run, no matter how far we go, the lion always wins.

39 Mecca-AD 630 In the eighth year after we had emigrated to Medina, when I was seventeen years old, the Meccans broke the truce of Hudaybiyya. Men of Quraysh helped a group of hotheads from the Bedouin clan of Bakr attack Muslims from the Bani Khuza'a. It was some foolish quarrel, a blood feud over a woman from a pagan clan who had fallen in love and run off with a Muslim boy. But it was a clear violation of the peace that had stood for two years, and the Prophet ordered the army of Islam to march out to Mecca in response.

By now, we truly could be called an army. Having been battle-tested in dozens of increasingly complex skirmishes, the barbarian tribes were now a powerfully disciplined and honed fighting force, one that had in recent months had its first confrontation with the legions of the Byzantine empire. After the failure of the Roman alliance with Khaybar, the day had been rapidly approaching when the imperial troops would engage our men. The Byzantines had precipitated the crisis by capturing the Prophet's emissary to Syria and brutally killing him. The murder was a ruthless violation of the ancient diplomatic sanct.i.ty of envoys and was no doubt intended to show the Byzantine contempt for the rising Muslim power and to provoke a response.

The Messenger had sent a force of three thousand to avenge his amba.s.sador's death, led by his adopted son, Zayd. The resulting battle against Byzantine troops at the valley of Muta'h was the first in a war that would soon see the mighty Roman empire collapse at the hands of a group of desert warriors. The fighting was brutal and Zayd was killed. The death of Muhammad's beloved kinsman had caused the Muslims to fight with such ferocity that the overconfident Byzantine legions were forced to retreat. The Meccan defector Khalid ibn al-Waleed took the standard of the army and fought the stunned Byzantine forces back to the Dead Sea before pulling his men into the safety of the desert. Though the battle could at best have been called a draw, the Byzantines were horrified. Their elite forces, which had ruled much of the earth for almost a thousand years, had been checked by lightly armed hors.e.m.e.n who had been outnumbered three to one.

When the survivors returned to Mecca, the Prophet had congratulated them for their courage and awarded Khalid with the t.i.tle "the Sword of Allah," by which he would forever be known. And then the Messenger had retreated to the privacy of Zaynab's apartment to weep bitterly over the death of Zayd, who had been a son to him and a husband to her.

The Muslim army had faced down the Byzantines and was now ready to face its most important challenge-the conquest of the holy city of Mecca. The Messenger brought together ten thousand of his finest warriors and marched to Mecca in response to the treaty violation. Many of the men were filled with righteous indignation and a burning desire to avenge years of humiliation and death at the hands of the Quraysh. But the Messenger calmed their hearts, saying that he would prefer to take the city without bloodshed. Even though it had been the base of operations of our enemies, Mecca remained a sacred city and the Prophet had no desire to stain the Sanctuary of Abraham with blood.

And so, as the Muslim army camped in the hills outside the ancient city from which we had been exiled, he ordered each and every one of the men to light a small campfire, rather than a few large bonfires around which the army would gather. And so it was that the night sky of Mecca was illuminated crimson with the combined flames of ten thousand fires, creating the terrifying impression of an army of one hundred thousand camped on the edge of the city. It was an effective ruse, and the citizenry of Mecca devolved into panic at the illusion.

I stood by the Prophet's side at the edge of a hill, my skin tingling with the waves of heat emanating from the burning camp behind us. The smoke from the fires made my eyes water and I was perennially terrified that a stray spark from one of the thousands of burning pits would consume the Prophet's pavilion, which he had pitched just outside the perimeter of the camp. Though Umar and the other commanders had objected to the Messenger's command center being established at the base of the hills, where it would be easy prey for the first Meccan attack force, my husband did not seem in the least bit afraid. And looking back at the flaming horizon, which seemed as terrifying as the gates of h.e.l.l, I understood his confidence. There would be no attack.

Two men approached our camp, carrying the flag of heralds. Unlike the Byzantines, Muslims respected the immunity of envoys and these men did not need any protective force. As the tall figures clambered down the hill toward the Messenger's simple green tent, my eyes went wide with recognition. These were not simple amba.s.sadors. They were the lords of Mecca itself.

Abu Sufyan had come, along with his son Muawiya, who had been a secret convert for several years. From the smile on Muawiya's face and the tired and defeated look on Abu Sufyan's, it was clear that there was no more need for pretense. Mecca had been defeated, and all that was left was to settle the terms of its surrender.

The Messenger stepped forward with a warm smile and extended his hand to the man who had been his enemy for twenty years. Abu Sufyan looked at him wearily and then shook the Prophet's hand with dignity.

OVER THE NEXT HOUR, the Messenger and Abu Sufyan negotiated a permanent end to hostilities between our peoples. The Muslim army would enter the city in the morning with the guarantee of a general amnesty for its populace. This was a remarkably magnanimous gesture on my husband's part. He had defeated the people who had persecuted him for two decades, the people who had killed his family members and loved ones and had nearly exterminated the entire Muslim population at the Battle of the Trench. And he would forgive them and grant them privileged membership in the Muslim Ummah. Ummah. The Quraysh, the tribe that had expelled Muhammad from its bosom, would retain control of Mecca and their traditional right to administer the Sanctuary and the Holy Kaaba in the name of Islam. The Quraysh, the tribe that had expelled Muhammad from its bosom, would retain control of Mecca and their traditional right to administer the Sanctuary and the Holy Kaaba in the name of Islam.

All of this the Messenger offered with a smile and an open hand. Abu Sufyan sighed, shaking his head at his enemy's generosity, which he himself had failed to show over the years.

"Perhaps I always knew this day would come," he said after a long moment of silence. His hair was now as white as the clouds, and his once-handsome faced was lined heavily with creases, the shrewd eyes weighed down by dark circles. He looked more like an old beggar than the would-be king of the Arab nation.

The Prophet leaned closer to him, took his hand in his as if they were old friends and not mortal enemies.

"Then why did you resist for so long?"

Abu Sufyan looked at his son Muawiya, his hope and pride, who had betrayed him and joined forces with his adversary. The dignified young man met his gaze and I could seen in them a glint of triumph, as if he had finally been proven right in an old family argument.

"Pride," Abu Sufyan admitted at last. And then he turned his eyes on the Messenger. "And perhaps jealousy. That Allah had chosen you over me."

The Messenger smiled.

"You said Allah, and not 'the G.o.ds.'"

Abu Sufyan shrugged and rose to his feet.

"If my G.o.ds were real, they would have helped me over the years."

The old man turned to leave, and then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to look back at my husband, an ironic smile on his lips.

"I testify that there is no G.o.d but G.o.d, and that you, Muhammad, are the Messenger of G.o.d."

And with that, the last of Muhammad's old enemies became his follower. Muawiya rose to help the old man limp out, when the Prophet called after them.

"Tell your people to stay indoors and abandon their weapons," he said slowly, making sure that every word was understood. "No man will be harmed who does not resist."

Abu Sufyan nodded. He was about to step out into the desert air, heated to frenzy by the thousands of campfires, when he looked one last time at the Messenger of G.o.d.

"Congratulations, Muhammad. You have defeated Quraysh at last."