Mother of the Believers Part 47

And so my father dispatched Khalid ibn al-Waleed, the man my husband had proclaimed as the Sword of Allah, to face this new and grave threat to the future of Islam. Khalid's forces confronted Musaylima's armies at Yamamah, in the heart of eastern Arabia. Although numbering only thirteen thousand men, Khalid's forces were better organized and disciplined than the tribal fighters. Khalid divided the troops into three wings and took personal command of the center. The battle was brutal, but the Muslims had the advantage of zeal and an utter fearlessness in the face of death that unnerved the Bedouins. The tribesmen scattered, leaving Musaylima only seven thousand fanatically loyal men, who walled themselves inside a garden. A foolish mistake, for now they were trapped and surrounded on all sides. Muslim warriors scaled the walls and broke down the doors, flooding into the enclave, which would forever after be known as the Garden of Death. The followers of the false prophet were ma.s.sacred, and Musaylima himself was killed, struck down by Wahsi's infamous javelin. The Abyssinian slave who had murdered Hamza had finally cleansed himself of his sin. Sajah, Musaylima's wife and fellow claimant to prophecy, was captured and quickly embraced Islam. Khalid let her go, and she vanished into the desert.

With the death of Musaylima, the fire of the old pagan ways was quenched in Arabia. My father had successfully managed to quell the revolt of the Arab tribes. He had gained the trust and respect of the Muslims and was now busy administering the affairs of state. One of the th.o.r.n.i.e.s.t issues he faced was dealing with my husband's estate. Though Muhammad had died having given all of his worldly wealth and possessions away to the poor, there were several tracts of land, small gardens in Khaybar and the nearby oasis of Fadak, that had been spoils of war after the defeat of the Jews of Arabia. My husband had administered these lands while he was alive, feeding his family and the needy with the produce of the gardens. One day Fatima came to Abu Bakr and asked that these gardens be relinquished to her and her children as her inheritance. The People of the House were desperately poor, despite being the only surviving bloodline of the Prophet, and the gardens would help them ease the daily struggle to put food on their table.

My father was in an awkward position, and he gently told Fatima that the Messenger had once said to him that prophets leave behind no inheritance, that all their wealth should be given to the community. It was a comment that Muhammad had made to me in pa.s.sing as well, and I spoke up in support of my father's judgment. But Fatima was livid, claiming that Abu Bakr was stealing her patrimony, and she stormed out of my father's house, leaving him heartbroken. He had done what he thought was the right thing according to his best understanding of the Prophet's wishes, but it had only increased the chasm of pain that had opened up between him and the Messenger's family.

Shortly thereafter, my father tried to reach a compromise. He learned that a Jew from Bani Nadir who had converted to Islam had died childless and had left the Prophet seven small garden plots in Medina in his will. Abu Bakr appointed Ali and the Prophet's uncle Abbas to administer the gardens on behalf of the Messenger's descendants. But Fatima refused to be reconciled by this gesture. She never spoke to my father after that day when he had first refused her claim to inheritance, despite his repeated overtures. Abu Bakr once told me that of all the things he had lost in the course of his life-his wealth, his youth, his health-nothing grieved him more than his estrangement from the sweet girl whom he had always loved like his own daughter.

ONE NIGHT, SIX MONTHS after Muhammad died, I lay in my bed, hovering on the edge of sleep. I tossed and turned on the sheepskin mattress on which I could still sometimes smell the scent of my husband, the strange aura of roses that always seemed to follow him in life. It had taken me some time to get used to sleeping in my apartment again, knowing that the Messenger was buried only a few feet away. But I had eventually grown accustomed to the strange feeling that I was never quite alone, that he was very much there with me, and not just in a metaphorical sense. after Muhammad died, I lay in my bed, hovering on the edge of sleep. I tossed and turned on the sheepskin mattress on which I could still sometimes smell the scent of my husband, the strange aura of roses that always seemed to follow him in life. It had taken me some time to get used to sleeping in my apartment again, knowing that the Messenger was buried only a few feet away. But I had eventually grown accustomed to the strange feeling that I was never quite alone, that he was very much there with me, and not just in a metaphorical sense.

There was a heaviness in the room, as if the air itself had changed since the day he died, and eventually, as I learned to fall asleep again in the apartment, I started having vivid dreams, filled with strange and beautiful lights and colors I had never imagined. I would often wake up in the middle of the night thinking I had heard his voice or felt the touch of his cool hand on my hair. Over time, these experiences became part of my daily life and I eventually accepted them without question, if only to keep my sanity. But in the early days, it had been difficult and frightening, as if I were living in a portal between two worlds, and I was never quite sure which one I was in at any given moment.

And then on that cool winter night, something happened that I have never forgotten, something that still sends chills down my spine when I think of it. The heaviness in the air had grown almost intolerable, and I found that I had to breathe in deeper and deeper just to fill my lungs. It was as if a thick curtain were falling down on top of me, and I found it hard to move, as if I were being tied down by invisible ropes.

I struggled against the pressure, like a drowning woman deep underwater and desperately trying to rise to the surface to breathe. And then I heard a woman's voice, which I thought must be coming from the courtyard of the Masjid. But the voice grew closer and clearer and I realized that it was whispering right beside me. Despite the heavy air that was holding me down, I managed to turn my head and look.

And I saw Fatima standing a few feet away. She was dressed in silvery white robes, her hair covered in a scarf that seemed to be glittering with stars. She was standing above her father's grave, speaking words to him that I could not understand. The language was not Arabic, nor did it sound like the foreign tongues I had heard spoken in the marketplace-Persian, Greek, Amharic, Coptic. In fact, I could not say that she was speaking words at all. The sounds that were coming out of her lips were rhythmic and lyrical, almost like a song rather than speech.

I wanted to call out to her, to ask why she had come in the middle of the night, whether everything was all right for her and her children. But no words came out of my mouth. I simply stared at her, transfixed, until she finally turned to look at me.

And then I felt my breathing stop altogether. I recognized her and yet, at the same time, I did not. I somehow knew that the woman standing before me was Fatima, but her face had been wondrously transformed. Gone were the plain, harsh features, the long face that was always drawn in sadness. And in its place was the face of a new Fatima, a woman of such intense beauty and perfection that she no longer looked human. She had become what I had imagined an angel to be when I was a child. Her skin, which had often suffered from rashes and pimples, was now flawless and her cheekbones were crafted with such perfection that she looked like a living statue. Her eyebrows, once thick and unruly, looked as if they had been painted on her face. Her lips were no longer chapped, but full and sensuous, and her unruly hair now flowed like honey around her delicate shoulders, which had once been mannish and square.

The only thing about her that was unchanged was her eyes, the same black eyes that had belonged to her father, eyes that looked as if they could see deep into the farthest reaches of your soul.

She looked at me with those luminous eyes and smiled. And when she spoke, her voice sounded like the tinkling of bells.

"Tell your father that I understand now," she said, and her words echoed as if she were calling to me from across a great chasm. "I understand and I forgive."

Then she raised her right hand to me as if waving farewell. And my heart skipped a beat when I saw that in the center of her palm was what looked like a glowing blue orb shaped like an eye.

I stared into the swirling light at the palm of her hand as it grew brighter and brighter, until my entire room was bathed in its ethereal shine. The darkness of my room vanished in the cascade of wondrous azure light, as bright as heaven itself on a cloudless summer day.

I WOKE WITH A WOKE WITH A start to hear cries of grief from the courtyard. I looked around in confusion, expecting to see Fatima standing in the corner, but I was very much alone. As the sound of weeping intensified, I threw on a cloak and wrapped my face hastily behind a veil before peering outside. start to hear cries of grief from the courtyard. I looked around in confusion, expecting to see Fatima standing in the corner, but I was very much alone. As the sound of weeping intensified, I threw on a cloak and wrapped my face hastily behind a veil before peering outside.

A crowd of what looked like mourners had gathered in the courtyard, tearing at their clothes and wailing in sorrow.

"What is it?" I cried to them. "What has happened?"

A middle-aged woman stumbled toward me, slapping her breast and pulling at her hair.

"O Mother, the Ummah Ummah is bereft! Fatima the Shining has returned to our Lord!" is bereft! Fatima the Shining has returned to our Lord!"

I felt my knees grow weak.

"When?" I managed to croak out. "When did this happen?"

An elderly man looked at me, his wrinkled face twisted in pain.

"Our master Ali said she died at sunset yesterday," he sobbed. "He buried her in secret so that no man would worship her grave as the ignorant did of old."

I sank to the ground, not able to comprehend what he'd just said. If Fatima had died the evening before, who had I seen in my room later that night?

No. I had imagined it. It was a dream, I told myself, nothing more, nothing less.

And then I remembered something that Fatima had said to me once when we were young girls in Mecca, a lifetime ago. I had told her that I had suffered through a bad dream the night before, one where I was being chased by a frightening old hag wearing a golden snake on her arm.

Fatima had simply shrugged and said not to worry. It was just a dream and no more real than anything else in life.

"What do you mean?" I asked, questioning her strange comment.

And then Fatima had fixed me with those powerful black eyes and spoke words that now echoed across the bridge of time.

"Life itself is a dream. When we die, we awake."

3.

Shortly after Fatima pa.s.sed away, Ali went to my father and publicly reconciled with him. He told Abu Bakr that he bore no bitterness toward him and did not dispute his right to authority. He had withheld his endors.e.m.e.nt, Ali said, as he felt that the family of the Prophet had been excluded in the handling of the succession. But the matter was done and Ali wished no more ill will between the House of the Messenger and the House of the Caliph. With the loss of Fatima, the Prophet's young grandsons were motherless and Ali wanted to dedicate his time to raising them and spreading Islam through teaching. Abu Bakr was welcome to shoulder the burdens of the nation in his stead.

My father had wept and embraced the young man, and even my stone heart softened toward him slightly. Despite my inability to forgive him for betraying me, I felt sorry for Ali, who had, in the aftermath of the Prophet's death, lost everything. As long as the Messenger had been alive, Ali had been one of the most prominent and influential members of the community. But since my husband's death and the controversy around Ali's refusal to swear allegiance to Abu Bakr, he had become increasingly isolated. His strange and awkward personality, tolerated during Muhammad's lifetime, now made people wary, and he spent most of his days alone, tending to the plot of land that Abu Bakr had agreed to give him in trust. Ali had few friends, and only Talha and Zubayr could be considered regular visitors to his home. And now, with the death of Fatima, he was truly alone.

Abu Bakr led Ali out before the believers in the Masjid after Friday prayers, and the son-in-law of the Prophet clasped the right hand of the father-in-law of the Prophet and swore his loyalty. There were audible sighs of relief and cries of praise to G.o.d, for the uncertainty that had hung over my father's reign, the nagging question of legitimacy, had finally been resolved.

At least in the hearts of most people. A few pa.s.sionate supporters of Ali continued to grumble that the right of Muhammad's bloodline had been usurped and that Ali remained the rightful claimant to the throne of the Muslims. Ali himself did not publicly endorse such talk, but I remained suspicious that he was not doing enough to silence these malcontents.

And then news came from Khalid in the east that made us all forget our squabbles and turn our gaze to the future of Islam.

THE M MUSLIM DEFEAT OF Musaylima had placed our armies directly on the borders of the ancient Persian empire. The Sa.s.sanid kings had ruled this great nation for almost four hundred years, and at the height of their power, their empire held dominion from Anatolia to the Indus River. But over the past several decades, the Sa.s.sanid shahs had been locked in a brutal and destructive war with the Byzantines for control of the region. Musaylima had placed our armies directly on the borders of the ancient Persian empire. The Sa.s.sanid kings had ruled this great nation for almost four hundred years, and at the height of their power, their empire held dominion from Anatolia to the Indus River. But over the past several decades, the Sa.s.sanid shahs had been locked in a brutal and destructive war with the Byzantines for control of the region.

For most of my young life, the Christians had been on the defensive. Antioch and Alexandria had fallen to the Sa.s.sanids. And then the Christians suffered the ultimate humiliation when the fire worshipers conquered Jerusalem and stole the sacred relics of the Church, including what was alleged by their priests to be the True Cross of Jesus. The Byzantines had been demoralized until the rise of the Emperor Heraclius, who had valiantly fought back against the Persians and expelled the invaders from the holy city.

The victorious Heraclius had rallied his people to take the fight to the enemy, and the Byzantines had attacked the very heart of the Persian empire, marching down the length of the Tigris River and sacking the Sa.s.sanid palace at Dastagered. Heraclius had nearly achieved his goal of taking the Persian capital at Ctesiphon, but the Persian defenders had destroyed the ancient bridges over the Nahrawan Ca.n.a.l, frustrating his advance. Heraclius had returned triumphantly to the seat of his own empire, but his victory was ultimately hollow. Though he had succeeded in pushing back his ancient adversaries, his army was broken by the constant warfare and the Byzantine treasury depleted.

The Sa.s.sanids were in even worse disarray, and the Persian king, Khusro, was overthrown and murdered by his own son Kavadh, who negotiated a shaky truce with the Byzantines. I remember when I first heard the news of Khusro's death from a Yemeni merchant in the marketplace of Medina. I had smiled behind my veil, for Khusro had rejected my husband's call to Islam, tearing up his letter in contempt. As the Messenger had prophesized then, his kingdom had been similarly torn in two.

The grand political events to the north provided interesting gossip, but they had been of little practical interest to the Muslims in the early years, as survival had been our primary focus. But now that Islam was established as the sole ruling force over a united Arabia, we could no more ignore the empires on our borders than they could us. These two great nations-Persian and Byzantine-had exhausted each other through centuries of warfare, and the rise of a new state in their midst presented an unexpected and dangerous threat to their delicate balance of power. Neither of the empires had the resources or energy to engage us directly, whatever threats may have rumbled from their envoys, and they were forced to use proxies in their effort to keep us in check. The Byzantines had tried to ally with the Jews of Khaybar, forcing my husband to conquer the city and use it as a defensive shield to the north. And the false prophet Musaylima was rumored to have received financing and training from the Persians to the east. But with the defeat of these quislings, the day was fast coming when our forces would come into direct contact with those of the rival empires.

And then one warm morning, a year after my husband had died, that day came. Acting upon orders from my father, Khalid sent an army of eighteen thousand men from Yamama into the fields of Persian Iraq, claiming them for Islam. The Persians responded with a force of nearly twice that size, led by elephants armored in steel. The Sa.s.sanid army was a terrifying juggernaut, the likes of which the Arabs had never before encountered, and the Arab swords and spears looked like toys compared to the mighty honed blades of the ancient Persian empire. But Khalid knew that this monstrous foe had one weakness. Mobility. The heavily shielded horses and elephants could not march for long under the hot desert sun without succ.u.mbing to exhaustion, and so he utilized the hit-and-run tactics the Messenger had perfected at Khaybar. The Muslims would ride out into the field and engage the front lines of the Persians, and then escape back into the wilderness, having goaded their adversaries into pursuit. The farther the Muslims drew the soldiers of Persia into the sands, the slower and more confused they became. By the time the Persian general Hormuz realized his tactical error, it was too late.

Khalid led the Muslims in one final charge, during which the tired and bewildered Sa.s.sanids used a standard defensive tactic that had worked for them in the past but would lead to tragedy that day. The Persian soldiers linked themselves together with chains to hold back Khalid's cavalry. They stood united like a rock in the face of the Muslim charge. This tactic had been successful against Byzantine soldiers, who had decided that a frontal attack against the chain was nothing less than suicide. But the Persians did not understand that the guarantee of death on the battlefield did not deter Muslims but only encouraged them with the promise of eternal life. To the shock of the Persian defenders, Khalid's hors.e.m.e.n crashed against the chained warriors without fear, immolating themselves on the lances of the Sa.s.sanids. As the Muslims continued to charge despite the wall of death, the Persians became frightened by their intensity and commitment, and panic began to spread among the dehydrated and exhausted troops. And then, when Khalid slew their commander, Hormuz, the Persian warriors tried to flee, but the chains that had been meant to hold back their enemies now became shackles that led them to their deaths.

Khalid's men destroyed the Persian force in what became known to us as the Battle of the Chains. Thousands of the Sa.s.sanids' best troops fell that day, and the Arabs had opened a door into the east. The Muslims exploded out of the desert and soon descended on the city of al-Hira, the capital of Persian Iraq, which had been administered by Arab Christians known as Lakhmids. Khalid showered the people of al-Hira with gifts and promised the Christians that their right of worship would be protected under the laws of Islam, a guarantee that had never been given by their Persian overlords. The Lakhmids quickly capitulated, and the boundaries of Islam had in one stunning swoop extended outside of the Arabian peninsula and reached the banks of the Euphrates.

Our nation had just become an empire.

THE REJOICING IN THE streets of Medina at word of Khalid's victory was soon followed by sadness. My father fell deeply ill, and he was confined to his bed. I sensed the cloud of death that was hanging over Abu Bakr. I could not imagine a world without him any more than I could one without my husband. But in truth, I could still feel Muhammad's presence in my room and found some comfort in the intuition that he was still with me. Yet my father was just an ordinary man, and when he pa.s.sed away, he would truly be gone. streets of Medina at word of Khalid's victory was soon followed by sadness. My father fell deeply ill, and he was confined to his bed. I sensed the cloud of death that was hanging over Abu Bakr. I could not imagine a world without him any more than I could one without my husband. But in truth, I could still feel Muhammad's presence in my room and found some comfort in the intuition that he was still with me. Yet my father was just an ordinary man, and when he pa.s.sed away, he would truly be gone.

Asma and I stayed by his side, night and day, nursing him through the fever. And then one morning, I saw a look on his face, a serenity and resignation that told me that his time had come.

"Call Uthman," he whispered to me.

I immediately dispatched a messenger, and within a few minutes the son of Affan arrived. As Uthman knelt beside my father, he looked older but was still remarkably handsome, and I noticed the sparkle of generosity and kindness in his eyes.

"What can I do for you, old friend?" he said, running a hand through my father's thinning white hair.

"I have a testament for the people, a final command as Caliph that I want you to deliver to them," my father said, enunciating every word carefully, his breath wheezing.

Uthman lowered his head. For a moment, I wondered if he would object, as had the Companions during Muhammad's last illness. I trembled at the thought of another chaotic struggle for succession. The Muslims had established order only because of my father's statesmanship. Would we have to endure another round of tribesmen jockeying for position? With the Muslim nation now expanding into the heart of the Persian empire, with enemies circling us like vultures over a battlefield, we could not afford another dispute over authority. And my heart chilled at the thought that the small but vocal faction that favored the right of Ali and the Prophet's grandsons might not choose to acquiesce as easily as they had done before. If Uthman refused to pa.s.s along my father's wishes, the Ummah Ummah could descend overnight into civil war. could descend overnight into civil war.

Uthman finally raised his head and looked into Abu Bakr's eyes. He squeezed my father's gnarled hands and nodded.

"I will do as you wish."

My father sighed in clear relief and then gave me a glance that I understood. I went and retrieved a piece of parchment and gave it to Uthman, along with a quill pen that was one of Abu Bakr's few earthly possessions.

And then my father recited his last testament.

"In the name of G.o.d, the Merciful, the Compa.s.sionate. This is the order of Abdallah ibn Abu Quhayfa, known to men as Abu Bakr. Whereas..."

And then he stopped. I looked at my father and saw that he had fallen unconscious. My heart skipped a beat. If my father died before he could state his wishes, fitna fitna would be upon us. I looked at Uthman and saw from his pale face that he was thinking the same thing. would be upon us. I looked at Uthman and saw from his pale face that he was thinking the same thing.

I looked around and saw that we were alone. Asma had returned home to feed you, Abdallah, and there was no one present in the Caliph's quarters to witness what happened next.

"What do we do?" Uthman asked me in a voice that sounded like a frightened boy's.

I could hear the blood pounding in my ears, and my mouth was as dry as salt. And then I made a decision for which I could have been killed on the spot.

"Write in 'I appoint Umar ibn al-Khattab as my successor among you,'" I said, fighting off the terror of my own presumption. Of all the men left in Medina, I knew that only Umar commanded the fear and the respect of every faction, and he could be counted on to hold the people together.

I looked at Uthman, my gold eyes focused on him like a hawk. If he objected and word spread that I had usurped the Caliph's power and forged his final command, nothing would save me from the fury of the mob. The Mother of the Believers would be torn to shreds in the street by her children.

But Uthman's saving grace, and his fatal weakness, was his trusting and gentle nature. He was like a little child who saw only the best in others and had no understanding of the machinations of politics or the treacheries of the human heart.

He looked at me for a moment and then nodded and wrote in the words in Abu Bakr's name.

I felt the world spin around me. Had I just done this thing? Had I actually seized my father's mantle and spoken on his behalf, single-handedly appointing the next Caliph of Islam? And then I began to tremble in fright at my audacity and wondered what madness had taken hold of me.

And then a miracle happened. Of all the wondrous and inexplicable things I witnessed during my years with the Messenger of G.o.d, none was as remarkable as the sudden sound of my father's voice.

"Where was I?" Abu Bakr said, his eyes blinking away the sleep that had taken hold of him.

The blood drained from my face, and I shot Uthman a warning look, but it was too late. The gentle and unpretentious man simply handed over to the Caliph the sheet on which he had written in the words I had instructed him.

My father looked at the parchment in surprise, his eyes narrowing. And then he turned to Uthman, and, to my shock, a warm smile spread on his face.

"I think you were afraid that the people would dispute among themselves if I died in that state," he said, no hint of accusation or outrage in his voice.

Uthman looked at me, and for a moment I expected him to reveal my presumption. But his eyes twinkled and he simply nodded in affirmation, and I realized that my secret was safe with him.

Abu Bakr nodded and praised G.o.d.

"You have done well," he said. And then his eyes turned to me and he held out his hand.

I leaned close to my father and held his hand in mine.

"I have no love for this world," he said softly. "But I am glad to have been in it for two reasons. One is that I knew and befriended the Messenger of G.o.d. And the second is that I have been blessed to call you my daughter."

Tears welled in my eyes and I struggled to speak, but my father shook his head and I knew that there was nothing I could say with words that he did not know full well in his heart.

His hand fell from mine and his eyes slipped back into his skull as I heard him whisper his final words. There is no G.o.d but G.o.d, and Muhammad is His Messenger There is no G.o.d but G.o.d, and Muhammad is His Messenger. And with that, Abu Bakr, the Witness to the Truth, the Second in the Cave, and the first Caliph of Islam, pa.s.sed away into eternity.

THAT NIGHT, THE M MUSLIMS buried my father in a grave next to my husband. Abu Bakr was laid to rest behind his master, his face near the Prophet's shoulder. Ali led the funeral service and was kind and gracious in his eulogy. buried my father in a grave next to my husband. Abu Bakr was laid to rest behind his master, his face near the Prophet's shoulder. Ali led the funeral service and was kind and gracious in his eulogy.

And then, in accordance with my father's last wishes, the Muslims gathered and paid allegiance to Umar ibn al-Khattab, who became the second and perhaps greatest of the Caliphs.

4 August 26, AD 636 Muawiya gazed out at the mighty Byzantine army gathered at the river of Yarmuk and felt a rush of fire run through his veins. This day had long been coming. The initial Muslim victories under Abu Bakr had been highly improbable. The subsequent conquests under his successor, Umar, should have been impossible. Khalid's brilliant entry into Iraq had placed the Muslims like a dagger aimed at the heart of Byzantium. Within a few months, the Sword of Allah had crossed the desert and come west. Khalid's lightly armed and highly mobile hors.e.m.e.n descended on the plains of Syria without warning. The Byzantine commanders dispatched ten thousand local men to hold off what they thought were disorganized bandits seeking booty. They did not expect to find an efficient and highly disciplined Arab force that outnumbered them two to one. The hubris of the Byzantines led to their ma.s.sacre at the Battle of Ajnadayn, and the Muslims exploded through the hills of Syria unchallenged until they surrounded the ancient city of Damascus. The stunned Byzantine commanders who had underestimated their foes were suddenly cut off from reinforcements and forced to evacuate what had been the proud capital of the imperial province. Within weeks, Damascus fell and Muslims were suddenly the rulers of all of Syria.

The unexpected loss of Damascus caused the Byzantine generals in neighboring Palestine to panic, and they sent a force to the valley of Jordan to confront the invaders. But Khalid had antic.i.p.ated the attack from the south and the Muslims met and crushed the Roman troops at the village of Fahl. And then, like the gift of rain coming down from the heavens after a long drought, the Holy Land of Abraham, David, and Solomon, the land of the prophets and of Jesus the son of Mary, was now in the hands of Islam. Only Jerusalem itself remained in the possession of the stunned Byzantines, who desperately holed themselves up and prepared for a siege they knew was coming.

Heraclius had realized belatedly that he was dealing not with tribal marauders but with a highly organized army bent on conquest. The Arabs, with their light arms and camels that moved like a flash flood, were unlike anything he had faced in decades of warfare with the lumbering Persian juggernaut. His commanders had no experience in battle against such a mobile foe, especially one that did not appear to fear death, and they were at a loss for a strategy to rout the Muslims. So Heraclius decided to unleash the combined forces of the entire Byzantine army on Syria and crush the invaders. The time for gamesmanship was gone, and the moment of brute strength had come.

And so it was that Muawaya stood among the Muslims as they faced the greatest army ever gathered in the region. Over one hundred thousand of Rome's elite warriors had been sent to crush the Muslim forces. The army of Islam was outnumbered four to one. Survival for the Arabs, let alone victory, should have been impossible and yet Muawiya felt excited. His men had seen so many impossible victories that even the most cynical of the Quraysh were now convinced that G.o.d was on their side. And if Allah, the Lord of the heavens and the earth, was with them, who could possibly withstand them?