Mother of the Believers Part 6

7.

The Hall of a.s.sembly sparkled like ruby in the moonlight. It was the second largest building in Mecca, with only the Kaaba standing taller. It had been built years before by Qusay, one of the most revered of the ancestors of Quraysh, a statesman who had ended the blood feuds of rival clans and created a unified oligarchy that brought stability to the Pilgrimage and prosperity to the city. The Hall of a.s.sembly was the symbol of his legacy. A sprawling complex that spread out over two hundred feet of polished red stone and marble, it was the closest thing to a palace in the wastes between Yemen and Syria and served as a meeting ground for tribal leaders, as well as a festival hall and the seat of rough desert justice.

Normally, the arched doors, inlaid in silver and polished bronze, were flung open to the public, allowing the average citizen of Mecca the necessary illusion that he had access to the corridors of power. In truth, everyone knew that decisions made in the Hall were based on the cold calculations of gold and political expediency; but the semblance of justice was necessary to prevent complete social breakdown.

But today the needs of appearances were secondary to the demands of secrecy and the mighty doors were shut to all except those who wielded unquestioned power. Guards in heavy leather armor, ringed in steel, stood outside each of the doors, bearing long swords held to the ready. The deliberations tonight were essential to the future of the city, and they had been ordered to cut down anyone who attempted to enter without permission.

A sound like a footfall made one of the guards, a grim-faced brute named Husam, turn his head with a start. It had come from around the corner, where a small alley ran between the southern wall of the building and the gated home of Abu Sufyan. The guard signaled to his broken-toothed colleague Adham. Weapons poised, they stealthily turned around the corner, prepared to kill anyone hiding in the shadows.

They saw nothing except a gray cat looking up at them with unblinking yellow eyes. Satisfied, the two men returned to their posts protecting the eastern gate to the Hall.

I LOOKED DOWN FROM LOOKED DOWN FROM my precarious perch ten feet above the ground as the two angry-looking guards exited the alley. I had often played hide-and-seek with my friends and the alley beside the Hall of a.s.sembly was one of my favorite haunts. I had always been a limber child and I had climbed up the iron drainpipe before, confident that the playmates trying to find me would not think to look up. I loved spying on them while they were unaware. That little skill had proved useful to me that night and had likely saved my life. my precarious perch ten feet above the ground as the two angry-looking guards exited the alley. I had often played hide-and-seek with my friends and the alley beside the Hall of a.s.sembly was one of my favorite haunts. I had always been a limber child and I had climbed up the iron drainpipe before, confident that the playmates trying to find me would not think to look up. I loved spying on them while they were unaware. That little skill had proved useful to me that night and had likely saved my life.

When the guards had disappeared from my sight, I allowed myself to breathe again. Looking up, I saw a window on the second floor that was partially open, the gap just small enough for a cat to climb through. Or a small child.

My heart beat with the excitement that comes more from doing the forbidden than from any awareness of the danger I was placing myself in. I dug my fingers into the pipe, my fingernails already black with grime and pigeon droppings, and climbed higher, until I was just parallel to the window. If I had looked down, I probably would have fainted from vertigo, but I had always been a focused girl, and right now my eyes were on nothing except the small sill that jutted out beneath the window. I closed my eyes for a second and said the benediction that I had been taught almost as my first words: Bismillahir-rahmanir-raheem, Bismillahir-rahmanir-raheem, In the name of G.o.d, the Merciful, the Compa.s.sionate. In the name of G.o.d, the Merciful, the Compa.s.sionate.

And then I swung over like a monkey and grasped the sill, clinging to its jagged stone outline. With a grunt that I prayed would not be heard by the nearby guards, I heaved myself higher until my skinny body was lying flat on the sill. Then, with the impossible dexterity of youth, I managed to squeeze through the window opening and tumbled inside.

I blinked, adjusting my eyes to the dark interior. I was on the floor of what appeared to be a circular walkway overlooking the central a.s.sembly chamber. Doors spread out to either side, leading to smaller meeting lounges. For an overly inquisitive girl, this vast building, with its many pa.s.sages, doors and mysteries was a treasure trove of discovery. But I had a self-appointed mission tonight and exploration would have to wait for another day.

The sound of voices pulled me toward a wood railing made of expensive acacia imported from the Sinai. I peered through the lattices that had been designed in swirling geometric forms-stars, octagons, and other pretty shapes that I didn't recognize-and peered down on the meeting in progress.

I immediately recognized most of the men as tribal chiefs who had come to my father's house at various times to plead with him to end his preaching and abandon the new religion that was undermining their trade. My heart froze at the sight of Abu Jahl, dressed in robes of rich blue, a black velvet vest covering his broad chest. Of course he would be here. His decision to elevate the persecution of the Muslims to murder had been the basis of tonight's emergency council.

And then I saw something that surprised me. Among all the men with their bright turbans and ceremonial daggers tied to leather belts was seated one woman.

Hind bint Utbah, the wife of Abu Sufyan and daughter of one of the most powerful chieftains of Quraysh. I had seen her before in the marketplace, examining jewelry or rows of cloth with an expert eye. Unlike the other women of Mecca, she did not haggle over prices. She immediately knew what an item was worth and never asked the merchant. She would the name the price, and there would be no argument. The traders often gave her an extra discount in a kind of backward negotiation where they sought to gain more in Hind's favor and political patronage than they lost on their merchandise.

She had a proud, steady walk, graceful and terrifying at once, like a lioness in motion. She was the tallest woman I had ever seen, easily dwarfing many of the men in the room. Her hair fell to the small of her back in waves, the dark locks fashionably streaked with henna. Her skin was olive and glistened like a polished mirror. But it was her eyes that always caught my breath. Yellow green like a cat's, piercing in their intensity. They exuded pride and disdain, as well as a clear hint of danger. Whatever demons hid behind Hind's cruel gaze, it was safer to leave them undisturbed.

"Muhammad's followers have become a grave problem for the people of Mecca," Abu Sufyan proclaimed, his voice booming with authority. "It is time that we take action."

Abu Jahl stepped forward smoothly.

"Today the first of their blood was spilled. More must follow if we are to put an end to this."

The crowd murmured its a.s.sent and I saw Hind smile. And then I noticed that there was a friend among the gathered n.o.bles.

The Messenger's uncle Abbas rose. While he had not embraced our faith, he was always kind to Muslims and we counted on him to be a voice of reason among the lords. A role that he was clearly alone in tonight.

"It is time for patience, not hasty deeds,'" Abbas said, his silky voice seeking to quench the fire that had been ignited by Abu Jahl.

But his sympathies were an open secret among the chiefs, and Abu Jahl turned to face Abbas with a cold eye.

"Is it patience that stays your hand, or cowardice?"

Abbas bristled with the pride of his clan, the Bani Hashim. He walked right up to Abu Jahl until their beards were almost touching.

"You dare call me a coward? How much courage does it take to kill an old woman tied to a tree?"

Abu Jahl's handsome smile suddenly curled into a cruel grimace. A dead silence fell over the crowd. For an instant, I thought he would draw his dagger and plunge it into Abbas's chest to avenge this open attack on his honor.

And then Hind stepped between the men, her long elegant fingers positioned on the chests of the adversaries as she separated them gracefully.

"Enough! Save your rage for our common enemy, Muhammad."

Amr ibn al-As, the Meccan envoy with the honeyed tongue who had unsuccessfully sought to repatriate the Muslim refugees from Abyssinia, politely raised his hand. I saw that it was covered in silver rings with expensive stones-garnets, carnelian, and amber.

"But alas, what can we do against Muhammad? He is protected by the clan of Hashim."

Even as he spoke, all eyes fell on another member of the Messenger's tribe, his uncle Abu Lahab. Fat, bald, and perpetually sweating, he always reminded me of a garden slug, although with a less appealing personality.

Abu Lahab snorted in contempt at the thought of his wayward nephew. Unlike his half brothers Abu Talib and Abbas, Abu Lahab despised Muhammad, may G.o.d's blessings and peace be upon him, and had made no secret of his belief that the Messenger was simply creating a new religion to monopolize the city's lucrative Pilgrimage trade.

"The sanctuary of our clan will not last forever," Abu Lahab said. "My brother Abu Talib is old. When he dies, I will lead the Bani Hashim and will revoke his protection."

Abbas gave his brother a contemptuous stare, which Abu Lahab met with studied indifference.

Abu Jahl shook his head.

"We cannot wait that long," he said bluntly. "The tribes will grow weary of his disruption of the Pilgrimage. They will take their pilgrims-and their gold-to Taif and the temple of the G.o.ddess Allat."

Abu Jahl had chosen his words well. Taif was a prosperous trading center to the southeast, on the caravan route to Yemen. The denizens of that settlement had long envied Mecca's preeminence and had built a sprawling shrine to the "daughter of Allah" to rival and, they hoped, one day eclipse the Kaaba. If Muhammad's preaching against their G.o.ds made the annual Pilgrimage an inconvenience and source of turmoil for the desert tribes, it made sense that many would switch their allegiance to the G.o.ddess. And take their trade with them.

Seeing that he had hit he proper nerve with the other chiefs, Abu Jahl smiled.

"We must make a decisive move now," he said forcefully. "Muhammad must die."

There was an immediate uproar as various members of the a.s.sembly shouted their opinions on this extremely controversial suggestion. I could see Hind smiling, her eyes glowing. She stood motionless in the middle of the loud debate, like the heart of a whirlwind. There was something both terrifying and mesmerizing about her at that moment, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.

Finally Abu Sufyan raised both his hands and spoke loudly, a.s.serting his authority over the tumult.

"No," he said firmly. "If we attack Muhammad, his clan will be forced to avenge him against the murderer. It will start a blood feud that will consume Mecca."

He glanced at Abbas, who nodded coldly. Abu Lahab looked to his feet, knowing that no matter how much he wished it were otherwise, what Abu Sufyan said was true. His cousins in the Bani Hashim would slaughter anyone who attacked Muhammad.

Abu Sufyan's calm voice served to quell the pa.s.sion of the crowd, to Abu Jahl's clear annoyance. But the weight of his words had put an end to this dangerous line of talk. Abu Sufyan, perhaps better than any of them, understood the threat posed by Muhammad's movement, but he also knew that killing him would be like using oil to put out a kitchen fire.

Satisfied that he had cut off Abu Jahl's provocations before they could grow like weeds in a garden, killing the fruits of wisdom that kept the peace in Mecca, he stepped back.

And then Hind spoke, and everything changed.

8.

Why do you fear the spilling of a little blood, my husband?" Hind said in a husky voice. "No nation can stand that will not pay the price of order."

All eyes were on her as she moved toward her husband. Abu Sufyan saw the hungry yet terrified gaze of the crowd on his beautiful wife and his face reddened at her blatant defiance of his authority.

"A wise merchant always weighs the price with a cold heart," he said, an edge entering his voice. "He does not allow himself to be swayed by the emotions of a woman."

Hind turned to face her husband and I saw a dangerous look in her eyes. I saw her right hand move back as if to slap him, and my eyes fell on a golden armlet that wrapped around her olive-colored forearm. It looked Egyptian in design, two snakes curling around her wrist, their jaws meeting behind her hand, a glittering ruby held between their savage fangs. It was beautiful and terrifying, much like Hind herself.

But if she had desired to strike her husband in public for his de-meaning words, Hind thought the better of it, and she merely turned her back on him in open contempt.

Seeing the spell her sultry voice had cast on the men and their looks of despairing desire as she moved, Abbas walked to the center of the room to regain their attention.

"Abu Sufyan is right," he said loudly. "Killing Muhammad will prove too costly. Even if the blood feud were settled, his followers would proclaim him a martyr. A ghost is the most dangerous adversary, for it can never be killed."

Abu Sufyan nodded in a.s.sent, although he could not completely hide his irritation that his wife's gambit had allowed one of his rivals to state his primary case. But before he could add a word in support of Abbas, Abu Jahl clapped loudly, his hands coming together in slow, mocking strokes.

"Spoken like a true advocate for your nephew." he sneered. "I think it is safe to say that your loyalties lie with your kinsman and not with the people of Mecca. And it is the people of Mecca who are suffering under the lies of this sorcerer. Our city cries for a hero, a man who stands tall and does what needs to be done, without fear of consequences."

This high-flown but calculated appeal to idealism struck an immediate chord with the Arabs, a people who prided themselves on their epic stories of heroes who risked their lives for the honor of the tribe. Abu Sufyan watched in frustration as the fire of aggression he had extinguished began to blaze brightly again.

It was a shift in sentiment that Hind sensed as well. She raised her hands above her head, posing like the alluring idol of Astarte, the Phoenician fertility G.o.ddess, which stood in the Sanctuary.

"Who among you is a real man? A man who does not fear retribution? A man who will stand for Mecca and the religion of our fathers, even if it means his own death? A man who prefers the honored sleep of eternity to the shameful comfort of a coward's bed? Is there no such man among you?"

Her words were dripping with promise and warning. Even as a little girl, I knew what was being said beneath those words. Who among you is man enough to please me? To give me everything that is inside you, even if it means losing yourself in the flame of my heart?

I saw the lords of Mecca looking at one another in confusion and uncertainty. Hind's pa.s.sion was too extreme, even for them. And then a man arose, one of the few who stood taller than the queenly Hind. It was Umar. There was a dark intensity in his face similar to what I had seen earlier in the day when Talha had humiliated him.

"I will do it. I will bring you the head of this liar who has profaned the Holy Kaaba."

There were gasps of surprise-or perhaps relief-that Umar had taken up Hind's challenge. He was essentially agreeing to his own death. While no one had any doubt that Umar had the courage and pure physical viciousness to take on the role of a.s.sa.s.sin, even he would not be able to defend himself against the retaliation of the men of Hashim.

Hind smiled at him and I saw a glance pa.s.s between them that I did not understand. But whatever it was that I saw, I was not alone, for Abu Sufyan caught it as well and looked away, his face red from anger. Or humiliation.

Realizing that Umar's declaration meant almost certain death for his nephew, Abbas tried to reason with him.

"Think, Umar, of what you are saying-"

Umar responded by unsheathing his sword.

"No! I have thought enough!" Umar turned to face Abbas and Abu Lahab, the two representatives of the Messenger's clan. "Know, O sons of Hashim, that I fear not your reprisals. I will kill this renegade, and if any among you has the courage to hold me accountable, then do so. You will find my blade a worthy match."

Abbas saw the madness in Umar's eyes and looked down quickly, before the giant brute lost control and smashed that broadsword on his skull. I saw his brother Abu Lahab smirk with glee. If Umar succeeded in ridding Mecca of his troublesome nephew, Abu Lahab would counsel his clansmen to forgo retribution and allow Umar to pay a blood debt to Muhammad's family rather than risk an all-consuming blood feud that would destroy Mecca. With the Prophet out of the way and the clan divided over how to respond to Umar's act of violence, Abu Lahab would be perfectly positioned to seize the scepter of authority from his aging brother Abu Talib.

I watched as Hind moved forward, her body flowing like silk in the wind, and touched Umar on the cheek with affection.

"I always knew you were the greatest man of Quraysh," she said, her words like nectar dripping from her full, red lips.

Her husband Abu Sufyan turned and walked out, unable to bear the humiliation of his wife's open flirtation with the son of al-Khattab. In later years, I would learn that Umar's affair with Hind had been the worst-kept secret of Mecca, but the two had been discreet in public until this moment.

A strange look came over Umar's face as he gazed at Hind. The harshness vanished and for a moment he looked like a child seeking to please his mother. Or perhaps more accurately, a condemned soul seeking forgiveness from his judge.

"Tomorrow, I will end this scourge," he said, his booming voice suddenly soft like a dove. "Muhammad will die. And the G.o.ds will be appeased."

He broke free of Hind and walked out, preparing to kill and be killed. And I later learned the thought that tore through his heart at that moment. That when he died under the vengeful blows of the men of Hashim, perhaps the child he had buried alive would be avenged.

9.

The next morning Umar set out to fulfill his mission. As he rounded a corner, the Messenger's house came into view and he froze, looking at it with the perverse curiosity of a man peering into his grave. Umar hated Muhammad with a pa.s.sion and was glad that he would be the one to eliminate this blot on the holy city. It was not that Umar cared deeply for the cult of his ancestors. He was intelligent enough to sense that most of the rituals of worship in the Sanctuary were a cheap amus.e.m.e.nt offered to the gullible and the hopeless, two categories of mankind that were predominant in Arabia and perhaps in all the world. He didn't care for the crude idols and icons that littered the Haram like prost.i.tutes around an army camp.

But ever since he was a boy, he had felt something special around the Temple, the Kaaba itself. He was not a poet and had difficulty putting the emotions the House of G.o.d inspired into words. Perhaps it was impossible for any man to do so when faced with the Divine.

As a youth, Umar and his friends had made a sport of spending evenings inside old caves or abandoned huts that the superst.i.tious claimed were haunted by djinn. But he had never felt anything supernatural at any of those places. Yet whenever he approached the granite cube that soared over Mecca, his heart skipped a beat. Every time he entered the confines of the Sanctuary, he felt as if he were being watched from all sides. Umar had a reputation for being fearless, a reputation that he nurtured and protected with great care, and in truth nothing on earth really did frighten him. Not the sword of an enemy nor the jaws of a lion. He knew how to deal with foes that bled, enemies that had weaknesses, that could be killed by strength and cunning.

But whenever he approached the Kaaba, he was afraid. Whatever spirit was there, it was invincible and could not be killed. And that truly terrified him. The night after he murdered his infant daughter, Umar had gone to the Kaaba in hopes of silencing the guilt and horror that gripped his heart. But when he crossed the circle of the Sanctuary and stood before the gold inlaid door of the House, his knees had given way and he felt something pressing him from all sides.

He was alone in the courtyard, but he kept hearing terrible whispers all around him. Whenever the wind rose, he could have sworn he heard cold laughter in its echo. The world began to dissolve and swim before his eyes and Umar felt as if he were falling. Convinced that he was dying, that the power that haunted the Kaaba had come to claim him, he had cried out to Allah, begging for mercy and a chance to expiate his sins by serving as a protector of the Holy House.

And then the delirium left him and all was silent. Yet he felt that whatever presence dwelt in those ancient stones had heard him and would hold him accountable to his oath. Since that day, Umar had lived up to his vow, standing watch whenever the pilgrims came, a self-appointed Guardian of the Kaaba. If a drunk or beggar profaned the grounds, he quickly tossed them off. Once he had caught and beaten a teenage thief who had picked the pocket of a wealthy pilgrim from Taif who was circ.u.mambulating the shrine. When the grateful merchant offered him a reward of silver from his purse, Umar had refused, explaining proudly that he was there to serve the Sanctuary and could not accept any compensation.

With Umar's formidable presence, the Pilgrimage had become a safer experience and the numbers of pilgrims had increased every year. He had fulfilled his vow to the Spirit whom he could still feel watching him every day.

But now Muhammad and his heretics had decided to use the Pilgrimage as a venue to preach and spread their new religion, and the peace of the Sanctuary was again threatened. Incidents like the one the day before, when slaves spoke arrogantly to their betters, threatened to tear apart the social fabric of Mecca and poison the atmosphere for worship and trade. Umar realized that the Spirit of the Kaaba was testing him and he resolved that would not be found wanting. If killing this sorcerer Muhammad would restore peace to the Sanctuary, then Umar would fulfill his oath-even at the risk of his own life.

With these thoughts raging in his head, Umar stepped onto the cobbled path leading to the Prophet's house. As he approached the gates, his hand moved closer to the hilt of his sword. He would likely have only one chance to tear it loose from the scabbard and strike the deathblow before the sons of Hashim brought him down. But Umar was not afraid. The Spirit of the Kaaba was with him, and it was greater than this magician. He muttered a final prayer to himself as he stood outside the iron gate from which he would likely not emerge again.

"O Allah, give me the strength to do what is right, that Your House may forever be sanctified." With that, he reached to push open the latch.

And then a shadow fell on him from behind.

Umar whirled, his hand reaching for his sword instinctively. And then he saw that it was a member of his clan, a slight fellow named Nuaym who was perpetually cheerful and posed no threat.

Nuaym smiled and clasped his hand and then looked carefully at his tall clansmen's face.