Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (46 page)

I
gazed across the pilgrim camp at the outpost of Hudaybiyya to the distant hills that delineated the formal border of Mecca. The Messenger had ordered us to stop here and wait for the Meccans’ next move. Khalid’s horsemen had turned back, but there was no guarantee that Abu Sufyan would not send a new force that had less respect for the ancient taboos of the Pilgrimage.

As the hours passed and there was no sign of any attack from the Meccan forces, the excitement that we had felt over the long journey back to our homeland gave way to boredom and growing frustration. Many of the pilgrims began to beseech the Prophet to continue on toward the city, but he remained steadfast in his belief that it would be unwise to cross the boundary without a clear understanding of how Mecca would react. But he agreed to send his son-in-law Uthman, a highly respected nobleman of Quraysh, to speak with Abu Sufyan and secure assurances of our safety.

Uthman had left the night before and had been expected to return before sunrise. But it was already late in the afternoon and there was a growing sense of alarm that he might have fallen victim to Abu Sufyan’s wrath. As rumors began to spread that the gentle-hearted ambassador had been killed by the lords of Mecca, my husband’s patient stoicism was shaken, and he gathered his closest Companions underneath the shade of a
ghaf
tree, its bluish green leaves sparkling in the harsh sunlight. He appeared deeply agitated at the possibility of Uthman’s execution, and I suddenly remembered his warning to the youths of Medina that Uthman’s death would unleash the mighty sword of God’s vengeance upon the world.

The men approached him one by one, grasping Muhammad’s right hand and pledging to fight to the death to avenge Uthman if indeed he had been martyred. I could see the grim determination in their eyes and my pulse quickened at the thought that this peaceful journey was about to erupt into terrible bloodshed. Since the Muslims were unarmed, they would have to face down the Meccan army with only their hands and their feet as weapons. In such a scenario, it was likely that these brave men who swore themselves to the Prophet would die before they ever laid eyes upon the Holy Kaaba that they all longed to see after so many years.

And then, when the last of the Companions had sworn the oath, I felt a strange sensation. It was as if a gentle rain were falling all around us, even though the sky was clear. The punishing heat of the desert vanished, replaced by a delightful coolness, and yet the sun blazed high above us and there was no wind. It was as if a blanket of mysterious tranquillity had descended upon us, and I could see on the surprised faces of the others that they sensed it as well. Whatever it was that was happening, the tension in the camp vanished, replaced by a powerful sense of peace that was unlike any I have ever experienced in my life.

I looked at my husband in confusion, and he smiled softly.

“God is well pleased with those who have taken this oath,” he said, and his voice was as soothing as the invisible cloud that had fallen among us. “He has sent down His
Sakina
to bless us.”

Sakina
. The Spirit of Peace and Tranquillity. I would later learn that the Jews had a similar word.
Shekhina
they called it in the language of the Hebrews, and it was the feminine face of God, the indwelling Presence that had once been found in the Temple of Solomon and was now hidden from mankind. Whether what I experienced was the same as what the Jews believe, I cannot say. But something magical happened in that moment, and all anger and fear left us.

And so it was that I gazed now across the plain toward Mecca without any worry as to what would come next, for I knew that God was with us. The sun began to dip toward the horizon, the disk turning from blinding gold to dull ocher, and then I saw it.

A figure riding on a horse over the hills of Mecca, the billowing purple standard of an emissary held aloft in his hand.

W
E GATHERED TO MEET
with the ambassador of the Quraysh, a honey-tongued nobleman named Suhayl ibn Amr. The Messenger had greeted Suhayl graciously, and after ascertaining that Uthman was still alive and securing an agreement for his safe return, he invited the emissary to negotiate an end to the impasse.

I watched from a corner of the tent as Suhayl raised his manicured hand, each finger wearing a ring of precious stones, and laid out the Meccan proposal.

“We will not begrudge you the rites of Pilgrimage,” he said calmly. “But your arrival is unexpected and we need time to calm the passions of the people. So we are willing to let you perform the
Hajj
—next year.”

There was an immediate grumble of outrage from the Companions. Never before in the history of Arabia had a group of pilgrims been turned back from the Kaaba and told to return at another time.

The Prophet appeared ready to answer Suhayl’s proposal, when hotheaded Umar stepped into the negotiation with his usual bluntness.

“You have no right to turn back peaceful pilgrims!” he shouted, the soothing effects of the
Sakina
having apparently worn off. “We will enter Mecca, and I dare you to stop us!”

My husband raised his hand and turned to Umar, who was seated on his left.

“Gently, Umar,” Muhammad said pleasantly, but I knew my husband well enough to note the edge of warning in his voice. The Messenger turned his attention back to Suhayl and smiled.

“The son of al-Khattab is correct. We are within our rights before all Arabia. But we are reasonable men. What could you offer us to forgo our rights and turn back?”

I saw Umar and several other men look at the Prophet in shock. They had expected him to negotiate their entry into the holy city, not their retreat.

Suhayl hesitated, as if he was having difficulty saying the words out loud.

“A treaty,” he said, and I saw his cheeks pinch inward as if the very word were as sour as lemon on his tongue.

I heard several gasps of surprise from the men seated around the Prophet, but he himself betrayed no emotion. The Muslims had been at war with the Meccans for so long that no one had ever expected a treaty between us. We had always assumed that victory would be absolute, with one side destroying the other, even as the Bani Qurayza had been annihilated for their treachery.

My husband leaned closer, his handsome face passive and impossible to read.

“What are your terms?”

“We will secure a truce between us of ten years, during which neither of our people nor our allies will attack each other,” Suhayl said swiftly, as if each word were a hot coal that he needed to expel from inside his mouth. “Starting next year, you will be allowed to perform the Pilgrimage. We will evacuate the city for three days so that there are no…misunderstandings…between us.”

The Companions spoke loudly their opinions of Mecca’s proffered terms, but Suhayl raised his hand and again silence fell.

“And one more thing,” Suhayl said almost apologetically. “If, during this period, any man among your people wishes to return and subject himself to the authority of Mecca, we will not be obliged to return him. But if any man leaves Mecca against our wishes and seeks refuge with you—you must return him to us, even if he is of your faith.”

There was dead silence for a long moment. And then I heard Umar laugh, but there was no humor in the sound. The towering man pulled at his gray beard in fury and appeared ready to speak, when he saw the stern glance from my husband that conveyed a command to be silent.

The Messenger sat looking at Suhayl for a long moment. And then, to everyone’s surprise, he leaned forward and took the pagan emissary’s hand in his.

“I accept your terms.”

There was an immediate explosion of voices as the Companions registered their shock and dismay. How could the Prophet accept such a blatantly one-sided agreement? The Meccan offer was a clear insult, one that even a poorly skilled negotiator would have seen as an opening ploy in what was meant to be a long and complex discussion. And yet the Prophet had accepted the initial terms without protest.

The Messenger seemed utterly oblivious to the cries of his followers, and I saw a strangely triumphant smile play on his lips as he looked at Suhayl, who appeared as shocked by his acquiescence as we were.

Umar stood up and towered over the Messenger. He ignored Suhayl and vented all his fury at the man whom he had only hours before sworn to stand beside, even if it meant death.

“This is outrageous!” Umar shouted at the Prophet, his voice booming so loudly that all other conversation stopped. “We will not make peace with these murdering idolaters!”

I felt a sudden tightening in my throat. Umar, the most fanatically loyal of the Muslims, was now openly disparaging the Prophet’s judgment. The Prophet frowned at him and said nothing, but I saw the vein in his forehead throb as it did whenever he was angry. And then my father, who sat to the right of the Messenger, rose and stared up into Umar’s eyes. When he spoke, his words were simple and yet carried the weight of terrifying authority.

“Be quiet, Umar,” Abu Bakr said, and I saw Umar step back as if he had been slapped. The son of al-Khattab moved away from the Messenger and Abu Bakr and stood alone in a corner, like a child who has been punished for naughty behavior.

Suhayl watched this entire exchange with clear fascination. Once my father had silenced Umar, Suhayl cleared his throat and lifted a sheet of parchment from inside his fine silk robes.

The Meccan emissary unrolled the sheet, which was blank, and placed it at the Messenger’s feet.

“I have been authorized to draw up a document of truce,” Suhayl said, and I could hear the eagerness in his voice. He clearly wanted to get the terms down in writing before the Messenger changed his mind.

My husband looked across the room to Ali, who stood alone by the entrance to the grand tent, his hand on the hilt of
Dhul Fiqar.

“Ali will serve as my scribe,” the Prophet said.

I had been ignoring Ali’s presence until then, and I felt a flash of dislike as he went to sit beside my husband. Suhayl produced a quill pen made from the feather of a gray heron and offered it to Ali, along with a small clay vial containing ink.

Ali took the writing implements and began to make marks on the parchment as the Prophet dictated.

“
Bismillah Ar-Rahman Ar-Raheem
. ‘In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate—’”

Suhayl interrupted with a cough.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who this
Ar-Rahman
is,” he said in a tone dripping with mockery. It was an old joke, as the Meccans had claimed in the early days of the Prophet’s mission that
Ar-Rahman,
a name for God in the holy Qur’an meaning “the Merciful,” was actually the name of some secret teacher, Jewish or Christian, who had been allegedly supplying the Prophet with his knowledge of their Book.

I could feel the heat in the room rising, but Suhayl continued, apparently enjoying playing with the Prophet’s patience.

“We would prefer the traditional honorific—
Bismik, Allahumma,
‘In Thy Name, O God.’”

At this instant I saw Talha rise and shake his scarred fist at the emissary.

“You swine! You mock the holy words of God Himself!”

The Prophet smiled at Talha, but there was steel in his eyes, and my sweet cousin blushed bright red and sat back down. The Messenger then turned to Ali.

“Write ‘In Thy Name, O God,’” he said softly.

Ali hesitated and then complied, his fingers moving swiftly across the sheet as the Prophet continued.

“These are the terms of the truce between Muhammad, Messenger of God, and Suhayl, son of Amr…”

Suhayl giggled, an obnoxious sound that made me want to slap him.

“Pardon me, but if we believed you to be the Messenger of God, we really wouldn’t be in this position, would we?”

The Messenger looked at him, and I expected his patience to finally break. But I was surprised to see my husband’s eyes twinkle, as if he were a child playing a game with a mischievous friend.

“Strike out ‘Messenger of God’ and replace it with ‘Muhammad, son of Abdallah,’” the Prophet said to Ali.

Ali looked up at him and I saw the young man’s mysterious green eyes filling with surprise. He lifted the pen and brought it to the parchment, and then lowered it again without making a mark.

“I…I cannot.”

There was a murmur through the crowd, as some whispered their shock at Ali’s uncharacteristic defiance of his elder cousin, while others expressed their pride in his refusal to give in to Suhayl’s offensive niggling.

The Prophet sighed in exasperation and looked around at the men as if peering into their souls to see who would assist him. And then his eyes fell on me.

“Aisha, show me where the words are,” he said.

I felt every eye in the tent on me and for once I was glad that my face was hidden behind a black veil. I did not want the Companions to see the wicked smile on my face as I walked past Ali and leaned over the Prophet’s shoulder. I stared down at the page and saw where Ali had written my husband’s name and his title as Messenger of God. And then I pointed my forefinger at the simple swirls of the Arabic alphabet, indicating to the Prophet where the troublesome language lay.

The Messenger took the pen from Ali’s hands and without any hesitation crossed out his sacred designation. My task fulfilled, I stepped back, but my eyes locked with Ali’s, and I savored my tiny victory over the man who had sought my downfall.

Muhammad handed the pen back to Ali, who bit his lip and wrote over the deleted honorific “the son of Abdallah”…

A
SHORT WHILE LATER
, the treaty was signed and Suhayl departed to take the news of the Prophet’s capitulation to his masters in Mecca. I saw the sullen and disappointed faces of the Companions, but none had the courage to press the matter further with my husband.

None except Umar.

The Prophet sensed Umar’s eyes on him and he turned to face the father of Hafsa, the man who had once been considered the most stalwart of his followers. My husband raised his eyebrows and stood patiently, waiting for Umar to explode.