Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (47 page)

But when the giant of a man spoke, it was not with outrage but with deep confusion and mistrust.

“Are you truly the Messenger of God?” he said softly, a question that was shocking in its implications. I heard several Companions gasp loudly. Had Umar lost his faith? Had the great defender of Islam become an apostate?

Whatever thoughts may have run through his mind, the Prophet merely raised his head with dignity.

“I am” was all he said. All he needed to say.

“Your promised us victory!” The fight had seeped out of Umar and his usually deep and raging voice was now more like the whine of a disappointed child.

The Prophet stepped forward and put a gentle hand on Umar’s forearm.

“And I have delivered it you,” he said confidently. “This treaty will be the greatest victory of Islam.”

Umar’s shoulders fell, as did his voice, which was now almost a whisper.

“But you said that God promised us we would conduct the rites of Pilgrimage…” he croaked out.

The Prophet turned to my father, and Abu Bakr spoke loudly, as if he intended his words to be heard by all the secret doubters in the tent, not just by Umar.

“God did not promise us that it would be this year,” Abu Bakr said, and I saw people lower their heads in shame as his soothing voice put out the last fires of rebellion in their hearts.

As my father’s words sank into his heart, Umar knelt down at the feet of the Messenger and kissed his right hand, tears streaming from his face.

“Forgive me, O Messenger of God,” he said, his voice trembling with grief.

My husband took Umar’s hand and helped him rise to his feet.

“You are forgiven, my friend,” he said warmly. “Come, let us spread the good news to the pilgrims. The war is over. Peace has come to Arabia at last.”

At these words, I saw the sad looks evaporate, replaced by beaming faces and mouths opened wide in laughter. I suddenly felt a rush of joy as the truth of it came home to me at long last. We had made a treaty with the Meccans. A peace treaty that would end a war that now spanned almost two decades. There would be no more horrific battles, no more agonizing cries of mothers as they looked down upon the corpses of their sons. There would be no more Hamzas struck down in the prime of their lives, their bodies mutilated and dishonored. No more Talhas to lose the use of their hands and be forced to live like cripples, the cruel repayment for heroism in this world. My heart soared at the thought that the ten-year truce could become permanent and that Arabia would never be cursed with the misery of bloodshed again.

But I was wrong, and I would soon learn that the peace we embraced that night, like the gentle caress of the Divine
Sakina,
was a fleeting moment to be savored but could no more be held in one’s grasp than the fickle kiss of the wind.

W
ord had reached the Jewish fortress at Khayber of Muhammad’s peace treaty with the Meccans, and Huyayy had raged and cursed for days about the betrayal of the Quraysh. The Arabs were two-faced dogs, he had ranted, and they had abandoned their promises to their allies in the hopes of securing some temporary security against the expanding influence of Medina.

Safiya had tried to calm him, but her father had refused to listen. The Treaty of Hudaybiyya was the proof that Huyayy had been seeking of the treachery of his erstwhile Meccan allies. Ever since the failure of the Siege of the Trench, Huyayy had become obsessed with speculation that Abu Sufyan had betrayed him and made a secret agreement with the Muslims to withdraw, leaving his Jewish compatriots of the Bani Qurayza to face annihilation. She knew that the guilt he felt about the destruction of the last remaining Jewish tribe of Medina weighed heavily on her father’s heart, and the only way that he could bear the pain was to find someone besides himself to blame for the tragedy.

Though few among her people shared in Huyayy’s increasingly elaborate conspiracy theories, there was no denying that the treaty between Muhammad and his pagan enemies had forever altered the balance of power in the peninsula. And the new reality did not favor the people of Khaybar, the last remaining Jewish settlement in Arabia. Without the support of the Meccans, the tiny enclave was isolated and exceedingly vulnerable to conquest by the ambitious Arab prophet.

And so it was that the elders of Khaybar opened their ears to the words of the Byzantine envoy. Donatus had arrived earlier that morning at Khaybar with a small contingent of Syrian guards bearing the seal of Heraclius, Emperor of Constantinople. Even though Heraclius was no friend of the Jews, Safiya’s father had convinced the elders of the settlement to offer him a dignified welcome, for they shared a common enemy.

Safiya eyed the Byzantine emissary with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. He was dressed in the flowing dalmatic of the Romans, the long-sleeved robe partially covering his brightly striped tunic and tight breeches. A blue Phrygian cap covered his flowing brown hair and bracelets of gold glittered on his wrists. All in all, Donatus looked more like a primped and pretty girl than a man of power, and his authority was based on aristocratic blood rather than achievement. She had no patience for such weak men, especially after her father had compelled her to marry Kinana, a prissy nobleman of Khaybar whose touch she found repellent.

Safiya listened intently as Donatus explained how the Byzantine emperor had become aware of the new power rising on his southern borders. Apparently Muhammad had himself reached out to the imperial court with a letter inviting the Romans to surrender to his God. News of this startling development set the council room ablaze with excited talk until Huyayy called for silence so that Donatus could give more details.

According to Byzantine intelligence agents, the Arab prophet had similarly written to the Persian emperor Khusro at Ctesiphon, who had been so stunned at the audacity of this illiterate Arab chieftain that he had the letter torn up.

Though the Persians had laughingly dismissed the idea that the newly rising power in Arabia was of any concern to them, the Byzantines had been sufficiently alarmed by the speed of Muhammad’s consolidation of the tribes to decide that it merited a response. Heraclius had instructed his generals to begin preparations for a preemptive invasion of the peninsula before its ambitious prophet-king became a problem for the empire’s lucrative trade routes. And the Byzantines wanted the help of the people of Khaybar in mounting their attack.

“Your fortress would be an important staging ground for the imperial army,” Donatus said in his awkwardly accented Arabic, clearly taught to him by those who spoke the dialects of the Syrian desert.

There was a moment of tense silence as the elders considered the ramifications of the proposed alliance. Safiya saw that all eyes were on Huyayy, whom the Jewish chieftains deferred to as the most experienced man in dealing with Muhammad and his troublesome religious movement. As the rapid spread of Islam was now the primary topic of conversation among the political elites, her father had become the de facto leader of the Khaybar community, even though he was a refugee who had survived only because of the generosity of local citizens.

Huyayy eyed the Byzantine ambassador coolly, his brows knitted in deep thought. Safiya knew that her father was glad to have found a potential new ally against Muhammad, but his inherent distrust of Gentiles was holding him back from embracing the envoy’s offer.

“Forgive me if I hesitate, but your people have shown little respect for mine before this day,” Huyayy said. “You have butchered us under the lie that we killed your Christ.”

There was a murmur of surprise at Huyayy’s bluntness, but Safiya knew that her father was saying aloud what everyone was thinking in their hearts. The Jewish experience under Roman rule had been exceedingly painful, culminating in the destruction of Jerusalem and the Diaspora, which had sent her people out of Palestine and forced them to settle all over the world. Centuries of history could not be erased overnight, whatever the immediate political needs of the moment.

If the Byzantine emissary was offended by Huyayy’s lack of diplomacy, he was too experienced in his profession to show it. Donatus made a face of practiced grief and bowed his head before the Jewish elders.

“What you say is regrettably true,” he said, to the surprise of his audience. “There have been many injustices under the reign of our forefathers. Men blinded by faith or seeking an easy scapegoat to cast the troubles of the empire upon. But the great Heraclius is not like those men. He reveres the Jewish people, for is it not true that Christ himself shared your blood?”

It was a perfectly worded response, and Safiya could see that the men of Khaybar had been put at ease by his feigned contrition. Of course no one believed for a moment that the Roman envoy felt any guilt for the crimes of his people, but he obviously needed their help enough to wear a mask of calculated humility.

“What guarantees would we have if allied with your emperor?” Huyayy asked.

“Once you have helped us clear Arabia of this madman, you will be appointed His Majesty’s viceroys to rule the new province in the emperor’s name.”

Safiya saw her husband, Kinana’s, watery eyes light up at the offer of dominion over the Arabs, and her dislike for him only increased.

There was a clear buzz of excitement at the envoy’s words, but if Huyayy shared the sentiment of his people, he was too masterly a statesman to show it. Safiya’s father stepped forward, his face stern, until he was uncomfortably close to the envoy. Donatus, to his credit, did not flinch under the old man’s withering stare but met it head-on.

“Your emperor can find someone else to rule this desolate waste,” Huyayy said after a dramatic pause. “My people’s heart belongs elsewhere. In a land where we are not permitted to go.”

Safiya knew that Huyayy was playing a dangerous game here, but it was a gamble that could change the history of her people if he won. For there was, in truth, only one thing that any Jew desired, and it was the one thing that had been denied her people for over five hundred years. The chance to return to their homeland from which they had been barred since the days of the Jewish revolt against the Romans under Simon Bar Kokhba, the false Messiah who had led their people to tragedy.

The Byzantine envoy stood motionless, his face a controlled mask, impossible to read. Finally he spoke. “I have been authorized by the emperor himself to guarantee that if your people join forces with Byzantium, he will rescind the ban. Once this Arab king is defeated, your people will be free to emigrate to Palestine.”

There were cries of disbelief and shouted prayers to God, who had shown their people a way at last to end the tragedy of exile. Safiya was torn by a confused upwelling of emotion. A deep longing to see her people return to the Holy Land, mixed with grief that the price would be to destroy a man whose only apparent desire was to bring the Gentiles to God and a better way of life.

Though the excitement in the many-pillared hall was almost palpable, Huyayy remained calm and seemingly unimpressed.

“And what of Jerusalem?” he said loudly, his simple question immediately silencing the agitated crowd.

And for the first time, Donatus appeared taken aback, as if he had not expected the Jews to press their demands further. He hesitated and then shook his head.

“I regret that I cannot offer you full access to the holy city,” he said, to the dismay of the crowd. “It is still a very sensitive matter for the Holy Church.”

Huyayy shrugged and turned his back on the ambassador.

“Then we have no arrangement,” he said, and began moving toward the carved bronze door of the chamber, as if the matter had been concluded. And then, to Safiya’s amazement, the other elders of Khaybar rose and moved to follow him. A mass exodus signaling the failure of Byzantine diplomacy.

Donatus blanched, his eyes wide with surprise and a hint of fear. Safiya suddenly felt sorry for the feminine little man, who would likely face terrifying consequences if he returned to Heraclius empty-handed. But she knew her father was doing what he had to as a politician, using whatever leverage he felt he needed to achieve his objectives.

As the leadership of Khaybar approached the exits, Donatus shouted for them to wait.

“I believe that I can convince the emperor to make certain exceptions,” he said, his silky tone gone, replaced with agitation. “An annual pilgrimage to your holy sites. But that is the furthest I can go.”

Huyayy stopped and turned to face the envoy, his eyes bright with renewed interest. Donatus took a deep breath and regained his composure.

“If that is unacceptable to you, then I will return to His Majesty with your regrets,” he said coldly. “But please keep in mind—when the soldiers of Byzantium enter these lands, you will not be afforded the protection of an ally.”

It was an open threat, and one that weighed heavily on everyone in the room. The legions of Constantinople were coming, whether the Jews eased their way or not. They could either help Heraclius eliminate the Muslim threat or face elimination in turn.

Safiya watched her father, who moved back to stand before Donatus. He did not seem afraid of this man who regularly stood in the presence of kings, whose words could mean life or death for his people. Whatever she may have thought of her father’s politics, he could never be branded a coward.

And then Huyayy held out his hand and grasped the palm of the Byzantine ambassador.

“Tell your emperor—we have an arrangement.”

T
HAT NIGHT
S
AFIYA HAD
a troubling dream. As she tossed and turned beside Kinana on their wide bed made of carved pine, she dreamed that she was walking down the paved roads of Khaybar, the city that had become her home since her tribe’s expulsion from Medina. But instead of the brightly painted stone houses, she saw only smoking ruins, the mighty walls of the citadel shattered and crumbling. And instead of children running and laughing through the streets, she saw only corpses rotting in the alleyways.

Safiya tried to run away, but wherever she turned, she saw only death and devastation. The stench of decay was overpowering and her stomach trembled with nausea. She finally fell to her knees in grief and raised her eyes to the heavens, pleading for help from a God who had chosen her people and then cruelly forgotten them.

The full moon sparkled above her, and for a second Safiya stared at it in confusion. For the face she had always made out in its shadows had changed. It was no longer an indistinct outline, and the features were clear and recognizable.

It was the face of Muhammad.

As Safiya stared in shock, the moon fell from the sky, a sparkling ball of pure light that lowered itself into her lap. And as the ethereal light from the heavenly orb flooded her, the pain vanished and her grief became a distant memory.

And then Safiya heard it. The sound of children’s laughter.

She gazed up through the circle of ethereal light and saw that the city had come back to life. The walls stood strong and firm, and there were no corpses. Everywhere she looked, there was rebirth. The flowers bloomed and the gentle trickle of water from a nearby fountain gave her hope. And then she saw the hustle and bustle of crowds as her people walked through the marketplace, apparently unaware of the devastation that had been there only moments before.

As the mysterious light around her grew brighter, her eyes fell on a group of children chasing one another gleefully. They stopped their games to stare at Safiya and then waved to her with a smile.

And then the magical moonlight became as bright as a thousand suns and the world dissolved into its warm bliss.