Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (53 page)

And though I did not know it then, the man who shared responsibility for my brother’s destiny was among us, and it was because of the events that occurred on that road home from Mecca that their souls would become intertwined.

Our pilgrim caravan stopped for water at a pond located in a small valley called Ghadir Khumm, a barren place of no significance that would later be remembered as the home of the great schism that drove the Muslims apart forever, shattering a unified
Ummah
into sects that were perennially at war.

As the camels and horses drank at the pond and the believers refilled their water caskets, a man approached the Prophet and loudly complained about Ali, who had been his leader in a recent military command and had been seen by the men as too strict in enforcing discipline.

I saw the patient smile on my husband’s face vanish and a dark look cross his features. I knew that he was very sensitive about Ali, and I had learned through experience to keep my own rather dismal opinions of the Prophet’s son-in-law to myself. Of course the Messenger was aware that Ali was unpopular with some of the Muslims, but hearing that the soldiers under Ali’s command were now openly agitating against a man whom Muhammad loved like a son inspired in him a rare fury. He suddenly summoned all the believers to gather about him and then called forth Ali, who had been sharpening his sword against the jagged rocks of the valley.

The Messenger of God held Ali’s right hand aloft and called out loudly, his black eyes shining with a frightening intensity.

“Hear, O Muslims and do not forget. Whosoever holds me as his
Mawla,
know that Ali is also his
Mawla
. O Allah, befriend those who befriend Ali, and be the enemy of whosoever is hostile to him!”

It was a powerful pronouncement and one unlike any I had ever heard my husband say. He had clearly exalted Ali in a way that he had never done for any other man among his followers. And yet the words themselves were unclear and open to interpretation, for the word
Mawla
means many things in Arabic, including master, friend, lover, and even slave. But whatever my husband meant, it was clear that he was tired of the grumbling about the young man who had fathered his grandchildren and wanted to put an end to the cheap gossip about his closest relative.

Whether Muhammad intended anything more in that moment than to remind us to respect and honor his cousin would become a matter of passionate debate in the years to come. And one day the argument would devolve into open warfare.

S
everal months after we returned from the Pilgrimage, the Messenger entered my house one day when I was sewing. I looked up from the patch that I was applying to my old cloak to see him gazing at me serenely, a soft smile on his lips.

“Is it not Maymuna’s day?” I asked, referring to the most recent of my husband’s wives, Maymuna bint al-Harith, an impoverished divorcée whom he had married shortly after the truce with Mecca. She was a kindly woman in her thirties who was always seeking ways to raise money to free slaves, as she believed that no man should be a slave to anyone except God. Maymuna was an aunt of Khalid ibn al-Waleed, the Sword of Allah, and many believed that she had influenced her nephew to abandon Mecca and defect to the Prophet’s side.

The Prophet had continued his policy of spending one day with each of his wives to ensure that they were all treated equally. Today was dedicated to Maymuna, and my husband was normally meticulous about spending all of his allotted time with the wife whose turn had come, so I was surprised to see him in my room.

“I just wanted to look at you,” he said simply, but there was something in his voice that worried me. It was the tone of a man who was about to leave on a long journey and was unsure when he would see his loved ones again.

The Messenger walked toward me slowly. He looked weak and tired, and I sat him beside me on a small cushion. He smiled warmly as I ran my hand through his black curls, which were now peppered with strands of silver.

As I looked into his eyes, I sensed he wanted to say something, and yet he was holding himself back.

“What is it?” I asked, despite my growing apprehension about whatever it was that he was hiding from me.

“You will live long,
insha-Allah,
” he said rather elliptically. “But there are times that I wish you would have passed away before me.”

I was shocked at these words. My husband wanted me to die before he did?

“Why would you say that?” I asked rather sharply, not bothering to hide my hurt.

The Prophet ran his hand across my face, like a blind man trying to recognize someone’s features. Or a traveler who was leaving and wanted to imprint a memory onto the tips of his finger.

“So that I could pray over your body and ask forgiveness for you.”

I gave him a surprised and perhaps ungracious look, as my pride managed to twist his words into some kind of insult. But in the years to come, there would be many times that I wished that I had indeed died that day, and that his blessing could have protected me from the Day of Judgment, when the true burden of my guilt will be weighed by God.

But alas, that was not my destiny, nor his. The Messenger of God took no offense at the rather sharp glance I had given him. He smiled again and rose to his feet to leave…and then collapsed to the floor!

“My love!” I cried out in shock, forgetting to be angry at his enigmatic words. The Messenger had fallen as if his knees had been cut from beneath him, and he lay curled at my feet like a baby in a crib.

I quickly bent over and touched his forehead. He was burning up.

And then I felt his body shake with tremors, but they were not the unearthly convulsions of the Revelation; they were the very human shivers of a man consumed by fever.

F
OR THE NEXT THREE
nights, we gathered around the Messenger as he lay in Maymuna’s bed. The Mothers had been at his side nonstop since the moment I had cried out for help and Ali and Abbas had arrived to aid their kinsman. We had kept a vigil into the late hours, applying cold rags to his forehead to lower the fever and feeding him bowls of soup and broth to give him strength. But the days passed and my husband’s state only worsened.

“It will pass…” I would reassure the other Mothers. “It always does…He is the Messenger of God…the angels will heal him…”

But even I had difficulty believing my own words.

O
N THE FOURTH NIGHT
of the Messenger’s illness, a council of his inner circle gathered at his bedside to debate the future of Islam. With the Prophet incapacitated and steadily deteriorating, the future of the entire
Ummah
was at stake. The fragile unity that the Messenger had forged among the Arabs by the sheer strength of his personality was now on the verge of collapsing. Rumors were coming that some of the Bedouin tribes were considering renouncing their pacts of alliance with Medina. And the Byzantine empire was allegedly massing its forces for an invasion.

While these were the kinds of political and military threats the Muslims were accustomed to facing, there was a more troubling development. A group of pretenders to the mantle of prophecy was rising, each trying to steal some of Muhammad’s success to enhance his own glory. A rogue named Musaylima had proclaimed himself a new prophet of Allah. He had written to my husband in the months past calling on his “brother” to recognize Musaylima as his fellow Messenger of God and suggesting that the two should divide the world between them. Before he had fallen ill, Muhammad sent a response to Musaylima branding him a liar and proclaiming that all the world belonged to God alone. But the false prophet was undeterred and had begun to raise a following from among the superstitious clan of Bani Hanifa on the eastern edge of the Najd desert. And a woman of the Bani Tamim named Sajah, a
kahina
who was rumored to be versed in dark magic, had similarly proclaimed herself a prophetess and was busy gathering a small but fanatically loyal group of disciples. Had the Messenger not been confined to his sickbed, the defeat of these new threats to Islam would have been his priority.

The council of believers had arrived, hoping to find the Messenger in a rare moment of lucidity in which he could guide them as to how to run the affairs of state. The small band consisted of my father, Umar, Uthman, Ali, Talha and Zubayr, along with Muawiya, a new member of the Messenger’s inner circle. The son of Abu Sufyan had emigrated to the oasis after the surrender of Mecca and had been chosen by the Messenger as his personal scribe, an honor that had formerly belonged to Ali. Muawiya’s sudden rise to prominence in the community had startled some Muslims, but my husband had wisely realized that an overture to this scion of the Quraysh would accelerate the process of reconciliation. And the honey-tongued young man had quickly proven his skills as a politician, winning over skeptics with gifts and sweet words. Umar in particular had taken a liking to the former prince of Mecca and had taken him under his wing. Muawiya’s star was rising rapidly in the heavens of Islam, and it appeared that the only one who remained suspicious of his intentions was Ali, which was perhaps understandable.

The Companions waited quietly by the Prophet’s side for over an hour until his eyes opened briefly. My poor husband looked at them all for a second as if he did not recognize them, and then his black eyes finally kindled with their mysterious inner light and he sat up slowly in bed.

My husband must have guessed why these men were here, as he spoke before any of them could greet him. His eyes focused on Muawiya as he gestured with his hand.

“Bring a parchment and pen…” the Messenger said, his voice hoarse and trembling. “I have something to dictate…As long as the Muslims follow my command, they will prosper…”

Muawiya rose and removed a sheaf of parchment from inside his rich emerald robes. But before he could move to the Prophet’s side, Umar put a restraining hand on his arm. I saw the troubled look on the towering Companion’s face when he glanced at the Messenger, whose eyes were struggling to stay open as the delirium came back with a vengeance.

“The holy Qur’an is enough for us,” Umar said, clearly nervous that the Messenger was in no state of mind to give commandments.

But Ali stepped forward, his green eyes flashing.

“Obey the Messenger of God,” he said to Muawiya sharply. The hawk-faced young man met Ali’s gaze without flinching and then turned his attention back to Umar, who shook his head gravely.

“He is sick and his words may be confused. Do you want to bring
fitna
on the people?” Umar said sharply, using the Arabic word for chaos and political strife.

Ali did not back down.

“You are bringing
fitna
by disobeying the Prophet!”

I felt the tension in the room rise, and my father quickly moved between the men and tried to calm them.

“My brothers, please, lower your voices,” Abu Bakr said, glancing at the Messenger, who was struggling to speak but was unable to form the words.

And then Talha rose and took Ali’s side.

“Do as the Messenger says,” he said quietly, but there was an edge I had never heard before in my gentle cousin’s voice.

Your father, Zubayr, who was Talha’s closest friend, inserted himself into the debate, taking the opposing position.

“Umar has a point. If the fever sways his words, the people will be misguided,” he said grimly.

As the argument grew heated and voices rose in fury, I glanced at my husband, who was now fully awake and aware of the rapidly deteriorating situation. And I saw that his face had become hard and angry, and his black eyes blazed with a fury that frightened me.

“Enough!” the Messenger said, his voice echoing like a blast of thunder in the small room. The men immediately fell silent, but I saw that their tempers were still smoldering. Muawiya, ever quick to gravitate toward authority, was at my husband’s side in an instant, pen and paper in hand to record whatever commands his master issued.

There was a tense moment of silence as we waited for what we assumed would be his instructions about the succession of leadership. Would he order the Muslims to obey Ali, even though many would do so halfheartedly? Would he appoint my father or Umar to take charge and risk forever denying his own bloodline a claim to authority? Or would he devise another solution that satisfied all parties in the Muslim
Ummah,
an answer that only a visionary statesman like Muhammad could find amidst the chaos of competing interests?

After a long moment spent looking at the men he had led to victory, men whom he loved like children and who had now been behaving like children, Muhammad finally shook his head and sighed wearily. Muawiya leaned closer, but my husband waved him away.

“Leave me. All of you,” he said with a trace of bitterness. And then the Messenger of God rolled over in bed and closed his eyes, refusing to divulge his final testament to a people who had proven unworthy.

I saw the fire of contention go out in the Companions’ eyes and they all looked ashamed. One by one, the men who held the future of the
Ummah
in their hands walked out with their heads bowed, leaving the wives alone with their sick husband.

I have often wondered what the Messenger of God would have said that night and whether his words could have spared us the horror and the bloodshed that was to come. Looking back, I realize that of all the mistakes the Muslims made in the course of our history, none was graver than the pain we caused an old man that night, a man who loved his people and who wanted for them only peace.

O
n the seventh day of his illness, the Messenger awoke in the middle of the morning and looked around at the Mothers in confusion.

“Whose day is it?” he asked softly, his voice barely audible.

Zaynab bint Jahsh took his hand in hers and smiled. Even in the midst of his raging fever, he remained concerned that each of his wives be treated equally.

“Mine, O Messenger of God,” she said.

The Prophet looked at her for a long moment as if trying to remember her name. And then he gazed around at us again.

“And tomorrow?”

Ramla stepped forward.

“Mine, my husband.”

The Prophet’s eyes fell on me and I saw the confusion in his face fade.

“And the day after?”

And then I and the other women understood. Even as his mind burned with fever, even as the Angel of Death hovered in terrifying proximity, the one thing Muhammad cared about was when he would be able to spend the day with me, the most beloved of his wives.

I felt tears pouring down my cheeks and I could not speak. And then the elderly Sawda put a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“The next day is mine. But I give my day freely to my sister Aisha.”

And then one by one, each of the other wives said the same thing. I looked at them in shock, and my tears now flowed in gratitude.

My husband tried to rise to his feet, but he could not.

“Help me…go to Aisha…” he said, his voice cracked and trembling.

Ali and Abbas, the Prophet’s closest living kinsmen, were the only men with us that day. They stepped forward and helped the Prophet to his feet, holding him up by the shoulders as they gently guided him out of Maymuna’s house.

There was an immediate roar from the Masjid courtyard, where hundreds of believers had held a vigil since the news of the Prophet’s illness. The faithful cried out to him like babies calling out for their mother. The Messenger smiled weakly at them but did not have even the strength to raise his hands to wave in acknowledgment. And then a terrible silence fell over the crowd as they watched the Messenger limp toward my house. It was a shocking and tragic sight, and I saw many grown men weep openly at the Prophet’s deterioration.

The Messenger looked at his people and tried to smile encouragingly, but I could see the sadness in his eyes. This was not how he wished them to remember him, and yet he was a mortal man and no more immune to the ravages of time than the least of his followers.

Ali and Abbas led the Prophet into my room and helped him lie down on the soft lambskin mattress where we had spent so many nights wrapped in love. The moment his back touched the soft, familiar fur lining, I saw him breathe deeper and the muscles in his face relax.

Whatever else happened now, he was home.

I sat down beside him and brushed his hair. He looked at me with deep love and then ran his fingers across my cheek. And then he stirred, as if finally remembering something he had long forgotten.

“Is there any money left in the house?” he asked, and I heard a strange urgency in his voice.

“A few gold coins. Nothing more,” I said, surprised by his question. The Prophet did not need money to purchase anything. He was the master and lord of the Arab nation, and whatever he desired his followers would have gladly given him without recompense.

But he was, as usual, not thinking about himself.

“Give them to the poor,” he said, and I saw in his eyes that he wished his request to be carried out immediately.

I rose and went to a corner of my apartment. Under a loose stone I had buried a handful of coins that were the sum total of the wealth my husband, the king of Arabia, possessed.

I took the gold and saw Ali step forward, ready to take the coins from me and fulfill the Messenger’s wishes. But I turned away from him and placed the coins in the hands of Abbas, who nodded and left to hand them out to the poor souls who still gathered at the Bench seeking alms.

I could feel Ali’s intense green eyes on me, and then he turned and followed Abbas out without a word.

A
FEW HOURS LATER
, I heard the melodious voice of Bilal echoing in the courtyard as he summoned the believers to noon prayers. At the lyrical calls of the
Azan,
my husband’s eyes opened and he rose from the bed. I looked at him in surprise and saw that his face was bathed in sweat and his graying hair shimmered with perspiration. And then I clapped my hands in joy and praised God.

The fever had broken. The Messenger of God had recovered.

I went to his side and wiped his brow with the hem of my skirt. I urged him to lie back down and rest. But he ignored me and changed into a clean white robe and reached for a stone pitcher from which he performed his ritual ablutions.

And then my husband stepped outside, standing tall and erect like the man he had always been. The worshipers had already gathered in straight lines behind Abu Bakr, who had led the prayers at the Masjid in the Prophet’s absence. But at the surprising sight of the Prophet emerging from my room, looking refreshed and recuperated, there was a tumult of shouts as the believers broke ranks and hurried to surround the man who had become the center of their whole world.

I watched from behind my hastily donned veil as the Prophet strode through the excited crowd to Abu Bakr’s side. My father looked at him with tear-filled eyes and stepped back, gesturing for the Messenger to take his place at the head of the
jamaat
. But my husband shook his head.

“Lead the prayers,” Muhammad said to my father, clasping his old friend’s shoulder.

Abu Bakr blinked in confusion.

“I cannot lead you in prayer. You are my master,” my father said, his voice trembling with emotion.

“Lead the prayer,” my husband repeated.

Abu Bakr hesitated and then returned to his place as imam of the Masjid. The worshipers quickly gathered behind him in perfectly straight lines, shoulder to shoulder, the feet of each man touching the feet of his neighbors in spiritual equality.

And then the Messenger of God moved to sit to the right of my father and prayed beside him. It was a strange sight, for never in my life had I seen the Prophet, our leader, pray beside any man. And then I felt my stomach twist in apprehension as I realized how the community would interpret this action and what it would mean for my gentle-hearted father, who had no desire for any authority in this world.

When the prayer was over, the Messenger rose and embraced Abu Bakr, kissing his cheeks warmly. And then he walked slowly back to my apartment, surrounded by throngs of adoring followers. As he approached the threshold of my door, I saw his face and my breath stopped. There was a white light shining on his features unlike any I had ever seen before. It was as if he were glowing like the moon, and suddenly the years fell from Muhammad’s face and he looked younger than I had ever known him. He was no longer a stately old man but a youth filled with boundless life and energy. It was as if I were seeing him in the days before the Revelation, as Khadija would have seen him in the early days of their union almost forty years before. He smiled at me, and in that moment I fell in love with him all over again.

The Messenger stopped at my door and turned to face the excited crowd of believers. He looked at them with such joy, as if each of them were the most precious person on earth to him. He raised his hand to them as if waving farewell and then turned and joined me alone in our apartment.