Kamran Pasha - Mother Of the Believers

Abu Sufyan turned his attention to a tall man with a well-trimmed beard, a scar under his left eye marring his otherwise well-crafted features: Khalid ibn al-Waleed, the mightiest warrior of the Quraysh and captain of its armies. Khalid had been charged with organizing nightly patrols to make sure that no Muslims escaped the city, but his efforts had clearly failed.

“How could this have happened?” Abu Sufyan barked. “Where were the sentries?”

Khalid stepped forward. His robes were of midnight black and silver, and his leather belt was studded with dozens of emeralds-allegedly one for each man he had slain in battle.

“My men were positioned to the west to prevent escape by the sea,” Khalid said, no hint of apology in his proud voice. “But the refugees have turned north.”

Abu Sufyan raised his eyebrows. There was only one place he could imagine they would go. But it made no sense.

“To Yathrib?”

Khalid shrugged, but his brown eyes suggested that this was his own suspicion.

“The rumor is that they are seeking Muhammad to serve as an arbitrator in their never-ending disputes with each other,” Abu Lahab said, rising with some difficulty from the purple cushions that had been crushed by his generous posterior.

Abu Sufyan considered this. It was a surprising development. But perhaps a welcome one. The Aws and the Khazraj had been at one another’s throats for a century. Perhaps the gods had given them a great gift. Muhammad would eventually become a victim of their fratricidal hate, and the hands of the Quraysh would be clean of his blood.

“Good. Let them have this troublemaker,” Abu Sufyan said.

There was a murmur of agreement among the nobles, and Abu Sufyan saw on their weary faces the same light of hope that had just been lit in his heart. Maybe this nightmare would at last be over.

“Letting Muhammad go to Yathrib is a mistake.” Hind chose this moment to speak, and the tentative looks of relief vanished across the room.

“And why is that, my dear?” Abu Sufyan, said, hiding his irritation.

Hind stood up, ignoring her husband and addressing her response to the chieftains. He saw her move among them like a cheetah, exciting their passion as she had the night she had entranced Umar into her web.

“The men of Yathrib have long looked upon this city with envy,” she said, her voice cold with calculation. “They could use Muhammad’s religion as a rallying cry to attack us.”

Abu Sufyan snorted, trying to regain his authority.

“Unlikely,” he said flatly. “Mecca has always had good relations with the Jewish tribes of Yathrib, who benefit from the perpetual war between Aws and Khazraj. They will never allow them to unite.”

But Hind, as always, cut away at his confidence.

“And what if the Jews embrace him?” she taunted. “His religion is much like theirs, and he claims to be a prophet like their Moses. Would you risk bringing down their wrath upon us as well?”

Abu Sufyan tried to find a response, but for once he was struck dumb. He had never paid much attention to Muhammad’s theology. It was enough that his One God would obliterate the multiple deities of the Arabs, leading to the end of the Pilgrimage and Mecca’s prosperity. That was all he had cared about. But now, as he thought about what Hind was saying, he was furious to discover that she had a point. The Jews also worshiped One God and were expecting a prophet to come and grant them victory over the nations. If they fell for Muhammad’s delusions, a new and more devastating war might be ignited in Arabia.

The grotesquely obese Abu Lahab spoke out loud what Abu Sufyan was thinking but was still too proud to admit.

“Your wife is right,” he said. “Letting Muhammad go is too dangerous. Here in Mecca, we have some control over his poison. But once he is free from our watchful gaze, his words will spread like the sands on the wind.”

“We’ve been down this path before,” Abu Sufyan said. “Even if Muhammad is killed, the men of your clan will be honor bound to avenge him. Umar was willing to face the daggers of Bani Hashim. But who among us is willing to sacrifice his life to silence this man?”

As he looked at the perplexed men, he realized that there were no Umars among them. Even the brave Khalid had no desire to subject himself to the wrath of Muhammad’s fanatics.

He looked up to see Hind scanning their faces. Her cheeks flushed as she came to the same conclusion. Whatever hold her flesh had once held over Umar’s heart, she did not have any lovers among these old and tired men, at least as far as Abu Sufyan knew. And if she had bedded any of the chieftains, her charms had clearly proven to be a poor enticement.

Hind suddenly stormed over to Khalid and tore his jeweled dagger from its scabbard. She held it high and let the blade glint in the harsh sunlight. Her pose was like that of a goddess of war in an old Arab poem, and it had its desired effect.

“You men are such simpletons! Why must you send a single assassin to kill this heretic? If one man from each major clan of Quraysh joins in the deed, you will all share the blood guilt. Is there any among Bani Hashim who can take on all of Quraysh?”

She looked directly at Abu Lahab.

“Regrettably, the task would be too great for even the most avid supporter of Muhammad in my clan,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “I would be forced to accept compensation to end the matter.”

Abu Sufyan looked at his wife’s triumphant smile and he shook his head, both surprised with the simple elegance of her plan and exasperated that it had taken a woman to come up with it. Maybe he should just step aside and let Mecca be ruled by this ruthless queen rather than his circle of impotent old fools.

Abu Jahl clapped loudly his assent, his eyes looking with approval at Hind.

“Then it is settled,” he said, beaming with satisfaction. “We will join together and kill Muhammad. And this madness will finally be at an end.”

“So be it,” Abu Sufyan said, rising to remind them that it was he, rather than his wife, who made the decisions in Mecca.

“When shall we act?” Abu Lahab asked, his pudgy hands clasped in excitement at the thought of his nephew’s imminent death.

“Tonight,” said Hind. “The new moon will provide a cover of darkness for the assassins.”

“Darkness for dark deeds,” Abu Sufyan said wearily. “I never thought we, the rulers of Mecca, would be forced to hide in the shadows like thieves in our own city.”

Hind reached forward and ran her hand across his leg. Despite his best efforts at control, his member hardened. She took the studded leather pouch from his belt and poured into her hands a dozen gold dirhams. And then with an instinctive flair for drama, Hind turned and threw the gold across the room into the crowd of chieftains. She smiled with contempt as the powerful men fell to their knees to pick up the valuable coins. It was a simple moment that revealed everything, as Hind had intended. For, like Muhammad, the nobles of Mecca had only one god, and they bowed even now before it.

“Never fear, my husband,” she said in a soft voice, meant only for him. “Once Muhammad is dead, we shall return to stealing openly under the sun.”

It was the sultry tone Hind used exclusively in bed, and suddenly Abu Sufyan had to fight the urge to throw her on the ground and take her like a dog in heat. The lord of Mecca looked at her with both desire and despair. The chieftains worshiped a god of gold. And he, a goddess of fire.

THE ASSASSINS GATHERED OUTSIDE Muhammad’s home, their black cloaks melding perfectly into the shadows cast by the small sprinkling of stars in the overcast sky. The Meccan general Khalid crouched beside his old friend Amr ibn al-As and Hind’s arrogantly handsome brother Waleed ibn Utbah. They could see the lights flickering on the second level, in the family living quarters, and the distinct sound of women’s lyrical voices could be heard from within. The heavy iron gate, normally left open, had been chained, a precaution that the Muslims were taking in all their homes since the death of Abu Talib.