20
The archers positioned at the eastern ridge of Uhud watched with delight as the Muslims ravaged the Meccan camp, tearing its haughty pavilions to shreds and grabbing weapons and gold dropped by the fleeing pagans. The men cheered as the battle thundered toward its conclusion.
A young archer named Madani threw down his bow and began to climb down the hillside, gesturing excitedly to his colleagues.
“Let’s go, or we’ll lose our share of the booty!”
Their hearts wild with joy, the archers began to climb after the youth. But their commander, a short Aws tribesman named Safi who could shoot a rabbit a hundred feet away, signaled to his men to halt.
“Hold your positions! The Messenger has not relieved us!”
“No need! The battle’s over!” Madani’s voice was followed by a loud cheer from his friends as they tore down the mountainside and broke into a run toward the besieged Meccan camp.
Safi stared after them, despairing. He turned to look at the Prophet’s base camp across the hillside and saw that Messenger was standing, his face filled with alarm.
“No! Turn back!” The Prophet’s voice thundered across the ridge. And then the horsemen under Khalid’s command emerged from the shadows at the base of the mountain and rode like lightning toward the tiny pass that would allow them to attack the Muslims from the rear.
Safi fell to his knees in horror, shame and guilt tearing through him at his failure to enforce discipline. Khalid rode up right behind the poor Madani, whose youthful laughter was cut short by one blow from the mighty warrior’s blade. The other archers who had broken ranks were either slain or fled in terror at the sight of the Meccan cavalry that their shortsightedness had now unleashed on the Muslim army.
I COVERED MY MOUTH in horror as I witnessed Khalid’s horsemen ride up in a cloud of red dust to strike at our men from behind. There were shouts of confusion that quickly turned to screams of agony as Khalid expertly cut down the surprised Muslims. And then I felt the ground around me shake as the men who surrounded the Messenger raced down the face of Uhud to help their fallen comrades. But they were now trapped between the Meccan army to the south and the cavalry that rode down to them from the north, like mollusks caught between the crushing pincers of a giant crab.
In a matter of seconds everything had changed. A clear victory was beginning to look like a horrific defeat.
And then I saw a cloud of dust heading in our direction and I realized that some of the cavalry had broken off their rearguard assault when they realized that the Prophet’s base camp was relatively undefended. My heart flew into my throat as I saw a group of warriors racing toward us, spears drawn.
The few Muslims who remained at the camp included women who had accompanied their husbands to the battlefield and were now in danger of being swept into the heart of battle. Talha leaped to his feet to protect us, as did my elderly father. They were only half a dozen men, but they quickly formed a circle around the Messenger. And then I saw the women grab discarded bows and fire upon the onrushing cavalry. The unexpected rain of arrows from these courageous ladies surprised the horsemen and slowed their advance.
But slowing the cavalry was like trying to dam a raging river. One of the horsemen bravely rode through the wave of oncoming missiles and approached the edge of our camp. His sword was raised in challenge, and the sun illuminated his familiar face. And my heart forgot to beat.
It was my brother Abdal Kaaba, my father’s eldest son, who had rejected Islam and his family. And now he was bearing down upon us with deadly hate in his eyes.
“Who has the courage to face me?” he bellowed. The sun was in his eyes and I was unsure whether he recognized the people he threatened, his own flesh and blood. And then I saw my father move faster than I could have imagined possible for a man of his age. Abu Bakr’s sword was drawn and he moved to face his son in a deadly duel. I wanted to scream for this nightmare to end, for me to wake up in my small apartment and realize that none of theses horrors existed outside my fevered imagination.
As my father moved forward, I saw Abdal Kaaba look down at him and recognition dawn. A flash of shock lit his features, so similar to Abu Bakr’s that it was as if a spirit from inside a mirror had emerged to engage in battle. But then a shadow fell over my brother’s face and his shock was replaced by a mask of steel. If father and son were meant to fight to the death in this bitter contest, then so be it.
And then my husband rose and put a restraining arm on Abu Bakr.
“Sheathe your sword,” he said gently. “Go back to your place and give us the good of your company.”
The Messenger’s words penetrated to my father’s heart. He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees as if the tendons in his legs had suddenly been cut. I saw tears flowing down his face and I stared across the rocky hillside at my brother, wondering whether he would ride forward and kill us.
Abdal Kaaba looked at my weeping father, and then at me. And then he cursed loudly and turned back, riding away from this madness as if pursued by flying djinn. But even as he retreated, others rode forward and the small company of defenders prepared to engage them. As I looked at the stony faces in our tiny circle, I said a silent prayer to God, telling Him that if I died today, I would be thankful that death came while I had these remarkable people at my side.
Along with the ever-loyal Talha, my sister’s newly wed husband, Zubayr, stood at the edge of the circle with a sword in each hand. He was the only man I knew who could use each hand equally well and he had mastered the rare ability to wield two blades at once. As a second horseman galloped up the rocks toward our camp, Zubayr began to spin as if he were a dust devil. And then, with a dancer’s grace, he swung with his right hand and struck the approaching stallion in the breast. The mighty beast threw its rider as it flailed in agony, and as the stunned horseman fell, Zubayr continued his spin, his left hand traveling in a smooth arc through the air and slicing the man across the neck. Blood spurted from his severed jugular, and the Meccan warrior was soon lying dead next to his horse.
And then Ali was beside Zubayr, Dhul Fiqar glowing with that inexplicable light, and the two fought side by side, cutting down any Meccan foolish enough to ride up that hill of death. They were a wondrous pair, cousins who moved and acted like twin brothers who could read each other’s thoughts. There was a symmetry in the way Ali and Zubayr’s bodies moved, as if they were two wings of a giant butterfly, flapping with terrifying beauty. I had never seen two men act in such perfect unison and I admired the bond of love and kinship that forged their hearts together.
I regret many things in my life, dear Abdallah, and none more than the dagger I wedged between their hearts in the years to come. Your father was one of Ali’s few friends, and the poison that I sowed in that pure field of love would reap a better fruit for our nation. Perhaps God will forgive me. But I do not know how I can ever forgive myself.
That day, trust was not a matter of faith, friendship, or blood. It was a matter of life and death. My heart, which soared to see Zubayr and Ali protect our northern flank from attack, suddenly plunged as I saw a group of men abandon their horses and clamber up the southern rock face to attack us from behind.
I screamed and pointed to the incoming wave of Meccan soldiers, their swords held in their teeth as they spidered up the boulders. Talha was instantly at my side, and when he saw the new threat, he threw himself at the warriors.
I watched in horror as three pagans set upon my beloved cousin, who was now the only shield protecting the Messenger from certain death. Talha fought with madness in his eyes, a ferocity unlike anything I have ever seen. He struck blow after blow, even as enemies’ blades tore through his mail, leaving deep red gashes.