KAB SAT BY THE stone fireplace, sipping a cup of warm goat’s milk that Najma had prepared for him. He stared at the far wall of the chamber, which was lined with tiny cracks that spidered out across the sturdy mud bricks. Najma had insisted for many years that he should refinish this room, which served as his personal study, but Kab had refused.
The chamber was one of the original structures in the Jewish settlement, having been built over three hundred years before when Kab’s forefathers had found the oasis after a deadly journey through the Arabian sands. The small room had once housed entire families, before succeeding generations had added a dozen more rooms and turned the modest home of the tribal chief into a palatial estate. The remaining chambers were elegantly decorated with marble tiles and furnished in a style that befitted the prosperity of his people, but this central room, with its plain walls and harsh stone floor, remained as it had in the days when the first Jew had found refuge in Yathrib.
This room had been the seed from which the grand fortress that protected them had grown. And Kab felt that it was fitting that he spend this night, when the fate of their people had been sealed, here.
Najma saw the sadness in his eyes and put a gentle hand on his arm.
“Once the storm ends, we can begin preparations for the liberation,” she said with a hopeful smile. “And then you can reclaim the oasis for our people and there will be peace.”
Kab looked up and met her dark eyes, saw in them the absolute trust of a child, even though Najma was a grown woman pursued by many suitors. He felt a pang of grief as the thought crossed his mind that he might not get a chance to see her marry. Confronted with her innocence, her misguided belief in his great wisdom and leadership, he suddenly felt very small and alone. Part of his soul wanted to let her keep believing that things would turn out well for their people, that his grand sagacity would turn this minor setback into an easy victory.
But he couldn’t. Najma needed to be prepared for what was coming.
“There will be no liberation, my dear,” he said, and the words burned his throat more than all the fiery sand he had inhaled that night. “The siege has failed.”
Najma’s brow crinkled as it always did when she was confused.
“Then we will bide our time,” she responded, trying as always to find the flicker of light in the shadows. “God will provide us another day.”
Kab hesitated. And then he took her tiny hand in his and squeezed.
“No. There will be no more days.”
She sat down beside him, looking up at Kab with uncertainty.
“I don’t understand” was all she said. Kab felt his heart break as he gazed into her wide eyes, filled with disbelief.
“Our allies are running out of food and water. The storm will decimate their supplies further. They have no choice but to break camp. And once the Confederates evacuate, Muhammad will turn his dogs on us.”
He saw the color drain from her rosy cheeks. She took her hand out of his grasp as if she had been scalded by a flame.
“You can’t be sure of that,” she said forcefully.
“It is what I would do in his position,” he said softly.
Najma rose to her feet and turned away from him. Kab looked away, unable to bear her grief at the revelation that he had led their people to disaster.
And then, after a long moment in which the only sound was the roaring of the wind outside, Najma turned to face her uncle again. But instead of sorrow or recrimination, her eyes burned with an intensity that he had never seen before.
“Then I will stand by your side, as Esther stood by Mordecai in the face of Haman,” she said.
Kab felt his eyes water. He rose from his carved cedar chair and put his arms around this beautiful girl who was worth more to him than all the treasures of Arabia.
“I’ve failed you,” he said in a quaking voice.
But Najma wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and pressed him tight.
“You can never fail me, uncle,” she said softly. “Where there is love, there is only victory.”
The two stood together, holding each other tight as the roaring winds echoed like the beat of war drums, coming steadily closer.
14
The siege was over and the defeated army of the Confederates had fled the oasis. The sandstorm had devastated their base, killing men and animals and burying precious food supplies under mountainous dunes. Horses had bolted at the first sight of the black cloud racing across the horizon, decimating the ranks of the Meccan cavalry. It had been a final humiliating rout for the forces of the Quraysh and their allies. Despite desperate pleas from Huyayy, Abu Sufyan had ordered the evacuation, disgust and exhaustion written on every line of his aged face.
Muhammad had won again. But this time the victory was far-reaching. The failure of the unified armies of the Arabs and Jews to dislodge him from Medina had solidified his rule of the northern peninsula. Trade with Syria and Persia was now completely in the Muslims’ hands and the entire economic future of Arabia depended on making accommodations with the new city-state. The Muslim nation had survived onslaught upon onslaught and proved itself to be a lasting power that would reshape the course of history in the region.
Only one threat remained to Muhammad’s total domination of the northern lands, and his people swiftly moved to bring it to an end.
I watched as the Muslim army surrounded the fortress of the Bani Qurayza. The moment our scouts had confirmed that the Quraysh were in retreat, my husband had ordered the entire defensive force to abandon the trench and regroup at the enemy stronghold. Ali had ridden forward to the grand gates of the citadel and issued a challenge to the leaders of Qurayza to emerge and account for their treachery. His words had been met with an explosion of arrows from archers hidden in the walls. Ali evaded the missiles and turned to the men behind him. The mighty battering ram that had been prepared for the tribe of Qaynuqa years before was brought forth to be used against their brethren, the sole surviving Jewish residents of the oasis.
A dozen armored soldiers took hold of the mighty pole made of palm wood and reinforced with steel. And then they heaved forward, smashing it with terrifying force against the towering gates. The iron doors trembled but held.
As the men pulled back for a second blow, a shower of stones fell upon their heads, and several of the soldiers dropped, blood pouring from their shattered helmets. I looked up to see a surprising sight. My breath stopped for a second as I thought I was looking into a bizarre mirror. A young girl no older than myself, with bright red hair like my own, was lifting rocks that were impossibly large for her tiny size and throwing them down from the turret just above the gate.
Ali signaled and Muslim archers immediately targeted her. The girl dropped beneath the protection of the stone walls just as a curtain of arrows flew high upon the turrets like upside-down rain. For a long moment, there was silence. And then the girl raised her head above the ramparts just long enough to send another boulder crashing down on the head of one of the soldiers. There was a flash of gore as the man’s head burst like a squashed grape and he collapsed and did not move again.
The girl ducked as another volley of arrows tore at her position. But when the missiles were past, I could her hear childlike voice, laughing and taunting us.
I shook my head in wonder at this girl’s resilience.
Ali approached and filled a stone cup from a bucket I held. He sipped the water and then passed the cup among the men nearest us. I was surprised to see them each drink heartily from the small container and then pass it along as if it were still full.