Khalid rode up straight to him and called out.

“I have been sent by the lords of Mecca to say that you are not welcome here. Go back to your land and disturb not the Pilgrimage.”

Umar finally looked at him, but there was no fear in his eyes, only mild contempt, as if he were being barked at by a rabid dog. And then Umar strode forward and continued to walk past Khalid as if he did not recognize the most acclaimed soldier of their nation.

Khalid reared his horse, which struck out its hooves defiantly at Umar. A single blow from his stallion’s powerful legs could easily kill a man. And yet Umar continued to ignore him and raised his voice louder in prayer.

Khalid watched as the throng of Muslims passed around him as if they were a raging river and he a mere stone that could in no way inhibit their flow. And then he felt a welling of deep respect for the heretics who had turned his world upside down.

The warrior pulled on his reins and his horse began to move through the crowd. As he rode back up toward the hill, he saw that his men were waiting at its top. They were gazing down in awe at the confident progress of the crowd, and even though each man was armed with a bow and arrows that could easily decimate their enemies, his soldiers did not move to challenge the Muslims.

As Khalid reached the front lies of the now-impotent Meccan defense force, he saw his old friend Amr ibn al-As at its forefront. Khalid saw in Amr’s eyes the same respect that he had felt, and he knew that he could share his innermost thoughts with his comrade.

“These men are braver in their rags than a thousand soldiers hiding behind armor and blades,” Khalid said.

Amr kept his eyes on the mass of thousands, moving in perfect unison, their march steady and timed with almost military precision. And then he turned to face Khalid, a glint in his eye.

“Imagine what such bravery could accomplish if they had the power of armor and blades as well,” Amr said.

Khalid smiled as he suddenly understood what Amr was thinking. And for a second, he no longer felt the weariness of his years of leading Mecca in a losing war against a smarter foe. His heart swelled with unexpected pride that his kinsman Muhammad had somehow united a raggedy band of disorganized Arabs with such bonds of power. It was an ambition that Khalid himself had always nurtured, of forging the barbarian desert tribes into a nation worthy to stand against the mighty armies of the surrounding empires. Of harnessing the ferocious, warlike blood of his people with the military discipline that they had lacked for centuries. But he had dismissed the notion as an empty dream of his youth, a monumental task that was beyond the skills of any man.

Any man except Muhammad.

And as he gazed down at the steadily approaching, utterly fearless legion of men, the warrior of Mecca had a vision of the future that made his heart race faster in excitement.

“They would conquer the world,” he said, his eyes growing wide in wonder, as if a lifelong riddle had been answered in the most unexpected of ways.

Amr smiled at him knowingly, and then the two men led the Meccan cavalry back to the stables, allowing the Muslims to approach the holy city unmolested for the first time in a decade.

31

I gazed across the pilgrim camp at the outpost of Hudaybiyya to the distant hills that delineated the formal border of Mecca. The Messenger had ordered us to stop here and wait for the Meccans’ next move. Khalid’s horsemen had turned back, but there was no guarantee that Abu Sufyan would not send a new force that had less respect for the ancient taboos of the Pilgrimage.

As the hours passed and there was no sign of any attack from the Meccan forces, the excitement that we had felt over the long journey back to our homeland gave way to boredom and growing frustration. Many of the pilgrims began to beseech the Prophet to continue on toward the city, but he remained steadfast in his belief that it would be unwise to cross the boundary without a clear understanding of how Mecca would react. But he agreed to send his son-in-law Uthman, a highly respected nobleman of Quraysh, to speak with Abu Sufyan and secure assurances of our safety.

Uthman had left the night before and had been expected to return before sunrise. But it was already late in the afternoon and there was a growing sense of alarm that he might have fallen victim to Abu Sufyan’s wrath. As rumors began to spread that the gentle-hearted ambassador had been killed by the lords of Mecca, my husband’s patient stoicism was shaken, and he gathered his closest Companions underneath the shade of a ghaf tree, its bluish green leaves sparkling in the harsh sunlight. He appeared deeply agitated at the possibility of Uthman’s execution, and I suddenly remembered his warning to the youths of Medina that Uthman’s death would unleash the mighty sword of God’s vengeance upon the world.

The men approached him one by one, grasping Muhammad’s right hand and pledging to fight to the death to avenge Uthman if indeed he had been martyred. I could see the grim determination in their eyes and my pulse quickened at the thought that this peaceful journey was about to erupt into terrible bloodshed. Since the Muslims were unarmed, they would have to face down the Meccan army with only their hands and their feet as weapons. In such a scenario, it was likely that these brave men who swore themselves to the Prophet would die before they ever laid eyes upon the Holy Kaaba that they all longed to see after so many years.

And then, when the last of the Companions had sworn the oath, I felt a strange sensation. It was as if a gentle rain were falling all around us, even though the sky was clear. The punishing heat of the desert vanished, replaced by a delightful coolness, and yet the sun blazed high above us and there was no wind. It was as if a blanket of mysterious tranquillity had descended upon us, and I could see on the surprised faces of the others that they sensed it as well. Whatever it was that was happening, the tension in the camp vanished, replaced by a powerful sense of peace that was unlike any I have ever experienced in my life.

I looked at my husband in confusion, and he smiled softly.

“God is well pleased with those who have taken this oath,” he said, and his voice was as soothing as the invisible cloud that had fallen among us. “He has sent down His Sakina to bless us.”

Sakina. The Spirit of Peace and Tranquillity. I would later learn that the Jews had a similar word. Shekhina they called it in the language of the Hebrews, and it was the feminine face of God, the indwelling Presence that had once been found in the Temple of Solomon and was now hidden from mankind. Whether what I experienced was the same as what the Jews believe, I cannot say. But something magical happened in that moment, and all anger and fear left us.

And so it was that I gazed now across the plain toward Mecca without any worry as to what would come next, for I knew that God was with us. The sun began to dip toward the horizon, the disk turning from blinding gold to dull ocher, and then I saw it.

A figure riding on a horse over the hills of Mecca, the billowing purple standard of an emissary held aloft in his hand.

WE GATHERED TO MEET with the ambassador of the Quraysh, a honey-tongued nobleman named Suhayl ibn Amr. The Messenger had greeted Suhayl graciously, and after ascertaining that Uthman was still alive and securing an agreement for his safe return, he invited the emissary to negotiate an end to the impasse.

I watched from a corner of the tent as Suhayl raised his manicured hand, each finger wearing a ring of precious stones, and laid out the Meccan proposal.

“We will not begrudge you the rites of Pilgrimage,” he said calmly. “But your arrival is unexpected and we need time to calm the passions of the people. So we are willing to let you perform the Hajj-next year.”