There was an immediate grumble of outrage from the Companions. Never before in the history of Arabia had a group of pilgrims been turned back from the Kaaba and told to return at another time.

The Prophet appeared ready to answer Suhayl’s proposal, when hotheaded Umar stepped into the negotiation with his usual bluntness.

“You have no right to turn back peaceful pilgrims!” he shouted, the soothing effects of the Sakina having apparently worn off. “We will enter Mecca, and I dare you to stop us!”

My husband raised his hand and turned to Umar, who was seated on his left.

“Gently, Umar,” Muhammad said pleasantly, but I knew my husband well enough to note the edge of warning in his voice. The Messenger turned his attention back to Suhayl and smiled.

“The son of al-Khattab is correct. We are within our rights before all Arabia. But we are reasonable men. What could you offer us to forgo our rights and turn back?”

I saw Umar and several other men look at the Prophet in shock. They had expected him to negotiate their entry into the holy city, not their retreat.

Suhayl hesitated, as if he was having difficulty saying the words out loud.

“A treaty,” he said, and I saw his cheeks pinch inward as if the very word were as sour as lemon on his tongue.

I heard several gasps of surprise from the men seated around the Prophet, but he himself betrayed no emotion. The Muslims had been at war with the Meccans for so long that no one had ever expected a treaty between us. We had always assumed that victory would be absolute, with one side destroying the other, even as the Bani Qurayza had been annihilated for their treachery.

My husband leaned closer, his handsome face passive and impossible to read.

“What are your terms?”

“We will secure a truce between us of ten years, during which neither of our people nor our allies will attack each other,” Suhayl said swiftly, as if each word were a hot coal that he needed to expel from inside his mouth. “Starting next year, you will be allowed to perform the Pilgrimage. We will evacuate the city for three days so that there are no…misunderstandings…between us.”

The Companions spoke loudly their opinions of Mecca’s proffered terms, but Suhayl raised his hand and again silence fell.

“And one more thing,” Suhayl said almost apologetically. “If, during this period, any man among your people wishes to return and subject himself to the authority of Mecca, we will not be obliged to return him. But if any man leaves Mecca against our wishes and seeks refuge with you-you must return him to us, even if he is of your faith.”

There was dead silence for a long moment. And then I heard Umar laugh, but there was no humor in the sound. The towering man pulled at his gray beard in fury and appeared ready to speak, when he saw the stern glance from my husband that conveyed a command to be silent.

The Messenger sat looking at Suhayl for a long moment. And then, to everyone’s surprise, he leaned forward and took the pagan emissary’s hand in his.

“I accept your terms.”

There was an immediate explosion of voices as the Companions registered their shock and dismay. How could the Prophet accept such a blatantly one-sided agreement? The Meccan offer was a clear insult, one that even a poorly skilled negotiator would have seen as an opening ploy in what was meant to be a long and complex discussion. And yet the Prophet had accepted the initial terms without protest.

The Messenger seemed utterly oblivious to the cries of his followers, and I saw a strangely triumphant smile play on his lips as he looked at Suhayl, who appeared as shocked by his acquiescence as we were.

Umar stood up and towered over the Messenger. He ignored Suhayl and vented all his fury at the man whom he had only hours before sworn to stand beside, even if it meant death.

“This is outrageous!” Umar shouted at the Prophet, his voice booming so loudly that all other conversation stopped. “We will not make peace with these murdering idolaters!”

I felt a sudden tightening in my throat. Umar, the most fanatically loyal of the Muslims, was now openly disparaging the Prophet’s judgment. The Prophet frowned at him and said nothing, but I saw the vein in his forehead throb as it did whenever he was angry. And then my father, who sat to the right of the Messenger, rose and stared up into Umar’s eyes. When he spoke, his words were simple and yet carried the weight of terrifying authority.

“Be quiet, Umar,” Abu Bakr said, and I saw Umar step back as if he had been slapped. The son of al-Khattab moved away from the Messenger and Abu Bakr and stood alone in a corner, like a child who has been punished for naughty behavior.

Suhayl watched this entire exchange with clear fascination. Once my father had silenced Umar, Suhayl cleared his throat and lifted a sheet of parchment from inside his fine silk robes.

The Meccan emissary unrolled the sheet, which was blank, and placed it at the Messenger’s feet.

“I have been authorized to draw up a document of truce,” Suhayl said, and I could hear the eagerness in his voice. He clearly wanted to get the terms down in writing before the Messenger changed his mind.

My husband looked across the room to Ali, who stood alone by the entrance to the grand tent, his hand on the hilt of Dhul Fiqar.

“Ali will serve as my scribe,” the Prophet said.

I had been ignoring Ali’s presence until then, and I felt a flash of dislike as he went to sit beside my husband. Suhayl produced a quill pen made from the feather of a gray heron and offered it to Ali, along with a small clay vial containing ink.

Ali took the writing implements and began to make marks on the parchment as the Prophet dictated.

“Bismillah Ar-Rahman Ar-Raheem. ‘In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate-’”

Suhayl interrupted with a cough.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who this Ar-Rahman is,” he said in a tone dripping with mockery. It was an old joke, as the Meccans had claimed in the early days of the Prophet’s mission that Ar-Rahman, a name for God in the holy Qur’an meaning “the Merciful,” was actually the name of some secret teacher, Jewish or Christian, who had been allegedly supplying the Prophet with his knowledge of their Book.

I could feel the heat in the room rising, but Suhayl continued, apparently enjoying playing with the Prophet’s patience.

“We would prefer the traditional honorific-Bismik, Allahumma, ‘In Thy Name, O God.’”

At this instant I saw Talha rise and shake his scarred fist at the emissary.

“You swine! You mock the holy words of God Himself!”

The Prophet smiled at Talha, but there was steel in his eyes, and my sweet cousin blushed bright red and sat back down. The Messenger then turned to Ali.

“Write ‘In Thy Name, O God,’” he said softly.

Ali hesitated and then complied, his fingers moving swiftly across the sheet as the Prophet continued.

“These are the terms of the truce between Muhammad, Messenger of God, and Suhayl, son of Amr…”

Suhayl giggled, an obnoxious sound that made me want to slap him.

“Pardon me, but if we believed you to be the Messenger of God, we really wouldn’t be in this position, would we?”

The Messenger looked at him, and I expected his patience to finally break. But I was surprised to see my husband’s eyes twinkle, as if he were a child playing a game with a mischievous friend.

“Strike out ‘Messenger of God’ and replace it with ‘Muhammad, son of Abdallah,’” the Prophet said to Ali.

Ali looked up at him and I saw the young man’s mysterious green eyes filling with surprise. He lifted the pen and brought it to the parchment, and then lowered it again without making a mark.

“I…I cannot.”

There was a murmur through the crowd, as some whispered their shock at Ali’s uncharacteristic defiance of his elder cousin, while others expressed their pride in his refusal to give in to Suhayl’s offensive niggling.