“I was reading last night a story from the Torah,” Huyayy said, his voice thoughtful, bearing no hint of malice. “About the death of Abraham. His sons Isaac and Ishmael, estranged for many years, came together and buried him in the cave of Hebron.”

The Messenger smiled gently at the reference and nodded.

“I’d like to think that story is a prophecy,” Huyayy said, a warm grin playing on his lips at the end. “Perhaps one day our nations will find a way to bury the past together.”

And with that, Huyayy ibn Akhtab turned and knelt before the ditch as Ali raised Dhul Fiqar and Safiya’s cry of sorrow echoed around the ancient stones of Khaybar.

36

Safiya and the Messenger were married in the days following the defeat of Khaybar. The Prophet told me that it was an act of mercy for a girl who had lost her entire family to the vengeful swords of the Muslims. And it was a political marriage as well, he explained, since Safiya would continue to be a helpful diplomatic link to the remaining Jews of Arabia as the Muslim state consolidated its power. All of what he said was true, but I saw the way his dark eyes looked appreciatively at her flawless skin and the ugly demon of envy was ignited yet again in my soul.

Even though Safiya had embraced Islam, I always called her “the Jewess” and was not above making snide comments in her presence about her ancestry and the duplicity of her people. When she complained to the Prophet about my denigration of her kinsmen, he told her to respond that she was the daughter of Aaron and the niece of Moses, which she invariably did with great pride, increasing my jealousy toward her.

The addition of Safiya to the harem increased our number to eight Mothers, along with Sawda, myself, Hafsa, Umm Salama, Zaynab bint Jahsh, Juwayriya, and Ramla. As mentioned before, the kindly Zaynab bint Khuzayma, the Mother of the Poor, had died of fever, and her calming influence over the household was missed. Despite our years living together, and despite the Messenger’s best efforts to treat us as equally as he could, petty rivalries still existed. The hot-tempered Hafsa and the Bedouin princess Juwayriya often locked horns, as did the haughty Ramla and the down-to-earth Umm Salama. But not everyone in the harem was at war. I had made my peace with Zaynab after her kind support in the days of the false accusation against me, and the grandmotherly Sawda was loved by all.

Our arguments were over the petty things-who had said what about whom, who was trying to take too much of the Prophet’s time and attention. Who had the prettiest clothes and jewelry, although the reality was that we all lived spartan lives and had few adornments. And in truth, our rivalry was no longer over who would be the first to become pregnant, as we had all quietly given up the hope of carrying the Prophet’s heir. He had had six children with Khadija, and both sons had died. Since then, God had not blessed him with any more issue, despite the fact that he was married to several young and fertile women.

There were whispers among the believers that God did not wish the Prophet to have a male heir. Many said it was because the Muslim Ummah was not meant to be ruled by a monarchy, as would inevitably happen if the Prophet had a son, who would be expected to succeed him as leader of the community. And a few speculated that it was because God had already chosen the male lineage of the Prophet by favoring his cousin Ali, who had fathered Muhammad’s two grandsons, Hasan and Husayn. Those who held this viewpoint were a tiny minority of the believers, but in the years to come, they would become a powerful voice whose message would tear apart our nation.

But those years of strife and division over the Messenger’s legacy were still far off. With the pacification of Khaybar and the treaty with the Meccans, peace had come to the peninsula. And as the Messenger had predicted at Hudaybiyya, the truce proved to be a greater victory for Islam than any of the battles we had fought over the past decade. With hostilities ended, trade flourished between the northern and southern tribes, and Muslims now regularly made the Pilgrimage to Mecca, where they were finally able to preach the oneness of God without fear of reprisals.

It was in that atmosphere of peaceful commerce and dialogue that the message of Islam began to spread rapidly through the desert, and it was said that in the two years that followed the agreement at Hudaybiyya, more people embraced Islam than in the two decades prior to the treaty.

As the power of Islam spread through the peninsula, the wise among the Quraysh began to realize that the old days were gone forever. Though some of the elders like Abu Sufyan stubbornly refused to join the Prophet’s movement, the next generation of leaders realized that the future of Arabia was in Medina, not Mecca. The cracks in the dam of Meccan unity became a flood after two of the most prominent nobles of the holy city defected. Khalid ibn al-Waleed, the commander of Mecca’s armies, and Amr ibn al-As, the city’s most respected diplomat, rode to Medina and gave their allegiance to God and His Prophet, and there was much feasting in celebration of their conversion.

Medina became a bustling metropolis where goods from all over the region were traded, and the tiny oasis began to expand and look more and more like the capital of a prosperous nation. And we, the Mothers of the Believers, found our hands overflowing with work on behalf of the growing Islamic state. Whether it was organizing delivery of food and medicine to the needy or teaching other women and their children about the moral principles of our faith, our hours were increasingly filled with the demands of our role as Mothers. We did not have time to indulge in our habitual cattiness, and peace began to reign in the Prophet’s household even as it did throughout Arabia.

All that changed with the arrival of a slave girl from Egypt.

Mariya was a Coptic Christian, a gift to the Messenger of God from an Egyptian governor who had the political foresight to realize that Muhammad’s vision was on the way to triumph in neighboring Arabia. She was a girl of shocking beauty, her hair a flowing sea of soft brown curls, her eyes shaped like perfect almonds, and her breasts generous. She was soft-spoken and majestically feminine, more womanly than any other girl I have ever known.

The moment the Messenger of God saw Mariya, he was besotted, and the rest of us were filled with despair. Sensing that she would be the unwelcome target of much jealousy if she were housed near his other wives, the Prophet had a special home built for her on the outskirts of Medina, where he would spend increasingly large amounts of time, to the growing alarm of the Mothers.

And so it was that the wives of the Messenger came together and asked me for help. They feared that the Prophet’s love for Mariya would displace all of us, and they asked me to intervene as the one who still, in theory, remained the most beloved of the consorts.

One night, when the Prophet was relaxing with his head in my lap after a long day of dealing with the affairs of state, I sprang my trap. Muhammad looked up at me with his soft smile and stroked my hair. But when he leaned up to kiss me, I turned my head away.

“Don’t. Please,” I said, with intentional sharpness.

The Messenger sat up and looked at me with his obsidian eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

I turned my back to him and began to sob. Though I was definitely acting in accordance with my plan, the tears and the pain in my heart were real.

“You don’t love me anymore!”

The Messenger placed a hand on my shoulder and I could feel that strange cooling sensation that always seemed to emanate from his presence.

“How can you say that? I love you first among all my wives.”