And then the Prophet smiled warmly. He took me in his arms and kissed me, and the waves of passion soon took us beyond the veil of this harsh world into the timeless mystery of man and woman and the infinite joy of their union.

A WEEK LATER, I learned that the slave girl Mariya had missed her courses for the second month in a row.

She was pregnant with Muhammad’s child.

38

Seven months later, the wives gathered around Mariya as she went through the final, horrific pangs of childbirth. I held her hand while Hafsa wiped the flood of sweat that bathed her soft curls and Umm Salama crouched low over the birthing chair, gently coaxing the poor girl to push just a little harder.

Whatever jealousies we had felt-whatever lingering bitterness had hung over the household of the Messenger since we’d heard the news of the slave’s conception-all of it had finally been forgotten in the long hours we’d spent beside Mariya since her water broke. The girl was as fragile as a bird, and each contraction produced such wrenching screams that the coldness of our hearts melted in the flame of empathy. She was no longer our rival for the love of the Messenger, no longer the usurper who had come in and taken the honor that was meant for one of the noble women of free birth who had shared Muhammad’s bed. That night, she had become just another terrified girl, enduring the agony that was also the glory of womanhood.

I looked into Mariya’s soft eyes, as kind and lost as those of a doe in the wilderness, and tried to send into her soul the strain of indomitable strength that flowed in my own blood. She looked up at me, confused and frightened, but I could see a light deep inside her eyes that said we had made a connection and I could see a hint of gratitude in her bloodless face.

And then Mariya clutched my hand with such fury that I thought she would shatter my fingers, and gave a scream that was more horrible than any cry of a dying man I had heard on the battlefield.

And then a new sound filled the stone barn that now served as a makeshift birthing chamber. The wondrous, improbable, heart-stirring sound of a baby crying.

I turned in awe to Umm Salama, who was kneeling on the ground, holding the child who was the hope of a nation. And then the gentle woman with the motherly smile looked up at us with reverence, thick tears welling in her eyes.

“Tell the Messenger of God…he has a son…”

I HAD NEVER SEEN such rejoicing in Medina. In the days that followed, the sober oasis was transformed into a city of grand festivities as the Muslims celebrated the birth of Muhammad’s son, who had been named Ibrahim. Hundreds of camels, sheep, and oxen were sacrificed by overjoyed believers, the meat distributed to the poor. Merchants heavily slashed prices in the marketplace and sometimes simply gave away their goods as gifts. Poets raced to compose verses in honor of the new boy in whose blood lived the hope of the entire Muslim Ummah. Had alcohol not been banned by the holy Qur’an, the streets would have been flowing in beer and khamr, and I suspected a few of the less pious were secretly toasting away in the privacy of their own homes.

It was a glorious time, and the joy was shared by all in the Prophet’s household, including the Mothers. Our envy of Mariya had been replaced by a fierce protective instinct toward her and the baby, who had become the son of us all. I remember the first time I held Ibrahim, after his mother had suckled him and the Messenger had wept over his tiny fingers. The Prophet had given him to me first in a sign that, even now, I remained foremost among his consorts.

I had held the tiny bundle in my arms as if he were a precious jewel and looked down at his face. Ibrahim’s hair was a mass of brown curls like his mother’s, but his eyes were indisputably those of his father, gazing up at me like black pearls filled with ancient wisdom. His skin was softer than a dove’s, and he radiated that mysterious coolness that always surrounded Muhammad, even in the hottest days of summer. And then those mesmerizing eyes seemed to twinkle at me as he smiled, and I fell in love with Ibrahim in that instant. It was a love as ferocious and all-consuming as I had for the Messenger, and I vowed that I would lay down my life to guard him and his mother, even if all the demons of Hell were unleashed upon us.

On the seventh day of Ibrahim’s life, the Messenger held the ceremony of the aqiqa, where the baby’s hair is cut for the first time and weighed, with the weight in gold then passed along to the poor. The People of the House gathered to celebrate this first milestone in the child’s life, and a pavilion of green and yellow stripes was placed outside the Masjid, where the faithful could come see the beautiful boy and the indigent could find alms.

The women of the household were gathered in a closed section in the back, separated by a woolen curtain from the excited crowds. Along with my fellow sister-wives were the daughters of Muhammad-Zaynab, with her little daughter, Umama; the childless Umm Kulthum, who had married Uthman after Ruqayya’s death; and the Prophet’s favorite, Fatima, with her sons, Hasan and Husayn. All of us gathered reverently around Mariya as if she were the queen of the nation, jostling with one another for a chance to hold the baby, the little Chosen One who was the light of the Ummah. I heard Hasan giggle as he chased his little brother, Husayn, around the room and I glanced at Fatima, who for once did not look sad and distant but was laughing heartily as her new baby brother looked up at her with the utter trust and absorption that only infants untainted by the world possess.

In the early days of Mariya’s pregnancy, some gossipmongers had spread vicious tales suggesting that Fatima and Ali were sad about the news that the Prophet would soon have an heir, displacing their own sons as the sole custodians of Muhammad’s bloodline. But despite my own unwavering antipathy for Ali, I did not believe for one second that he or his wife held anything but happiness for the Messenger, and, seeing the sincere look of joy on the normally taciturn Fatima’s face, I knew that such talk had been malicious and misguided.

And then the curtain parted and my husband walked inside the women’s chamber, his eyes twinkling. He went over to Mariya, kissed his infant son on the forehead, and then whispered something into the Egyptian girl’s ears. She giggled mischievously and nodded as the Prophet turned his attention to us. And I saw for the first time that he held in his hands a pretty necklace-an emerald pendant on a silver chain.

“In honor of my son’s aqiqa, today I will give this necklace to the girl I love most,” the Messenger said, holding the pendant aloft for all to see.

There was an immediate rustle of excitement and I suddenly felt my heart pounding in my chest. The Messenger glanced at me for just a brief moment and then began to walk slowly past each of his wives, dangling the necklace near their eager faces.

I saw Hafsa turn to Zaynab and whisper. Her voice was too low for me to hear, but I had mastered the art of reading lips during my years of fending off-and participating in-harem gossip.

“He will give it to the daughter of Abu Bakr,” Hafsa said, and I could see the irritation on Zaynab’s beautiful features as she nodded her agreement.

I felt a flash of pride as the Messenger walked by all of his wives and approached me. For a moment, he lingered before Safiya and I felt my heart sink. And then he passed by the disappointed Jewess and strolled toward me, the last in the circle of the Mothers.

I smiled triumphantly and raised my hand to take the jewel…and the Messenger walked right past me! I flushed red, shocked and confused. He had gone by each of his wives and yet the necklace remained in his hands. And then I saw him approach little Umama, who was sitting in her mother, Zaynab’s, lap. The Messenger bent down and tied the necklace around his granddaughter’s neck, then kissed her on the lips.