Abu Bakr. A man whom the Prophet had made his right hand in administering the daily needs of the Ummah, a man who had been wealthy and had given everything he had to free slaves and feed the poor. A man who lived like a pauper when he should have been clothed in the riches of power. A man who was loved by everyone and hated by none.

A man whom the Prophet had appointed to lead the prayers just before he died. A man for whom the Messenger of God had set aside his own position as imam and had prayed beside in the final hour of his life.

And then, like a bolt of lightning striking his heart, Umar knew what needed to be done. He lowered his hand and spoke words that seemed to come from someplace deeper than his own heart.

“O Ansar!” he cried out, his voice trembling with emotion. “Do you not know that the Messenger of God himself ordered Abu Bakr to lead the prayer?”

There was a stir of assent, and Umar saw Abu Bakr frown, giving him a warning look to stop. But Umar could not have stopped even if he’d wanted to. Something had taken possession of his soul, and the words erupted from inside of him, like the first shoot of life rising up from the dead earth after a rainstorm, signaling the beginning of a new era.

“Then who among you would dare take precedence over him?” Umar asked. There was a moment of awed silence as Umar’s words sank into their souls. And the son of al-Khattab, a man who had been a monster and a murderer in another life and was now a revered and honored leader among men, took Abu Bakr’s right hand in his and proudly pledged his allegiance to his friend.

Abu Bakr turned pale white and began to protest. But it was too late. Umar’s actions had stirred the emotions of the crowd, and suddenly the entire room descended on Abu Bakr. The reluctant old man was surrounded by the elders of Medina as they unanimously pledged their loyalty to him and proclaimed him Khalifat Rasulallah, the Caliph, or Vice-regent, of the Messenger of God.

I WAS KEEPING VIGIL over the Messenger’s body when I learned of the council’s decision to elect my father as the new leader of the community. And I grieved. For he was an old man, tired and weary of the world, with no love of power. And yet his new role as Caliph would place him in the deadly path of others whose ambitions had been frustrated. Every decision he made would be scrutinized by his rivals and he would inevitably be compared unfavorably with the Messenger, who had been the most brilliant statesman the Arabs had ever seen. Ruthless men would be eagerly waiting for him to make a mistake, their daggers sharpened both figuratively and literally. It was a terrible and thankless position.

But whatever my doubts, the men of Medina did not appear to share them. As word spread of Abu Bakr’s accession to power, crowds gathered outside his house and mobbed him with their enthusiasm, the Muslims lining up to pledge their loyalty to the man whom the Messenger had honored in the final moments of his life.

Every household in Medina sent representatives to pledge their fealty and support of the new Caliph. Every household except one.

Shortly after Abu Bakr had been chosen, Umar and the crowd of elders exited the ancient hall and headed immediately toward the small stone hut where Ali and Fatima lived with their sons. Umar pounded on the simple door of palm wood, demanding that Ali come out and pledge allegiance to my father, whose face was dark with embarrassment at the fervor of the mob.

When Ali emerged, he looked at the Muslims with his unreadable green eyes and listened as Umar announced what had transpired.

“Abu Bakr has been chosen,” Umar said. “Give him your hand.”

Ali remained rooted to the spot and made no sign of moving to my father’s side.

“You have made this decision without consulting the Family of the Messenger,” he said softly, a hint of hurt in his voice. The matter that had been on the minds of everyone that day, whether Ali would assert his own claim to power, had been settled in the least gracious fashion possible-by excluding him from the deliberations and denying him the opportunity to make his case.

Umar scowled, realizing that Ali had reason to feel insulted but refusing to budge from the conviction of his own heart.

“Even so, the decision has been made,” Umar said. “Give him your pledge of loyalty.” A hint of danger had entered his voice. If Ali chose now to challenge Abu Bakr’s appointment by the council, the Ummah would be torn apart and the demons of civil war would soon be upon us.

Ali looked at the towering Umar, gazing deeply into his eyes. Few men would have been able to withstand the glance of either of these powerful men, and seeing them staring each other down was like watching two rams preparing for battle.

And then a shadow fell between them and the Prophet’s daughter Fatima appeared as if out of nowhere. She took her husband’s hand in hers and squeezed it tight, and then turned to face Umar, who towered a head above her.

“Leave us,” she said, her eyes burning with an anger that no one had ever seen before on her gentle face. Umar stepped back as if he had been stabbed in the gut

My father immediately placed himself between them, seeking to prevent the tensions from escalating

“I apologize to the People of the House,” the new Caliph said. “May God shower his blessings forever on the Family of the Messenger.”

Fatima looked at Abu Bakr, her black eyes still burning. And then, without another word, she guided her husband back inside and slammed the door on the crowd.

ALI DID NOT PLEDGE his allegiance to my father that day, a fact that only increased my dislike for him. As long as he stood aloof, Abu Bakr could not reign in security, for the threat of rebellion from the Prophet’s bloodline would hang over him like a bitter and deadly sword. His legitimacy would remain in question, and the vultures that were even now gathering would move closer, ready to swoop in and destroy him.

But as the sun finally set on that terrible day, Ali emerged from his household and came to my apartment to help make plans for the Prophet’s burial. Fatima was with him, and though I refused even to look at Ali, I gave the Messenger’s daughter a deep embrace. Whatever poison existed between her husband and me, Fatima had always been kind to me and I felt nothing but respect for this sweet girl. She held me tight as I wept over the loss of the man we had both loved, but she did not tremble with tears like the other women and was, in fact, strangely calm. I assumed that she was in a state of shock or denial and that the tears would come when the truth finally sank into her heart. But as the hours passed and she remained resigned and dignified, I finally asked her about her restraint in the face of her father’s death. She gave me a strange smile and said she had no reason to grieve, as she would be joining him soon. It was an odd and unnerving comment, but then she was an odd and unnerving woman, and I decided to leave her be.

The immediate concern was what to do with the Prophet’s corpse. In normal Muslim tradition, the body of the deceased was washed ritually before it was shrouded, except in the case of martyrs, whose blood was considered a sign of eternal glory. The Prophet had not died on the battlefield and yet there was much hesitation to strip him bare and wash him like any other man. I myself had never gazed upon the Prophet’s naked body, for he was exceedingly modest, as I have said, and even when we made love, it was under the cover of darkness.

As the men stood and argued about what to do, we heard a voice say loudly: “Wash the Messenger with his clothes on.” It was a deep voice of great authority and I thought at first that Umar had entered while we were talking. And yet when we turned to look, there was no one there but us. I felt my heart begin to race and I saw the frightened look on the others’ faces. But the words had been distinct and clear, and Zubayr went out and filled a pail of water from the ablution pool, which Ali then poured over the Messenger’s body, washing him and his garments clean one last time. The men then shrouded my husband in three layers of cloth, the first two of plain white Yemeni linen and the third a green-striped mantle that the Prophet had often worn.