“What can I do for you, old friend?” he said, running a hand through my father’s thinning white hair.

“I have a testament for the people, a final command as Caliph that I want you to deliver to them,” my father said, enunciating every word carefully, his breath wheezing.

Uthman lowered his head. For a moment, I wondered if he would object, as had the Companions during Muhammad’s last illness. I trembled at the thought of another chaotic struggle for succession. The Muslims had established order only because of my father’s statesmanship. Would we have to endure another round of tribesmen jockeying for position? With the Muslim nation now expanding into the heart of the Persian empire, with enemies circling us like vultures over a battlefield, we could not afford another dispute over authority. And my heart chilled at the thought that the small but vocal faction that favored the right of Ali and the Prophet’s grandsons might not choose to acquiesce as easily as they had done before. If Uthman refused to pass along my father’s wishes, the Ummah could descend overnight into civil war.

Uthman finally raised his head and looked into Abu Bakr’s eyes. He squeezed my father’s gnarled hands and nodded.

“I will do as you wish.”

My father sighed in clear relief and then gave me a glance that I understood. I went and retrieved a piece of parchment and gave it to Uthman, along with a quill pen that was one of Abu Bakr’s few earthly possessions.

And then my father recited his last testament.

“In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. This is the order of Abdallah ibn Abu Quhayfa, known to men as Abu Bakr. Whereas…”

And then he stopped. I looked at my father and saw that he had fallen unconscious. My heart skipped a beat. If my father died before he could state his wishes, fitna would be upon us. I looked at Uthman and saw from his pale face that he was thinking the same thing.

I looked around and saw that we were alone. Asma had returned home to feed you, Abdallah, and there was no one present in the Caliph’s quarters to witness what happened next.

“What do we do?” Uthman asked me in a voice that sounded like a frightened boy’s.

I could hear the blood pounding in my ears, and my mouth was as dry as salt. And then I made a decision for which I could have been killed on the spot.

“Write in ‘I appoint Umar ibn al-Khattab as my successor among you,’” I said, fighting off the terror of my own presumption. Of all the men left in Medina, I knew that only Umar commanded the fear and the respect of every faction, and he could be counted on to hold the people together.

I looked at Uthman, my gold eyes focused on him like a hawk. If he objected and word spread that I had usurped the Caliph’s power and forged his final command, nothing would save me from the fury of the mob. The Mother of the Believers would be torn to shreds in the street by her children.

But Uthman’s saving grace, and his fatal weakness, was his trusting and gentle nature. He was like a little child who saw only the best in others and had no understanding of the machinations of politics or the treacheries of the human heart.

He looked at me for a moment and then nodded and wrote in the words in Abu Bakr’s name.

I felt the world spin around me. Had I just done this thing? Had I actually seized my father’s mantle and spoken on his behalf, single-handedly appointing the next Caliph of Islam? And then I began to tremble in fright at my audacity and wondered what madness had taken hold of me.

And then a miracle happened. Of all the wondrous and inexplicable things I witnessed during my years with the Messenger of God, none was as remarkable as the sudden sound of my father’s voice.

“Where was I?” Abu Bakr said, his eyes blinking away the sleep that had taken hold of him.

The blood drained from my face, and I shot Uthman a warning look, but it was too late. The gentle and unpretentious man simply handed over to the Caliph the sheet on which he had written in the words I had instructed him.

My father looked at the parchment in surprise, his eyes narrowing. And then he turned to Uthman, and, to my shock, a warm smile spread on his face.

“I think you were afraid that the people would dispute among themselves if I died in that state,” he said, no hint of accusation or outrage in his voice.

Uthman looked at me, and for a moment I expected him to reveal my presumption. But his eyes twinkled and he simply nodded in affirmation, and I realized that my secret was safe with him.

Abu Bakr nodded and praised God.

“You have done well,” he said. And then his eyes turned to me and he held out his hand.

I leaned close to my father and held his hand in mine.

“I have no love for this world,” he said softly. “But I am glad to have been in it for two reasons. One is that I knew and befriended the Messenger of God. And the second is that I have been blessed to call you my daughter.”

Tears welled in my eyes and I struggled to speak, but my father shook his head and I knew that there was nothing I could say with words that he did not know full well in his heart.

His hand fell from mine and his eyes slipped back into his skull as I heard him whisper his final words. There is no god but God, and Muhammad is His Messenger. And with that, Abu Bakr, the Witness to the Truth, the Second in the Cave, and the first Caliph of Islam, passed away into eternity.

THAT NIGHT, THE MUSLIMS buried my father in a grave next to my husband. Abu Bakr was laid to rest behind his master, his face near the Prophet’s shoulder. Ali led the funeral service and was kind and gracious in his eulogy.

And then, in accordance with my father’s last wishes, the Muslims gathered and paid allegiance to Umar ibn al-Khattab, who became the second and perhaps greatest of the Caliphs.

4 August 26, AD 636

Muawiya gazed out at the mighty Byzantine army gathered at the river of Yarmuk and felt a rush of fire run through his veins. This day had long been coming. The initial Muslim victories under Abu Bakr had been highly improbable. The subsequent conquests under his successor, Umar, should have been impossible. Khalid’s brilliant entry into Iraq had placed the Muslims like a dagger aimed at the heart of Byzantium. Within a few months, the Sword of Allah had crossed the desert and come west. Khalid’s lightly armed and highly mobile horsemen descended on the plains of Syria without warning. The Byzantine commanders dispatched ten thousand local men to hold off what they thought were disorganized bandits seeking booty. They did not expect to find an efficient and highly disciplined Arab force that outnumbered them two to one. The hubris of the Byzantines led to their massacre at the Battle of Ajnadayn, and the Muslims exploded through the hills of Syria unchallenged until they surrounded the ancient city of Damascus. The stunned Byzantine commanders who had underestimated their foes were suddenly cut off from reinforcements and forced to evacuate what had been the proud capital of the imperial province. Within weeks, Damascus fell and Muslims were suddenly the rulers of all of Syria.

The unexpected loss of Damascus caused the Byzantine generals in neighboring Palestine to panic, and they sent a force to the valley of Jordan to confront the invaders. But Khalid had anticipated the attack from the south and the Muslims met and crushed the Roman troops at the village of Fahl. And then, like the gift of rain coming down from the heavens after a long drought, the Holy Land of Abraham, David, and Solomon, the land of the prophets and of Jesus the son of Mary, was now in the hands of Islam. Only Jerusalem itself remained in the possession of the stunned Byzantines, who desperately holed themselves up and prepared for a siege they knew was coming.