Bilal stood proudly, wiping blood from his mouth.

“God made me black and I praise Him for it,” he said with dignity. And then he raised his beautiful voice to recite a verse from the Holy Qur’an.

“We take our colors from God, and who is better than God at coloring?”

There was a murmur of interest from the crowd at the lyrical sound of the holy words. I saw several of the dark-skinned nomads, who were accustomed to being treated with contempt, take in these words with a look of delight. They started whispering to one another, and I knew that soon they would learn about the Messenger from whose mouth these strange words had emanated. Words that broke the rules of Arab culture and yet touched the heart. Words that could give a slave strength to stand up to a tyrant. Now the crowd wanted to know more about these words and who was spreading them.

I saw in his sudden flash of regret that Umar had realized this as well. In his explosion of rage, he had only managed to bring attention to Muhammad’s message. Shaking his head, he grumbled to himself as he turned away from us.

“You are all mad,” Umar said dismissively. And then he faced the crowd and raised his hands for their attention.

“Know all present that I would not have harmed this girl,” he said, pointing at me in the desperate hope of regaining some dignity. “Umar ibn al-Khattab does not hurt children.”

Umar turned to walk away from the scene, when Talha laughed bitterly.

“Really? So why did you bury your daughter alive, you pagan wretch?”

Umar froze.

Time itself seemed to stop at that moment.

When Umar turned around to face Talha, there was a terrifying madness in his eyes.

“You…you dare…”

My father realized that Talha had gone too far.

“Leave it be, Talha,” he warned.

But my cousin was filled with righteous indignation. It was an open secret in the city that Umar’s wife, Zaynab bint Madh’un, had recently given birth to a girl. Ashamed and embittered that Zaynab had failed to produce a son, Umar had taken the infant child into the desert. In accordance with the practices of the idolaters, he had left the child on the searing sand and covered her with stones until she died. The Messenger of God had condemned this horrifying practice, which had further alienated him from the rulers of Mecca, who viewed infanticide as a man’s privilege.

“Murderer!” Talha cried, burning with the fire of outrage. “When you are raised on Judgment Day, you will account for your crimes!”

And suddenly, as if a dam had broken, Umar rushed at Talha and threw him to the ground.

Abu Bakr tried to pull Umar off him, to no avail. Umar threw my father aside as if he were one of my rag dolls. I saw him hit his head hard on the ground, drawing blood.

“Father!” I ran to his side in horror. I had never seen my father bleed before and it terrified me. As I helped my father up, Umar violently hit and kicked Talha, who endured his painful blows with dignity.

“Go…go find Hamza…” my father said softly. “He went to Mount Hira…I am too weak…”

Hamza was the Messenger’s uncle, a bear of a man who was the only one of the believers of sufficient strength and stature to challenge the formidable Umar. I raced out of the Sanctuary toward the surrounding hills that led to Mount Hira.

I DESPERATELY CLIMBED THE ROCKY hills in search of Hamza, hoping that I could somehow get him back in time to save Talha’s life. The thought of losing him, the cousin I loved the most, terrified me. Talha was the only one who did not treat me like a baby. He was strong and handsome and charming and always made me laugh. My gossipy friend Rubina thought I had a crush on him and teased me relentlessly that we would marry someday. Once she said this loud enough for him to hear, to my mortification. But Talha did not mock me. Instead he looked at me with a warm smile and said, “It would be an honor of which I am unworthy.”

Oh, poor Talha. There are times that I think I should have left him to die at Umar’s hand. Then he would have been the first martyr and no man would question his honor or place in paradise.

But I was only a child and did not have the gift of prophecy. All I could see was that he would die at that moment unless I could save him. And I, whose name meant life, would not let him die.

I stumbled on the rocks and cut my hand against the edge of a jagged boulder. A streak of blood ran down my palm, but I ignored it and clambered up toward the hilltop.

And then I saw a sight that has been forever burned into my soul. Two men and a woman, emaciated and roasted by the sun, tied to the thorn trees like scarecrows. I recognized them immediately. Sumaya, who was often in my mother’s kitchen, fussing over the proper number of onions to put in the lamb stew. Her quiet, kindhearted husband, Yasir, and their small but stout boy, Ammar.

I stood frozen, my young mind unable to process what I saw.

THIS WAS NOT THE fate Sumaya had wanted for her family when they left their lives as wandering goat herders and sought a more sedentary experience in the city. She had come to Mecca hoping to find a wife for Ammar and steady employment so that her son could build a life for himself and perhaps one day his children. But all they had found was misery.

Sumaya quickly discovered the rule of Mecca that newcomers had no rights unless they secured the protection of a powerful clan. But protection was expensive, and the few goatskins they owned would not suffice. So her family worked like slaves for whoever was willing to offer a few copper coins. Cooking and cleaning were her lot, while her son and husband would tend to the animals of the wealthy or provide help with their hands, laying stone and brick for the expanding mansions of the town’s wealthy lords. Sometimes the pay was good. But if their money was stolen, as it often was, they had no recourse. If their employers beat them and refused to pay after a hard day’s work, they could not protest or raise any objection. Without the protection of a clan, their lives were worth nothing in Mecca, and if they were killed no one would notice, much less raise a sword to avenge them.

And then Sumaya had met the Messenger of God. She had been warned to stay away from his house by the families she cooked and cleaned for. Muhammad was a dangerous sorcerer, they said, and he would place a spell on any who came near. But after a week without food and no one willing to pay for their services, Sumaya, Ammar, and Yasir wandered over to the forbidden quarter of the city where the sorcerer was reputed to live. She had found a small crowd of beggars gathered outside his house, and saw a lovely woman named Khadija handing out fresh meat to the desperate poor. Sumaya had fallen before the noble lady’s feet and begged her for food and work. Muhammad’s wife had brought them inside, and given her family warm soup and shelter for the night.

And then she was brought before the Messenger, heard his gentle words of hope, his teaching that the poor would sit on thrones of gold in Paradise if they renounced false gods and dedicated themselves only to Allah. It was a message that Sumaya and her family had embraced eagerly. And it was their embrace of the message that had now brought them here, tortured and left to die in the wilderness.

SUMAYA’S SON, AMMAR, GAZED at me, his eyes alert and full of pain.

“Aisha…daughter of Abu Bakr…help us…”

For an instant, I forgot all about Talha. I ran toward them and desperately tried to tear apart their bindings with my small hands. His father Yasir was unconscious. Still breathing but weakly.

“Who did this to you?” I asked, unable to keep the horror out of my voice.

“Abu Jahl…”

And then I understood. The Meccan lord who was the most vehement foe of Islam. The monster whose name was told to Muslim children when they were naughty. “Behave, or Abu Jahl will come for you.”