“Now that they have tasted Muslim blood, they will hunger for more.”

Across the room I saw Talha, whose face was bandaged and right arm was cast in a sling of leather, lean toward the man who had belatedly appeared to rescue him.

“So what do you counsel?

Hamza looked across the room at the Messenger.

“Emigrate! We must send the rest of our people to Abyssinia,” he said forcefully.

There was a murmur of assent among the believers. A year before, several of the poorest Muslims had emigrated with the Prophet’s blessing across the western sea to the African nation of Abyssinia. The land was ruled by a wise Christian king called the Negus, who had taken the refugees in and offered them protection. The Meccans had sent Amr ibn al-As, one of their most charming and diplomatic envoys, to the Negus with gold and promises of discounted trade for his people-if he surrendered the Muslims, whom Amr branded as criminals. The Negus had been impressed by the faith and devotion of these Arabs to the God of Abraham and had denied the request. His clemency came despite the grumblings of his Christian priests, who saw the Muslims as troublesome heretics who denied that the prophet Jesus had ever claimed to be divine. The Muslims had been safe for the past year, and Hamza’s suggestion was well received by the believers.

But the Messenger turned his attention to his cousin Ali.

“What do you think?”

The lad was now seventeen years old, but his strange and ethereal personality had not changed from his boyhood. The believers still felt a rush of complex emotions when the Prophet deferred to the youth. They trusted the Messenger but found his singular faith in this dreamy young man to be unusual and hard to understand.

Ali stood up, his eyes looking to an empty corner of the room as if he could see something no one else could.

“I do not advise it. Uthman already has his hands full,” he said, referring to the Messenger’s son-in-law, who had married Muhammad’s ravishing daughter Ruqayya before leading the Muslims across the sea to Abyssinia.

I heard a small cough from across the room and turned to see your father, Zubayr, rise. At the same moment, I felt my sister, Asma, who was sitting to my left, tense with excitement, as she always did when the dashing young man spoke.

“The Negus has treated us kindly. Surely it is worth pursuing for those who have no clan protection,” he said, his voice measured and calm as it always was. He had great influence over the community as a cousin of the Prophet, the son of his aunt Safiya, and as one of the earliest believers.

Ali looked at Zubayr with his intense green eyes and shook his head.

“The Negus is under pressure from his priests to expel the newcomers. So far, he has restrained them. But under the current climate, it would be unwise to send more refugees into that nation. It could make the situation worse for those already established.”

But Zubayr did not give in that easily.

“We must do something. The Quraysh will soon call a counsel against us.”

And then a deep voice resonated from the entry hall and we all whirled in surprise.

“They already have.”

6

A shadow fell across the doorway behind me, and I looked up to see a bent old man with a frosty beard enter slowly, his hands wrapped around an ivory walking stick. Here was Abu Talib, the Messenger’s uncle and father of Ali. He had been like a father to Muhammad, raising him after he was orphaned and standing by his side as the lords of Mecca turned against his new religion. The Prophet rose when he saw him, a sign of his deep love and respect, even though Abu Talib still clung to the way of their ancestors and worshiped the pagan gods. We all followed suit. Ali walked across the room and helped his father step across the black-and-white marble floor until he came to sit by the Messenger and Khadija.

Abu Talib looked frail and his hands shook, but his voice did not waver.

“The leaders of Quraysh are meeting in the House of Assembly to tonight to determine how to deal with your people,” he said with an air of regret. “Son of my brother, please listen to reason,” Abu Talib said to the Prophet. “Once the fire of Quraysh’s wrath is kindled, it will not be quenched. Your followers will all be consumed, as that poor woman was today. If you do not wish to follow our gods, that is your right. But please do not speak out against them anymore. Let the people of Arabia follow their traditions in peace. Despite their misgivings about your beliefs, the Quraysh respect and admire you, and I am sure they will be willing to offer anything you ask-if only you desist from denouncing their gods.”

A silence fell over the crowd of believers. We looked at the Messenger uncertainly, wondering how he would respond to a plea from this beloved old man to compromise with the idolaters.

I saw the Messenger turn to Khadija, who looked him in the eye and nodded firmly. Whatever he decided, she would support him as the Mother of the Believers.

The Prophet looked down for a moment, breathing slowly and deeply. When he finally raised his head, I saw a fire in his eyes that both excited and terrified me. He took Khadija’s hand in his right, and Ali’s in his left.

“By God, even if they place the sun in my right hand and the moon in my left, I will not be dissuaded from my mission.”

That was it, and we all knew it. There would be no compromise, even if the Meccans declared war on the Muslims.

Abu Talib shook his head despairingly.

“But my nephew-”

Khadija interrupted, holding the Prophet’s hand high for all to see that her fingers remain firmly clasped in his.

“You have my husband’s answer, dear uncle. He is Al-Amin, the Truthful, and he can no more hide the truth than the sun can rise in the west. God has commanded him to speak the Truth to Mecca and all mankind, and he will do so, regardless of the schemes of those who spin webs in the shadows.”

Her words stirred my heart and I could see that they had the same effect on the others. One by one, each member of the community, man or woman, adult or child, loudly voiced assent.

Seeing our unity and determination, Abu Talib finally bowed his head, accepting his nephew’s choice. He rose to his feet, gripping his cane as he prepared to leave.

“Then I fear for you. All of you,” he said sadly. “May your God protect you from that which is coming.”

“But what is coming? What is it that they are planning? If we know, we can protect ourselves.” It was the quiet voice of Fatima, the Prophet’s youngest daughter. She was a shy girl, about ten years older than myself, with a perpetually sad face. Unlike her older sisters, who were gregarious and full of life, Fatima was like a ghost who appeared and disappeared wordlessly and was rarely noticed by others. I saw several people start at the unexpected sound of her voice and I realized that I was not alone in wondering when she had entered the room or if she had been there the whole time without anyone noticing.

Abu Talib answered the girl by turning to face his son Ali.

“The doors of the Assembly have been shut to me this night. But I fear the worst.”

Ali put a kind hand on his father’s arm.

“Fear not, my father. God promises us that ‘the righteous will neither fear, nor will they grieve,’” he said, quoting the holy Qur’an.

“I wish I could share your faith, my son,” he said, and I heard real regret in his voice. “But alas, I am old and all I know is that nothing good can come out of secret counsels held by angry men.”

As Ali led his father out of the room, I looked around. There was a hubbub of commotion as the believers argued and debated among themselves as to what to do. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, but it was all speculation. Without knowing what was said in the Hall of Assembly, there would be no way to defend our people against this new threat.