With that, Ali looked at the Messenger. My husband met his glance and then glanced down at his hands without answering.

Abu Bakr touched the Prophet’s shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was calm and firm.

“For the past fourteen years, we have stood back and responded to every provocation with patience and forbearance,” my father said. “But our restraint has only emboldened the idol worshipers further. They have driven us from our homes. And now they seek to deprive us of our means to live. We do not seek war. But it is upon us.”

The Messenger looked into his friend’s eyes for a long moment. And then he turned to Hamza.

“What say you, Uncle?”

Hamza lifted his heavy bow from across his shoulders and laid it in the Messenger’s lap.

“There is a time for peace. And a time for war.”

When the Prophet said nothing in response, Hamza knelt before him and took his hands in his. “I know that you hate bloodshed. But if we do not stand firm now, the Meccans will see it as weakness. And their armies will be soon be on the doorsteps of Medina. It is time to fight.”

My husband finally rose to his feet.

“I will pray to my Lord for guidance.”

And without another word, the Prophet left the gathering of men and walked back to my apartment, closing the door behind me as I followed him in.

I saw the conflict on his face and it tore my heart in two. Muhammad, may God’s blessings and peace be upon him, was not a violent man. I had never seen him strike anyone, and his anger was rarely voiced and could be read only by the frown on his beautiful face. He told me once that when he was a child, he had been mocked by other boys for refusing to brawl with them in the streets. His gentleness had no place in the harsh desert, where men were taught that cruelty and masculinity were one and the same. Muhammad had lived for over fifty years according to a code of pacifism that was becoming more and more difficult to uphold.

The influx of the refugees had taxed Medina’s resources to the breaking point, and a poor date harvest had only worsened the lot of the newcomers. Food was as valuable as gold, and without more resources, famine would decimate Muhammad’s followers. Men, women, and children who had lost everything because they believed in him. People who had followed him across the desert wastes and were now facing the certitude of a slow and painful death as hunger set in.

Attacking the Meccan caravan and taking its goods would alleviate our immediate desperation, with the added wealth purchasing food and medicines from visiting traders. But it would open us up to retaliation from Mecca. And the Messenger knew that once the drums of war began to pound, their thunder would echo for eternity.

My beloved husband lay down on our lambskin bed, his eyes closed as he pondered what path to take. Do nothing and watch his people die in quiet dignity, the faith of One God stillborn and buried in the sands of hunger and disease. Or unleash the sword and let forth a spring of blood that might one day become a raging flood. There was no easy answer, and I did not envy the choice that was before him.

Not knowing what else to do, I crawled up beside him and put my arms around his chest. I pressed my small breasts against his chest, hoping the nurturing comfort of my budding womanhood would bring him some peace.

I felt him grow still as slumber came upon him. My own eyes were heavy and I began to drift away. As I fell into the strange shadow land of dreams, I could hear the thunder of hooves as Solomon’s horses raged across the earth, and I sensed that they were charging toward war.

3

I awoke in the middle of the night as the Messenger shook violently in his sleep. His face was bathed in sweat, despite the coolness of the hour, and I felt a flash of fear that he had been struck ill by the oasis fever. I shook him with increasing agitation, but he did not respond.

And then, without any warning, his eyes flew open and I could see them shine with the terrifying fire of Revelation. His mouth moved and I could hear that strange Voice that was his and not his emerge from Muhammad’s lips. And he spoke the Words of God that would forever change the course of history.

Fight those who fight you, but do not commit aggression.

Truly God does not love aggressors.

Tears welled in my eyes. The choice had been made, and the simple purity of Islam would now be tinted forever with the crimson hue of blood.

The next morning I stood behind the Messenger with my elderly sister-wife, Sawda, as he announced God’s will to a packed crowd inside the courtyard of the Masjid.

“And behold!” the Messenger said, a sword raised high in his hand for the first time in my memory. “God has revealed these words in his Book:

“And slay them wherever you find them, and turn them out from where they have turned you out, for persecution is worse than killing.

But do not fight them at the Sanctuary

Unless they first attack you there

But if they attack you there, then kill them.

Such is the reward of disbelievers.

But if they cease, God is Forgiving, Merciful.

And fight them until there is no more persecution and worship is only for God.

But if they cease, let there be no hostility except for those who practice oppression.”

I saw the excited looks on the faces of the worshipers, who murmured in delight that Allah had given them permission to fight back against their persecutors. The verses were repeated and passed among them, although I noticed that the words counseling restraint were not mentioned as readily by some believers as those counseling military action.

It was a fact that was noted by Uthman, who shook his head at the fury he saw in the eyes of some of the younger men. Ali, who stood beside him, saw Uthman’s gesture of disgust and looked at him sharply.

“Why do you not rejoice at the commandment of God?”

His voice rang out in the Masjid and suddenly everyone’s attention was on Uthman.

“I rejoice at the words of God, but I sorrow for this Ummah,” the kindhearted man said. “I fear that once blood has been spilled by the believers, it will flow with no end.”

The Messenger met his eyes and I could see the sadness in his glance, as if in his heart my husband feared the same outcome.

But Uthman’s words of gentle reproach were seen by some of the hotheaded youths as treason.

“You are a coward, old man,” said a brown-haired boy who could not have been older than thirteen. “The only blood you are afraid of spilling is your own. May Medina be washed in it one day!”

The youth’s words were met by a stream of laughter from some of the people in the crowd, and a few of the urchin’s friends spit at the helm of Uthman’s rich blue robe. The Prophet’s lovely daughter Ruqayya put her hand protectively on her husband’s arm as the jeering worsened into threatening catcalls. She had been ill for several days with the oasis fever. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale, and dark circles marred the beauty of her eyes. But I saw in the firmness of her jaw her defiance of those who would insult her husband or malign his loyalty.

In the sudden rage of that mob, for the first time in my young life I saw the possibility that Muslims might turn against Muslims. And my stomach was sick with the thought that the bloodlust that had been kindled to defend our community might one day tear it apart. Standing there, my heart pounding in self-righteousness disgust at this rabble, I could never have imagined that I would be the one who was destined to release that dam of death upon on us.

I saw Muhammad’s face grow dark, and he suddenly moved with his lightning speed to stand at Uthman’s side. He took Uthman’s right hand in his and sheathed the sword that he had been bearing moments before. The Messenger raised the red leather scabbard for all to see.