And then, without further ceremony, the warriors of Mecca charged.

This time no cloud of dust arose to block my view of the battle, nor did I witness any ghostly riders come to our aid. What I saw beneath me was raw and brutal and would forever haunt my memory.

The Meccans flew at our men with unbridled savagery. Their swords flashed red as the sun reflected off the volcanic rock and soon the ancient stones were splattered with a darker shade of crimson. The clash of blades against shields was deafening, as if a thousand bolts of lightning had struck at the base of Uhud, the thunder reverberating with such painful force that I covered my ears with tightly clenched fists.

Wave upon wave, they came upon us like an ocean of metal racing to flood the valley with death. And yet the Muslims held their ground. We had the protection of the mountain, and even as our front lines held up their shields to the unrelenting onslaught, those behind them rained spears and arrows upon the attackers.

I heard screams everywhere-the cries of pain and triumph, as well as the whimpers of the dying. To my surprise, many of the mortally wounded who had only moments before fought with such animal ferocity now became like little children, crying out for their mothers as the horror of death came upon them. It was that desperate weeping that shocked me more than anything else I witnessed that day, and suddenly the curtain of glory was stripped away and war was presented in it naked ugliness. As the smell of gore and entrails wafted up to me, I looked away, trying to hide the tears that were welling in my eyes. Tears for an enemy that would have no qualm slicing my body to shreds should any escape death and penetrate our defenses. It made no sense and I felt shame and disgust and horror all at once.

Despite my best efforts to hide my conflicted feelings, the Messenger saw the grief on my face and nodded. He understood.

I forced myself to look, to watch this deadly massacre that was unfolding only fifty feet away from me. I saw Hamza tear through the front lines, his ostrich feather splattered with grime and human remains as he cut down men with the ease of a farmer using a sickle on shafts of grain.

And then suddenly the Muslim defense became an offense. With Hamza in the lead, our warriors began to push through, forcing the Meccans to give ground and tumble back toward their camp in disarray. The reversal of momentum only increased the courage of our forces and the confusion of the enemy, and suddenly the Muslims were streaming across the battlefield and the Meccans desperately seeking to stave off our advance. I heard cries of joy as the stalemate broke and the advantage went to the followers of Muhammad. Despite my own complicated feelings at the sight of the dreadful slaughter, I called out to the warriors, even as Hind had encouraged her own men to fight.

“Victory is within your grasp, my sons!” I cried out, unsure and uncaring whether they could hear me over the din of battle. As a twelve-year-old girl, I always felt awkward referring to grown men as my children. But it somehow felt right at this moment. I saw Talha look down at me and wink, and I flashed him a smile that made color rise to his cheeks.

And then I felt the Messenger stiffen. I thought perhaps I had done wrong by calling out to the troops as Hind had done, but when I looked at my husband, I saw that he was paying no attention to me. His eyes were on the battlefield as the Muslims advanced near the Meccan camp at the other end of the valley.

I strained my eyes to see the source of his consternation. As the armies battled like raging ants below, I saw one figure who stood out distinctly in the chaos. Tall, black, and unarmored, he moved like a bird, flitting through the madness without engaging in combat. It was the slave Wahsi, whom Bilal had sorrowed over, and I saw that he was unarmed except for a long javelin that he held like a third arm.

Down on the battlefield, Hamza was striking down his opponents like a living tornado. He struck off the head of one unlucky warrior and then spun and sliced off the arm of a second, who had tried to stab him from behind. Wherever Hamza went, howls of pain erupted and were quickly silenced.

And then the Prophet’s uncle stopped in the middle of a swing of his blade, his head raised as if he had heard something distinct in the midst of that horrible cacophony. He suddenly turned to his left and the jumble of warriors all around him parted for an instant, like the waters under the staff of Moses. And across that gap, less than thirty feet away, stood Wahsi.

And then Wahsi threw his javelin, which flew across the plain faster than my eye could see. In one instant, it was in the black slave’s powerful grasp. And then a moment later, I saw it tear through Hamza’s abdomen and explode out through the small of his back.

I heard the Messenger sob next to me, but I could not look at him. I was transfixed at the sight of this mighty warrior, standing with absolute dignity as a river of blood poured out of his wound. And then this mountain of a man fell, and my heart crumpled with him.

A shocked silence seemed to descend over the battlefield as soldiers on both sides stared at Hamza’s corpse. And then I heard something that made my blood chill. It was the terrifying laughter of Hind and it seemed to echo from every stone in the valley.

But it was laughter that was cut short. For the sight of their commander dead on the field only filled the Muslims with fury. And then, as if Hamza in death had given a share of his lion’s heart to each man present, the Muslims charged with renewed passion. There was a frenzy in them that was terrifying. The Meccan forces were unable to defend against this rage and I saw the front lines of our advance break through until the Muslims were swarming the heart of the Meccan camp, dealing out death like children swatting flies.

“Retreat!” Abu Sufyan’s despairing and humiliated cry rang out through the valley even as Hind’s bloodlust had echoed only minutes before. I saw the Meccan shields shatter and the mighty warriors flee for the security of a mountain pass that would facilitate their escape.

I looked at the Messenger, whose cheeks were stained with tears. Hamza had been his uncle, but they were of similar age and their bond had always been more like that of brothers. Hamza had helped fill the heart of a boy whose mother and father had left him an orphan without any other siblings. I took my husband’s hand and squeezed it, and he nodded gratefully.

The Muslims had won the Battle of Uhud even as they had won Badr. But each time there was a terrible price for Muhammad personally, the price of blood that God exacted on him and his family. First Ruqayya and now Hamza. For a man who hated fighting, whose message had always been one of peace, it was as if the cosmos were seeking to ensure that his heart would never become hard to the horror of warfare. Many kings thought of their soldiers as expendable, their deaths on the battlefield no more meaningful than a hill of ants crushed by a passing chariot wheel. But for the Messenger of God, war would always be personal, and the cost would have to be borne by those he loved the most.

Still, the victory was a remarkable one, which made Badr look like a small skirmish. Now the legend of the Muslims would spread throughout the desert and more tribes would join us in alliance. A victory of this magnitude would change the history of Arabia forever. And perhaps it would not be long before the Muslims would lay siege to Mecca and liberate the Sanctuary. And then the war would end and all Arabia would become Muslim.

I tried to think like a man, forcing my reason to subdue my raging grief. I told myself that it was a victory that was worth the terrible cost. But that same day I learned that victory should not be counted until the last man has fled the battlefield.