“In any event, Arabia is at a crossroads,” Abu Sufyan said with a heavy sigh. “We have received word that Muhammad is sending envoys to other southern tribes, asking them to join the Yamama against us. If he forges more alliances to the south, our trade routes with Yemen will be compromised. Without food, without trade, Mecca will die.”

His words were meant to silence Amr’s dissent, but the son of al-As was persistent.

“Even without allies in the south, Muhammad is well defended at Medina,” Amr said slowly, as if explaining a complex matter to a child. “We do not have enough men to challenge him.”

His last words were meant to sting, and they did. At best, the Arabs could muster perhaps four or five thousand men. With Muhammad’s new allies, they would be matched on the battlefield. And if Muhammad’s luck prevailed, a match was as good as a defeat for Mecca.

And then Muawiya saw his mother smile. She nodded to one of her servants, a boy of thirteen, who opened a small door that led to an antechamber. A mysterious figure emerged, his face shadowed by a dark cloak.

Muawiya felt the stirrings of alarm. And then the tall man stepped into the middle of the room, standing between Abu Sufyan and Hind, and threw off his hood dramatically.

It was Huyayy ibn Akhtab, the exiled Jew of Medina.

“The sons of Nadir stand with you,” he said in a booming voice.

The room immediately erupted in a tumult of voices, of shock, excitement, disbelief. Muawiya felt the bile in his stomach rising. He was angry at his mother for raising the stakes in this deadly game with Muhammad when the tribes should have been moving toward a treaty. And he was outraged at himself for not having seen this coming, for not having a plan to counter her strategy.

Abu Sufyan raised his hands and shouted over the din.

“Silence! Let us welcome our brother with the dignity of Mecca,” he said, and the crowd immediately went still. Muawiya wondered if his father had been privy to Hind’s scheme to enlist the support of the Jews of Bani Nadir, but the troubled look on his face suggested that he was as surprised by this development as the other tribal chiefs.

Huyayy cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was with a rich fluidity, the naturally seductive tone of an experienced politician.

“My friends, I have lived next to this Muhammad for the past several years,” he said in a measured voice, but his eyes burned with passion. “I have seen his sorcery up close. He claims to be a prophet of my God. But I tell you with certainty that he is a fraud and a liar. He does not even know what is contained in the holy books of Moses, and he contradicts the Word of God with his own fabrications. Such a man is deemed a false prophet in the Torah, worthy of death. And so my brothers in the Bani Nadir stand with you. Together we can wrest Yathrib from the hands of this wizard and restore peace to Arabia.”

His words were met with enthusiastic applause. Muawiya cursed under his breath. Huyayy was a fool who had been outmaneuvered by Muhammad. And now they were expected to follow his guidance to bring Muhammad down? It was madness, but as Muawiya looked around at the hopeful faces of the chieftains, he realized that they were all mad. Old men desperate to hold back the flow of time, they were clinging to the sanctuary of their memories rather than facing the truth of the world as it was today. Hind and Huyayy were playing to their false hopes, and the outcome would be devastating for all of Arabia.

Muawiya looked over at Amr, who shook his head in frustration, as if thinking the same thought. And then a deep voice echoed in the grand chamber, and Muawiya’s head turned.

It was Khalid ibn al-Waleed, the greatest of the Meccan generals and the architect of their sole victory against Muhammad at Uhud.

“Then let us end this once and for all,” he said solemnly. “Let us send against Medina the greatest force ever seen in the sands of Arabia.

If Muhammad is a false prophet, as you say, we will prevail. And if he is victorious, then the heavens will have rendered a judgment that can no longer be gainsaid. In any event, let this be the final battle between us.”

His words were met with shouts of assent from the weary tribal leaders. As the crowd moved in to surround Huyayy, the nobles vying to offer him lodging and hospitality during his stay in Mecca, Muawiya turned and walked out of the Hall in disgust.

He stood outside, gazing up at the clear night sky. The red flame of Mars, al-Mareek, twinkled above him like an angry wasp. It was fitting that the planet of war should rule the heavens tonight. With the Jews and the pagan Arabs united, the bitter skirmishes with Muhammad would now escalate into full-scale war that would tear the peninsula apart. It was not that Muawiya feared war. Conflict was a necessary part of a world where survival itself was a daily battle. What he despised was war conducted under the foolish compulsion of emotion and hubris, the two flags that always led to defeat. A true warrior was dispassionate, saw the battlefield for what it was, not what he wanted it to be. He advanced when the opportunity presented itself and retreated when it was the right thing to do. There was no glory in the reckless death of a warrior. Or of a civilization.

He felt a figure move to his side and glanced over to see Amr. Muawiya nodded to him, and then returned his eye to the stars. Rising across the eastern horizon was the noble star he loved the most-Zuhal, the planet the Romans called Saturn. It was the star of destiny, and the kahina s said it had shone over him at his birth. And so it was that he had been born with a sense of purpose. Muawiya had known that he had been meant to lead his people, to bring these barbaric, illiterate tribes to greatness. But if his mother succeeded in destroying Arabia with her fanatical pursuit of the one man who was bringing it together, then his destiny would be thwarted.

Muawiya realized in that moment that the time had come for a break from his family, his people. The only way he could save them was to distance himself from their madness. Only when they had destroyed themselves could a man like him move in to build something new from the ruins.

“We must make preparations,” he said in a soft voice. Partly to Amr. Partly to himself.

“For victory?” Amr still clung to the false hopes of the masses, even though his diplomatic nature sought conciliation over conquest.

“No.” Muawiya’s voice was sharp. “For defeat.”

Amr stood beside him for a long time before speaking again.

“Khalid has never been beaten in battle,” he said softly, as if trying to convince himself that there was still some hope for the survival of the world he knew.

Muawiya turned to face him, his eagle eyes piercing the other man’s soul.

“Khalid has never been defeated against men. But we are fighting something greater than any man.”

Amr breathed in sharply, surprise lighting his eyes.

“This invisible God?”

Muawiya smiled.

“History. I have read enough of the tales of the past to see when the end of an era is coming. My father is wedded to a dying way. We must be the vanguards of the future. If Mecca is defeated, as I believe it will be, we must secure for its leaders a role in the new order.”

Amr bowed his head, realizing the truth of Muawiya’s words. The end was coming and they needed to prepare.

“What do you propose?”

Muawiya thought for a moment, letting the quick mind he had inherited from his mother spin its threads. And then he realized that the answer was closer to home than he had expected.

“Muhammad is making alliances through marriage,” Muawiya said, his voice rising in excitement. “My sister Ramla is one of his followers, living in exile in Abyssinia. If she marries Muhammad, then the clan of Umayya may yet survive what is coming.”