There had been a long silence as the men looked at one another grimly. This would be the last battle. Either the Meccan army would be annihilated in the streets, or the Muslims would be massacred. And if the Muslim men were defeated, the women and children would be hunted down in the neighboring hills and captured or killed. There would be no quarter from the Meccans, not after so many years of bitter conflict. After watching Hind’s cannibalistic barbarism, they shuddered to think what would become of any survivors left in the hands of the enemy.

I heard a nervous cough as a man sitting outside the central circle of the Prophet’s advisers cleared his throat. It was Salman, a Persian who had been a slave to one of the Jews of Bani Qurayza. After he had adopted Islam, the Messenger had purchased his freedom and the foreigner had lived among the Arabs as one of them. Salman was short and thin, with blue eyes and the handsome chiseled features of his race. When he spoke, it was with a lyrical voice that made every word sound as if it had been sung, and his Persian accent was hauntingly beautiful.

“O Messenger of God, is your strategy revealed by God, or is it a matter of personal opinion?”

Umar scowled and turned red.

“How dare you question the Messenger?”

The Prophet placed a hand on his father-in-law’s massive shoulder.

“Gently, Umar,” he said with a patient smile, and then turned his attention to the freedman. “It is a matter of opinion. Do you have another suggestion, Salman?”

Salman hesitated and then moved into the circle of the Messenger’s closest aides. Umar gave him a furious flash of his eyes, but the Persian ignored it. He leaned down to look at the map of the oasis drawn in the upturned earth and ran a delicate finger through his perfectly groomed beard.

Salman took his fingers and clawed out several deep lines on the ground representing the northern face of the city. The lines connected and formed an arc that encircled the vulnerable northern passes where the Meccan army would be best positioned to invade. Salman finished his work and looked up at my husband with a nervous glance.

“In my native land, we would dig a trench around our cities to protect them from siege,” Salman said. “If it pleases God and His Messenger, perhaps a similar strategy would serve in the defense of Medina.”

I looked down over the shoulder of my brother-in-law Zubayr and suddenly understood what the Persian was saying. I was not yet a military strategist-my days as a commander of armies were still many years away-but I could see how a ditch dug at the intervals Salman suggested might work.

The Companions looked at one another in surprise but said nothing, each perhaps afraid to be the first to voice support for this unusual stratagem. And then, finally, Umar spoke, his gruff voice rumbling through the courtyard.

“A trench large enough to hold back an army? I have never heard of such a thing,” he said, with a hint of grudging respect.

My husband looked into Salman’s nervous eyes and smiled warmly, taking the Persian’s hand in his.

“Neither have the Meccans.”

9

The Confederates, as the unified Meccan and Jewish contingents called themselves, crossed waves of blackened sand dunes as they made their final approach to Medina. The size of the army had swelled to ten thousand as disgruntled Bedouins were recruited to join the behemoth as it marched toward the upstart oasis that had thrown the world into disarray

It had been twenty days since the Arab and Jewish forces had joined together in the wilderness and the steady march through the desert for the army had been exhausting. Water skins were running low, and the first sight of the palm trees that lined the southern boundaries of Medina had been welcome. The men had raided the wells on the outskirts of the town and had been surprised to find them utterly undefended. They had rejoiced, seeing their easy capture of the southern passes as a sign from the gods of imminent victory.

But their commander, Khalid ibn al-Waleed, was troubled. He sat upon his mighty black stallion and gazed out across the horizon, past the lava tracts that served as Medina’s natural defensive border to the south. He did not stir, even as Huyayy ibn Akhtab, the leader of the Jewish forces, rode up beside him, beaming.

“Smile, my friend! Victory is upon us.” Huyayy gazed across the dark stones that led to his lost homeland and breathed in the salty oasis air deeply. “Soon my people will reclaim their homes. And your people will regain their honor.”

Khalid turned to face him at last, his eyes burning darkly.

“Where are Muhammad’s advance guards? We are almost to Medina and there has been no sign of even a single horseman.”

The chief of the Bani Nadir shrugged, unwilling to let the dour Arab spoil his jubilant mood.

“He has likely taken refuge inside the city, like my forefathers did at Masada,” Huyayy said, although he disliked comparing the noble warriors of his ancestors with this self-serving impostor and his illiterate fanatics.

But the reference was lost on Khalid, who gave him a blank look.

“They held off the entire Roman army for years,” Huyayy explained proudly. “When the centurions finally breached the walls, they found that all the Jews had killed themselves rather than surrender.”

The chieftain’s eyes gleamed with pride at the memory of the noble sacrifice, the courage of his people in the face of unconquerable odds.

But if the Jew saw honor in this tale, the Arab found it less appealing. Khalid spit on the ground in contempt.

“The Arabs are not suicidal like your ancestors,” he said sharply. “They are nothing if not brave. They will meet us and fight.”

Huyayy bit his tongue before he said something that would wreck their hard-won alliance.

“If these Arabs are so courageous, then where are they?” Huyayy tried to keep the poison out of his voice, but he was not entirely successful.

Khalid shook his head

“That is what concerns me.”

Before Huyayy could respond, shouts echoed from ahead. Khalid roughly spurred his horse and rode past the front lines of the advancing army. Huyayy quickly followed and saw a group of Confederate scouts standing on top of a large lava tract that would give them a view down into the heart of the oasis.

When Huyayy reached the ledge, he felt his heart miss a beat.

A massive trench had been dug across the northern passes into Medina. From where he stood, Huyayy estimated that it was thirty feet wide and perhaps a hundred feet deep. The cavernous ditch wound across the borders of the city to the west until it vanished into the thick jumble of palm trees and rocky hills to the south.

He had never seen anything like it, and he could see no way to traverse this barrier.

As Huyayy’s heart sank, he heard the racing of hooves and saw the Meccan leader Abu Sufyan ride up to join them. The old man breathed in sharply at the sight of this surprising defensive tactic.

“What is this?” Abu Sufyan asked, his voice mixing fury and despair all at once.

And then Huyayy was stunned to hear the sound of deep laughter. He turned to see Khalid’s head thrown back in genuine delight.

“A work of genius,” the general said, without any hint of bitterness.

And then, like a child racing to collect a new toy, Khalid rode down the ash-covered dunes toward the edge of the pit. The Confederate army followed, although the soldiers’ faces were twisted in confusion at the sight of the barrier.

When Huyayy pushed his horse to follow, he saw that the trench was not the only obstacle facing them. The entire Muslim army, numbering perhaps three thousand men, stood on the far side of the ditch, bows pointed at the invading forces, spears held ready to fly across the divide at their adversaries.