CHAPTER 101 - 101: THE TEETH OF THE MOUNTAIN

June 17, 1180 — Foothills East of Baalbek

The sun had not yet crested the jagged ridgeline when Baldwin rode to the forward slope, dismounting where his scouts had marked the shepherd's path in the night. The sharp scent of pine and sweat hung heavy in the morning air. Behind him, the Frankish army—nearly twenty-nine thousand strong—waited in tightly ordered silence, the clash of arms and clink of armor muffled by discipline and tension. Far ahead, the Saracen vanguard was beginning to stir on the opposite side of the narrow mountain pass.

Baldwin knelt and studied the rough ground. The path wound up steeply through thorn and rock, too narrow for cavalry, but just wide enough for three men abreast. According to the shepherd who'd been brought to him at dawn, the path connected with the rear slopes of the ridge where the Saracens had begun entrenching, believing they would control the high ground. That assumption, Baldwin intended to shatter.

Balian of Ibelin joined him, breathing hard from the climb.

"The men are ready," Balian said. "The flanking party waits just below. Five hundred picked footmen, crossbowmen, and two Hundred Hospitallers on foot."

"They'll need to move fast," Baldwin said. "We must draw their eyes to the center. Make them believe we're mad enough to storm the pass from the front."

He turned and signaled to his standard bearer, who raised the royal banner of Jerusalem. Across the valley, the Saracen lines bristled like a hedge of iron, thousands of spears glittering in the pale light. They were not yet in full formation—only their forward units were visible—but Baldwin knew their army had camped deeper in the slope's forests.

He mounted again, pain slicing through his joints. The leprosy was quiet today—no new lesions, but the stiffness remained. He could still hold a sword, but not for long. The fatigue was deeper now, constant like a fever.

"Ride with me," he told Balian. "We'll begin the feint."

Below, the Frankish center—led by Raymond of Oultrejordain—began its slow, deliberate advance toward the narrowest part of the pass, drums sounding from the rear to make their numbers seem larger than they were. Knights marched on foot, shields interlocked, their bannered lances left behind to suggest hesitation or lack of readiness.

On the Saracen ridge, a shout rang out. Movement swept the slope—men scrambling to ready positions. Saracen cavalry, the fastest to respond, wheeled in wide arcs behind the infantry, keeping their distance.

"They're watching the center," Balian said. "They don't see the flankers yet."

"Good," Baldwin said. "Keep the center moving—slowly. If we press too hard, they'll collapse back and reinforce their flanks."

From the far left, the first group of Franks broke from cover. The shepherd's path was unforgiving—loose stone, sudden drops—but the men advanced with quiet determination. Baldwin had chosen them for speed and silence. The crossbowmen climbed first, bows slung across their backs, followed by men-at-arms and a few Templars who volunteered to fight on foot.

"Send word to the trebuchets," Baldwin said to a rider. "Begin lobbing shots at their center. Nothing too heavy—just enough to keep their attention fixed."

By midmorning, the deception had begun to bear fruit. From the ridge, Saracen banners shifted toward the center. A line of cavalry moved up to reinforce the forward infantry, dust rising behind them in clouds. They believed the Franks were preparing a headlong assault through the pass—a risky move under any circumstances, and suicide without control of the high ground.

Just as planned.

Baldwin dismounted and knelt to pray. Balian knelt beside him, silent. Then, far above them on the left, a sharp horn split the air.

It had begun.

The crossbowmen crested the rear ridge behind the Saracen positions, and within moments, volleys began raining down on their rear guard. Confusion erupted on the slopes as arrows and bolts tore into exposed backs and flanks. Saracen shouts of warning echoed across the valley, but the slope was steep, and response time slow.

Then the Hospitallers charged.

They came roaring down the narrow ridge path, shields raised, swords drawn, slamming into the back ranks of the Saracen position like an avalanche. Their timing was perfect. From the front, the Saracens were fully engaged with Raymond's slow advance. From behind, chaos bloomed like fire in dry straw.

"Send in the second wave!" Baldwin shouted.

Drums thundered. The center picked up pace, shields raised high. Saracen arrows began to fall, but the Franks moved now with purpose, confident. Balian spurred ahead, leading the reserve troops up the slope toward the right, intending to pin the Saracen force between the flanking attack and the press of Baldwin's center.

Atop the ridge, Saracen banners began to fall. Men threw down spears and ran. Others tried to hold—Turcoman archers turning, loosing hasty volleys uphill—but the Hospitallers and Frankish infantry pressed the advantage.

From the Saracen rear, a new banner appeared—green and gold. A commander was rallying a detachment for counterattack, but they were too late. The high ground was already in Frankish hands.

Baldwin drove his horse up the incline, weaving through broken stone and corpses. He passed a wounded man—one of his own, clutching a bleeding leg—then another, a Saracen missing half his face. The ridge ran red with blood and dust.

From the crest, the full battlefield spread before him.

The pass below was choked with retreating Saracens. Some formations still held—tight knots of disciplined veterans—but they were surrounded on three sides. Frankish banners rose across the heights, and the trebuchets continued hurling shots into the clustered Saracen center.

He saw Balian's banner rise to the far right, signaling success. The Saracens were breaking.

Baldwin raised his sword and pointed downhill. "Push them! Drive them from the field!"

Raymond of Oultrejordain's men let out a roar and surged forward. Knights on foot smashed into wavering Saracen lines, supported now by light cavalry streaming up the slope from the rear. The path was theirs. The ridge was theirs. The pass—once the key to Baalbek—belonged to Jerusalem.

Below, the Saracen survivors began fleeing in groups, abandoning the field entirely. Some tried to regroup farther down the valley, but they were cut down or scattered by Frankish pursuit.

It was a rout.

By midafternoon, the field lay silent.

Baldwin stood atop the ridge, watching his men sweep through the Saracen camps. Supplies were taken, wounded gathered, banners torn from poles. The shepherd who had shown him the path now stood beside him, wide-eyed, clutching a silver coin Baldwin had given him.

"You just changed the war," Baldwin said quietly.

The man nodded, not understanding the words, but sensing the gravity.

Balian joined him again, his armor dented and dust-covered.

"We lost perhaps three hundred men," he said. "Maybe more in the center. The Hospitallers suffered less than I expected. They caught the enemy completely by surprise."

"Then we've done it," Baldwin said. "The road to Baalbek is open."

"And the morale of Saladin's army just collapsed."

They rode down together, passing prisoners who knelt along the slope, hands bound. Some were wounded, others shell-shocked, too dazed to even speak.

As the sun dipped behind the hills, Baldwin issued his final orders.

"Send word to Baalbek. Tell them they have one chance to surrender before we come for their walls."