CHAPTER 105 - 105: THE STORM OF BAALBEK

June 24th, 1180 – Afternoon, Baalbek

The breach at Baalbek's eastern gate had widened into a gaping wound by mid-afternoon. Smoke curled upward from shattered towers and burning rooftops, turning the sun into a molten disc above the mountain valley. The eastern quarter of the city, once a maze of narrow alleys and homes, had become a battlefield choked with bodies and blood.

Baldwin IV pressed forward on foot now, walking behind his standard amid a column of knights and sergeants. His mail shirt was darkened with ash and sweat, his sword already bloodied. He had left his horse outside the city walls—there was no room for cavalry in the chaos that now reigned inside.

"Push through to the mosque!" he ordered. "We break their morale if we take the square."

Ahead of him, the sound of battle was deafening—shouting, steel striking steel, cries in Latin and Arabic, and the crackle of fires spreading unchecked. Men fought hand to hand in the alleys. Some of the defenders had withdrawn into fortified homes, hurling stones from balconies and stabbing down with spears. Franks responded by kicking in doors, clearing rooms one by one with axe and sword.

Balian of Ibelin joined Baldwin at the corner of a scorched bathhouse. His helmet was dented, and a streak of blood ran down his cheek.

"The southern postern gate is ours," he reported. "We lost forty men taking it. Resistance there is collapsing, but they're falling back to the central quarter. The garrison's trying to regroup around the mosque."

Baldwin nodded grimly. "Then we cut them off before they can."

To their right, a squad of Hospitallers charged into a courtyard, shields up, spears level. A group of Saracen infantry tried to hold a fountain there, but the Frankish knights crashed into them with brutal efficiency. Men screamed as they were crushed against the walls, some trampled underfoot. Blood flowed through the cracked stones like rainwater.

Above them, an archer let loose from a rooftop and struck a sergeant in the neck. He fell gurgling. Baldwin pointed. "Bring up the bowmen. Flush those rooftops."

Moments later, a dozen Frankish crossbowmen took position at the edge of the square and loosed bolts upward. Arrows struck stone and wood, but several hit flesh. One Saracen toppled from the roof, landing headfirst with a sickening crunch. Another tried to leap between buildings, slipped, and fell screaming into the alley below.

All around, the stench of blood, sweat, and smoke filled the air.

By mid-afternoon, Baldwin's forces controlled roughly a third of the city. The eastern gate, now splintered and burning, was under Frankish control. Siege towers had been left abandoned in the streets, their top decks empty. Everywhere, the fighting had splintered into isolated blocks of resistance. And still the defenders refused to surrender.

"Your Highness," came a voice—Joscelin of Acre, limping and leaning on a sword. "The enemy commander has pulled what remains of his cavalry to the mosque. They're setting up a final redoubt there."

"Then we drive a wedge straight through the main avenue," Baldwin replied. "We split them and roll them up before they can reinforce. If they want to die for the city, we shall oblige them."

He turned to one of his aides. "Bring the siege rams through the breach. We'll batter down the inner gate to the courtyard."

"But sire, it will take time to move them—"

"Then start now."

The order went out. Men and oxen strained to pull a reinforced ram down the ruined street, rolling over broken carts and smoldering corpses. Behind it marched ranks of infantry with shields locked tight, prepared to weather anything the enemy could hurl at them.

Meanwhile, Baldwin led another flanking column through a twisting back alley, hoping to outmaneuver the defenders holding the main road to the mosque. The alley was choked with furniture, barricades, and dead bodies. Twice they came under ambush—once from a spear hidden in a pile of rugs, once from firepots hurled from above. But each time, Baldwin's men cleared the resistance with brutal precision.

Near a butcher's stall, Baldwin paused. A child—a boy no older than ten—stared at him from behind a rain barrel, clutching a broken knife. Baldwin lowered his sword.

"Leave him," he told the soldier beside him. "We came for warriors, not children."

The boy ran off into the smoke.

Minutes later, they emerged into a small square just a hundred yards from the mosque's southern wall. Baldwin signaled. Horns blared. His men surged forward, catching the enemy from the flank.

The Saracens reeled, disoriented and surrounded. Arrows flew in both directions. Shields clanged. One Saracen commander—his helm marked by golden crescents—tried to rally his men, but a Hospitaller knight split him down the middle with a poleaxe.

Within an hour, the final perimeter around the mosque was all that remained.

The siege ram, now positioned at the mosque's southern gate, began its work—slamming into the door with bone-shaking force. Each impact echoed through the broken city.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Defenders on the wall above threw rocks and boiling oil, but the Franks had prepared. The ram's roof was iron-plated and slicked with ash to prevent ignition.

Boom. Boom.

At last, the gate cracked and splintered. With a roar, Frankish infantry poured into the courtyard.

The defenders made their last stand beneath the tall domes and stone colonnades of the great mosque. Knights and emirs fought like madmen, but they were surrounded. No reinforcements would come. No mercy awaited.

It took another hour of desperate, close-quarters fighting, but by sundown, the courtyard was choked with the fallen. Broken banners lay in pools of blood. The clamor of combat gave way to the crackling of fire and the moans of the dying.

Baldwin stood before the mosque's threshold, his sword dripping, his body aching from the day's exertions.

"It is done," Balian said quietly beside him.

Baldwin nodded. He looked at the crescent above the mosque's central dome.

"Tomorrow," he said, "we sanctify it anew."