CHAPTER 107 - 107: THE WALLS OF DAMASCUS

July 17th, 1180 — Damascus

The city of Damascus, ringed with its ancient Roman walls and shadowed by the Ghouta oasis, shimmered under the summer sun. A haze of heat hung in the air, thick with the scent of dust, citrus groves, and distant fire.

Inside the Citadel, behind stone walls stained by centuries of conflict, the emirs gathered in silence. They stood around a broad marble table strewn with maps, scrolls, and fresh reports—all of them grim.

The silence broke only with the rasping breath of the man seated on a cushioned divan near the window: Salah ad-Din, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, propped up on pillows, pale and gaunt. A linen wrap, yellowed by sweat and herbs, covered the wound under his ribs where a Frankish crossbow bolt had pierced him nearly to the spine.

His physician hovered at the side, applying fresh poultices of honey and myrrh while grinding more feverroot in a brass bowl. But the fever had not yet broken, and Saladin's skin, though cooler, remained pale and clammy.

Across from the sultan, Al-Adil, his brother, clenched his jaw and turned to the assembled commanders.

"So," Al-Adil said, "the Christians now hold every pass through the Anti-Lebanon. From Baalbek south to Maaloula, every road is theirs."

"They took Yabrud three days ago," added Emir Nasr of Hama, tossing a report down on the table. "The garrison tried to hold. It only delayed them by a day."

"And Al-Nabek fell a week before that," said Emir Faisal of Homs, his tone bitter. "The towns offered token resistance. Some surrendered, hoping for clemency. Others were butchered."

"They're cutting our throat slowly," murmured Emir Al-Zahir, Saladin's nephew, his young face drawn. "A noose around Damascus."

"They mean to strike soon," Al-Adil said. "Before we can regroup. Before reinforcements come."

A heavy silence fell. It was broken by Saladin's voice—soft, hoarse, but unmistakably clear.

"They are right to do so," he said.

The emirs turned. Al-Adil went to his brother's side, kneeling beside the couch.

"Brother—"

"Do not speak to me as if I'm dying," Saladin rasped. "Not yet."

He gripped the edge of the couch and forced himself to sit straighter, his face twitching from the pain. Blood had soaked into the linen beneath his ribs. His physician had said it was a miracle he still lived.

But Damascus needed more than miracles now.

"Tell me," he said, looking toward the table. "What remains of our strength?"

Al-Adil nodded to Emir Faisal, who lifted a parchment.

"After Baalbek... we withdrew to Damascus with twelve thousand," he said. "Some eight thousand remain combat-ready. Four thousand are wounded, dispersed, or lost to desertion. Our cavalry—especially the Mamluks—have held. But the foot soldiers are weary. Supplies are thin."

"And Egypt?" Saladin asked, fixing Al-Zahir with a sharp gaze.

The young emir looked away. "Still silent, my Sultan. The Sicilian fleet still hovers off Alexandria and Damietta. The ports are under constant watch. No reinforcements have been sent."

"So we are alone," Saladin murmured.

"Not alone," Al-Adil said. "But isolated."

Saladin closed his eyes. For a moment, the room waited in respectful silence. Only the soft grinding of the physician's pestle broke the stillness.

"They have bled us well," Saladin said at last. "And Baldwin is no fool. He strikes from the hills because he knows we are weakest there. He weakens the ribs before going for the heart."

"What would you have us do?" asked Nasr of Hama.

"If we sally now," said Al-Zahir, "we risk breaking our army on their siege lines. If we wait, Damascus may be surrounded before the harvest."

"Let them come," Saladin said. "Let them climb the hills and peer down from their stolen heights. Let them come to the walls of Damascus. This city has stood for a thousand years. It will not fall in a week."

"But the walls have not been maintained in years," Al-Adil said carefully. "The northern bastions are in poor condition. The water channels—"

"Then we fix them." Saladin's voice grew stronger. "You will conscript every able-bodied man in Damascus. Stonecutters, masons, smiths. I want repairs to the battlements. I want iron gates reinforced, moats deepened. I want the aqueducts guarded and fortified."

"And what of the people?" asked Faisal. "If the Latins approach... and the Christians within the city—"

"They will be watched," Al-Adil said. "We cannot risk a revolt. Not now."

"I will not abandon Damascus," Saladin said. "Even if I must command from this couch."

"You should rest, my Sultan," his physician urged.

"There will be time to rest," Saladin said, "when Baldwin is buried beneath our walls."

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. The physician moved quickly to support him with a cloth. A spot of blood showed at the corner of Saladin's mouth, but he waved them away.

"We will not surrender," Saladin said again, quieter now but firm. "The Sultanate does not kneel."

Al-Adil looked toward the window, where the horizon stretched like a red scar above the mountain ridges.

"The next storm will fall on us soon," he said.

Saladin nodded. "Then let it come. We will show the Franks what it means to attack the beating heart of Islam."