CHAPTER 111: CHAPTER 111: SIEGE OF DAMASCUS

Damascus – July 22, 1180

Baldwin IV’s Camp, Outside the Eastern Walls of Damascus

The morning sun had scarcely climbed over the jagged hills when Baldwin stepped out from his pavilion, the crisp mountain air heavy with silence. Before him lay the vast plain leading to the eastern walls of Damascus—a city of white stone and green groves, now girded for war. The towers and ramparts glittered in the sunlight like a holy city, but behind those serene walls, he knew, bristled soldiers ready to kill.

Baldwin leaned on his staff, wrapped in black velvet, his gloved right hand tight on the handle. The pain in his legs had returned, a deep ache from days on the move, but he did not let it show. His face was pale, and under his golden crown, sweat glistened on his brow. Behind him stood Balian d’Ibelin, Raymond of Tiberias, and Guy de Lusignan, awaiting orders.

"Are the engines in place?" Baldwin asked, his voice calm, level.

"They are, Your Majesty," Balian said. "Four trebuchets on the eastern ridge. Mangonels and bolt-throwers being pulled into position below the olive terraces. Engineers say they’ll begin the bombardment by midday."

Baldwin nodded. "Then we begin today. Send word to the other divisions. I want the northern heights to harass the walls and draw defenders that way."

Raymond stepped forward, a rolled map in hand. "If we hit them hard enough on the eastern wall, we might crack one of the outer towers by the week’s end. But these walls are thick and well maintained—Hellenistic foundations, Saracen masonry on top."

"They’ll hold unless we apply steady pressure," Baldwin said, eyeing the city as if peering into its soul. "Then one night, they will crack like ice underfoot."

The king’s gaze swept across his army—a host of nearly 27,000 men arrayed in encampments and forward lines. The flags of Jerusalem, Tripoli, and Antioch fluttered together for the first time in decades. Infantry companies carried bundles of logs and stone, digging trenches and creating forward platforms for the war machines.

A Hospitaller knight rode up, his armor dusty and dented. "Sire, the Archbishop has finished the blessing of the siege engines. Shall we proceed?"

Baldwin nodded once. "Let the hammers fall."

Midday – Siege Lines

The first stone arced into the sky just after noon—a great boulder hurled by the largest trebuchet, named Saint Catherine’s Fury. It slammed into the wall below the eastern gate with a thunderous crack, breaking off a chunk of plaster and shaking the ramparts.

Cheers rose from the Franks.

Then came a chorus of other engines: mangonels flinging smaller stones, ballistae launching great iron bolts that zipped through the air with shrieking force. Engineers worked in teams, swearing and shouting commands as they loaded and fired the machines in tight cycles.

The eastern wall shuddered under the constant barrage. Clouds of white dust rose with each impact. Archers moved forward in staggered formations, loosing volleys at the crenellations to suppress Saracen crossbowmen returning fire from the walls.

Behind the lines, Baldwin sat beneath a canopy, shielded from the sun. His face was pale, his skin more blotched than usual, but his eyes remained fixed on the city like a hawk.

"Reports?" he asked, as Raymond approached.

"The gatehouse is absorbing most of the impacts, but the lower tower near the aqueduct took two direct hits. No breach yet, but it’s weakening. The engineers say another two days at this rate and we’ll see a crack."

"Good. Keep the rhythm. No gaps, no delays," Baldwin said.

A squire arrived with fresh water, and Baldwin sipped slowly. "Have we seen any sign of sorties from within?"

"None yet, but they’ve concentrated archers along the inner wall. They may be preparing a night attack to destroy the engines."

"Double the pickets at dusk. I’ll not lose our machines to fire. And send word to the smiths—if the Saracens try anything tonight, I want caltrops and tar ready."

He turned back toward Damascus. Smoke now hung above parts of the wall—dust, and something else, he thought. They were feeling the weight of steel.

Inside Damascus – Same Day

Citadel of Damascus

The thick stone walls of the citadel remained cool despite the heat outside. Saladin lay atop silk cushions, half-reclining on a cedar cot. His left hand rested weakly on his stomach, where the wound from the crossbow bolt still throbbed beneath heavy bandages. His skin was clammy. Every few minutes, a servant would press a damp cloth to his forehead.

The chamber smelled of myrrh and cloves, but beneath it lurked the sharp stench of fever.

A small group of emirs had gathered near the arched windows—Taqi ad-Din, Al-Muzaffar, and Emir Lu’lu’. Their faces were drawn, their eyes bloodshot.

"The bombardment has begun," Taqi ad-Din said grimly, his hand resting on his curved sword. "They’ve placed engines along the entire eastern approach. The northern wall is still clear of major fire."

Al-Muzaffar added, "The damage is growing. A tower near the aqueduct is buckling. We may lose part of the outer defenses in days."

Saladin’s lips parted. His voice was a hoarse whisper. "And our reply?"

"Crossbowmen fire back where they can, but their range is too great. We lack siege engines of equal power," Taqi ad-Din admitted. "Most of ours were lost at Aleppo or destroyed outside Homs."

"We have men," Lu’lu’ said. "If we launch a sortie at night, we might burn one of the trebuchets."

Saladin closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. "Do it. But only if you are certain the Christians have no traps laid. Baldwin... he is not one to leave his engines unguarded."

Al-Muzaffar lowered his voice. "We have 12,000 men inside the city— Morale is uncertain. Many remember Aleppo. Some think the city will fall."

Saladin’s eyes opened again. "Then remind them who they serve. Put fear into the looters and the weak. If they abandon us, Damascus falls—and with it, all Syria."

A physician entered the chamber and bent low beside the sultan. He unwrapped part of the bandage and sniffed the wound.

"The swelling remains," he murmured. "But it has not worsened. That is something."

Saladin clenched his jaw. "It is not enough."

He motioned for a guard. "Send my seal to Cairo. Inform my brother al-Adil that unless Egypt acts, Damascus may fall. If the Sicilian fleet still menaces the ports, then let him prepare a diversion in the south."

The guard bowed and departed.

Saladin turned his head to the window. The stone trembled faintly beneath his arm. A deep rumble echoed in the distance—the Franks were firing again.

"Baldwin," he muttered. "You have come far... but Damascus will not fall in a day."

Late Afternoon

Smoke drifted over the eastern towers as the bombardment continued into the evening. Flaming bolts had been launched from the lighter catapults, arcing overhead like comets and slamming into the inner courtyards. A granary near the southern wall caught fire briefly before the Saracens extinguished it.

Inside the Frankish camp, the engineers paused only to change crews and keep the siege engines running. Archers slept in shifts. Pickets stood at every rise. Sappers began digging zig-zag trenches toward the walls, laying the groundwork for covered approaches in the days ahead.

Baldwin remained in his command tent late into the night, listening to the rhythm of the bombardment like a war drum.