CHAPTER 117: CHAPTER 117 – SIEGE OF DAMASCUS 7

Damascus – August 7th, 1180 (Midday)

The streets beyond the Hammam Gate square had become rivers of dust, blood, and shouted commands.

Saracen resistance, once rigid and disciplined, now fractured under pressure. Baldwin’s infantry pushed methodically forward, house by house, alley by alley. The banner of Jerusalem—white cross on a crimson field—was raised over rooftop after rooftop. Templar and Hospitaller footmen cleared barricades and sniped rooftop archers with crossbows. Teams of sappers tore down gates and reinforced captured buildings for staging areas.

The resistance didn’t collapse all at once. But with every hour, it shrank.

By noon, the Franks held nearly half the eastern city. Muslim forces—led by the wounded remnants of Taqi ad-Din’s guard and a cadre of city militia—had fallen back in tight formations toward the massive bulk of the Citadel of Damascus. That ancient fortress—stone-walled, towered, and well-provisioned—stood like a lion at bay. It loomed over the nearby districts as if daring the invaders to try and tame it.

A curtain wall separated the remaining Muslim soldiers from the rest of the burning city. Portcullises were drawn. Inner gates barred. Boiling oil prepared. Even in retreat, they remained dangerous.

But now they were caged.

The Final Push

"Shields high!" came the cry from a Frankish sergeant as his men advanced down the Street of Caravans.

Arrows whistled overhead from the citadel towers. Franks ducked behind carts and barricades. Siege ladders were raised near the outermost walls of the fortress, but Baldwin had not yet given the order to storm.

He didn’t have to. Not yet.

A thin layer of smoke and dust veiled the rooftops as the sun beat down on Damascus. From the shade of an abandoned merchant courtyard just one block east of the citadel gates, Baldwin IV removed his helm. His face was streaked with sweat, grime, and flecks of dried blood. His violet eyes—unnaturally clear and cold—watched the stone bulk of the citadel with a hawk’s patience.

"We’ve driven them in," said Balian of Ibelin, arriving with Templar commanders. "The square is secured. The Saracens hold only the fortress itself now. They’ve barred every gate and withdrawn their wounded."

"And Saladin?" Baldwin asked.

"Still not seen," said Balian. "Rumors abound. His nephew Taqi ad-Din was wounded. No sign of the sultan himself. Some claim he’s already fled the city."

Baldwin didn’t reply. He looked toward the towers and spires beyond the curtain wall. A fresh banner had been raised there—green with a black sword.

They weren’t giving up easily.

He turned to the commanders now assembled in the courtyard. Raymond of Sidon, Hugh of Jaffa, Godfrey of Toron, and the Grand Masters of both the Templars and Hospitallers stood at attention. Men of different lands and ambitions, united now by fire and victory.

"They will not come out unless they believe it benefits them," Baldwin said slowly. "We have the city. The streets. The supply lines. They have only starvation and death."

"And time," said Hugh, "is ours."

"We can storm the fortress," Baldwin said quietly, "but the cost will be great. Many brave men will fall before this ends. We have already paid dearly for every inch of this city."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

"There is another way."

Balian of Ibelin exchanged a glance with Richard but said nothing.

"We offer terms. Safe passage for Saladin and his remaining forces to Egypt. In return, they surrender the citadel peacefully—no more bloodshed, no further destruction."

Richard frowned. "And you trust they will honor such terms?"

Baldwin’s eyes were steady. "We must extend that trust, for the sake of the lives still before us. But there is more."

He unfurled a parchment on the table, marking the lands they had conquered. "If Saladin accepts, he must also acknowledge that Syria—these lands—belong now to the Kingdom of Jerusalem."

"Also, a peace treaty, to hold for five years. Five years to rebuild, to secure our borders, and to bring stability to this fractured land."

A murmur rose among the lords.

Balian nodded slowly. "A chance to consolidate our gains."

Hugh added, "Five years of peace could save countless lives on both sides."

Baldwin folded his hands. "The war is far from over, but we must choose when to strike and when to hold. If they agree to these terms, we spare our men and forge a future more certain than endless fighting."

Richard finally spoke, his voice low. "If they refuse?"

"Then we finish the siege," Baldwin said without hesitation. "But I pray they choose wisely."

White Flag

By mid-afternoon, a white banner was raised on a pike just outside the citadel’s eastern gate, visible from both the Franks’ siege lines and the Saracens’ ramparts.

An hour later, the citadel signaled a response—a smaller white pennant fluttered from a tower parapet. A narrow door in the outer wall creaked open, and two Saracen emirs emerged under armed guard. Their faces were tired, sweat-soaked and stained with dust, but their armor remained polished and their backs straight.

They were escorted to the courtyard where Baldwin awaited them under a makeshift pavilion of crimson cloth.

The king rose to meet them, his posture regal despite the wear of the campaign. He wore a silver circlet rather than a crown and bore no gaudy jewels—only his battered chainmail, sweat-darkened blue cloak, his silver mask and the polished hilt of his sword.

The taller of the two Saracens bowed slightly.

"Assalamu alaikum, I am Emir Khalil ibn Munqidh, speaking on behalf of Taqi ad-Din and the citadel’s defenders. We speak under the laws of war and peace."

Baldwin nodded. "Peace be upon you. I speak on behalf of the Kingdom of Jerusalem and the host which now holds your city."

No threats. No boasts. Only truth.

"You are surrounded," Baldwin continued. "Every street, every quarter, from the Hammam Gate to the Market Lane is in our hands. Your wounded have no surgeons, your food stores cannot outlast us. Your men will die behind those walls—for nothing."

Khalil did not flinch. "We do not fear death."

"Nor do I," Baldwin said evenly. "But I do not ask for your death. I offer you life. Lay down arms. Leave the citadel in peace. We will accept ransom for your officers, and the treasury stays. Your men will be allowed to go south—to Egypt—unharmed and under escort. The civilians will not be harmed."

He paused.

"These terms we offer in hope of sparing lives. But there are two conditions: The first is that lands of Syria, including Damascus, must now belong to the Kingdom of Jerusalem."

"The second condition is a Peace treaty of 5 years must be signed by Saladin. No raids, no attacks, true peace for 5 years."

"Or we can do this the hard way. And you know as well as I do what happens when a citadel is taken by storm."

There was a long silence.

At last, Khalil said, "We will take your offer to our commanders. You will have our reply by nightfall."

They turned and were escorted out in silence.