CHAPTER 62 - 62: RUMORS ON THE WIND

Date: February 4th, 1180Location: Damascus

The wind carried dust through the narrow alleys of Damascus, but within the stone walls of the Citadel, it was not dust that stirred—it was unease.

Salāh ad-Dīn Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb, known in the West as Saladin, sat in council beneath a domed ceiling of calligraphy and shadow. Before him lay maps, sealed letters, and scribbled reports—none offering comfort.

"Another ship docked in Acre last week. Frankish flags. More men unloading." The voice came from Ibn Shihnah, his governor in Hama, recently recalled to serve as courier and informant.

Saladin did not answer at once. His fingers curled against the cedar armrest of his carved chair. He had long since grown weary of reports that said everything and nothing.

"How many?" he asked finally, voice low.

"Unclear, my lord. Some say hundreds. Others, thousands. There are rumors of companies landing in Tyre and Jaffa as well. Knights from England, France, and Burgundy."

"And what of Baldwin?" Saladin's voice turned cold. "Does he still send envoys begging for defense?"

Ibn Shihnah hesitated. "No, my lord. There have been no embassies to Cairo or Aleppo in months. But trade caravans have been blocked or turned around. Spies say the roads are full of supply wagons heading north from Jerusalem, and troops drilling outside Acre's walls."

Saladin rose from his seat and walked toward the open window, where he could see the sprawl of Damascus stretching out into the plain. The horizon was clear—but only in the distance. What lay beyond, he now feared, was no longer hidden.

"They are preparing," he muttered. "Not to defend. To strike."

Rumors Become Warnings

Another courier arrived by mid-morning, this one from Beirut—his robes still caked in mud from days of hard riding.

"My lord," he said, bowing low. "A new force arrived under the banner of the Duke of Swabia. I counted five ships unloading cavalry."

"And the local lords—do they stir?" Saladin asked.

"The Franks? They are silent. Obedient. But it is said that Baldwin issued a proclamation from the Sepulchre. That he will lead a war. A new one. Not to survive—but to conquer."

Saladin's jaw tensed. "He is sick. His skin rots in the sun. And yet he dreams of war?"

"It is said he no longer shows his face, my lord. That he always wears his silver mask across it."

Another rumor. Another symbol. And yet, there was something different this time—an energy to the reports, a consistency to the pattern. The Christian ports were filling with soldiers. The silence from Baldwin's court, the swift disappearance of envoys—all of it hinted at the unthinkable:

They were not afraid. They were preparing.

Fractures Within the Crescent

As the morning passed into afternoon, Saladin gathered his closest commanders—his nephew Al-Afdal, the loyal emir Shams ad-Din from Baalbek, and others from Homs and Aleppo.

But not all were present.

"My lord," Shams ad-Din said as he bowed, "Emir Isa of Hama declines to join us again. He claims his lands are too vulnerable to leave."

"And Emir Hassan of Aleppo?" Saladin asked, already knowing the answer.

"He sends word... that he does not believe the Franks will dare anything more than a raid. He will not be goaded into moving his men."

Saladin closed his eyes for a moment, controlling the rising fire in his chest. These men had stood beside him through rebellions, against Nur al-Din's former allies, and during his consolidation of Syria. But now, with the first true foreign war approaching, they pulled back.

"They are hedging their power," Al-Afdal said quietly. "They fear committing men to your banner if it weakens them at home."

"They fear losing their seats," Saladin said bitterly. "More than they fear the cross."

Preparations Begin—But Too Slowly

That night, Saladin wrote three letters. One to his brother al-Adil in Egypt, ordering the movement of garrisons toward Cairo and the northern ports. One to Mosul, requesting reinforcements from the Zengids, though he doubted they would come quickly. And one to Aleppo—a threat barely disguised as a plea.

He then convened the commanders who remained loyal.

"We must act before they gather entirely," he told them. "Before they can strike into Syria. If they control the Beka'a Valley, they will divide our lands and push straight to Damascus."

"But if we move now, with too few men," said Shams ad-Din, "we risk defeat before the war begins."

"Then we do both," Saladin decided. "Call the levies in Damascus. Have Cairo send ships and coin. And send riders to every emir who hesitates—let them know that unity is not optional."

"What of Egypt?" asked Al-Afdal.

Saladin exhaled slowly. "We guard it. But I believe their eyes are elsewhere—for now."

He didn't know it yet, but Sicilian ships had already begun to leave Palermo's harbors, sails unfurling under the dark of night.

Shadows Over Damascus

In the quiet of the night, Saladin walked the halls of the citadel alone. Outside, a soft rain began to fall. He looked again at the map laid upon the table in his chamber—Jerusalem, Tyre, Acre, Antioch. The ports of Egypt. The deserts of the Beqaa.

He had played the long game for years—uniting Syria, protecting Egypt, surviving Crusaders and rebels alike. But now, the next storm came not in scattered waves—but as a tide. One unified, deadly tide.

The cross was gathering. The West had stirred. And if he did not act swiftly, it would be his cities that burned.

From the shadows, his servant approached. "My lord. More messages from Cairo and Aleppo."

Saladin turned. His face, usually calm, now carried something rarer—uncertainty.

"Bring them," he said. "And summon the scribes. The war has begun, even if no swords have yet clashed."