CHAPTER 71 - 71 — THE PRESSURE MOUNTS

Damascus – March 15th, 1180

The wind howled outside the palace walls, carrying the chill of a late winter still reluctant to loosen its grip on Damascus. Inside, however, the air was thick with heat—not from hearths, but from voices raised in alarm, the rustle of parchment maps, and the nervous pacing of commanders and advisors. Saladin sat on the marble dais, his face drawn and pale under the flickering torchlight. Missives had arrived in the night—too many, too close together, each more dire than the last.

The raids were not isolated. The Christian fleet from Sicily had struck Damietta and Rosetta in quick succession—pillaging markets, killing garrisons, setting fires to key infrastructure. Now came word that Alexandria, one of Egypt's greatest ports, had been attacked.

Not harassed. Not skirmished. Attacked.

And sacked.

"Their warships landed without resistance," muttered Qadi al-Fadil, Saladin's chief secretary, reading from a torn and bloodstained letter. "The garrison was overwhelmed. The docks were set to flame. They looted the treasury building, the merchant quarter, even the mosque..."

The court chamber buzzed like an angry hive. General Taqi al-Din, Saladin's nephew and closest military advisor, slammed his palm down onto the table where maps of Egypt lay spread.

"This cannot continue!" he growled. "If Alexandria is lost, what port is next? Pelusium? Fustat itself? They are cutting the heart out of Egypt's trade and humiliating our rule!"

"I warned that this crusade would not be like the last," said al-Adil, Saladin's brother, voice tight with worry. "But this is not the crusade. This is something else entirely. A prelude. A storm to break our balance."

Another scroll was handed to Saladin—this one from the wali of Cairo. It, too, spoke of panic. Merchants were closing shops. Civilians were fleeing north, rumors spreading of a full invasion. Panic, more than swords, was seizing Egypt by the throat.

Saladin stood slowly, rubbing his temple beneath the white turban coiled around his brow. He had not slept in two nights. He had barely touched food. Every movement of his Sicilian enemies chipped away at the order he had spent years building.

"They are not just raiding," he said aloud, more to himself than to the men assembled. "They are provoking. Drawing our eyes south. Why?"

Taqi al-Din stepped forward, eyes flaring.

"Because they want to divide us. Whoever is guiding this—he is a man of strategy. These raids are too bold to be random. They are meant to enrage us, to force our hand."

"Then we must respond!" cried Emir Isa of Baalbek, clenching his fists. "Let me take my men and march to Egypt's defense. If we do not send a message now, the people will believe you have abandoned the land of your birth!"

Others shouted their support. A few emirs from Syria, feeling the pressure of unrest in their own provinces, shook their heads.

"And strip the north of strength?" countered Emir Umar of Homs. "We've just calmed the rebellion near Aleppo. If you send our men south, who will keep the Kurds and Bedouins in line? And what of this army in Jerusalem? The Latin king has not moved yet, but I smell thunder on the wind."

A storm of voices rose again.

"Then divide the army!"

"We'll stretch too thin—"

"What if they strike Damascus?"

"They won't! They are bleeding Egypt, not us!"

Saladin raised his hand. Silence came, but reluctantly. He turned to al-Fadil.

"Bring me all the reports from Acre. I want every rumor, every merchant tale, every pilgrim's whisper."

Al-Fadil hesitated. "There is... much, my Sultan."

"Then summarize it."

The Qadi inhaled sharply. "There is a great movement building in the north. The Franks in Jerusalem—under Baldwin—have sent out the call. We know they have begun mustering armies. Acre, Tyre, Beirut—all the ports are swelling with soldiers. Foreign tongues, European banners. They say that Richard of England himself has come."

Gasps rippled through the court.

Saladin's face tightened. He had heard of the Plantagenet prince—still not yet king, but dangerous even as a lion cub.

"So it is a pincer," Saladin muttered. "The Sicilian navy in the south, the crusading hosts in the north. Baldwin seeks to divide our forces before we can consolidate."

Taqi al-Din nodded grimly. "And if we commit too much to Egypt, we leave Damascus exposed. But if we ignore Egypt..."

Al-Adil shook his head. "We lose the southern lifeline. The breadbasket. The wealth of the Nile."

"And perhaps," said al-Fadil, "the trust of the Egyptian emirs."

A cold stillness fell over the hall at that. Everyone knew what he meant. Egypt had been Saladin's stronghold, the base from which he had risen. But it was also fragile—still riddled with Fatimid loyalists and tribal divisions. If the Sicilian raids continued and no help came, the emirs there might begin to question Saladin's authority.

Or worse.

"Have any of them called for aid directly?" Saladin asked.

Al-Fadil hesitated. "Several. Emir Qasim of Alexandria fled during the raid and now calls for reinforcements. Emir Ibrahim of Rosetta has requested ships from the Nile fleet to bolster the coast. And there are rumors that Emir Yusuf of Fustat has threatened to appeal to Baghdad if you do not respond."

Taqi al-Din slammed his fist on the table again. "Traitors! Let them burn with their cowardice!"

"No," Saladin said quietly. "They are afraid. And men who fear too long become dangerous."

He turned to the great map and traced a finger down the Nile delta.

"We will not cede Egypt. Not now, not ever."

"But if you march south," said al-Adil, "then what of Jerusalem?"

Saladin's hand trembled slightly as it hovered over Jerusalem's place on the map.

"That is the gamble," he said.

The room fell silent again.

Then, slowly, he turned back to his council.

"We will send the Nile fleet—quietly. No grand marches. Reinforce the major ports. Rebuild the walls. Hire mercenaries from Nubia and the southern tribes. Do what we must to plug the wound."

"And you?" asked Taqi al-Din. "Will you go?"

Saladin looked long at the map. The cities of Syria to the north. The flames of Alexandria in the south.

"I remain in Damascus," he said finally. "For now. The Latin king may yet move. I must be here to meet him."

He took a deep breath.

"But we will begin preparations to reinforce Egypt should the raids grow worse. And," he added, turning to al-Fadil, "we will send word to the emirs. Tell them help is coming. That I have not forgotten them. That the Ayyubid sword will strike where it must."

Al-Fadil nodded, already beginning to write.

Taqi al-Din approached and knelt.

"My Sultan," he said quietly, "we should also begin drawing up war plans. Should Baldwin march... we must be ready."

Saladin placed a hand on his nephew's shoulder.

"Yes. Assemble the commanders. And call the imams. Tonight we pray—for guidance."

And in the shadowed court of Damascus, the weight of empire settled once more upon Saladin's shoulders. War loomed on every front. His enemies were clever, patient, and bold.

But he would meet them, one way or another.

And before it was over, the world would remember who held the crescent standard.