CHAPTER 73 - 73: THE ILLUSION OF STEEL

March 14th, 1180 – Acre, Kingdom of Jerusalem

The war room in Acre's fortified citadel pulsed with tension. The scent of wax, parchment, and sweat hung thick in the air. For a week, Baldwin IV and his commanders had debated, revised, and rehearsed the war plan that would define the future of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Now, at last, the final form was nearly complete.

Baldwin stood at the head of the long table, his silver mask gleaming in the torchlight. Around him were the architects of the campaign—Richard of England, Balian of Ibelin, Humphrey of Toron, Raymond of Sidon, General Conrad de Montferrat, and a host of lesser nobles and commanders. Each bore the grim intensity of a man preparing for a storm.

The map stretched across the table was now covered in colored tokens, thread markers, and notations scrawled in Latin, French, and Greek. Red stones marked enemy strongholds—Damascus, Homs, Baalbek. Green tokens represented the growing Christian army, now organized into nine distinct cohorts.

"The plan for the diversionary army must be airtight," Baldwin began, voice steady despite the worsening pain that twisted beneath his mask. "Its true power will not be in strength, but in what Saladin believes it is."

He tapped the map near the southern reaches of Mount Lebanon. "The 6,000-man force will follow a route through the Wadi al-Taym, shadowing the mountains. They must be seen—again and again. Villages must whisper of tens of thousands."

Conrad de Montferrat nodded. "I've selected my men carefully. Pikemen, crossbowmen, light horse—each group trained to move quickly, look disciplined, and seem larger than they are. But how exactly do we make them seem more than six thousand?"

Richard Plantagenet leaned forward. "Repetition and misdirection," he said confidently. "The same banners raised in five villages on the same day. Fires lit across multiple hillsides. Trumpet signals blown from different positions. And perhaps even dummy camps—empty tents left behind as if we've moved on."

Humphrey of Toron added, "We've trained runners and scouts to loop back and forth. A single unit will leave signs of ten."

Balian moved a stack of carved wooden markers into place. "We'll also use caravan trails as if they're supply lines. And when merchants pass, we'll let them 'see' soldiers talking of storming Damascus, or Homs, or even Aleppo. They'll carry the rumors faster than any spy."

A page entered, delivering a sealed scroll to Baldwin. He read it silently, then passed it to Richard. "Another 400 volunteers landed in Tyre. Germans. Experienced footmen. They'll reinforce our siege cohort."

"Our main force is now over 32,000," Balian remarked, "including the Sicilians. Nearly a third are pikemen or disciplined infantry. They'll hold a line well, even if they face a cavalry charge."

Baldwin nodded. "That's why the diversionary army must choose its ground wisely. We'll embed terrain officers with Montferrat's men—guides who know the gorges, high ridges, and narrow fields. If they must fight, they'll make the enemy bleed for every step."

Montferrat cleared his throat. "Majesty, I ask again—what if the Sultan sees through the illusion and sends a massive force after us?"

"Then you flee," Baldwin said, firm. "Draw him deeper into the hills, where the roads betray his speed and his men tire. Delay. Distract. Do not die unless your death buys time for Jerusalem."

Richard nodded. "And if they push too hard, we bleed them. Stormracks on the ridges, crossbows in ambush, pikes in bottlenecks. Let them chase ghosts and find steel instead."

The stormracks—those crank-fired ballistae now mounted on reinforced wagons—were terrifying innovations, capable of shredding massed cavalry in tight terrain. Montferrat would take two of them, along with portable stakes and defensive gear meant for false encampments.

Baldwin stepped back as a scribe pulled a cloth from a second map, this one showing terrain in more detail. "You'll march from Acre within five days," Baldwin continued. "First to Tibnin, then north through the Bekaa Valley. You'll be seen from the roads leading to Damascus. Let the people panic. Let Saladin hear ten thousand feet march where only one thousand tread."

Another steward entered, whispering to Balian. The lord nodded and turned to the table. "A merchant caravan from Aleppo passed near Banias. They claim they saw a Christian host moving through the heights. There were no banners—yet they reported hundreds of campfires. That was our first test. Only 300 of our men. The merchants estimated five thousand."

Smiles broke out around the table.

"It works," said Richard.

"But the illusion must continue without fault," Baldwin added. "Saladin is not a fool. If we make a single mistake, the spell breaks."

He turned his gaze to Richard. "You'll accompany the phantom host for the first two days, bearing your royal standard. Let the world think the Lionheart leads the northern march."

Richard's brow lifted. "And then return?"

"Yes. I need you in the center. You will ride with me."

The English prince dipped his head. "So be it."

Over the next two hours, the council finalized orders. The diversionary force would leave behind staged equipment at campsites—abandoned helmets, discarded weapons, spent arrows—all planted to imply fighting strength. They would pay peasants to speak of vast numbers, even stage fake supply problems, so intercepted letters would appear authentic.

Most clever of all, a dozen letters were carefully forged, crafted to be found by spies. Each one offered false plans: some spoke of a siege of Damascus, others of a march on Baalbek or Homs. Each mentioned reinforcements and support that didn't exist.

Even Saladin's spies would find only lies.

When the council finally adjourned, the sun had begun to set beyond the Mediterranean, painting the room in orange and crimson. Baldwin remained behind, Richard beside him. For a moment, they said nothing, gazing at the map of Syria like chessmasters viewing a board before the first move.

"You know he'll try to cut the snake's head first," Richard said softly. "He'll guess the target is Damascus."

"I want him to," Baldwin answered. "If Saladin commits too early, if he moves too far north, we can breach the south. And if he does nothing... then we'll crush him before he lifts a finger."