CHAPTER 80 - 80: THE SHOCK OF ALEPPO

May 9th, 1180 – Damascus

The walls of Damascus stood tall, but the court within trembled—not from a breach or siege, but from the news that rode in fast and furious, carried on the backs of sweating, breathless messengers. Aleppo had fallen. The ancient city, the northern jewel of the Ayyubid crown, had been seized by Baldwin's army in a lightning assault.

Saladin sat motionless as the words were spoken aloud in the Diwan. The court chamber was hot despite the early hour. Heavy tapestries muffled the breeze, and the smell of incense did little to cover the sweat of anxious men. The emir of Homs, Sa'd al-Din, had gone pale. The younger lords looked at each other in stunned disbelief. Others turned toward Saladin, awaiting his wrath or reassurance. Instead, he said nothing for a long time.

At last, Saladin leaned forward, his voice quiet but piercing. "When did they break the gates?"

"Five days past, Sultan," replied Qadi al-Fadil, his vizier. "On the second of May. The scouts confirm that the Christian host stormed the walls before the defenders could organize a proper resistance."

"And the garrison?" Saladin asked.

"Reassigned, as you ordered," said Emir Jamal al-Din, his voice tinged with guilt. "They had not yet returned. It seems the Christians were informed of this."

Saladin's jaw clenched. He had ordered reinforcements to Damascus from all corners of Syria, assuming Baldwin would march there as the logical prize. Aleppo had been left vulnerable. The Christians had struck not just with steel, but with cunning. He had been tricked.

The whispers in the room began again. One of the older emirs rose to his feet. "Sultan, this insult must be answered. Aleppo is not just any city—it is holy. The Umayyad legacy, the great mosque, the graves of scholars and imams—"

"It is a sacred charge," another interrupted. "We are sworn to protect it, as we are sworn to protect Damascus."

Saladin raised a hand and silence fell. "I know the weight of Aleppo," he said, now louder, voice iron-hard. "But we must not allow ourselves to be ruled by sentiment."

The court froze. Not even the birds outside seemed to chirp.

"My brothers," Saladin continued, turning slowly to look at each emir, "this was not merely an assault. It was a deception. The host that marched toward Damascus—large as it seemed—was meant to draw us here. Baldwin has struck at the heart of the north while we watched shadows."

He stood then, tall and formidable in his green and gold robes, his hand resting on the hilt of his scimitar. "And yet, we cannot abandon either city. Damascus must be secured, and Aleppo must be recovered. But we must act not with anger, but with wisdom."

A murmur of agreement passed through the room, though reluctantly. One of the younger commanders, a Mamluk named Faris, stepped forward. "Do we know the size of the army now occupying Aleppo?"

"Over thirty thousand," replied Qadi al-Fadil. "They brought siege towers, stormracks, and heavy engines. We have confirmation from our agents that King Baldwin leads them himself. The assault was swift, but well-organized."

"What of the Christian host in the east? The one that passed through Hauran and appeared to march on Damascus?"

"They've set camp in the hills," said Emir Imad al-Din. "They've moved very little since the fall of Aleppo, and they do not press closer to the city. Our scouts believe they number no more than six thousand, but the Christians go to great lengths to appear larger—using banners, dummy tents, and lighting fires in multiple locations."

Saladin's face darkened. "A phantom army," he muttered. "And led, I'm told, by Richard of England—Richard the Lionheart."

There was another stir at the mention of that name. Richard's reputation had reached even these lands. Tales of his battles in the north, his ferocity, his leadership. Saladin had hoped the stories were exaggerated.

"The English prince commands the diversion," he said aloud. "A masterstroke."

Saladin turned back to the council. "We cannot chase ghosts. We must act decisively now."

"What are your orders?" asked Qadi al-Fadil.

Saladin moved to the large map table and placed his hand on the north. "We send scouts to confirm Baldwin's movements. I suspect he will fortify Aleppo and press deeper into the interior. If he links with Armenian lords or pushes toward the Euphrates, we risk losing all of northern Syria."

"And Damascus?" asked Emir Sa'd al-Din. "Shall we abandon her?"

"No," Saladin said firmly. "We must protect Damascus at all costs. If she falls, the gate to the south opens—even Cairo may follow. The host near Damascus must be watched, but not provoked. I will leave behind a sufficient garrison and personally ride north."

The court erupted in startled gasps. Saladin raised his voice. "We cannot afford pride or delay. I know the risks. But I will not leave Aleppo in their hands. Every day we wait, they entrench further."

He looked to his commanders. "I will take the best riders, the Mamluk contingents, and the garrisons of Homs and Hama. Damascus will be entrusted to Emir Taqi al-Din with a full complement of defenders. Let no gate open, let no wall weaken. But our counterstroke will be swift."

"And the Christians who remain in the city?" one of the emirs asked cautiously.

Saladin's eyes narrowed. "They shall not be harmed—unless they betray us."

The court grew quiet again. The weight of the moment pressed upon them.

Qadi al-Fadil stepped forward, scroll in hand. "There is also word from Cairo, Sultan. The Sicilian raids have ceased, but the damage was considerable. Some emirs in Egypt grow restless. They say that if we lose Aleppo, they will question the will of Allah in our cause."

Saladin's expression hardened. "Then they are welcome to join the Christians."

The court bowed their heads, and none dared challenge him.

After the council dismissed, Saladin remained at the map table long into the night. Alone, he traced the roads between Aleppo and Damascus, the routes through the Orontes Valley and the mountain passes. He knew Baldwin had changed the game. No longer did the Christians simply wait behind walls. They moved with coordination, with vision, and with an uncanny knowledge of where to strike.

And worst of all, they moved with purpose.

He stared at Aleppo, now marked with a red cross. Rage burned in his gut, but he pushed it down. Emotion was the enemy now. He would strike back, but only when he had the advantage.

They had taken Aleppo. But they would pay for it in blood.