CHAPTER 87 - 87: THE BATTLE OF AL-SAHRA

May 22nd, 1180 - Outside Aleppo 

The sun rose slowly over the plains south of Aleppo, a red smear on the horizon that painted the sky in blood-colored hues. Baldwin stood at the crest of a shallow ridge, cloaked in his white surcoat emblazoned with the golden Jerusalem cross. Around him, the ground had been carefully chosen—gently sloped, with light patches of broken terrain, scattered boulders, and dry scrub that could impede cavalry if driven into at full speed. Behind his position, deeper and more jagged hills lay in wait—ideal for fallback lines and ambushes if it came to that.

But not too ideal.

That was the balance he'd spent days calculating. The terrain needed to appear favorable enough that Saladin would believe he had a chance to break them—but be deceptively unforgiving to any who charged without discipline. Not a fortress, but a snare.

The war council had concluded three days ago. And now the moment had arrived. Baldwin's army had taken position the previous afternoon. The trenches had been dug in haste and camouflaged. Stakes driven deep into soft soil lay hidden. Stormracks—his own invention of reinforced carts that could rapidly form barricades—had been wheeled into position and concealed under brush and canvas.

And still, no sign of the main Ayyubid host.

Until now.

One of the mounted outriders galloped up the slope, spurring his horse hard. "My lord! They come!"

Baldwin turned slowly. The young rider's eyes were wide, but his tone was steady.

"How many?" Baldwin asked.

"Thousands, my lord. At least twenty banners I counted—and there's dust behind them. Far more to follow."

A hush fell over the nearby officers—Odo of Saint Amand, Raymond of Oultrejordain, and the grizzled knight Godfrey de Toron. Even the recently arrived Richard, still flushed with the heat of his earlier ride, straightened and muttered a prayer.

Baldwin said nothing at first. He simply turned and raised his brass spyglass—an imported item from Sicily that had already proven its worth many times—and pointed it toward the thin haze on the horizon. His vision sharpened. Dust. Banners. Horsemen moving in fluid waves like a school of fish.

Saladin's vanguard.

"They're not coming in force," Baldwin finally said. "Not yet. He's testing us."

He lowered the scope and handed it back to the aide.

Raymond frowned. "Then he suspects a trap?"

"He suspects something. He should." Baldwin allowed a faint smile. "But he doesn't know what. He's not reckless."

"Then he'll probe us?" asked Godfrey.

Baldwin nodded. "And we'll let him."

He turned toward the riders who were beginning to mass along the edge of the valley floor. They moved like a tide of black and bronze and silver—light cavalry, most likely Turks or Kurds, armed with bows and javelins. Behind them came heavier units, but they did not advance—only lingered, watching.

The morning passed slowly.

Saladin's first move came just before the noon hour. A column of light cavalry broke off and rode hard toward Baldwin's right flank, then wheeled sharply and loosed arrows in a wide arc as they passed.

The bolts clattered harmlessly against the wooden shields and thick mantlets of the crusader lines. Not a single man returned fire.

Baldwin stood among his men, arms crossed. He gave no order.

Another pass. Arrows hissed again. A few shouts rang out, but no casualties. The line stood firm.

Saladin was watching. He wanted a reaction.

On the third pass, Baldwin finally raised his hand. "Crossbows—volley, but hold positions."

A loud twang

filled the air as dozens of crossbowmen fired in unison. At least five riders fell, others swerved, and the line broke.

"They're feeling our teeth now," muttered Richard, watching from atop a small rise with a gleam in his eye. "Good dogs know when not to bite the bear."

Baldwin ignored the quip. He was watching the rear of Saladin's formation. More cavalry was forming there now—heavier, slower. They had seen enough. For now.

By midafternoon, a second probing force came—this time from the center.

Spearmen advanced under the cover of archers, trying to draw out the crusaders from their barricades. They found only pikes.

The crossbows were swiftly deployed—two rows forming a half crescent behind which the pikemen waited. The moment the enemy neared, the pikes bristled forward like a nest of serpents. Two skirmishes broke out along the edge—but the line held.

The Saracen commander called a retreat within minutes.

They tested the left flank shortly before dusk.

Baldwin shifted two companies from the reserves quietly—so quietly Saladin's men likely didn't realize the reinforcement until it was too late. The pikes rose again, and once more the attack faltered.

By sundown, the probes ceased.

The field lay strewn with a few corpses—less than a hundred in total. More Saracen than Frank, but still a small toll.

Saladin had not committed. And that told Baldwin what he needed to know.

He was cautious.

Good. That meant Saladin respected him now. But it also meant he would strike harder when he finally made up his mind.

That night, the council gathered around a flickering oil lamp in the command tent. The mood was tense but calm. The scent of sweat and steel filled the air, mingling with the scent of roasted lentils and barley stew that none of them had touched.

"Three probes," said Raymond. "All stopped. What now?"

Baldwin leaned forward, fingers clasped before him.

"He's measuring our reach. Our discipline. Looking for weakness."

"And he found none," Odo declared.

"He wasn't trying to break us," Baldwin replied. "Not yet. This is only the first act. But he'll come. He has to."

Godfrey nodded. "Aleppo was a slap in the face. He must respond or lose face before the emirs."

"He's lost the north," Baldwin said quietly. "If he fails to retake it, he risks splinters in the Ayyubid ranks."

"What if he marches away?" asked one of the younger knights.

Baldwin shook his head. "He won't. Not now. He's too close. Too committed. If he retreats, it's a humiliation. No. He'll strike—but only if he believes he has the advantage."

Richard leaned forward, watching Baldwin carefully. "Then... give him what he wants to see."

Baldwin smiled coldly.

"Exactly."

He rose from the table and crossed to the war map laid out on a wooden platform, covered in small markers. His fingers brushed a set of movable cavalry pieces.

"In the morning," he said, "we shift our right flank forward—expose it just enough to seem like a gap has formed. We thin the center slightly, but not obviously. And we'll move the Hospitaller cavalry out of visible range, as if they've withdrawn. Let him believe we're stretched."

"Is it wise to appear weak?" Odo asked.

"It is not weakness," Baldwin said. "It is bait. We give him what he thinks is a mistake—something he can exploit. And when he charges... we gut him."

There was a long silence around the table.

Finally, Richard chuckled. "You're inviting the lion to leap, so you can strike when he's in the air."

Baldwin nodded. "A cornered lion is dangerous. But a charging one overcommits."

He dismissed them shortly after, retiring not to his bedding but to the nearby rise where his tent overlooked the field.

The moonlight bathed the land in pale silver. Fires glowed in the distance—Saladin's camp. They too prepared.

And somewhere out there, the Sultan waited, uncertain, wary.

Tomorrow, that would change.

Tomorrow, Baldwin would make the choice for him.