CHAPTER 93 - 93: ASHES AND JUDGMENT

May 25, 1180 – Aleppo, Evening, Baldwin IV's Command Pavilion

The torchlight flickered against the oiled canvas walls, casting long shadows over the faces gathered inside Baldwin's command pavilion. The men were silent as the king entered—his gait slower than usual, shoulders stiff, the linen wraps from Brother Thomas hidden beneath a heavy mantle. No one dared remark on it. They stood as one.

"Sit," Baldwin said as he reached the head of the war table. "We've won our battle. Now we prepare for the next."

A scribe unfurled a wide parchment map over the table's surface—Aleppo near the center, the Orontes River winding south, and beyond it the road toward Hama and Homs. Baldwin stood for a moment, surveying it, then nodded once and turned his gaze to the men seated around the table: Raymond of Tripoli's former lieutenants, now sworn to Jerusalem, Balian of Ibelin, Humphrey of Toron, the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers, and a handful of trusted captains.

"Report," Baldwin said. "What do our losses amount to?"

A young knight—Sir Amalric of Caesarea—rose with a stiff bow, his hand still wrapped from a gash he'd taken in the melee. He held a sheaf of blood-spotted parchment.

"Christian losses stand at three thousand, Sire. Twelve hundred dead. The remainder are wounded, some gravely. The Hospitallers are tending them as best they can. We've burned the infected bandages, applied what salves we could. Brother Thomas's compounds help, but supplies are thin."

Baldwin gave a slight nod. "And the enemy?"

Amalric hesitated. Then, "We count nearly twelve thousand Saracens—killed, wounded, or captured. Our cavalry rode them down for nearly an hour before the sun fell. The left wing collapsed entirely once Bohemond's charge broke their line."

The mention of Bohemond drew a respectful silence. Baldwin allowed it to stretch a moment before speaking again.

"How many prisoners?"

"Between 3,000 and 4,000, Sire. Mostly wounded, a few who surrendered outright after their officers fell. The knights are holding them outside the southern gate. They've eaten through what rations we gave them yesterday. We don't have enough to feed them long."

Baldwin's eyes were hard now, his face pale but sharp in the lamplight. He leaned forward slightly over the map.

"Then we won't."

The words dropped like a stone in the tent.

"You mean to execute them?" asked Humphrey of Toron, brow furrowing.

"I mean," Baldwin said evenly, "we will not sacrifice the strength of our host to feed enemy soldiers who will only return to our gates armed again if released. We cannot hold them. We cannot feed them. We can scarcely treat our own."

The Templar Master crossed his arms, expression grim but unsurprised.

"It's cruel, but not unjust."

"They took no quarter When they torched our churches and burned priests alive inside. Do not weep for them."," Baldwin said coldly.

Even Balian, though clearly disturbed, did not object. He met Baldwin's eyes and gave a slow nod.

"I'll give the orders," he said quietly. "It will be done quickly."

"Make it clean," Baldwin said. "And spare the youngest. We'll ransom boys under twelve, if they have noble blood. The rest... no more delays."

The tent was silent again. Only the fire cracked, and the slow scratching of the scribe writing the king's decisions into the campaign log.

After a moment, Baldwin turned back to the map.

"Where is Saladin?"

The Hospitaller Grand Master answered this time.

"Scouts report his army is retreating toward Damascus. What's left of it, at least. They didn't reform south of the battlefield. No attempt to regroup. He's wounded, perhaps gravely."

"We can confirm it now," Balian said. "Three sources—our spies and two prisoners before execution. Saladin was struck near the hip. An arrow, likely. Carried from the field by his guards."

"If he dies," Baldwin murmured, "the Ayyubid alliance may splinter entirely. If he lives... he'll raise another army."

He looked down at the map again. His gloved finger traced the road south.

"Hama lies to the southwest. Lightly defended. A garrison and a few loyal tribal levies. From there, we strike Homs. That's the prize."

"Homs is walled," said Amalric. "A stubborn city, with an inner keep."

"It was under Zengid control before Saladin took it by treachery," Baldwin replied. "Its people do not love him. If we appear before the gates with banners flying and offer terms, we may take it without a siege."

"And if they refuse?" the Templar asked.

"Then we raise the towers," Baldwin said. "Two days' rest. On the third, we march."

The captains nodded, some more hesitantly than others. They were tired—bone-weary, some barely recovered from their wounds—but they had seen what victory looked like. They had seen Muslim lords break and flee. They had seen their king outthink the Lion of Islam.

And they would follow.

Baldwin reached for his chalice. The wine had cooled and turned bitter, but he drank it anyway. His hand trembled faintly as he set it down.

"Dismissed," he said. "Let the men rest. And burn the bodies tomorrow. The wind is changing."

One by one, the commanders rose and left, murmuring oaths and farewells. Only Balian lingered as the others filed out. He waited until the tent flap fell behind them and then turned to Baldwin.

"You'll have to write to the Pope about this," he said softly. "Twelve thousand enemies, four thousand executed. Rome will want to know."

"I'll write it myself," Baldwin said. "And I'll send him the banners we captured. Let him see what was won. Not with relics or luck. But with preparation and courage."

He looked again to the map. His fingers hovered now over Homs, then Baalbek, then Damascus—not so far off now.

"Before the summer ends, we'll take the Orontes Valley. Before the year ends... perhaps more."

And though his body felt like ash, his spirit kindled.

Victory had blood on its hands—but it had come. And it would not stop here.