CHAPTER 96 - 96: THE SIEGE OF HOMS BEGINS

June 6, 1180 – Outside the Gates of Homs

The heat rose in waves off the plains south of Hama as the Christian army neared the outer fortifications of Homs. Dust curled around the hooves of 6,000 mounted knights, while tens of thousands of infantry moved in columns behind them—29,000 in total, swelled by reinforcements from the north and militia from the newly garrisoned city of Hama. The banners of Jerusalem, Antioch, Tripoli, and the cross of St. George fluttered like flames above the army.

From the crest of a small hill, King Baldwin IV surveyed the city through a looking glass. Homs sat nestled against the Orontes River, its stone walls weathered but intact. Watchfires glowed along the parapets. Archers stood ready. The city was not large, but its garrison—perhaps 1,500 strong—had not fled like Hama's.

"They think they can outlast us," Baldwin muttered, lowering the glass. His skin was pale, the fatigue of command and disease weighing heavy on him, but his eyes burned with the same clarity as ever.

Beside him, Balian of Ibelin, now bearing the crossed keys of Jerusalem as a senior military advisor, shifted in his saddle. "Do we send envoys, as we did at Hama?"

"We offer them one chance," Baldwin said grimly. "One chance only. If they refuse, they'll find out what mercy costs."

An hour later, a delegation of Crusader riders approached the gates under the white banner of truce. They were met by the city's commander—a stocky Ayyubid officer with a hawk nose and a chainmail hauberk. The Frankish herald read aloud in Arabic:

"The King of Jerusalem offers you peace in exchange for submission. Lay down your arms, open the gates, and your lives and property will be spared. Resist, and the city will fall by force, and with it, your fate will be yours to blame."

The officer laughed bitterly. "Tell your king that Homs does not bow to crippled Franks. Let him try."

He returned inside. The gates slammed shut behind him.

By nightfall, Baldwin's pavilion stood at the center of a sprawling camp that wrapped around the city's western and southern walls. Torches lined the outer perimeter. The air buzzed with the rhythmic pounding of hammers and the creaking of ropes as siege engineers from Tyre and Acre oversaw the construction of war machines.

Inside the command tent, the war council gathered. Baldwin, flanked by Balian and Odo of Saint-Amand, the Grand Master of the Templars, stood over a rough map of the city scratched into sand on a wooden table.

"We assault at dawn," Baldwin said. "They refused our mercy. They will earn no quarter."

"What resistance can we expect?" Odo asked.

"Around 1,500 soldiers," Balian replied. "Some regulars, some militia. The outer walls are old but reinforced. The towers have good sightlines, but no boiling oil or stone stores that we can see. They'll rely on archers."

"And morale?" asked Gerard de Ridefort, leaning in.

"Waning," Baldwin answered. "They know Saladin is wounded. They know Aleppo has fallen. But fear is not yet famine. We must break their will."

He pointed to a section of wall near the river bend. "Here. This is the weakest point. Eroded base. We'll bring up the trebuchets and ballistae tonight. First light, we batter the walls until they crack, then send in the infantry. Heavy cavalry will wait behind the breach until we confirm collapse."

Balian nodded. "And prisoners?"

"There will be none," Baldwin said coldly. "Any who surrender after the breach will be taken as slaves or executed. This is what refusal earns."

No one objected.

That night, the ground trembled as six counterweight trebuchets, recently brought south from Aleppo and Hama, were rolled into position under the cover of darkness. Dozens of oxen strained at the wheels. Long wooden mantlets were dragged into place to shield the operators from missile fire. Archers lined the ridges to provide cover. Artisans soaked bundles of reeds in pitch, preparing firepots for launching.

Baldwin, wrapped in a heavy cloak against the desert night chill, stood watching the preparations beside Brother Theodore, the Hospitaller who continued to tend to his health.

"Rest, my king," Theodore urged gently. "You'll need your strength when the fighting begins."

"I will rest when Syria is ours," Baldwin murmured.

Dawn – June 7, 1180

The thunder of siege engines shattered the morning calm.

From the trenches and timber shelters, the trebuchets launched their first stones—massive, jagged boulders that screamed through the sky and slammed into the walls with a sickening crunch. One after another, they fired in sequence: WHOMP. WHOMP. WHOMP. Walls shook. Dust and debris flew into the air. Archers atop the city loosed volleys in return, but the range was poor. Few Franks were struck.

By midday, dozens of impacts had cracked the mortar at the river bend tower. The outer face of the wall had begun to crumble. Firepots now joined the barrage, setting parts of the rampart aflame. Panic spread within the city as soldiers rushed to douse the flames with water and dirt.

Inside the Crusader camp, Baldwin waited for the final signal.

A scout approached, panting. "The breach is opening, sire. A section of wall just collapsed. Dust still rising."

"Sound the horn," Baldwin said. "Begin the assault."

The ram's horn blared across the valley, and the army surged forward.

Thousands of infantry stormed the breach: spearmen, swordsmen, and crossbowmen surging in formation. Templar and Hospitaller sergeants led the charge, shields raised as they pressed through the rubble. The defenders fought with desperation, hurling stones and javelins, but the breach was too wide and too exposed.

Within minutes, Crusaders poured into the lower city streets. House by house, alley by alley, the garrison was overwhelmed. Fires broke out. Doors were smashed open. Screams echoed through the city as the defenders tried to retreat toward the central citadel—but found the path blocked.

Then came the heavy cavalry—600 knights in full mail pouring through the breach once it was cleared. Baldwin, too weak to lead from the front, watched from atop a siege tower as his banner was raised over the wall.

The fighting lasted until midday. By then, Homs was in Christian hands.

By sunset, the bodies were still being dragged into piles. Nearly all of the garrison lay dead, along with hundreds of townsfolk who'd taken up arms in defense. A handful of captured soldiers knelt before Baldwin's officers, begging for mercy.

They were executed at dawn.

Baldwin entered the city behind a retinue of Templars and engineers. The streets were still slick with blood, and the city stank of smoke, iron, and death. The treasury—smaller than Hama's—was seized. Storehouses were inventoried. The wells were checked for poison.

From the steps of the mosque, now under guard, Baldwin addressed his men.

"This city refused mercy. Let it serve as warning."