CHAPTER 98 - 98: THE CRACKS WIDEN

June 13, 1180 — Damascus

The hot wind curled through the courtyard of the citadel in Damascus, thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and a rising anxiety none could quite voice aloud. Inside, the chamber that had once been a vibrant hub of planning and judgment now bore the stillness of a sickroom. Its occupant—the Sultan of Egypt and Syria—lay on a low divan, propped against silken cushions, his face pale with fever, his breathing shallow but steady.

The bolt wound under his ribs festered despite every effort. Black paste poultices had been applied, the flesh lanced and drained, prayers whispered and physicians summoned—yet Saladin remained on the edge of life and death. His eyes fluttered open only for moments at a time, too dulled by pain and fever to speak with clarity. It had been nearly three weeks since the Battle outside Aleppo, and he had not stood since.

Around him, the emirs paced, argued, and whispered.

"They say the wound may have reached his lung," muttered Emir Qutb ad-Din, his voice sharp with dread.

"No," came the soft reply from Taqi al-Din, Saladin's nephew, who had ridden beside the Sultan when he fell. "He spoke last night. Just a few words. He asked if we had made it back to Damascus." He turned his gaze to the doorway where a servant had just entered with a fresh basin of water. "Bring more cloth. Change the bandages. And send word to the physicians again."

The servant nodded quickly and fled.

A low murmur ran through the rest of the chamber, and soon the emirs gathered in a second room to hold council. For all practical purposes, Taqi al-Din had become the acting commander.

"We have to speak plainly," said Emir Izz al-Din of Hama, his face pinched with tension. "We are leaderless. The Sultan cannot rise. The Franks have taken Hama without a fight. And now—Homs has fallen."

Those words carried weight.

The report from Homs had arrived just that morning. Messengers, their horses lathered in sweat, had ridden through the night. The tale was grim and quick: the Latins had surrounded the city on June 10 with nearly 30,000 men. Baldwin, the Leper King, had offered generous terms if they surrendered. The garrison refused. The next day, the trebuchets roared and the assault came hard. The defenders barely held a single day. On June 12, the city fell. No mercy was granted.

"They gave no quarter," said Qutb ad-Din with fury. "Every man of the garrison was put to the sword. The Franks now control the road to Baalbek—and they grow stronger with every march."

"They move quickly, as if the devil himself drives them," muttered an old Emir from Aleppo, his voice raspy. "It is as though they know the ground better than we do."

Taqi al-Din folded his arms, his brow heavy with thought. "The retreat from Aleppo saved our army—but only barely. We lost over twelve thousand men there. And now Saladin lies half-dead. If we are to act, it must be with what remains."

"And if the Sultan dies?" Izz al-Din asked directly, his voice almost a challenge. "What becomes of this alliance? Do you think the Kurds will march for you without hesitation, Taqi al-Din?"

There was a moment of tense silence.

Taqi al-Din didn't blink. "Then we must ensure he lives."

Another voice, calmer, but no less grave, joined the discussion—it was the old judge al-Fadil, Saladin's long-trusted advisor and scribe. He stood at the doorway with a scroll in hand.

"We must not only think of the Sultan," he said, "but of our people. If the Franks continue unchecked, Baalbek will be next. Then Damascus."

The room stilled. Everyone knew it. Damascus—long a symbol of Islamic prestige, once ruled by Nur ad-Din—now stood closer to the front lines than ever before. The shock of Aleppo had been grievous, but it was distant. Now, the enemy advanced like a fire, each victory giving them speed and confidence.

"They plan something larger than conquest," al-Fadil continued. "Their king—this Baldwin—he fights not merely for land, but for permanence. Homs has been fortified already. Our scouts report engineers rebuilding broken gates and earthworks. Garrisoning it tightly. They mean to stay."

"We cannot stop them now," muttered one of the younger emirs, kicking at a rug. "Not without the Sultan. Not without reinforcements."

"What of Egypt?" asked Izz al-Din suddenly. "Have we received word from the governors in Cairo? From the Nile?"

A fresh wave of tension entered the chamber.

Al-Fadil lowered his gaze. "Nothing. No reply. Cairo is silent. The emirs there speak only in vague pleasantries and avoid committing troops. It seems they wait to see whether Saladin lives... or dies."

"A vulture's patience," Qutb ad-Din spat. "They owe him everything."

"And yet they offer nothing," al-Fadil said grimly. "They fear civil war. They fear becoming pawns. Without Saladin's hand to bind the empire, they retreat into silence."

"The Caliph must be told," said another.

"He has been told," al-Fadil said flatly. "But he sends no armies."

The council fell into another round of murmuring. One after another, their options were failing them.

"What remains to us?" Qutb ad-Din finally asked.

Taqi al-Din stepped forward, planting his hand on the map laid out on the table. "We still hold Baalbek. It is lightly garrisoned, but its walls are strong. The terrain around it favors defense. If the Franks move, it must be to there. We will gather what men we can and fortify the pass."

Izz al-Din gave a sour look. "And wait for them to come?"

"No," Taqi said, eyes narrowing. "We will harass their advance. Hit their supply lines. Buy time. Every day the Sultan lives is a victory. And if Allah wills, he will rise again and lead us."

"And if he dies?" the old Emir asked again.

No one answered.

That night, torchlight flickered across the narrow alleys of Damascus as patrols moved like silent ghosts through the streets. Panic had not yet gripped the city—but the whispers were spreading. Merchants quietly shuttered shops. Families packed bags and kept children inside. The great mosque echoed with prayers louder and more desperate than usual.

In his chamber, Saladin lay still. His eyes were closed, sweat on his brow, lips murmuring half-formed thoughts. The wound was inflamed and red. Fever still clutched him, refusing to release its grip.

At his side, al-Fadil sat with a scroll half-written and quill poised. Even now, he recorded everything—for if the Sultan died, the story of these days would shape what came next.

From the corridor beyond, a muffled argument broke between two guards, then silence.

Taqi al-Din entered the room again, wiping sand from his cloak. He knelt beside Saladin, voice low.

"My uncle," he whispered. "We need you. The army waits. Damascus waits. I will hold them until you return."

But the only reply was the soft rattle of breath, and the wind moving outside, toward the northeast—toward Baalbek.