Chapter 71 — The Pressure Mounts
Damascus – March 15th, 1180
The wind howled outside the palace walls, carrying the chill of a late winter still reluctant to loosen its grip on Damascus. Inside, however, the air was thick with heat—not from hearths, but from voices raised in alarm, the rustle of parchment maps, and the nervous pacing of commanders and advisors. Saladin sat on the marble dais, his face drawn and pale under the flickering torchlight. Missives had arrived in the night—too many, too close together, each more dire than the last.
The raids were not isolated. The Christian fleet from Sicily had struck Damietta and Rosetta in quick succession—pillaging markets, killing garrisons, setting fires to key infrastructure. Now came word that Alexandria, one of Egypt's greatest ports, had been attacked.
Not harassed. Not skirmished. Attacked.
And sacked.
"Their warships landed without resistance," muttered Qadi al-Fadil, Saladin's chief secretary, reading from a torn and bloodstained letter. "The garrison was overwhelmed. The docks were set to flame. They looted the treasury building, the merchant quarter, even the mosque..."
The court chamber buzzed like an angry hive. General Taqi al-Din, Saladin's nephew and closest military advisor, slammed his palm down onto the table where maps of Egypt lay spread.
"This cannot continue!" he growled. "If Alexandria is lost, what port is next? Pelusium? Fustat itself? They are cutting the heart out of Egypt's trade and humiliating our rule!"
"I warned that this crusade would not be like the last," said al-Adil, Saladin's brother, voice tight with worry. "But this is not the crusade. This is something else entirely. A prelude. A storm to break our balance."
Another scroll was handed to Saladin—this one from the wali of Cairo. It, too, spoke of panic. Merchants were closing shops. Civilians were fleeing north, rumors spreading of a full invasion. Panic, more than swords, was seizing Egypt by the throat.
Saladin stood slowly, rubbing his temple beneath the white turban coiled around his brow. He had not slept in two nights. He had barely touched food. Every movement of his Sicilian enemies chipped away at the order he had spent years building.
"They are not just raiding," he said aloud, more to himself than to the men assembled. "They are provoking. Drawing our eyes south. Why?"