Chapter 86: A King’s Trap
May 20th, 1180 – Outskirts of Aleppo
The sun had barely crested the eastern horizon when the dust trails became visible in the distance. Hundreds of scouts and outriders flowed over the Syrian hills, returning with a single message: Baldwin was already deployed. Saladin's great host, stretching miles behind him, slowed as the reports filtered through the leading columns.
The Sultan stood tall in his saddle, eyes narrowing beneath the black folds of his turban. His warhorse, a dark Syrian charger, pawed the earth beneath him. Before him stretched the edge of the plains south of Aleppo, where Baldwin's army had formed ranks behind natural rises in the terrain, their camp well-ordered, their pickets alert. Standards of the golden Jerusalem cross snapped in the wind beside rows of war wagons and pike squares.
Saladin's face betrayed nothing, but his jaw tightened.
"So," he murmured, "the Leper King has set the table."
He turned in the saddle as his commanders came up beside him—Taqi al-Din, al-Adil, Gökböri of Mosul, and several of the lesser emirs. The sun glinted off their polished armor, and behind them came an endless procession of soldiers: Mamluks, Bedouin light cavalry, Kurdish infantry, and contingents from as far away as Hama and Harran.
Taqi al-Din leaned forward, his voice low. "We are not late. We can still bend him back toward the hills. Or draw him into more open ground."
Saladin did not answer at first. He kept his eyes fixed on the terrain. Baldwin's lines were orderly, just beyond a shallow ravine flanked by low, brush-covered rises—not quite a bottleneck, but close. If they were to charge, they'd be funneled.
"How far ahead is he?" Saladin asked a courier who had galloped in from the forward scouts.
"Two days, perhaps three," the man replied, sweat gleaming on his forehead. "But he's not moving. He's entrenched."