Chapter 87: The Battle of Al-Sahra
May 22nd, 1180 - Outside Aleppo
The sun rose slowly over the plains south of Aleppo, a red smear on the horizon that painted the sky in blood-colored hues. Baldwin stood at the crest of a shallow ridge, cloaked in his white surcoat emblazoned with the golden Jerusalem cross. Around him, the ground had been carefully chosen—gently sloped, with light patches of broken terrain, scattered boulders, and dry scrub that could impede cavalry if driven into at full speed. Behind his position, deeper and more jagged hills lay in wait—ideal for fallback lines and ambushes if it came to that.
But not too ideal.
That was the balance he'd spent days calculating. The terrain needed to appear favorable enough that Saladin would believe he had a chance to break them—but be deceptively unforgiving to any who charged without discipline. Not a fortress, but a snare.
The war council had concluded three days ago. And now the moment had arrived. Baldwin's army had taken position the previous afternoon. The trenches had been dug in haste and camouflaged. Stakes driven deep into soft soil lay hidden. Stormracks—his own invention of reinforced carts that could rapidly form barricades—had been wheeled into position and concealed under brush and canvas.
And still, no sign of the main Ayyubid host.
Until now.
One of the mounted outriders galloped up the slope, spurring his horse hard. "My lord! They come!"
Baldwin turned slowly. The young rider's eyes were wide, but his tone was steady.
"How many?" Baldwin asked.
"Thousands, my lord. At least twenty banners I counted—and there's dust behind them. Far more to follow."
A hush fell over the nearby officers—Odo of Saint Amand, Raymond of Oultrejordain, and the grizzled knight Godfrey de Toron. Even the recently arrived Richard, still flushed with the heat of his earlier ride, straightened and muttered a prayer.