Chapter 94: The Long Retreat
June 1, 1180 – Approaching Damascus, Ayyubid Camp
The banners that had once flown high now drooped like torn sails. Dust caked the riders' faces and stung their eyes as the defeated army limped its way south along the road to Damascus. What had begun as a triumphant campaign to crush the Franks and retake the Syrian frontier had ended in humiliation and disaster. The weight of failure clung to every man like the sweat on his skin.
Some walked without weapons, their scabbards empty. Others clutched crude bandages pressed against slashes or arrow wounds. Camels groaned under the burden of hastily loaded supplies and wounded men. The once-proud cavalry of the Ayyubid Empire had become a broken column, dragging its way home with shattered pride.
In the center of the caravan, beneath a black silk pavilion mounted on a reinforced wagon, lay Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub—Saladin—the Lion of Islam, their sultan and hope. But now he did not command. He did not rise. He did not even speak.
The bolt had struck him beneath the ribs, just above the left hip. It had punched through his armor and driven deep into flesh. His guards had carried him from the field before the Christian cavalry finished their charge, his body limp, blood soaking his robes. He had not stood since.
Inside the tent, the air was thick with incense and the bitter reek of sweat and medicine. Saladin's chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. The wound had begun to fester. Angry red veins crept outward, and his skin shone with sweat despite the chill that hung in the morning air.
Imad ad-Din al-Isfahani, his scribe and trusted confidant, knelt beside the bed, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth.
"His fever has not broken," said the physician, a wiry man from Hama named Yusuf ibn al-Mutalib. "He still mumbles in sleep. The bolt's head was barbed—we could not remove all of it. There is infection in the wound."
"Will he die?" Imad asked, voice low.
The physician did not answer at once.
"It is too early to say. But the signs are grim."
Imad closed his eyes briefly and whispered a prayer under his breath. He had been with Saladin since the beginning—since Egypt, since the rise to power. He had seen his master cut down stronger foes and survive worse odds. But this was different. Saladin had not even cried out when they laid him on the cot. His body burned, but his spirit... it flickered now.