Chapter 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.