Chapter 101: The Teeth of the Mountain
June 17, 1180 — Foothills East of Baalbek
The sun had not yet crested the jagged ridgeline when Baldwin rode to the forward slope, dismounting where his scouts had marked the shepherd's path in the night. The sharp scent of pine and sweat hung heavy in the morning air. Behind him, the Frankish army—nearly twenty-nine thousand strong—waited in tightly ordered silence, the clash of arms and clink of armor muffled by discipline and tension. Far ahead, the Saracen vanguard was beginning to stir on the opposite side of the narrow mountain pass.
Baldwin knelt and studied the rough ground. The path wound up steeply through thorn and rock, too narrow for cavalry, but just wide enough for three men abreast. According to the shepherd who'd been brought to him at dawn, the path connected with the rear slopes of the ridge where the Saracens had begun entrenching, believing they would control the high ground. That assumption, Baldwin intended to shatter.
Balian of Ibelin joined him, breathing hard from the climb.
"The men are ready," Balian said. "The flanking party waits just below. Five hundred picked footmen, crossbowmen, and two Hundred Hospitallers on foot."
"They'll need to move fast," Baldwin said. "We must draw their eyes to the center. Make them believe we're mad enough to storm the pass from the front."
He turned and signaled to his standard bearer, who raised the royal banner of Jerusalem. Across the valley, the Saracen lines bristled like a hedge of iron, thousands of spears glittering in the pale light. They were not yet in full formation—only their forward units were visible—but Baldwin knew their army had camped deeper in the slope's forests.
He mounted again, pain slicing through his joints. The leprosy was quiet today—no new lesions, but the stiffness remained. He could still hold a sword, but not for long. The fatigue was deeper now, constant like a fever.
"Ride with me," he told Balian. "We'll begin the feint."
Below, the Frankish center—led by Raymond of Oultrejordain—began its slow, deliberate advance toward the narrowest part of the pass, drums sounding from the rear to make their numbers seem larger than they were. Knights marched on foot, shields interlocked, their bannered lances left behind to suggest hesitation or lack of readiness.
On the Saracen ridge, a shout rang out. Movement swept the slope—men scrambling to ready positions. Saracen cavalry, the fastest to respond, wheeled in wide arcs behind the infantry, keeping their distance.
"They're watching the center," Balian said. "They don't see the flankers yet."