Chapter 107: The Walls of Damascus
July 17th, 1180 — Damascus
The city of Damascus, ringed with its ancient Roman walls and shadowed by the Ghouta oasis, shimmered under the summer sun. A haze of heat hung in the air, thick with the scent of dust, citrus groves, and distant fire.
Inside the Citadel, behind stone walls stained by centuries of conflict, the emirs gathered in silence. They stood around a broad marble table strewn with maps, scrolls, and fresh reports—all of them grim.
The silence broke only with the rasping breath of the man seated on a cushioned divan near the window: Salah ad-Din, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, propped up on pillows, pale and gaunt. A linen wrap, yellowed by sweat and herbs, covered the wound under his ribs where a Frankish crossbow bolt had pierced him nearly to the spine.
His physician hovered at the side, applying fresh poultices of honey and myrrh while grinding more feverroot in a brass bowl. But the fever had not yet broken, and Saladin's skin, though cooler, remained pale and clammy.
Across from the sultan, Al-Adil, his brother, clenched his jaw and turned to the assembled commanders.
"So," Al-Adil said, "the Christians now hold every pass through the Anti-Lebanon. From Baalbek south to Maaloula, every road is theirs."
"They took Yabrud three days ago," added Emir Nasr of Hama, tossing a report down on the table. "The garrison tried to hold. It only delayed them by a day."
"And Al-Nabek fell a week before that," said Emir Faisal of Homs, his tone bitter. "The towns offered token resistance. Some surrendered, hoping for clemency. Others were butchered."
"They're cutting our throat slowly," murmured Emir Al-Zahir, Saladin's nephew, his young face drawn. "A noose around Damascus."