Chapter 112: Siege of Damascus 2
Night of July 22, 1180 – Eastern Siege Lines, Damascus
The Frankish siege camp, usually lit only by torchlight and the occasional glow from campfires, was tense and alert. Sentries moved in pairs along the outer watchlines, chainmail rustling quietly as they checked on the siege engines that stood like hulking monsters in the dark. The air was heavy with anticipation.
Baldwin had ordered triple watches and constant patrols around the four trebuchets and the mangonel platforms. He had seen too many campaigns turn with the loss of just one engine. Now, with the walls of Damascus looming just half a mile away, every blow must count.
But the Saracens were not idle.
Just past midnight, shadows slipped from the broken gate near the aqueduct. Thirty men, dressed in black, with faces veiled and torches smothered in oil-soaked cloths, moved low across the broken scrub between the outer ditch and the siege lines. Behind them came another forty armed with bows, knives, and small jars of Greek fire.
They moved swiftly. The plan was simple—ignite the siege machines, then retreat through a ravine they had scouted earlier. If they could destroy just one trebuchet, it would cost the Franks days of engineering work and shift the momentum.
But Baldwin’s men were waiting.
A Saracen runner, flitting like a shadow through a rocky wash near Saint Catherine’s Fury, nearly reached the machine before an arrow caught him in the thigh. He collapsed with a scream, alerting the sentries nearby.
"Alarm! Saracens in the ditch!" a knight shouted, drawing his sword.
Torches flared. Horns sounded three sharp blasts. Within moments, Templar and Hospitaller guards surged from their tents, followed by foot sergeants armed with spears and maces.
The fight erupted violently.
The raiders attacked with desperation, hurling jars of fire at the nearest siege engine. One shattered harmlessly against a stone, splashing burning oil into the earth. Another struck a wheel and ignited briefly, but the flames were smothered in seconds by a waiting squire who threw soaked wool blankets onto it.