CHAPTER 100 - 100 – THE RACE FOR THE HEIGHTS

June 17, 1180 | Near the Western Slopes of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains

The sun rose harsh and bright over the broken hills, casting long shadows from the columns of marching men and wagons. Baldwin IV rode in silence, his body aching more than usual. His fingers had stiffened again, and the flesh beneath the linen bandages felt hot and raw. Still, he bore it without comment. A new day brought a new test.

They were on the move again—twenty-nine thousand strong, including the knights of Jerusalem, remnants of Antioch's contingent, the Hospitallers, Templars, and levies from Tripoli and Galilee. Their destination: Baalbek, the mountain fortress that watched over the Beqaa Valley like a granite sentinel.

Baldwin's scout riders had returned the night before with troubling news: Saracen forces were also on the move, coming from the direction of Damascus. The road from the capital twisted through a series of treacherous mountain passes, the most important of which lay directly between Baldwin and Baalbek.

"We must reach those passes before they do," he had told Balian in camp that morning. "If they fortify them, we'll bleed ourselves dry trying to dig them out."

Now he watched the terrain ahead. The land was slowly rising—first low ridges and broken farms, then rockier hills, scattered trees clinging to the soil like beggars. The road narrowed as they approached the lower ridges of the Anti-Lebanon range.

A rider approached at speed, cloak flapping behind him. "My lord!" he called, reining in hard. "The vanguard reports enemy riders in the hills ahead. Small units—scouts or skirmishers."

"Where?" Baldwin asked.

The man pointed northeast. "Five miles, maybe less. They've been seen just above the Al-Bir ridge."

Baldwin looked to the sky. The sun had just begun to crest above the ridgeline. "They're feeling us out. They'll want to stall our advance until heavier units arrive."

He motioned to the nearby officers. Within moments, the war council was forming under a gnarled cedar tree—Raynald of Châtillon, Balian, Joscelin of Edessa, the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers, and the Lord of Sidon among them. Their horses formed a crescent, and the men leaned in as Baldwin dismounted.

"We do not have days to spare," Baldwin began, voice sharp despite the rasp in his throat. "If they secure the mountain passes first, we'll be bottlenecked for weeks. They'll force us to fight uphill into prepared defenses. We cannot allow that."

"We'll have to strike before they're ready," said Raynald, gripping the pommel of his saddle. "Hit their vanguard, drive them back, and seize the ridgelines before nightfall."

Baldwin shook his head. "Not just strike. We must trap them, take the high ground before their full force arrives."

He knelt in the dirt and drew a rough outline with his dagger. "Here's the ridge," he said, marking the elevation line with a crooked finger. "They've advanced scouts already here. But their main force will need at least another two days to fully reach this side of the range. We have until midday tomorrow, no more."

He carved a narrow route to the north. "This shepherd's path here—if we send fast-moving cavalry along it, they can flank the pass and come down from above, cutting off their escape."

Balian knelt beside him, studying the route. "It's narrow, but if we send only light cavalry and infantry with ladders, they could take the heights."

"Exactly," Baldwin said. "And once we hold them, we'll bring up the siege engines and clear the way to Baalbek."

Raynald chuckled. "Fast march through rough terrain, a mountain skirmish, and then we build ramps for our engines? You always did ask a lot from tired men."

"They'll do it," Baldwin said. "We're closer than we've ever been. Baalbek is their last major fortress before Damascus. Once it falls, we hold the spine of Syria."

The council nodded grimly.

"Raynald, take two hundred mounted sergeants and scout the shepherd's path tonight. Clear the way. Balian, you'll lead the light infantry up behind him with two hundred crossbowmen and scaling tools."

"I'll need the Hospitallers to hold the western approach," Balian added, looking at the Grand Master.

"They'll have it," the man replied, tightening the leather of his gloves.

Baldwin turned to Joscelin. "Take five hundred and act as a false column. March directly up the main road as though we intend a frontal assault. Make as much noise as possible, draw their attention."

"I shall shout loud enough for every Saracen in the Beqaa to hear me," Joscelin replied.

Baldwin smiled faintly. "Good."

As the men dispersed, Baldwin rose slowly. His legs trembled under his weight, and his breath caught in his throat. Balian lingered behind and offered an arm.

"I'm fine," Baldwin said.

"You're not," Balian said softly. "You're running out of strength, Baldwin."

"Then I'll spend what I have wisely."

He looked toward the east, where the sun now washed the mountains in gold. Somewhere beyond those jagged spines lay Baalbek—and behind it, Damascus.

"They're coming hard now," Baldwin said. "We need to be faster."

That evening, as campfires sparked across the slope and the men sharpened blades and repaired harness, the air hung heavy with tension. Riders came and went with intelligence: Saracen banners spotted in the passes, drums heard in the wind.

In the command tent, Baldwin stood alone, looking over the maps once more by lantern light. He circled the ridgeline with charcoal and murmured to himself.

"Take the pass. Choke the road. Drive them into the valleys."

The race for the heights had begun.