CHAPTER 112: 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.

A group of Saracens fought their way toward the mangonel platform. Two succeeded in getting to the base and threw torches upward, only for one to be cut down by a crossbow bolt through the chest. The other, wounded, managed to start a small blaze—but it was quickly extinguished by a Hospitaller wielding a bucket of sand and a wooden shield.

The skirmish lasted fifteen minutes.

By the time the Saracens pulled back under cover of darkness, they had lost twenty-eight men. Eight Franks were dead—most of them archers and two unfortunate engineers caught near the fire lines. A dozen more were wounded, including one knight who had taken a curved dagger to the ribs before dispatching his attacker.

Baldwin arrived shortly after the fighting ended, wrapped in a black cloak. He stood beside the great trebuchet and examined the scorched wheel. The damage was minor.

"They were bold," he murmured, glancing toward the city. "But not bold enough."

Raymond of Tiberias approached, his sword still drawn. "We’ve reinforced the eastern ditch with caltrops and spikes. Tomorrow they won’t get that close."

"They won’t have time," Baldwin replied. "At dawn, we bring up the towers."

Morning of July 23, 1180 – The Next Day

The first golden rays of sunlight fell upon an army in motion. Hundreds of Frankish soldiers and laborers strained against ropes and levers as the great siege towers began to roll forward. Each one was three stories tall, covered in damp hides to resist fire, and mounted with small crossbow platforms at the top. Their wheels groaned as they moved over the rocky terrain—slowly but surely toward the battered eastern wall of Damascus.

Behind the towers marched columns of infantry—spearmen, shieldmen, and light footmen carrying ladders and mantlets. Their armor clinked in rhythm with each step, banners flapping above their heads.

Baldwin watched from a raised observation platform near the middle of the field. He stood flanked by Templar and Hospitaller commanders. His gaze was locked on the walls ahead.

"Are they reacting?" he asked.

"Not yet," Balian of Ibelin answered. "They’ve moved some archers to the tower by the aqueduct, but the wall looks thinly held. Either they’re conserving forces... or planning something."

Baldwin nodded. "Then we force their hand."

He turned to a runner. "Order the eastern tower to close within bow range and raise its front shields. The northern engine will strike the crenellations at the same time. Begin the pressure."

The order spread quickly.

From across the field, the tower named Judgment’s Gate began to roll forward at an angle, its forward platform protected by thick wooden planks soaked in vinegar. Behind it came companies of infantry with large rectangular shields. Archers climbed into the tower’s third level, preparing to exchange volleys.

At the same time, Saint Catherine’s Fury loosed another boulder. It slammed into the upper wall, sending shards of plaster and stone flying. Shouts rose from behind the wall as defenders ducked out of the way.

Then the Saracens struck.

A wave of arrows rained down from the ramparts—crossbow bolts, long arrows, even javelins. Several Frankish infantrymen dropped immediately. The tower shuddered as flaming pots smashed against its sides, though the soaked hides resisted ignition.

From the interior of Damascus, a hidden mangonel fired—a rare working piece the defenders had salvaged. The shot missed wide, slamming into an olive grove, but the message was clear. The defenders would not allow an easy breach.

As the tower approached the wall, a narrow gap opened in the Saracen lines.

"Now!" Baldwin ordered.

The infantry rushed forward, shields raised above their heads. A chorus of horns sounded. Ladders were hauled up, mantlets dragged behind them. Archers behind the line loosed volleys to cover the advance.

From the top of Judgment’s Gate, Frankish archers returned fire in deadly rhythm. One Saracen crossbowman was thrown from the wall, his body flipping before it landed in a heap. Another defender was struck in the throat and collapsed behind the parapet.

As the siege tower closed in, its drawbridge creaked open—too far to land, but preparing.

Then came disaster.

A hidden pit—dug by Saracens the night before and covered in brush—snared the left wheel of the tower. With a terrible groan, the tower leaned, creaked, and halted, the wheel sunk deeply into the earth.

"God’s blood," Balian cursed from Baldwin’s side.

"Engineers, forward! Dig it out!" Baldwin barked. "Get ropes on the left flank. I don’t care if it takes until dusk—move that tower!"

Below, men scrambled to reinforce the wheel and build planks across the pit. Meanwhile, the second tower advanced more cautiously toward a different part of the wall, to the northeast, drawing less attention. Its crews moved slowly but steadily, using logs to roll over rough patches.

Saracen archers shifted fire to the second tower. A few flames took hold of the hide wrappings on its side, but sappers doused the fire before it spread.

By mid-afternoon, both towers were near enough to begin launching drawbridges—still not yet touching the walls, but within thirty feet. More boulders from Saint Catherine’s Fury and Justice of God pounded the towers near the gate. Chunks of masonry broke off in sheets.

But the walls of Damascus still stood.

Baldwin lowered his spyglass, eyes narrowed. "We push again tomorrow. When we breach, I want all three towers aligned with infantry support."

"Casualties?" he asked quietly.

"Sixty-two dead today, mostly from missile fire. Another hundred wounded. Saracens are likely worse," Balian replied. "But no towers lost."

"Then we press on," Baldwin said. "And we do not stop until that city is ours."

He turned back toward the camp, already calling for his scribes.