CHAPTER 113: CHAPTER 113: SIEGE OF DAMASCUS 3

Date: July 30, 1180Location: Damascus – Saracen Point of View

The call to prayer echoed faintly through the city, distorted and hollow beneath the weight of war. The muezzins’ voices, once proud and unwavering, now trembled slightly with fatigue—like the walls they called over, shaken and scarred by a week of relentless Christian bombardment.

Inside Damascus, the air was thick with dust and tension. Shops near the eastern quarter stood shuttered, their windows bricked up or covered in cloth to prevent glass from scattering. The city’s famed gardens had withered—dry, brittle stems of mint and fig curling in the sun. The aqueduct from the Barada River, once the artery of the city’s life, had been severed by sappers. Water was now rationed. Wells dug into courtyards delivered only brackish trickles.

The siege had truly begun to show its teeth.

In the great hall of the Citadel, surrounded by scrolls, maps, and wounded messengers, Emir Sa’d al-Din lowered his goblet and listened grimly to the latest report.

"They’ve brought another tower to the southern wall," said the scout, a grizzled veteran with blood caked on his cloak. "It’s smaller, but better protected. Their engines haven’t stopped since the fourth day—two stones every quarter hour, it seems."

Sa’d al-Din rubbed his brow. "Where was the strike?"

"Just past the Gate of Thomas. The wall there is older. One of the buttresses split this morning. I saw the fracture myself."

"Have engineers reinforce it with timber," Sa’d said, though he already knew they had precious little wood left. Most of what remained had been diverted to brace the breach near the aqueduct. "What of the gate?"

"They’ve shifted focus away from it, but the hinges are shaking with each volley. The western gate still holds, but... the eastern wall can’t last another week."

Murmurs of unease rippled through the other commanders seated at the table. Banners of black and green hung behind them, limp in the still summer air. A pitcher of water, half full and guarded like treasure, sat untouched at the center of the map.

"Where is Salah ad-Din?" one of the younger officers asked.

A heavy silence followed.

Emir Izz al-Din cleared his throat. "The Sultan remains in his residence. His wound still festers—he can speak and sit upright, but not command on horseback. The physicians won’t allow him out for more than an hour."

Another man spoke bitterly. "We need him. The men talk. Some say he is dying."

"He is not dying," Izz snapped. "He is recovering. Slowly. But his mind is clear, and he sends orders daily."

Sa’d al-Din nodded wearily. "He tried to come to the Citadel three days ago. Made it as far as the Qubbat al-Khazna before he collapsed from fever. The wound beneath his ribs reopened from the strain."

The silence grew heavier.

"And the people?" another commander asked.

Sa’d leaned back and exhaled. "Afraid. Hungry. But they’ve not turned against us. Not yet."

Not yet. The phrase hung like smoke in the air.

Later That Afternoon – Inside the Sultan’s Residence

The sickroom was dark, curtains drawn tight against the oppressive sun. A single oil lamp flickered beside the bed. Saladin lay propped up on cushions, his face gaunt and drawn. The crossbow bolt wound beneath his ribs was stitched shut again, but inflamed. His skin burned with fever, though his voice retained some of its old iron.

"How long?" he asked the commander kneeling beside him.

"Seven days of bombardment. The Franks hit the walls at night now. They’ve brought in shields, carts, and ladders. They rotate engines to give no rest. Our mangonel was broken yesterday—hit directly by one of their shots."

"And the morale?"

The commander hesitated. "The men will fight. But there are whispers. Some of the emirs want to retreat to Hauran. Others want to negotiate."

Saladin’s brow furrowed. "Negotiate? With them? With the poisoners of Aleppo, the invaders of Hama and Baalbek?"

He tried to rise but hissed in pain and fell back against the cushions.

The physician at his side moved quickly to press a cloth to the wound. "Sidi, you must rest—"

"I must lead," Saladin growled, teeth clenched. "My absence... it feeds their fear."

"You nearly died trying to walk two days ago," the doctor snapped, forgetting his place. "You will not lead anything if you rupture the wound again."

The commander bowed his head. "Forgive me, Sultan. But the men need orders. What shall we do when the walls fall?"

Saladin was quiet for a moment. His eyes turned toward the eastern window, where faint vibrations still shook the shutters with every distant impact.

"If the walls fall, we fall back to the inner quarter," he said at last. "Barricades, chokepoints. Fight them house to house."

"And if that fails?"

"Then we buy time. Every day we hold them here, Egypt grows stronger. The seas may yet turn."

The commander said nothing.

Saladin’s eyes narrowed. "Is Egypt still silent?"

"Yes, my lord."

He turned away.

That Night – Inside the City

In the eastern quarter, the tremors had become constant. Children cried with each crash. Civilians fled deeper into the city, seeking shelter in stone-walled mosques or the vaults of merchant houses.

Water was now strictly rationed—one jug per household, per day. Food carts had stopped appearing. The bazaar was closed. A loaf of bread fetched the price of a gold ring.

On the wall itself, fatigue etched every face. Archers slumped behind battlements, hands blistered and eyes red. Saracen engineers poured sand between wooden braces, reinforcing crumbling stretches of stone with anything they could find—plaster, old doors, the bones of ruined carts.

And still, the Christians did not relent.

With each dawn, the horizon brought more of their banners, fluttering arrogantly. The sound of their engines, once terrifying, had become a kind of cruel rhythm—stone after stone, like a drumbeat of doom.

The people of Damascus endured—but how much longer could they?