CHAPTER 74 - 74: THE LION AT THE GATES

Date: April 5th, 1180Location: Damascus

The spring wind blew cool and sharp over Damascus, rustling the banners atop its ancient towers. Inside the fortified citadel, a war council gathered in the high chamber, thick with the murmur of commanders and advisors. Saladin stood at the center, his face grim, his eyes on the large table map now crowded with markers and new reports.

"...and as of two nights ago, the banners of Jerusalem and England were sighted again on the ridge," said Qutb ad-Din, tapping a point just west of the Qalamoun range. "They've been advancing slowly, keeping a tight formation. Their scouts drive back ours. They are not hiding."

Imad ad-Din stepped forward, parchment in hand. "They move with deliberate confidence. Their numbers are significant—over twenty thousand by our scouts' count. Their standard bearers stretch across the hills, and the banners of England are plainly seen."

Saladin remained silent, studying the map. The host was advancing from the north, down through the Beqaa Valley, on the main road to Damascus. Not a raid, not a feint—it was a campaign.

One of the Syrian emirs shifted uneasily. "This... this is no diversion. They are coming directly for the city."

"It is Richard of England who leads them," Imad added, unfolding the parchment and setting it on the table. "Our informants confirm it. The second son of Henry of England. Young, bold, and already famed among the Franks for courage and discipline."

"Richard," Saladin muttered. "The Lionheart."

He had heard the name already—once during the Sicilian raids, again when he led drills with Baldwin's troops near Jerusalem. The boy was no ordinary noble. He inspired loyalty, drove his men with fire, and fought like a veteran despite his age. And now he stood at the head of a powerful host, marching straight toward Damascus.

"What else do we know of their movements?" Saladin asked.

Qutb ad-Din gestured across the table. "They follow the mountain passes. Narrow ridges, steep valleys—places where cavalry cannot be used easily. They bring pikes and crossbows in large numbers, just as they did at Jacob's Ford."

Saladin nodded slowly. The memory of that ambush was still sharp in his mind. The Franks had waited behind barricades and bristling spear lines, cutting down his cavalry in the mud. He would not allow such a mistake again.

One of the emirs—an older man from Hama—leaned forward. "And the second army? The one from Jerusalem?"

Saladin didn't look up. "Still moving. Larger. Heavier. Slower. But less visible."

"Then it is this army, Richard's army, that is the greater danger," the emir said.

"Yes," Saladin replied. "They are the hammer. The spearpoint."

There was a pause in the room. All eyes turned toward him.

"I have already ordered full mobilization," Saladin announced firmly. "The army is gathered. We did not wait for this moment. The garrisons from Homs, Baalbek, and Aleppo have already begun to move. Damascus is being fortified as we speak—engineers are raising defenses outside the walls, and supply caravans are secured along the southern and western roads."

"And where will we meet them?" asked Nasir al-Din, one of the central commanders.

"Not on open plains," Saladin said. "We will draw them further east, to the rocky ground beyond Darayya. There, cavalry can strike from multiple angles and fall back into tight ridges if needed. The English pike blocks will have less room to maneuver."

Another voice interjected—a Mamluk officer. "But if they lay siege instead?"

"Then they will pay for every hour in blood," Saladin said coldly.

The room fell silent again. Outside, the distant hum of the city filled the windows—merchants shouting in the souk, smiths hammering at blades, and the muezzin's call to prayer echoing off the stones.

Saladin turned toward the eastern-facing window. Beyond the gardens of the citadel, he could see the rooftops of Damascus rising like a sea of terracotta and whitewash. This was the crown jewel of Syria—ancient, holy, vital. If it fell, the entire eastern flank of the Ayyubid realm would fracture.

He would not let that happen.

"Send word to the emirs in Egypt," he said. "Tell them that Damascus is the priority. I will handle the English prince myself."

"And if Baldwin strikes from the south?" Imad asked.

Saladin turned back. "Then we will know soon enough. But until that moment, all roads lead here. Richard has declared his intentions with fire and banners. We will meet him in battle and break him before the others can arrive."

Another emir leaned forward. "And if we are wrong?"

Saladin looked at him directly. "Then we will adapt. But we will not stand still."

He stepped to the center of the chamber once more.

"Gather the men. Send fresh scouts west to the Qalamoun peaks and south toward the Ghouta. Begin rotating the cavalry into reserve camps closer to the city. I want every horse ready, every sword sharpened."

"And the city?" asked a Damascene magistrate. "Should we prepare for a siege?"

"Only if we fail to meet them before they arrive."

He looked around the room once more.

"We hold the beating heart of Syria. If they take it, they will bleed us dry. So we will not let them. Let the Lion of England come—we have fought lions before."

As the meeting broke and the commanders dispersed, Saladin remained still by the window. Far to the northwest, the horizon shimmered in a dusty haze, hiding the distant armies approaching through the hills. The banners of Jerusalem and England would soon darken his doorstep.

But he would meet them—not with panic or delay, but with steel and resolve.