CHAPTER 77 - 77: THE STORM BEFORE THE GATES

April 30th - Gates of Aleppo

The cold wind of Syria bit beneath Baldwin's cloak as he sat astride his destrier on the rocky slope overlooking Aleppo. The horizon shimmered with dust and movement—his army unfolding in disciplined waves across the hills and valleys that surrounded the ancient stronghold. It was now mid-April 1180, and the campaign that had begun with whispers in Rome and Sicily had brought them to the threshold of one of Islam's most prized fortresses.

He watched in silence, silver mask gleaming in the morning sun, as the siege engineers began positioning the massive stormracks and trebuchets near the tree line. Behind them, soldiers unloaded lumber and stones, building mantlets and wooden firing platforms with the steady precision of practiced men. Pikes stood like forests in the morning light. Flags flapped from high standards bearing the golden Jerusalem cross. His army—his crusade—was assembling to strike.

But Baldwin had no intention of laying siege for months.

"Your Grace," said Hugh of Ibelin, approaching with his helmet tucked beneath one arm. "Our spies confirm it again. The garrison that once held Aleppo's walls marched south three weeks ago. The walls remain guarded, yes, but by merchants, old militia, and frightened conscripts. Saladin's main forces are still concentrated around Damascus."

Baldwin's heart quickened behind the silver mask. Aleppo had always been a hard nut to crack in history. That it now stood vulnerable was either divine providence—or a trap. He turned to Richard, now riding up beside him with his massive warhammer slung across his back.

"They're stretched thin," said Richard, eyes fierce and smiling beneath his mail. "We strike now, and we catch them by the throat. You have only to give the order, Baldwin."

The king sat a moment longer, thinking. A siege would take weeks, even months. That delay would allow Saladin time to recover, to call his emirs, to bring his full strength down upon them. But a direct assault—swift and furious—might crack the city open before anyone could react. They had the men, they had the machines, and they had the shock of surprise.

He gave a slow nod. "Then we attack at first light. No slow siege. No mercy."

The command staff stood silently a moment, knowing what that meant.

"We'll lead with the Frankish knights and the heavy infantry," Baldwin continued. "They'll push through the gates and hold the breach. The pikemen form behind, wall to wall, with crossbowmen under cover of mantlets. Once the towers go up, we hit from above and below at the same time."

"And the engineers?" asked Reynald de Châtillon, adjusting his scarred gauntlets.

"They'll target the southern wall. It's weakest there. A full bombardment. If we time it right, we'll breach the wall just as we storm the gate."

A storm. That's what it would be. Sudden. Unrelenting. A storm of steel and fire that would decide the future of Syria.

The dawn came blood-red and cold. Baldwin stood behind the first formation of heavy infantry as the drums began to thunder, slow and steady. The warhorns followed, echoing off the hills in haunting crescendos. Aleppo's walls stood tall in the distance, but even from here Baldwin could see movement—confused and panicked—along the ramparts. Saladin had not returned. His gamble had worked.

"Now," Baldwin murmured. "Begin."

At once, the trebuchets loosed their first barrage. Massive stones soared into the sky like meteors, descending with shrieks and thunderous crashes upon the southern wall. Dust and stone erupted, screaming defenders fell, and towers trembled. One strike hit true, collapsing part of a battlement into rubble.

"Push forward!" came the cry.

The heavy infantry began their march, shields raised and stormracks advancing behind them. Iron bolts hissed through the air, fired from hundreds of crossbows in rotating lines, forcing the remaining defenders to duck or die. The infantry surged ahead in a disciplined wave—shields interlocked, pikes forming a hedge of death.

Baldwin rode behind them, surrounded by his royal guard and banner-men. He could see Richard already at the left flank, leading a company of English and Gascon knights straight for the gates. The Lionheart's warhammer crushed down a defender who'd leapt from the walls, and Richard roared above the din, "No quarter!"

Ladders slammed against stone. Men began to climb. Torches were hurled, pitch ignited, and flames licked the base of the gates. Engineers wheeled up a covered ram, a great wooden beast named Judgment, reinforced with iron and oxhide. It began to pound against the city's main gate. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The defenders fought like cornered animals. Arrows rained down. Boiling oil poured from murder holes. Rocks crushed men like twigs. A fire broke out along the siege ladders—but still the army climbed, step by bloody step.

Baldwin saw a cluster of militia forming on the right tower. He turned to one of his signalers and said, "Signal Tower Two—bring it down!"

The trebuchet crews adjusted. A moment later, a stone covered in oil and fire arced high into the sky and crashed directly onto the tower. Flames exploded, and screams followed. The tower sagged. Then collapsed, scattering defenders in every direction.

The morale of the defenders faltered. Baldwin could see it even from here. They weren't trained soldiers, not anymore. They were overwhelmed by terror, confusion, and the wrath of God's army.

"Gates cracking, Sire!" shouted Hugh from the line. "The ram is nearly through!"

A cheer rose from the men below. Baldwin spurred his horse forward, down toward the second wave of knights.

"You ride with me," he said to his guard. "We breach together."

The gates burst open at last with a howl of splintered wood and flame. "FOR JERUSALEM!" came the cry as the first wave charged through.

The narrow gateway became a killing zone. Men collided with axe and sword. Screams filled the smoke. Blood soaked the earth. Baldwin's royal guard poured in beside him, shields high, striking down defenders too slow to flee.

Baldwin's own sword crashed down onto a militiaman, splitting his helmet with a sickening crack. Another lunged at him with a spear—Baldwin caught it on his shield, twisted, and stabbed low into the man's thigh, then his throat. The king moved with brutal precision—not a boy king anymore, but a hardened war-leader who knew every beat of the battlefield.

"Advance!" he shouted. "Secure the square!"

Richard and Reynald's companies cleared the gate path as crossbowmen poured in behind them, firing into upper balconies where archers still fought. A team of pikemen marched forward, forming tight blocks that swept the narrow alleys. Everywhere they went, they cut down pockets of resistance like harvesting wheat.

To the south, part of the wall buckled under a final strike, and with a tremendous groan of ancient stone, the lower bastion collapsed. Baldwin's engineers cheered—and the third wave charged through the dust and fire to take advantage of the second breach.

Aleppo, once the fortress jewel of the north, was now bleeding on every side.

By mid-morning, Baldwin stood in the heart of the city's central square. Smoke rose from burning granaries and fallen towers. His sword was notched, his mask stained with grime and blood, but his back was straight.

"Status?" he asked as commanders gathered.

Hugh saluted. "Gate secure. Wall breaches controlled. Southern quarter under our control. Resistance is fragmented. The local emir is dead—killed during the gate breach."

"And the citadel?"

Richard pointed across the rooftops. "Still resisting. They've holed up there. Might take a few more hours."

"Take it before nightfall," Baldwin ordered. "No mercy for those who resist."

By dusk, the citadel had fallen. Aleppo belonged to the Cross.

The golden banner of Jerusalem rose over its central tower, catching the last rays of sunlight. Baldwin stood and watched it fly, surrounded by his generals, while priests moved among the wounded and gave last rites to the dying.

"We've struck deep," said Hugh. "And fast. Saladin won't be able to ignore this."

"No," Baldwin said. "Now he must come to us."

He turned away from the city to look toward the east, where the roads led to Damascus. Let Saladin believe the diversion army was his real enemy. Let him chase shadows.

The real danger had just claimed one of Islam's greatest cities in a single bloody day.

And the storm was only beginning.