CHAPTER 83 - 83: SHADOWS AT THEIR HEELS

May 15, 1180North of Homs, on the march to Aleppo

The midday sun hung low behind a veil of thin clouds, casting long, diffused shadows across the dusty Syrian plain. Saladin's army pressed forward—an immense host of men, beasts, and banners snaking along the road like a living river. Drums beat in steady rhythm to keep the pace. Dust clouded the horizon, kicked up by thousands of hooves and sandaled feet.

Over 25,000 men followed the Sultan northward, including seasoned mamluk cavalry, Kurdish horse archers, Arab tribal auxiliaries, and hardened foot soldiers. Supply wagons rumbled behind them, escorted by detachments of skirmishers and scouts. It was a forced march—long days and little rest—but Saladin allowed no delay. Aleppo had fallen. The blow to morale, to prestige, to Islam itself, had been sharp and immediate. A week ago, the banner of Jerusalem fluttered above its walls. Now, it was personal.

In the command tent—pitched hastily under a grove of cedar trees just off the road—Saladin stood bent over a map of northern Syria, the corners of the parchment pinned with small stones. His key commanders gathered around him, eyes grim, voices low. Among them stood Taqi al-Din, his nephew, grizzled and loyal; Gökböri, the tall and eagle-eyed Emir of Mosul's contingent; and Shihab al-Din, chief of Saladin's intelligence network.

The tent flap opened. A rider entered, dusty and breathless. He knelt.

"My lord, message from the rearguard. Bohemond of Antioch commands the Frankish host trailing behind us. They are raiding again—light cavalry striking at the edges of our column, burning forage stocks, driving off livestock."

A tense silence fell.

"What?" Saladin snapped. He leaned forward in the saddle.

The scout paused. "Bohemond of Antioch. He rides at their head."

The announcement hit the war council like a thrown spear.

"So... it is not Richard after all," he murmured, mostly to himself.

The assumption that Richard of England had been leading the army marching from Acre had framed much of his earlier strategy. The Lionheart was known for ferocious charges and frontal strength, for hurling his men into the heart of the fight. If Richard had been at the head, it would have explained the aggressive movement toward Damascus. But Bohemond?

Saladin's jaw tightened. He glanced toward the south, in the direction of Damascus, and then northeast toward Aleppo. "The Englishman was never the commander. They baited us."

"Bohemond is no fool," al-Adil muttered. "And he knows this land as well as we do. He's not trying to seize territory—he's bleeding us. If we commit to Damascus, he will keep our rear in flames. If we turn back, he retreats into the hills."

Murmurs broke out among the commanders. Emir Taqi al-Din scowled. "We were meant to believe they sought Damascus. All the signs pointed there—banners, campfires, scouts along the road."

"They inflated their ranks," another emir added. "We believed them to be thirty thousand strong."

Taqi al-Din cursed under his breath. "They know exactly where to hurt us. These raids are deliberate. They harass us to slow our pace and stretch our supply lines thin."

Gökböri nodded, eyes flicking toward the map. "They do not seek battle. Not yet. But they mean to make our march a misery."

Saladin straightened, stepping back from the table. "Baldwin planned this well. The diversion host—though smaller—is acting like a phantom. We thought it would vanish once we saw through the trick. Instead, it hounds us."

He turned to Shihab al-Din. "How many supply wagons were taken in the last strike?"

"Four, Sultan. Mostly grain. The escorts fought bravely, but they were outnumbered. The Franks avoided direct confrontation—they scattered before the main guard could respond."

Saladin's jaw clenched. "Bohemond is playing the coward's game—but a clever coward's game. He will not fight in the open, not unless he chooses the field."

Taqi al-Din leaned forward. "Let me take a contingent of cavalry. We can sweep the area and drive him off."

"No," Saladin said firmly. "That is what he wants. If we divide our force now, it invites ambush or worse. We press on to Aleppo. The city must be retaken. Its fall is an insult to the faith and a blow to our legitimacy. Every delay lets Baldwin tighten his grip there."

The war council nodded, albeit reluctantly.

"But we must protect the column," Saladin continued. "From this moment forward, every fourth unit will rotate rearguard duty. Scouts are to triple their patrols. Any trace of Bohemond's force is to be tracked and reported immediately."

He turned to his quartermaster. "Spread out the baggage train—break it into three smaller segments and stagger their movement. They'll be easier to defend that way."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the tent.

"The real danger," Shihab al-Din said slowly, "is if Bohemond's force draws us into a trap—lures us into unfavorable ground, perhaps a defile or narrow pass. These Franks have stormracks, pikes, crossbowmen. If we pursue rashly, we may be repaid in blood."

Saladin nodded. "We will not chase ghosts. But we must be wary. The terrain north of Hama offers some tight valleys. I want riders in all of them—no surprises."

He stepped out of the tent and surveyed the moving column. The banners of Damascus and Cairo rippled in the wind. The air smelled of sweat, dust, and leather. The men were weary, but their eyes were sharp. Many had fought in Egypt, others in Mesopotamia. They were veterans. But veterans bled just the same when pikes and bolts were waiting in the hills.

As the sun began to dip westward, casting golden light across the plains, Saladin called out orders for the night camp. Perimeter patrols were doubled. Fires were kept low. The Sultan remained at the heart of the camp, surrounded by his bodyguard of Faris knights, ever alert.

That evening, as he knelt to pray, he murmured quietly to God: "Give me strength. Let me retake what was lost. Let them not say I let Aleppo fall and did nothing."

When he rose, Gökböri awaited him nearby.

"My lord," the tall emir said, "the men are ready. But they are asking questions. They want to know if you'll take the bait."

Saladin smiled thinly. "There is no bait. Only a thorn in our heel. We remove it once Aleppo is restored."

And in the darkness beyond their campfires, Bohemond's riders watched from the hills.