CHAPTER 85 - 85: THE FIELD OF RECKONING

May 19, 1180 – Southeast of Aleppo

The late morning sun filtered through the hazy Syrian sky, casting long shadows across the undulating hills. From his vantage atop a modest rise just east of Aleppo, King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem sat astride his black stallion, staring out across the dry, open terrain. The wind tugged at his cloak and the golden cross banner fluttered above him, snapping in the breeze like the beat of war drums yet to come.

He said nothing for several long moments, letting the wind speak and the dust carry whispers of coming battle. Around him, his captains waited — Richard of England, Balian of Ibelin, Reynald of Châtillon, and Joscelin of Courtenay, along with commanders of the Templars and Hospitallers. Their horses stamped anxiously, as if they sensed the tension in their riders.

"This is the place," Baldwin finally said, his voice even but low behind the silver mask that covered his ravaged face. "But we are not to make it look like a fortress."

The captains looked to each other in surprise. It was unlike Baldwin to leave a battlefield anything less than surgically prepared.

He raised a hand, cutting off any question. "Saladin must think we are vulnerable here. That we grew overconfident with the taking of Aleppo. He must believe he can smash us in one blow before returning to Damascus or the coast."

"Tempt him," Richard muttered, eyes narrowing. "We're baiting him."

"Exactly," Baldwin replied. "Let him believe this ground was chosen in haste. That our lines are stretched, our footing uncertain. We'll hold the real strength just beneath the surface. When he strikes, he'll find the soil giving way beneath his own feet."

He gestured to the terrain. The land sloped gently upward from the southeast, offering an inviting line of approach to any advancing army. Yet behind that incline lay shallow wadis — dry riverbeds with jagged, uneven footing — and low mounds of stony earth that would break up cavalry formations if they charged unaware. It was not a perfect trap, but it could be made convincing.

"We'll post watchfires and canvas tents in scattered lines," Baldwin continued. "Fewer visible palisades. Let the sentries appear poorly spaced, as if we're conserving men. But the pike companies will lie behind that far ridge, ready to form when the horns sound."

Balian nodded. "We'll need discipline. If one man panics too soon—"

"He won't," Baldwin said. "Not if he knows what's at stake. Not after Aleppo."

Orders were dispatched immediately. Unlike other fields they had fortified, this one would remain largely unbroken — no wide trenches, no lines of sharpened stakes in open view. Instead, engineers disguised narrow pits along expected cavalry routes with thin thatch and loose soil. Archers took position within sparse groves, their presence hidden by careful spacing and makeshift camouflage. The few siege devices they brought — stormracks, mangonels, and scorpions — were stowed under tarpaulins until needed.

As the midday heat set in, soldiers set about erecting camps in deliberately loose formations. Commanders made a show of arguing near the tent clusters, exaggerating signs of disorder. The deception needed to be subtle, but enough for Saladin's forward scouts to notice.

From a distance, the Crusader army might appear too relaxed, their defenses half-built, their discipline shaken.

But beneath that illusion, Baldwin's army was ready.

That evening, the war council met beneath a wide linen canopy, pitched just outside Baldwin's command tent. The map laid out on the table was updated with new scout reports — red pegs marked known enemy movements, blue for Crusader units. Saladin was marching quickly, as Baldwin had predicted. His advance force would be within striking range in three days at most.

"The enemy's banner count suggests over twenty thousand," reported a Frankish scout, eyes weary from the road. "Columns are stretched. Supply wagons heavy. They do not expect battle so soon."

"Good," Baldwin murmured. "Let them come tired."

Richard studied the map. "And if he sees through the illusion?"

"Then we fight him anyway," Baldwin said. "But at least we control the field."

He tapped the ridgeline behind their position. "This hill masks our reserve. Three thousand infantry here, dug in behind the curve. They'll hold formation until I give the order. We'll draw them forward, then strike from the flanks. Reynald, your cavalry will wait beyond this rise on the far left — hidden in the olive grove. Hit them once they overextend."

"And if he sends horse archers?" Balian asked.

"They won't have open ground," Baldwin said. "Their best terrain lies behind them now. We've moved too far into the hills for them to maneuver freely. If they waste arrows softening us, let them."

A priest, Father Raymond of Jaffa, stood nearby, watching the sky. "We must consecrate the field," he murmured. "Before the sun sets. It would be sinful to let the blood of so many spill on unblessed ground."

"You'll have your rites," Baldwin said.

The first golden rays of dawn spilled across the barren plain outside the city walls. A hush had fallen over the assembled men. Rows of knights stood silently, their helmets held beneath their arms, heads bowed. Infantrymen knelt in reverent silence. Even the horses seemed subdued, the chill of morning fog clinging to their flanks.

At the center stood a makeshift altar of unhewn stone. Upon it lay a Gospel—bound in red leather, trimmed with gold leaf, its spine still stiff with newness. It was not an ancient manuscript copied by a monk's hand under candlelight. No—this Gospel had been printed. Baldwin's press. Baldwin's vision. The Word of God, multiplied and made more accessible than ever before.

Three priests approached in solemn procession. The eldest, Father Arnulf, bore a censer swinging on a silver chain, sending coils of frankincense into the still air. Behind him, the younger priests carried a cask of holy water, beside the Gospel stood a silver crucifix, and behind that...

They came.

A procession of barefoot priests, chanting in solemn Latin. Four armored knights followed behind them—not merely men-at-arms, but chosen guardians of the holiest relic in all of Christendom.

Between them, they bore the True Cross.

Not a splinter. Not a reliquary fragment. The whole Cross, gilded and mounted in a gold and silver framework, adorned with precious stones and covered in crimson silk that fluttered in the wind. The moment the Cross crested the small ridge, a gasp swept through the army. Helmets were removed. Men fell to their knees. Some wept openly. Others crossed themselves over and over.

Baldwin—his silver mask gleaming in the rising sun—stood nearby with his knights. His voice was low but firm.

"Let no man forget what we fight for. Let this land be claimed not by blood alone, but by the grace of Heaven."

Father Arnulf stepped onto the prepared ground. His voice rang out, aged but strong.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..."

"By the authority of the Church, and by the faith of the righteous, we bless this ground. Let it be holy, a place set apart for the will of God. May no infidel foot claim it without dread. May no evil spirit dwell here."

He took the holy water and flung it wide with a silver aspergillum, droplets sparkling in the sun.

"Benedic, Domine, terram hanc... May this ground bear no shame, only victory in Thy name."

The censer was swung in slow circles as the priests walked the perimeter, smoke marking the land with sacred breath. Psalms were sung, first by the priests, then joined by the soldiers—deep voices rising in harmony, a defiant hymn that shook the quiet morning.

"Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam..."

When the final rites were spoken, Father Arnulf turned to Baldwin and bowed.

"It is done, my king. The ground is holy."

Baldwin looked to the east, where the enemy would one day approach, and then down to the soil beneath his feet.

"Then let them come," he said. "Let them tread lightly on God's land."

The cross was raised. Trumpets sounded. The army exhaled as one—and rose, as if girded not just in steel, but in sanctity.

As darkness fell, the troops continued quiet preparations. Instead of song or chant, the camp was subdued. Torches were kept low, shielded by cloth. Armor was cleaned without clatter. Swords were sharpened behind canvas, far from listening ears.

Baldwin walked the line alone for a time, speaking to no one, merely observing. The men greeted him with hushed nods, more in awe than affection. They had seen him now — not as a sickly boy-king, but as the strategist who had defied the Sultan twice, and who now gambled everything on a battlefield drawn in lies.

Near midnight, a lone messenger arrived, dusty and breathless, bearing a sealed letter with the sigil of Bohemond of Antioch. The letter, weeks old, confirmed the diversion army's movements — that Saladin had indeed turned north, leaving Damascus lightly guarded.

Baldwin scribbled a reply by lantern-light:

To Bohemond, Prince of Antioch —

Saladin marches for Aleppo. Maintain your raids, but take care not to overextend. If Saladin turns back, strike at his supply lines. Should he commit to battle here, you are to move to harass his rear without engaging directly. Guard the roads south — should the tide turn, the path to Jerusalem must remain clear.

—Baldwin, King of Jerusalem

The letter was sealed and handed to the fastest rider available. Baldwin watched him disappear into the darkness, hooves muffled in the dust.

By dawn, the battlefield looked half-formed. Small groups of knights trained in the distance. Infantry companies practiced forming up, then broke ranks, then reformed again — all part of the act. A few carts were deliberately left overturned near the center to mimic disarray. Sloppily folded tents gave the impression of disorder, and campfires smoked unevenly.

To an enemy commander watching from afar, it would seem a young king had taken a prize and now waited, carelessly, to defend it — resting on the laurels of conquest.

But beneath the surface, Baldwin's army coiled like a serpent in the grass.

The king stood beside the ridge, arms folded, scanning the far horizon. Word would soon come of Saladin's vanguard. There would be no retreat now. The next move belonged to the Sultan.

He turned to Balian of Ibelin, who had ridden up beside him.

"Are you certain this will work?" Balian asked.

"No," Baldwin said. "But I'm certain it must."