CHAPTER 86 - 86: A KING’S TRAP

May 20th, 1180 – Outskirts of Aleppo

The sun had barely crested the eastern horizon when the dust trails became visible in the distance. Hundreds of scouts and outriders flowed over the Syrian hills, returning with a single message: Baldwin was already deployed. Saladin's great host, stretching miles behind him, slowed as the reports filtered through the leading columns.

The Sultan stood tall in his saddle, eyes narrowing beneath the black folds of his turban. His warhorse, a dark Syrian charger, pawed the earth beneath him. Before him stretched the edge of the plains south of Aleppo, where Baldwin's army had formed ranks behind natural rises in the terrain, their camp well-ordered, their pickets alert. Standards of the golden Jerusalem cross snapped in the wind beside rows of war wagons and pike squares.

Saladin's face betrayed nothing, but his jaw tightened.

"So," he murmured, "the Leper King has set the table."

He turned in the saddle as his commanders came up beside him—Taqi al-Din, al-Adil, Gökböri of Mosul, and several of the lesser emirs. The sun glinted off their polished armor, and behind them came an endless procession of soldiers: Mamluks, Bedouin light cavalry, Kurdish infantry, and contingents from as far away as Hama and Harran.

Taqi al-Din leaned forward, his voice low. "We are not late. We can still bend him back toward the hills. Or draw him into more open ground."

Saladin did not answer at first. He kept his eyes fixed on the terrain. Baldwin's lines were orderly, just beyond a shallow ravine flanked by low, brush-covered rises—not quite a bottleneck, but close. If they were to charge, they'd be funneled.

"How far ahead is he?" Saladin asked a courier who had galloped in from the forward scouts.

"Two days, perhaps three," the man replied, sweat gleaming on his forehead. "But he's not moving. He's entrenched."

"Of course he is," Saladin muttered. "He wants us to come to him. Just like at Jacob's Ford."

At that name, silence fell briefly over the group.

Gökböri was the first to break it. "We cannot underestimate him again. The last time we assumed his illness weakened his mind, we lost five thousand men."

"And allowed him to conquer Aleppo," added al-Adil grimly.

Saladin gestured to the ground ahead. "He has not made the position so strong as to deter us entirely, has he?"

"No," Taqi al-Din replied, dismounting and crouching near the edge of the hill to study the terrain. "It is defensible, yes—but not fortress-like. He has not dug trenches nor built earthworks. His men are alert, but not behind walls. He wants us to believe we have a chance."

Saladin smiled thinly. "He is learning to bait the lion."

"And you are no lion to be baited easily," Gökböri said, though the tension in his voice betrayed his concern.

Another scout galloped up, dust-covered and breathless. "My lord—Bohemond's army has been spotted again. They harass the supply wagons. They ride out at night. They burn bridges, then vanish into the hills."

Saladin's eyes narrowed. "Still? Even now?"

"Yes, my Sultan. And—" the scout hesitated, "—we believe it was never Richard who led that force. It's confirmed—Bohemond of Antioch commands it now."

Saladin absorbed this in silence. The deception had been clever—Richard's reputation was fearsome and would have distracted any general. But the truth was even more damning: the king had outmaneuvered him again, while he chased shadows and burned time.

He looked toward the north, where his columns stretched for miles—nearly thirty thousand men, though not all were battle-ready. Some had been summoned hastily from Mosul and the Jazira, others were conscripted along the way. His core army, about 20,000 strong, remained formidable—but the terrain before him was not friendly to cavalry. Worse, his scouts were reporting dead livestock, cut roads, poisoned wells. Baldwin's raiders had done their work well.

Saladin gestured for his officers to dismount.

"Bring the map," he ordered.

They formed a circle as a servant spread a large leather map across a flat rock. Candles were lit despite the morning sun, as the shadows under the awning made visibility poor. Saladin's fingers hovered over the plains south of Aleppo.

"He's forcing us to attack here," he said. "If we retreat, we lose all initiative. If we delay, Bohemond will burn our rear. If we split, we risk isolation."

Al-Adil frowned. "What if we feint? Send part of the army to loop around and cut his supplies?"

Saladin shook his head. "We are the ones stretched. He has the city. He controls the grain and the wells now. And he bypassed the small towns—he is fast. Mobile."

"We can wait," Gökböri suggested. "Let his men tire under the sun."

Saladin glanced at him. "And give him more time to fortify? To dig in? Every day we wait, the battlefield becomes more his."

They fell silent again.

It was al-Din who spoke next. "Then perhaps the only way forward... is forward."

Saladin studied the ground. "Not a full assault. We probe first. Harass his lines. Test for weaknesses. If we find none, we fall back and choose better terrain."

Gökböri nodded slowly. "He will expect that."

"Let him." Saladin stood, gazing once more toward the enemy's position. "This is not the Baldwin of old. This is a man reborn. But he is still mortal."

The wind shifted slightly, blowing the smell of dry earth and distant smoke toward them. Somewhere ahead, the Christians had begun singing hymns—low, defiant, unbroken.

"We rest here," Saladin ordered. "Tonight, I want our scouts everywhere. I want the measure of every tree, every hill, every stream. And send another messenger to Homs—tell them we may need reinforcements."

"And if he forces battle before they arrive?" al-Adil asked.

Saladin's eyes burned with quiet fire. "Then we give him the battle he seeks."

As the command rippled outward, thousands of tents began to rise. Sentries were posted, the wounded tended, and the commanders dispersed to organize the men for whatever might come.

But deep in Saladin's thoughts, one fear stirred: that once again, Baldwin had set the battlefield before the Sultan ever laid eyes on it.

And this time, there would be no easy retreat.