CHAPTER 88 - 88: THE BATTLE OF AL-SAHRA 2

May 23, 1180 – Plains outside Aleppo

The air was brittle with tension before dawn. A chill wind swept across the dry Syrian plain as King Baldwin IV stood upon a low ridge overlooking his army's position, his silver mask glinting faintly in the dim light. The banners of Jerusalem fluttered behind him, their golden crosses stark against the black and crimson of morning. To the west, the first hint of sunrise crept over the horizon, bleeding light across the battlefield like a wound.

Baldwin's commanders stood nearby, silent for the moment, as the king observed the final repositioning of their lines. The night had been spent in restless movement—quiet orders, whispered adjustments, careful planning. The trap was set.

Yesterday's skirmishes had confirmed what Baldwin already suspected: Saladin was cautious now. He had lost too much underestimating the leper king before. But this time, Baldwin was not merely repelling a siege or defending a crossing. He was baiting a lion.

At his side, Lord Anseau de Brie lifted his helm slightly and squinted toward the eastern ridges.

"Scouts report movement again, sire. Cavalry, light formations testing our right flank."

Baldwin nodded. "He's still looking for weakness. He'll find none."

The battlefield itself had been chosen with care. A broad, shallow valley opened south of Aleppo, flanked on both sides by broken hills and ridges. To the north, the city loomed with its great citadel and high walls. But Baldwin had deployed his army just far enough from it to prevent an easy retreat into the city—forcing the enemy to either commit or fall back.

The right flank was anchored on a rocky incline where crossbowmen had been stationed behind makeshift barricades of stakes and carts. Pikes bristled in long squares in the center. Behind them, Baldwin had positioned his reserves—heavy cavalry under Guy de Lusignan and Raymond of Galilee. The left flank, more exposed giving it a sense of vulnerability.

"I want Saladin to strike that flank," Baldwin said to his captains, voice quiet but firm. "Let him think I've overcommitted to the center."

The horn blew in the distance. Baldwin's eyes narrowed.

Across the plain, the Ayyubid army was advancing again. Dust churned under their feet, horses neighed, and the banners of Saladin's various emirs whipped in the wind. Thousands of men moved with discipline and precision. From his elevated perch, Baldwin estimated perhaps 22,000 troops in total—light cavalry, archers, and infantry stretched in long, segmented lines.

Unlike the reckless charge at Jacob's Ford, these were not men rushing into death. Saladin had learned. This army came forward with purpose, scouting and striking, feeling for weakness.

"Crossbowmen, ready!" shouted Anseau.

A ripple of tension passed through the forward lines. Baldwin saw movement on the far right—Ayyubid horsemen, perhaps two hundred, riding low to the ground and fast, archers already loosing arrows as they approached.

"They're baiting a response," Baldwin said calmly. "Hold the lines."

The arrows fell in a ragged wave. Shields went up. A few men shouted in pain. The line held.

Crossbows twanged in return. The Saracen riders veered away, losing three or four to the barrage. More came behind them, loosing from a distance, then withdrawing.

For over an hour the rhythm continued—advance, test, retreat. Saladin's probing maneuvers were surgical, never committing too deeply. Small squads of infantry approached the central pike squares, throwing javelins and feigning charges. On the left, a group of camel-mounted archers peppered the ridge with arrows before melting away.

Yet Baldwin did not bite. He issued no orders to countercharge, no chase, no disruption of formation.

On a hill farther south, Saladin himself observed the field, his golden cloak fluttering behind him. The Sultan's face was unreadable beneath his helm, but his frustration was beginning to show. Every maneuver yielded nothing. The Franks held firm.

From his camp command tent just behind the front lines, Baldwin watched the progress on a wide chalk map drawn onto animal hide. Thin metal pieces marked the disposition of both forces, moved regularly by squires based on scout reports. The diversion army under Bohemond was represented by a small crescent on the southern flank—well out of range, but now known to be harassing Saladin's supply lines.

A squire approached breathlessly.

"Your Grace, Saladin's left is reinforcing again. Possibly preparing a greater assault."

"Let them," Baldwin said, turning to Marshal Erard.

"Aye, sire," Erard replied, saluting sharply.

As midday approached, the sun baking the dust into gold, Saladin's forces escalated their testing.

On the right, nearly a thousand light cavalry swept forward in a staggered arc, launching volleys of arrows before veering off, their horses trained to dance just out of crossbow range. The pikes in the center braced again as a body of Ayyubid spearmen approached, this time more committed. Shields locked, they came within twenty yards before the Frankish bolts rained down.

Men screamed, staggered, fell. The rest withdrew in disorder.

Still, no counterattack came.

From the rear, Baldwin's commanders murmured among themselves.

"He's afraid to strike," said Guy de Lusignan. "If this goes on, we may force him to commit by boredom alone."

"No," Baldwin said. "He is waiting. So are we."

Even as he said it, a thunder of hooves approached from the northern ridges. Scouts galloped in, dust streaming behind them.

"Sire! Saladin's rear guard has repositioned! Their heavier units are forming ranks to the west—looks like he's preparing a strike. Their elite cavalry."

Baldwin's eyes sharpened behind the mask.

"Then he's almost ready," he said. "Excellent."

He turned toward his command tent and ordered the war horns prepared. Not for a charge—but for deception.

"Give the signal to make a shift in our right-center. Let him think we're concentrating there. Move ten banners to the ridge—just the banners."

"A bluff, sire?" Anseau asked.

"A provocation," Baldwin replied.

The signal horns blared, and distant lines of golden crosses shifted. At a glance from afar, it looked like Baldwin was weakening the far left and reinforcing the center—a tempting opportunity.

Far across the plain, Saladin leaned forward in his saddle.

His emirs crowded near him. "They're concentrating near the ridge," one said. "A break in the far left—do you see it?"

"They want us to attack," said another. "It's a trap."

"They're always traps with the leper king," grumbled Emir Taqi al-Din. "But his strength is limited. If we press there, we might break through before his cavalry can respond."

Saladin gave no answer. His eyes scanned the field, deep in calculation.

Back in the Frankish lines, Baldwin said quietly, "Let him see only what we want him to."