CHAPTER 94 - 94: THE LONG RETREAT

June 1, 1180 – Approaching Damascus, Ayyubid Camp

The banners that had once flown high now drooped like torn sails. Dust caked the riders' faces and stung their eyes as the defeated army limped its way south along the road to Damascus. What had begun as a triumphant campaign to crush the Franks and retake the Syrian frontier had ended in humiliation and disaster. The weight of failure clung to every man like the sweat on his skin.

Some walked without weapons, their scabbards empty. Others clutched crude bandages pressed against slashes or arrow wounds. Camels groaned under the burden of hastily loaded supplies and wounded men. The once-proud cavalry of the Ayyubid Empire had become a broken column, dragging its way home with shattered pride.

In the center of the caravan, beneath a black silk pavilion mounted on a reinforced wagon, lay Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub—Saladin—the Lion of Islam, their sultan and hope. But now he did not command. He did not rise. He did not even speak.

The bolt had struck him beneath the ribs, just above the left hip. It had punched through his armor and driven deep into flesh. His guards had carried him from the field before the Christian cavalry finished their charge, his body limp, blood soaking his robes. He had not stood since.

Inside the tent, the air was thick with incense and the bitter reek of sweat and medicine. Saladin's chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. The wound had begun to fester. Angry red veins crept outward, and his skin shone with sweat despite the chill that hung in the morning air.

Imad ad-Din al-Isfahani, his scribe and trusted confidant, knelt beside the bed, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth.

"His fever has not broken," said the physician, a wiry man from Hama named Yusuf ibn al-Mutalib. "He still mumbles in sleep. The bolt's head was barbed—we could not remove all of it. There is infection in the wound."

"Will he die?" Imad asked, voice low.

The physician did not answer at once.

"It is too early to say. But the signs are grim."

Imad closed his eyes briefly and whispered a prayer under his breath. He had been with Saladin since the beginning—since Egypt, since the rise to power. He had seen his master cut down stronger foes and survive worse odds. But this was different. Saladin had not even cried out when they laid him on the cot. His body burned, but his spirit... it flickered now.

The tent flap opened. Taqi ad-Din, Saladin's nephew and one of the few surviving emirs with intact cavalry, stepped inside. His face was lined with dust and fatigue, his turban hastily wrapped. Behind him came al-Adil, Saladin's brother, carrying a sealed scroll.

"He's worse?" al-Adil asked, though his face already betrayed the answer.

Imad nodded. "He raves in sleep. He doesn't know where he is. The fever grows."

Taqi ad-Din stared down at the figure on the cot. Saladin's face was pale, beard matted to his cheek with sweat. He looked nothing like the man who had rallied the east, who had taken Jerusalem back with prayer on his lips and a sword in hand. He looked... old.

"We must reach Damascus," Taqi said. "We need a surgeon. A real one. Someone who knows how to treat wounds like this."

"Even the best may not help," Imad said quietly. "He cannot sit. He barely drinks. We cannot open the wound again without killing him."

Al-Adil placed the scroll on a low table beside the cot. "Then we prepare for what may come."

Both men turned to him.

"What do you mean?" Taqi asked.

"If our brother dies, the empire may fracture. The Zengids in Mosul still hate us. Egypt is loyal to him—but only to him. Syria may splinter into chaos. Aleppo is lost. The Franks will press south if we give them time."

"They lost Bohemond," Taqi muttered. "It wasn't a clean victory."

"But it was a victory," said Imad. "And one that left our sultan bleeding in a cart, while their leper king still rides a horse."

Al-Adil folded his arms. "We must consider succession."

The words landed like thunder.

"No," Taqi said. "He's not dead."

"Not yet. But if he dies and we have no plan, his empire dies with him."

Imad rose slowly from the floor. "We should focus on reaching Damascus first. The people must see him. Alive, if possible. If we show up without him, or if he dies on the road..."

"We cannot let that happen," said Taqi.

For a moment, they all stood in silence, the only sound the labored breath of the man who had once commanded kings.

Outside, the sun was beginning to rise over the horizon, casting long rays across the open hills. The column stretched back for miles. Campfires had begun to spark along the road, and the call to prayer echoed faintly from the mouth of the valley ahead. The minarets of Damascus were not far now—two days at most.

But hope seemed even farther.

Taqi turned back to Saladin and knelt beside him. "Uncle," he whispered. "We still need you. The people need you. Wake up."

Saladin stirred. His lips moved faintly. A name escaped his lips.

"...Najm..."

Imad recognized it—Najm ad-Din, his first son, long dead. Another cruel trick of fever and dreams.

The tent flap opened again. This time, it was a scout, breathless and pale.

"My lords," he said, bowing low. "The Franks are on the move.

"Where are they headed?" al-Adil asked.

"South. Hama, we believe. Then Homs."

The map lay spread on the low table beside the cot. Imad stepped forward and tapped the route.

"They'll take the Orontes. Control the water, the grain. If they take Homs, the road to Baalbek and even Damascus opens. They mean to finish this."

Taqi's eyes narrowed. "Then we must reach Damascus first. Rally what troops we can. Get the city ready."

"And if Saladin dies on the way?" Imad asked.

Taqi turned away. "Then we bury him beneath the Dome of the Eagle. And hope the memory of him is enough to keep us from tearing each other apart."