CHAPTER 95 - 95: THE GATES OF HAMA

June 3, 1180 – Hama, Syria

The morning sun shimmered off polished helms and steel spearheads as the Frankish host approached the northern gates of Hama. The city, nestled along the banks of the Orontes, had once bristled with garrisons and Ayyubid banners. But now the towers were oddly silent. No archers lined the walls. No sentries called out. Only a tattered white flag fluttered from the highest minaret—surrender.

King Baldwin IV, wrapped in a plain white cloak and flanked by his guards, studied the skyline with narrowed eyes. His fingers trembled faintly on the pommel of his saddle, though he betrayed no pain. The penicillin treatment had kept the rot at bay, but exhaustion from weeks of campaigning weighed heavily on his bones. Still, the leper king held the reins firmly, back straight.

He turned to Balian of Ibelin, riding at his right. "No resistance?"

"None, sire," Balian replied. "Their last garrison retreated after the battle. The city elders sent word that they will open the gates and submit."

"They're wise," Baldwin said. "We'll not waste men on a siege when fear serves us better."

Behind them, columns of Crusader infantry stretched along the road: knights, sergeants, pikemen, and crossbowmen—all blooded from Aleppo and the victory outside its walls. Hospitaller banners snapped in the wind near the center column, while Templar horsemen patrolled the flanks with practiced ease. Despite the hard march south, morale remained high. Rumors of Saladin's grievous wound had only fueled their sense of destiny.

As they neared the outer gate, the city's delegation emerged under guard: robed elders, a few imams, and the commander of the militia. Their faces were drawn, anxious. Baldwin dismounted with effort, assisted by two Hospitallers. He walked forward slowly but deliberately, leprosy-hidden hands folded beneath his cloak.

A translator stepped forward as the leader of the city bowed low. "We open our gates to you, King of Jerusalem. We seek no war with you. Our sons are dead. Our treasury, we will not hide. We only ask that the city be spared."

Baldwin regarded them in silence for a long moment, then gave a slight nod. "Your submission is accepted. Your people will not be harmed—so long as they do not raise arms. The mosques will remain. But the city is now under the authority of Jerusalem."

Relief washed over the delegation's faces, but Baldwin continued.

"My men will enter to secure your gates and the treasury. All weapons will be surrendered. Those who resist will be treated as enemies. Do you understand?"

The elder bowed again. "We do."

"Good."

He turned to Balian. "Take two cohorts into the city. Disarm the guards. Garrison the towers. I want every storehouse cataloged by sundown."

Balian nodded and spurred his horse forward, barking orders to the men. Moments later, the ironbound gates of Hama creaked open, and the Crusaders poured in like a tide. They moved through the streets with discipline—no looting, no fires, only methodical seizure of strategic points. Within hours, the city's armories were emptied, the gates barred under Frankish control, and Jerusalem's cross flew above the citadel.

Baldwin entered the city later that afternoon, escorted through the souks and winding alleys to the citadel's central treasury. There, under guard, the city's gold, silver, and stored grains were presented to him—more than expected. Hama had not suffered in the last war; its vaults were full.

"Record everything," Baldwin said, gesturing to the scribes. "Half to be sent back to Aleppo for the garrison. The rest we carry forward."

As the scribes cataloged the wealth, Baldwin stepped aside with Raymond of Tripoli's former steward, a cautious but loyal man named Sir Gerard de Milly.

"You've served faithfully," Baldwin said. "And you understand these lands better than most. I am appointing you governor of Hama."

Gerard's brows rose. "I... I am honored, sire."

"Keep the peace. Maintain supply routes from Aleppo. I want this city to feed the next leg of the campaign. And if the people revolt, hang their ringleaders—quietly, swiftly. This is a holy war, but order must be preserved."

"I understand."

"You will answer directly to the crown," Baldwin added. "Not to the Temple. Not to the Hospitallers. Not even to Raymond's household. Is that clear?"

Gerard bowed. "Perfectly, Your Majesty."

Outside, bells rang from the city's churches—many long dormant. Latin priests processed through the streets, chanting hymns as they reconsecrated the churches once shuttered under Ayyubid law. The mood among the Christian soldiers was jubilant. Another city reclaimed without bloodshed. Supplies for the next phase secure.

But Baldwin was not celebrating. As he stood in the citadel tower and looked southward, he saw only the haze of the road ahead.

Homs lay just beyond the horizon.

"Two days' march," he murmured. "Then Damascus."

Balian joined him at the parapet. "We've not seen Saladin. No movement from the south. The reports say he still lives, but his army has broken. There's fear in every city that we'll burn through Syria unchecked."

"We may not need to burn them," Baldwin said. "Just break them apart."

He turned from the view, cloak rustling in the wind. "We move at dawn."