CHAPTER 97 - 97 — THE ROAD AHEAD

June 8th, 1180 – Homs

The banners of Jerusalem fluttered atop the battlements of Homs, now firmly in Frankish hands. The city, bloodied but not ruined, had been garrisoned with precision. Templar knights manned the southern gates, while Hospitallers patrolled the markets and controlled the food stores. The clergy had already consecrated the largest mosque, renaming it Saint Elijah's Cathedral. Smoke still hung in the air from fires the retreating defenders had tried to start in desperation. But now, Baldwin's golden cross standard flew over the city square — a symbol of Christian dominion returning to the Orontes valley.

Baldwin IV stood atop the southern walls, his mail hauberk stripped off and replaced with a plain linen tunic. His leprous fingers were wrapped in clean cloth, but his skin had grown pale from constant campaigning. The ride from Aleppo, the siege of Homs, and now the burden of rule weighed heavily on his youthful body. And yet, his eyes were sharp — focused on the horizon and on what must come next.

Below, the army had begun to rest and resupply. Franks from every corner of the Kingdom of Jerusalem — and many from abroad — now mingled in the market squares. Merchants from Tripoli and Tyre followed behind, drawn by gold and spoils. Quartermasters took stock of flour, barley, salted fish, and siege supplies. Engineers oiled the wheels of trebuchets and winches. Armorers worked in smithies commandeered from local blacksmiths, repairing chainmail and fitting horses with fresh shoes.

By midmorning, the war council convened.

The inner hall of the old Emir's palace had been cleared and turned into a command chamber. Maps drawn on parchment lay stretched across a long stone table. Beside Baldwin sat his closest commanders — Balian of Ibelin, Raymond of Tripoli's cousin Hugh, Joscelin of Courtenay, and Grand Master Odo of the Templars. The Hospitaller representative, Brother Arnulf, stood with arms folded, his face stone-hard. Several barons and knights surrounded them, murmuring among themselves until Baldwin raised his hand.

"The Lord has granted us Homs," Baldwin said, his voice even. "But the question remains — do we strike at Baalbek or Damascus?"

Balian leaned forward first, as always. "Sire, Baalbek is lightly defended. If we move swiftly, we could take the fortress and cut off Damascus from the Beqaa Valley."

"But it is a stronghold in the mountains," Joscelin countered. "Hard to reach. Little water. No roads to sustain our army. The real prize is Damascus."

A silence followed the word. Damascus. Jewel of Syria. Seat of Saladin's power. And their ultimate objective.

Odo folded his hands. "We know from spies that Saladin is still in Damascus... wounded. His army is in disarray. They've taken heavy losses. If ever there were a time to strike..."

"Then why not move at once?" asked Hugh.

"Because," Baldwin replied, lifting a letter from the table, "we've received news from Bohemond's vassals. Scouts say the Ayyubids have begun reinforcing the outer defenses of Damascus. And we have wounded to treat, a supply line to reestablish, and a garrison to leave here in Homs. If we move too quickly, we risk being isolated."

He gestured to Brother Arnulf. "Give the full casualty report."

Arnulf unrolled a scroll and read. "Three thousand dead or wounded on our side from the past weeks' fighting. Five hundred from the cavalry. Eight hundred siege crew lost or injured. And we estimate twelve thousand Saracens dead, wounded, or captured between Aleppo, Hama, and Homs. Of those, nearly eight thousand fell at Al-Sarha."

There were grim nods. No one mourned the Muslim dead — not aloud — but everyone knew that number would not go unanswered forever. Saladin's empire still had tens of thousands under arms in Egypt and the Hejaz.

"What of food?" Baldwin asked.

Joscelin replied, "Enough grain for two weeks. After that, we must either push forward or fall back. But the roads south to Baalbek are stable. We can send carts from Acre or Tyre up through the Beqaa."

Balian tapped the map. "We still must decide: do we take Baalbek first and isolate Damascus, or risk a direct assault before reinforcements arrive?"

There was a long pause.

Then Baldwin stood. He winced as he did, favoring one side — the fatigue had not passed. The Hospitaller had administered the penicillin mixture that morning, and the swelling on his arm had gone down, but he felt a weight in his chest that never quite left him anymore.

"We will take Baalbek," he said at last.

Odo frowned. "You would delay Damascus?"

"Not delay. Position ourselves," Baldwin answered. "From Baalbek, we dominate the Beqaa. We force Damascus to turn inward, to worry about its flank. And we buy ourselves time to regroup. If we strike Damascus now and fail, we lose everything. If we take Baalbek first, we still keep the initiative."

The council murmured again, but the decision had been made.

Baldwin added, "I will leave Sir Gerard of Montfort with five hundred men to garrison Homs. He is loyal and capable."

A knight stepped forward and bowed. "Your Majesty honors me."

"You'll see the city fortified," Baldwin continued. "Walls repaired. Wells cleaned. Grain gathered. You are not only its garrison, but its steward."

Then Baldwin turned to Odo and Balian. "You two will begin preparing the army to march in two days. I want scouts on every pass toward Baalbek. I want supplies gathered from Tripoli, loaded on carts by week's end."

"What of the prisoners from Hama and Homs?" Balian asked.

"They were offered surrender," Baldwin said coldly. "They chose defiance. We cannot feed them, and they will not be ransomed. Have them executed by sword. Quickly. Cleanly. It is a mercy."

No one objected.

That afternoon, the orders went out.

War drums began to sound again in the Frankish camps as the sun climbed overhead. Pages ran between tents, summoning officers. Men-at-arms began breaking down their pavilions, folding up blankets, and oiling their arms. The blacksmiths of Homs were put to work shoeing horses. Templar scribes made lists of rations, and the Hospitallers tended to the wounded. The roads south were being cleared by local laborers under guard. Jewish and Christian merchants in the city were paid for their stored grain and dried figs, though many had little choice in the matter.

The reports came not on parchment, but with the thunder of hooves.

A dust-covered knight, bearing the Jerusalem cross marked in crimson thread, arrived through the gate of Homs just after dusk. He knelt before the King without removing his helmet, presenting a folded cloth marked with the seal of Ma'arrat Misrin.

"Sir Richard sends word, Your Grace. The towns are falling like ripe fruit."

Baldwin took the letter with gloved fingers. As he read, his advisors murmured behind him. Balian of Ibelin stepped forward, squinting at the parchment.

"What does he say?"

Baldwin smiled faintly. "Zardana welcomed him without bloodshed. The emir of Sarmada tried to flee—Richard strung him from the main tower. The people surrendered within the hour."

"And Ma'arrat?"

"The garrison resisted for two days," Baldwin said. "Then he stormed the gate. Lost only a handful of men. Burned their barracks. The townspeople surrendered and provided provisions."

"Efficient," Balian muttered.

"Brutal," one of the older priests whispered.

"Necessary," Baldwin said, folding the letter. "We cannot allow any snake to coil behind us. Richard understands that."

Another messenger approached with a second report: Richard was pressing south, toward the last rebellious pockets east of Apamea. He would meet the main army later, once the towns were fully subdued and the routes secured.

"Order the scribes to update the maps," Baldwin said, voice growing stronger. "The Kingdom of Jerusalem now stretches from the sea to the Orontes. And God willing, it will stretch further."

On the walls, the golden cross of Jerusalem waved beside the crimson cross of the Templars and the black banner of the Hospitallers. Below, the crossbowmen of Flanders drilled with discipline, while pikemen from Burgundy took up new positions near the southern gate.

That night, Baldwin sat with Balian by a small fire in the governor's garden. The night was cool, the sky full of stars, and the city quiet at last.

"We're winning," Balian said softly, sipping watered wine. "You've taken Aleppo, Hama, and now Homs. The road to Damascus lies open. They've lost their best field army. What's left?"

"Egypt," Baldwin replied. "And the East. The Sultanate of Rum. He will not stop. Not unless we make him."

"Then let us finish it," Balian said. "We take Baalbek. We take Damascus. And then?"

"Then," Baldwin whispered, "we offer peace... from a position of strength. One they cannot refuse."

He stood slowly, gripping the garden's stone ledge, looking out over the rooftops of Homs.

"War alone is not victory. What we build after is."

And with that, the Lion of Jerusalem turned toward the darkness beyond the southern gates, where the next road awaited — and perhaps the greatest prize yet.