Three months had passed since the fall of Mosul, and the city had been transformed. The once-cracked walls stood repaired, reinforced with sturdy stone and mortar. The streets, once tense with the threat of rebellion, now bustled with merchants and craftsmen. The Sand Foxes kept a vigilant watch, their eyes always on the move, ensuring the city remained under control. Damascus' eastern flank was now secure, an iron fortress at their back.
The time had come.
Taimur walked down the familiar hallways of Salahuddin's palace, the rhythmic sound of his boots echoing against the stone. As he reached the door to the Sultan's private study, he paused for a moment to steady himself, knowing this meeting would mark a turning point. He pushed the door open and entered, greeted by the dim glow of oil lamps.
Salahuddin sat at a large wooden table, bent over maps of the Levant. The Sultan's face was bathed in the soft lamplight, and his dark eyes glistened with the flicker of the flames. The scent of citrus and parchment filled the room, an aromatic blend that had come to represent both war and wisdom.
"You're late," Salahuddin remarked, glancing up from his work. There was no reproach in his tone, only a slight smirk.
Taimur stepped into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. "I was caught in the press of preparations," he replied with a smile. The air was thick with the scent of fresh ink, and the maps on the table were marked with every road and wadi between Damascus and Jerusalem.
"You've been busy," Taimur observed, noticing the ink stains on Salahuddin's fingertips. The Sultan didn't look up immediately.
"Dreams of conquest keep men from sleep," Salahuddin said, his voice low and thoughtful. He ran his finger along the map, pausing when he reached Jerusalem. "Tell me this isn't another mirage, Taimur."
Taimur placed a small iron chest on the table. With a click, he opened it to reveal a set of miniature flags. Black for Ayyubid forces, red for Crusader strongholds. "The pieces are ready. Now we move them."
Salahuddin picked up a black flag, rolling it between his fingers as he studied it, his brow furrowing slightly. "Our greatest advantage?"
"Time," Taimur replied, tapping three points on the map where tiny silver dots gleamed. "The Sand Foxes have already laid the groundwork. We've spent six months planting knives at the Crusaders' backs while they focused on fortifying their walls."
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation, and a servant entered with a tray of wine. Without a word, he set it down on the table, his eyes lowered, and quickly retreated at Salahuddin's dismissive wave.
Once the door closed behind him, Taimur leaned in, his voice lowered. "The Eastern Christians will not aid the Franks when the assault comes. Their priests remember Nuruddin's tolerance toward them."
Salahuddin's eyes darkened, and for a moment, he stared out the window. "You bought their silence?"
"With promises, not gold," Taimur answered, his smile cold and sharp. "The Patriarch's nephew lives comfortably in Aleppo... for now."
Beyond the window, the call to prayer echoed through the city, floating over the rooftops of Damascus like a distant song. Salahuddin stood and moved toward the arched balcony, his silhouette framed by the twilight sky.
"How many will die for those stones?" Salahuddin asked, his voice a mixture of weariness and determination.
Taimur joined him at the balcony, the first stars beginning to sparkle in the sky above them. "Enough to ensure none ever have to die for them again," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the horizon.
The night wind tugged at their cloaks, carrying with it the scent of burning forges, the endless sound of smiths shaping swords and arrowheads—the steady march of destiny.
Later, in the torch-lit courtyard, Zahra intercepted Taimur as he walked toward his horse. Her eyes scanned his face, reading his thoughts before he could speak. "The messengers ride tonight?" she asked, her voice steady, betraying none of the concern that rested just beneath the surface.
Taimur nodded, handing her a sealed scroll. "To Al-Muzaffar and Al-Zahir—burn after reading."
Zahra's fingers brushed the wax seal as she turned the scroll over in her hands. "And if Jerusalem falls faster than we planned?"
Taimur's lips curled into a wry smile. "Then we rewrite history before the ink dries."
Far beyond the city walls, a lone wolf howled, its cry echoing across the barren land. The drums of war would soon answer, and the march toward Jerusalem had begun.
The first light of dawn painted the hills outside Damascus in pale gold as the Ayyubid army stirred to life. Tents collapsed with swift efficiency, their canvas folds gathered by squires who worked with practiced hands. Horses stamped impatiently, their breath misting in the cool morning air. At the heart of the camp, Salahuddin stood before his commanders, his presence commanding respect. The weight of history seemed to press upon his shoulders as the sun rose.
Al-Muzaffar Umar, Salahuddin's nephew, adjusted the straps of his vambrace, his movements precise and calculated. "The northern road from Aleppo is clear," he reported. "My sappers have already marked the weak points along the route."
Al-Zahir Ghazi, Salahuddin's youngest brother, stood at the edge of the gathering, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but carried the weight of authority. "The southern force is ready. My cavalry will cut off any Frankish reinforcements before they can reach the city."
Taimur unrolled a large map across a campaign table, the edges weighed down by daggers. "We move in three prongs," he said, his finger tracing the various routes. "The main army, under the Sultan, will march directly from Damascus. Al-Muzaffar leads the northern contingent from Aleppo. Al-Zahir takes the southern road from Egypt."
Salahuddin's gaze flicked over the map, his brow furrowing as he considered the plan. "That stretches our supply lines thin."
Taimur met his eyes with a calm confidence. "Not if we time it right," he countered. He tapped three marked locations on the map. "The Sand Foxes have already secured caches of grain and weapons here, here, and here. Our armies will move quickly, living off the land when possible, and converge on Jerusalem within a week of each other."
Al-Zahir's sharp gaze flicked to the map. "And if the Crusaders rally their forces before we arrive?"
Taimur smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "They won't have the chance." He unfurled another sheet of parchment, revealing a detailed sketch of Jerusalem's defenses. "The Franks have concentrated their forces at the Jaffa Gate and the Tower of David. But here—" His finger landed on the eastern wall. "The St. Stephen's Gate is weaker. Older masonry. A few well-placed cannon shots will bring it down."
Salahuddin's eyes narrowed, considering the strategy. "You want to breach the city from the east?"
"It's the last direction they'll expect," Taimur said, his voice firm. "Their best troops will be waiting at the western gates, while we strike from the east and hammer the walls to rubble."
A murmur of approval rippled through the gathered commanders. Al-Muzaffar leaned forward, his fingers brushing the sketch of the city. "The foundations are Herodian stone—brittle with age. My sappers can undermine them before the cannons even fire."
Salahuddin straightened, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "And the Asad al-Bahar?"
Taimur nodded. "Already moving. Red Yusuf has orders to blockade Jaffa. No supplies will reach Jerusalem by sea. Meanwhile, Admiral Amir's fleet will harry any Crusader reinforcements trying to land at Acre."
Al-Zahir's lips curled into the faintest of smiles. "Then we starve them before we strike."
By noon, the camp was a flurry of activity. Wagons loaded with supplies creaked into formation, their drivers cracking whips over oxen teams to keep them moving. The Asad al-Harb cavalry checked their mounts' armor, the gleaming Milanese steel catching the sun. Tension crackled in the air as the army prepared for its long march.
Salahuddin mounted his horse, his gaze sweeping over the assembled forces. He raised his hand, and his voice carried across the ranks, steady and commanding. "Remember," he called, "Jerusalem is not just a city. It is the heart of our faith. Fight with honor, but fight to win."
A roar of approval rose from the soldiers, their voices ringing with determination.
Taimur, already astride his own horse at the vanguard, turned to Salahuddin. "Ready?"
The Sultan nodded, his eyes hardening with resolve. "Move out."
The march was a study in precision. Each day, the armies covered measured distances, their scouts ranging far ahead to clear the path. At night, the Sand Foxes slipped into the darkness, their knives silencing any Frankish outriders who might raise the alarm.
On the third evening, as the main force camped near the Jordan River, the air was crisp with the scent of damp earth, and the distant murmur of the river echoed in the silence of the camp. Tents were pitched in perfect formation, and the low crackle of campfires filled the night. Soldiers moved with practiced ease, preparing their gear and securing the perimeter. Amidst the quiet bustle, Salahuddin found Taimur hunched over a pile of dispatches by the light of a flickering oil lamp. His brow was furrowed, and his fingers moved swiftly across the papers, tracing the reports of their movements and scouting reports.
Salahuddin approached, his footsteps soft on the earth, the weight of the approaching battle heavy on his shoulders. "Any word from the northern contingent?" he asked, his voice calm yet laced with the tension that hung in the air.
Taimur glanced up from the scrolls, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, he handed Salahuddin a sealed parchment, the wax seal broken but still intact. "Al-Muzaffar reports no resistance. The Crusaders are too busy fortifying Jerusalem to patrol the countryside. The road is clear. Our forces will converge without interference."
Salahuddin unrolled the scroll and quickly scanned the contents. He let out a slow, thoughtful breath, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. "They're preparing for a siege at the wrong gates," he muttered under his breath, a deep sense of satisfaction creeping into his tone.
Taimur's lips curved into a rare, sharp grin, his eyes flashing with quiet triumph. "Exactly," he replied, his voice low but tinged with an almost imperceptible excitement. "Their arrogance blinds them. They believe the western gates are the only vulnerable entry. By the time they realize their mistake, it will be too late."
The map before them was a testament to Taimur's meticulous planning. He had spent countless nights studying the defenses of Jerusalem, noting every weakness, every flaw in the Crusaders' defenses. The eastern wall—older, more worn—was their entry. The Crusaders' focus on the western defenses would be their undoing.
With a sudden shift, Salahuddin stood up straight, his fingers lightly brushing the hilt of his sword. The weight of the decision, of the lives at stake, settled heavily on him. "The time for caution is over. We strike at dawn. We will show them the cost of their mistake."
Taimur nodded, his eyes gleaming with an unwavering certainty. "At dawn, the world will change."
As the armies converged on Jerusalem, the inevitable was now a mere formality. The Sea Wolves' blockade of Jaffa had turned the once-bustling harbor into a sunken graveyard of broken ships and drowned hopes. Their relentless assault had ensured no supplies would reach the Crusaders, starving the city into submission before the siege even began. The forces of Al-Zahir, relentless and merciless, annihilated a Frankish relief force near Ramla, leaving not a single survivor to carry word of the impending doom. The Crusaders, now completely isolated, were left with no hope of reinforcements.
On the eve of the siege, as the twilight deepened into night, Salahuddin stood atop a ridge overlooking the holy city. The final rays of the setting sun cast a golden hue across the ancient walls of Jerusalem, their grandeur diminished only by the knowledge of their impending fall. The city, bathed in that ethereal light, seemed almost like a vision from another time—its stones glowing, as if already touched by the fire of war. To Salahuddin, it was the culmination of a lifetime of struggle, of countless sacrifices, and of the promise of a victory that would reshape the fate of the region.
Taimur joined him silently, his presence a reassuring weight at his side. Together, they gazed upon the city that had stood as a symbol of conflict for centuries. Taimur's voice broke the stillness, soft but carrying a weight that echoed through the night. "Tomorrow, we change history."
Salahuddin's gaze never wavered from the city before them. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, feeling the cold metal against his palm, a tangible reminder of the battle to come. His voice was steady, but the conviction in it was undeniable. "For the sake of all who came before us—and all who will come after."
As they stood there, the stars above burned cold and bright, their distant light casting a silent witness to the coming storm. The winds carried with them the promise of change—the promise of victory—and the silent anticipation of a battle that would forever mark the pages of history.
And so, with the first rays of dawn, the drums of war would sound, and Jerusalem's fate would be sealed.