The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 117 Battle of Beka Valley

At 10:00 AM, on the western slope of the Beka Valley.

Reynald impatiently tightened the reins, and his Andalusian armored warhorse pounded the gravel restlessly beneath him.

His left hand loosened and tightened its grip on the reins, his heart filled with immense anxiety—this was the tenth time he had repeated this action.

According to the hourglass, the vanguard had been arrayed here for more than an hour, but the entire valley was so quiet that only the whistling of the wind passing through the cracks in the rocks could be heard.

"Is that damn Saladin and his bunch of damned infidels even coming?" he muttered under his breath.

Gerald, who was standing next to Reinard, did not respond. He was slowly wiping the silver cross on the hilt of his sword with a piece of velvet cloth.

Gerald's five hundred Templar Knights were deployed in a wedge formation on a relatively flat part of the mountain path, with each knight spaced five steps apart, allowing them to charge at any time and support each other.

But the long wait was wearing down his spirit; he could see the warhorses in the front row starting to shake their heads restlessly, and the attendants idly checking the same girth repeatedly.

"Perhaps he's not in the valley at all." Gerald frowned, finally speaking. "Perhaps the Crown Prince's intelligence is false, and the main force is elsewhere?"

"That's even worse!" Reinald spat. "We're acting like a bunch of idiots putting on a one-man show..."

Before the words were finished, a horn sounded suddenly from the east side of the valley.

That was the bugle call of the Ayyubid army, its sharp, piercing sound breaking the tranquility of the valley.

Immediately afterwards, cavalry emerged from multiple passes in the Lebanese mountains. These were not Saladin's elite Mamluks, but rather several lightly armed Turkmen horse archers, numbering in the hundreds.

The first wave of about a hundred nomadic cavalrymen descended the mountain quickly in skirmish formation, the second wave of two hundred cavalrymen advanced slowly in close formation, and the third wave waited in place at the pass.

"This is Saladin's probing attack," Reynald said, narrowing his eyes. "But look at their route. They deliberately avoided the scree slope on the north side, choosing instead to descend the meadow on the south side. Saladin scouted the terrain beforehand and knows where light cavalry maneuvers are suitable. We don't know enough about the terrain here, so we're proceeding cautiously."

Gerald placed his hand flat on his brow and peered closely. He saw the Turkmen cavalry's composite bow hanging on the right side of the saddle, the arrows in the quiver of various colors, and the scimitars were standard Schöshel type but rather short.

"No heavy weapons, no chainmail," Gerald said, puzzled. "But this formation is too orderly. Turkmen cavalry are usually very disorganized; what makes them line up like this..."

"It must be Saladin's Mamluk detachments behind them," Reinald said smugly. "Saladin used light cavalry as bait, but the bait was laid out so meticulously, who would fall for it? Does he think we're idiots?"

Just then, the first wave of Turkmen cavalry entered within 400 yards. They suddenly split into two groups, one continuing forward as if to charge, and the other flanking to the right, but at a very subtle angle, just at the edge of the maximum effective range of the crossbow.

"It seems Saladin has learned his lesson from the Battle of Beit She'an," Reinald sneered. "Transjordanian crossbowmen, do not fire without my order!"

The order was relayed to the front lines via flags. The Transjordanian crossbowmen knelt on one knee, their crossbows held horizontally, fingers resting on the triggers.

The Turkmen cavalry suddenly turned at 350 yards, tracing an arc as they galloped toward the western hillside.

Almost simultaneously, the second wave of cavalry began to accelerate, but instead of charging towards the Frankish lines, they swept across the front of the lines laterally, with the riders drawing their bows and nocking arrows as they galloped.

"Raise your shields!"

The shields rose, deflecting most of the arrows, but a dozen or so still pierced through the gaps. With a muffled groan, a crossbowman fell, the arrowhead lodged in his throat through a gap in his chainmail collar.

"Maintain formation!" Reinald roared. "Anyone who breaks formation will be cut down!"

The third wave of Turkmen cavalry on the mountain then moved. Instead of descending the mountain, they formed a horizontal line at the pass, with all their horses' heads facing the valley, ready to attack at any moment.

A yellow flag with a red eagle and Arabic script slowly rose behind the Turkmen.

Reinald's eyes gleamed as if he had spotted prey: "Ha, so you're here, Saladin!"

At the same time, on the eastern ridge.

Saladin sat cross-legged on a flat, massive rock, a sheepskin map spread out before him, its corners weighed down with pebbles. Farouk knelt beside him, listening intently to the Sultan's analysis.

"Our first probing was successful. The enemy crossbowmen were well-trained and did not fire until they were within 300 yards," Saladin said calmly, his eyes fixed on the valley. "Our second probing was successful. When the right-wing cavalry maneuvered, the Templar Knights on the left flank of the enemy vanguard made a slight forward lean, but were stopped by their flags. This shows that the vanguard has some control but is not a monolithic force."

Farouk said thoughtfully, "Uncle, they are more restrained than we expected."

"Because the commander isn't just Reynald alone." Saladin tapped the map on the location of the Frankish army. "Look at their formation. The vanguard is a mix of Templar Knights and Transjordanian troops, which is Reynald and Gerald's decision-making. But the center is clearly a different formation, with infantry squares in front and cavalry deployed in echelons on both flanks, very stable."

"Guy's arrangement?"

"Perhaps he has someone knowledgeable by his side." Saladin pondered for a moment, then raised his hand, summoned the messenger, and calmly uttered a series of orders: "Order the Turkmen hundred men to retreat to Valley Two, abandon twenty flags and thirty saddles, and make a rout."

"Order the Mamluks to move forward to Hill One, but only display their flags, not their men."

"Send the Bedouin archers down the mountain and set up firing positions in the bushes of the valley. I want them to use whistling arrows, not live arrows."

Farouk asked in confusion, "A whistling arrow?"

"The sound of arrows whistling through the air is most likely to demoralize an army," Saladin said, looking at his nephew. "And I want the Franks to think that our archers are wasting arrows. This means that the archers are either desperate for victory or have such ample supplies that they can squander them. The Franks will obviously think it's the former."

"So what's your backup plan?"

Saladin pointed to a winding valley on the map: "Here. It's only wide enough for five horses to ride abreast, with towering cliffs on both sides. I want you to lead eight hundred horses, the Muruk, to ambush here, but the ambush will be divided into two groups. The first group of four hundred men will hide at the western entrance of the valley, and the second group of four hundred men will hide at the eastern entrance. When the prey is caught in the trap, the ambush at the western entrance will cut off the retreat first, and the ambush at the eastern entrance will then come out to surround them in one fell swoop."

"But how did they get into the valley?"

Saladin smiled slightly and pointed to the Frankish vanguard: "Because Reynald will see an 'opportunity'—a Turkmen hundred-man unit that has broken away from the main force is retreating into the valley, their formation scattered and their flags askew. More importantly, that unit carries a special flag—the Emir's banner with a green background and a silver crescent."

Farouk gasped. "You're going to use Emil as bait?"

“It’s not the real Emir.” Saladin took out a neatly folded small flag from his pocket. “It’s this flag. I captured it four years ago at the Battle of Jacob’s Shoals. It came from the former Grand Master of the Knights Templar, Odo de Saint-Amand. I had it altered to an Islamic style; from a distance, it’s indistinguishable from the real thing.”

He unfurled the flag, its green silk and silver embroidery gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

"Gerald will recognize this as a valuable target. Reynald will see it as a breakthrough to turn the tide of the battle. And Guy..." Saladin paused, "He will hesitate, but the actions of the first two will compel him to make a decision."

"But what if Guy stops him?"

"Then he will lose control of the vanguard." Saladin rolled up the map. "Either way, we win."