Inside Homs.
The furrows on Farrukh Shah's aged face had deepened further. He was Saladin's elder brother's son and the governor of the Homs region. Being entrusted with guarding such a strategic stronghold showed just how much Saladin trusted him.
Over this period, the situation within Homs had grown increasingly dire.
The Crusaders' offensives came wave after wave, each fiercer than the last. More than half of the able-bodied young men conscripted to defend the city had been killed or wounded, forcing them to recruit residents of the Jewish Quarter, who had previously been exempt from military service merely by paying an additional tax.
Fortunately, these people said to have betrayed the Prophet Isa worshipped by the Frankish barbarians were never accepted by the Franks anyway. Now, the two sides were thoroughly bound to the same boat, each harboring ulterior motives yet forced to rely on the other.
"Uncle, Homs cannot hold out much longer."
Farrukh Shah let out a quiet sigh. Served by Nubian slaves, he donned his armor and led the Qasari Guard assigned to him by Saladin up onto the city walls.
The laborers stood in long lines like soulless corpses, their eyes fixed blankly on the great cauldrons over the stoves.
Inside the cauldrons was thin porridge made from beans and a little vegetable matter. The ingredients had all been dug out from forgotten corners of cellars, where they had once been livestock feed. Fortunately, the livestock had all been eaten too, so the feed was no longer needed.
In Homs now, apart from nobles and clergy, anyone who did not work received no food.
After eating, these laborers would have to continue repairing the damaged walls.
The work was dangerous. They often had to brave Frankish arrows and stones, and might be dragged onto the