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The war camp of Melisende of Jerusalem. The Saracen fortress of Ascalon. Two forces locked in deadly combat as winter begins an early arrival, a constant chill creeping across the land, the sky threatening a light snow. Christian warriors shiver as they go on foot patrol, huddle around fires, complain bitterly to one another about the siege, about the Muslim defenders who are no doubt warm in their homes, in the Ascalon keep.
Eastern Romans now march through the camp, a disciplined troop with high airs that fray the nerves of the Western soldiery. All the Latins know the Greeks hold themselves to be a superior people, noses high as if they're sniffing god's arse, some joke. The peace is kept by the discipline of their lords, but animosity is shared between them.
Camps have been split, a body of troops sent south to relieve the troops in Gaza. The Romans barely make up their numbers. Through day and night men have been drafted into cutting long tunnels through the rocky soil, building a mine that would soon reach under the walls of Ascalon, dark, tough work that no man wants but many are volunteered for.
Soon the final assault will be at hand, with it the collapse of a section of wall, and through that gap would pour the savage might of Christendom.
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