CHAPTER 35 - 35: ROOTS IN STONE, RHYTHM IN STEEL

The morning haze clung to Jerusalem's streets like wool, but the city stirred early now. Market stalls were opening before sunrise, construction crews were at work by the first bell, and carts loaded with linen rags, timber, and quarried stone rumbled across the cobbled roads before most noblemen had broken their fasts.

King Baldwin IV—Ethan—watched it all unfold from the east tower of the citadel. From here, the veins of his ambition stretched outward. Not yet complete. But real. Alive.

He turned as Anselm, his steward, entered, clutching a bound ledger and bearing the dust of early rounds.

"We've results from Acre, sire," Anselm said, bowing. "The lime furnaces are consistent now. We can supply your pulp vats for the next two months."

Ethan took the ledger and flipped through the neat columns—pulp weight, yield ratios, drying times. All progressing. Slowly, methodically. But progressing.

"Good," he said. "Any trouble with the new filters?"

Anselm shook his head. "The reed-mesh design you suggested holds. We're making paper twice as strong and with fewer splits."

They walked down the stone stairs together, descending into the heart of the citadel as Anselm continued his updates.

"The print team has finished their second full month of work. They've mastered block alignment and ink spreading. Master Tommaso reports that four pages can be printed per hour now, reliably. We've moved from Psalms to the Sermon on the Mount."

Ethan nodded slowly. "Still hand-pressed?"

"For now, yes," Anselm said. "The screw-press prototype is being reworked. Too much torque—one cracked the wooden plate last week. The Templar carpenter is reinforcing it with iron bands this week."

Ethan made a mental note to review the design sketches again—maybe reinforce the lower pressure plate with a layered lattice of hardwood. This world was always reminding him that shortcuts didn't last.

They passed beneath an arch into the citadel's inner court, where the stone for the bathhouse was being laid by a crew of thirty masons and haulers. The heated floors had proven more complex than anticipated; the Roman-style hypocaust channels required too-perfect leveling to allow the smoke to circulate. They had resorted to chiseled brick supports with flue gaps and were now testing the first section with live coals.

"Progress?" Ethan asked as he knelt by one of the bricks.

"Slow but sure," answered Gérard, the Hospitaller surgeon, who had taken a strange interest in the structure. "The heat is uneven, but it rises. We'll have to build in more vents—these coals need to breathe."

"Everything does," Ethan muttered.

Paper Mill – Kidron Valley

Three days later, Ethan rode out with Balian to inspect the paper mill near the Kidron Valley. The building, constructed from a mix of Montgisard pine and Jerusalem limestone, stood low against the stream, its wide wheel turning lazily in the current. The rhythmic clunk of iron hammers inside was now a steady feature of the valley.

They were producing ten sheets a day—rag pulp soaked in lime and lye, beaten to slurry, and lifted into mesh screens by hand. Drying took two days, pressing another, trimming a fourth. Not yet scalable, but the process was replicable.

Inside, Ethan examined a sample. It was still slightly warped, but sturdy. The watermark design—an ornate cross and a stylized dove—came through faintly.

"Still smells of linen," Balian said, wrinkling his nose.

"It'll pass," Ethan replied. "Everything new carries a smell."

They watched a young apprentice stir a pulping vat with a wooden oar.

"Could this be done in Acre?" Balian asked.

Ethan nodded. "Eventually. I want two mills by year's end. One here. One north. Then a third in Jaffa. Local paper lowers cost, speeds production."

Balian crossed his arms. "If you live long enough to see it done."

Ethan offered a faint smile beneath his silver mask. "Then I better keep riding."

Militia Training Ground – Jaffa Road Encampment

Back in Jerusalem, Ethan spent three afternoons observing the militia's weekly drills. The Bethlehem cohort was now joined by men from Hebron and Ramla—nearly 160 total. They'd begun rotating between training locations, each man committing one week per month.

The drill field resembled a carpenter's drawing board—flag-marked grids, labeled lanes, supply posts, and archery pits. Overseen by Captain Osric, the formations had begun to move with something like unity.

Each square now contained thirty-two pikemen in four ranks of eight, with eight crossbowmen in the rear, rotating in volleys. Flank runners were assigned to carry spare bolts, water, and retrieve dummies for reuse.

Ethan watched from horseback as Osric bellowed:

"Form square! Kneel second rank! Brace—brace! Volley one, ready! Loose!"

The creak and snap of crossbows followed. The bolts struck the line of wooden posts twenty paces out with sharp, cracking thuds.

"Volley two—loose!"

The second line fired. Reloading runners knelt between formations, swapping strings and bolts with practiced ease.

It wasn't perfect. Some men fumbled reloading; a few pikes wavered when the signal was unclear. But it worked. There was shape to it now. Not chaos. System.

After the drill, Ethan walked among them, offering nods and brief praise. When a young pike-wielder from Hebron asked if they'd "march against the Turks" next, Ethan paused.

"No," he said. "You're not a sword to be thrown. You're the wall behind which the kingdom stands. You'll hold, and the world will break on you."

They stared in silence. But several straightened. One even grinned.

Jerusalem – Treasury Hall, One Week Later

Anselm returned with news from Acre: the vault stone was now fully laid. The fortified Templar structure would serve as the first true financial node for the kingdom. Gold and promissory storage had begun in small volumes—wealth deposited for safety, tracked in double-entry ledgers.

"Receipts issued?" Ethan asked.

"Yes, sire. Templars issue paper notices signed and sealed, redeemable in Acre or Jerusalem."

Ethan smiled. "Begin training scribes for branch systems. One ledger per location. Always duplicate."

He tapped the desk.

"This is how it begins, Anselm. With records. Order. Trust."

Anselm nodded. "And what of schools?"

"Still waiting," Ethan said. "One flame at a time."

Near the City Walls – Cavalry Stables

Elsewhere, his new breed of light cavalry—armored with boiled leather and trained in loose formation—was developing. Not knights, but fast, responsive. They practiced feigned retreats, skirmishing, flanking charges.

Horse archers were still years away. But mounted crossbowmen? That was closer.

A young knight named Evrard of Bethany approached with a rough saddle design that allowed for better crossbow bracing.

"Test it," Ethan said. "If it works, we outfit twenty."

Evening – The Leper King's Journal

That night, Ethan wrote:

"The men are changing. Slowly. But not as slowly as I feared.

Bethlehem square can hold formation against charge simulations. Jaffa team learning volley rotation. Crossbow production remains the bottleneck.

Bathhouse stones hold heat. Vault system in Acre stabilizing. Paper mill reliable. Printing ongoing.

A kingdom built on dust, mortar, rhythm, and routine. Not glory.

I wonder if that's how Rome began."

He dipped the quill again.

"The mold no longer spreads. Gérard calls it God's favor. I call it chance. Or perhaps mercy.

We need more time.

And time, like everything else, must be earned."

He looked out over Jerusalem—no longer the fading jewel of Christendom, but the heart of something new. Slower than he'd wished. But stronger than he'd dared to hope.