CHAPTER 51 - 51 — STONES LAID FOR A HOLY FIRE

January 1179 — Jerusalem, the King's Council Hall

The heavy doors of the council chamber creaked open with the moan of old wood and iron. A cold breeze snuck in from the corridor, slipping through the limestone walls and into the flickering firelight. Baldwin IV sat at the head of the long table, gloved fingers steepled as he studied the maps spread before him. Candles illuminated the creases and lines across the parchment—a hand-drawn expanse of the Levant stretching from the Sinai to the Taurus Mountains.

The scent of ink, wax, and iron was strong. All around him, the stewards and commanders of the Kingdom gathered: Balian of Ibelin, grim and thoughtful; Grand Master Odo of St. Amand, eyes sharp with martial interest; William of Tyre, scholar and chancellor; Gerard, the aging Patriarch of Jerusalem, quiet but attentive.

They were planning a war. But not just any war.

A crusade.

A crusade for Syria.

"We must not make the same mistakes as the Second Crusade," Baldwin said, his voice clear, firm, despite the persistent ache in his limbs. "No confusion. No poor logistics. No noble quarrels. We are not improvising. We are building a blade and sharpening it before it leaves the sheath."

William of Tyre nodded. "Then we begin by deciding our objectives."

Baldwin stood, leaning over the map. "Aleppo, Homs, Baalbek. If our allies in Europe commit in force—perhaps even Damascus. But those three cities are our primary goal. Strike them swiftly, claim the Orontes corridor, and we fracture the Ayyubid hold on Syria. Saladin will be forced to divide his forces, or abandon his grip entirely."

"The north is less fortified than Egypt," Balian agreed. "And the terrain around Aleppo is harsh, difficult for quick reinforcement. If we move in the spring, the roads will be passable, and the rivers manageable."

"And Syria is where his emirs are most unsettled," Baldwin added. "We fan their resentments and strike in the heart of division."

Grand Master Odo leaned in, pointing to a stretch of the coast. "Tripoli and Antioch must be involved. If we rally their levies, we could form a northern pincer with European troops arriving by sea."

"They will need incentive," said William. "Papal blessing, of course, but also material reward. We should draw up charters—land grants, trading rights, privileges for those who take part. We must sell this crusade not just as holy, but as beneficial."

"Recruitment must begin before spring," said Baldwin. "Envoys will ride to Antioch and Tripoli. We will send letters to the Pope and key courts in Europe—England, France, Burgundy, and the Holy Roman Emperor. We must inspire them with victory, not desperation."

He gestured toward the smaller side table, where a rolled scroll lay sealed with red wax.

"The Pope has responded. Rome views our recent victory as divine approval. The Liber Throni Petri remains in their possession. But we will send with our envoys new copies of that Gospel, with letters attesting to our discipline, our reform, and our readiness. This time, we offer not chaos—but coordination."

Gerard, ever soft-spoken, folded his hands. "And what of supplies? No army moves on blessings alone."

"Correct," Baldwin said. "We begin stockpiling now. Grain, salted meat, dried fruits. Tents, rope, timber, nails. Every fortress and granary in the north must start contributing. Engineers will oversee supply lines as the army moves forward. We build temporary depots along the route from Acre to the Orontes."

"We'll need wagons," Balian added. "Many of them. And oxen."

"And smiths," said Odo. "To repair arms and shoe the horses. Let's start conscripting craftsmen now—those not already employed in fortress repair."

William turned a page in his ledger. "And ships. We'll need a fleet to bring the Europeans in safely. Venice, Pisa, Genoa—they must be negotiated with. Not just for passage, but protection from pirates and Muslim corsairs."

"They'll want money," Baldwin said. "We can offer commercial privileges in Acre and Tyre in exchange. But we must make those agreements soon."

There was a pause. The flames hissed in the hearth. A drop of wax splattered on the stone floor. Then Baldwin spoke again, quietly.

"If we can't sustain the army, we die. So we build the bones before the muscles."

They spent the rest of the morning going over details—standard weights for rations, schedules for training militiamen, timelines for sending riders to the Italian ports. Baldwin dictated new edicts for mustering men from every major town in the kingdom, to train for at least ten days each month. New formations. Pike and crossbow drills. Field marches.

"Nothing builds discipline like hunger and repetition," Baldwin said. "Give the captains authority to punish laziness. But reward consistency. We're training them to survive."

By the late afternoon, the great bronze bell of the citadel tolled once. Council ended, and the plans were set into motion.

As Baldwin walked slowly to his private chamber, flanked by two young guards, his legs ached and his breath came slower. The mold was helping—but it could not undo the rot that time had already begun. He pressed his hand against the cold stone of the corridor as they passed.

One more campaign.

If they did this right—if they shattered the Ayyubids in Syria—they wouldn't just survive.

They would define the next century.