CHAPTER 24 - 24: THE WEIGHT OF DUST AND STONE

The mornings were quiet now—more than Ethan remembered from months past. Jerusalem's streets echoed less with panic and more with hammer and voice. The cries of market vendors rose earlier each day, joined by the rhythmic calls of laborers and the clatter of wheels bringing olive oil, wine, wool, and clay from the hills.

It was not peace, not truly. But it was a lull. A moment between storms.

And he meant to use it.

Ethan stood on the citadel's eastern parapet, watching the stone of the Mount of Olives warm beneath the rising sun. His hand rested easily on the crenelation, ungloved. The skin beneath the bandage still itched, but it was no longer cracked or bleeding. A thin, pink layer of new flesh now stretched across what had once been raw, seeping lesions.

He flexed his fingers again. No pain.

Behind him, boots echoed.

"Balian," Ethan said without turning.

"My lord," Balian d'Ibelin replied, stopping beside him.

They stood in silence a moment longer. Birds wheeled overhead. Somewhere beyond the city walls, church bells rang for the feast day of Saint Alexis.

Ethan finally spoke. "You rode back from Hebron yesterday."

Balian nodded. "And met with scouts along the Dead Sea ridge. They followed the valley as far as the Wadi el-Arish. Saladin is regrouping—but slower than we feared. He's keeping the bulk of his army near Cairo."

"Still in Egypt, then."

"For now."

"And his lieutenants?"

"Scattered. Al-Adil is in Damietta. His brother Taqi has returned to Damascus—rebuilding his hold there. The defeat at Gaza wounded them more than we guessed. They lost more grain than men. But time will heal both."

Ethan nodded thoughtfully. "How long?"

"If he marches north again, it will not be before spring."

"Good. We need time."

Balian looked at him sideways. "Then let's use it well."

They walked back through the upper corridor of the citadel, passing through shafts of stained light from narrow windows. Ethan slowed as they entered the chamber adjoining the war room—a space usually reserved for rest, but today emptied of furniture save for two chairs and a table covered in hand-drawn maps and translated scrolls.

On the wall, a parchment map of the kingdom had been pinned and re-inked by Anselm himself. Colored dyes marked regions of strength, trade flows, and supply routes.

Ethan pointed to Acre. "Salt and timber."

"Reliable," Balian confirmed. "The port's deep, the roads good. But the barons there bristle under your new taxes."

"They can bristle. They're wealthier now than they've been in years."

He pointed to Jaffa next. "Still fragile."

"Yes. The canal work has helped irrigate the fields, but the eastern villages are restless. Too many Bedouin raids this past year. The garrisons there need horses."

"And we don't have enough."

"Not yet," Balian agreed. "But we could."

Ethan leaned over the map. "How?"

"We train lighter cavalry. Mount them on the smaller Arabian stock. They're faster, cheaper to feed. Not armored like Frankish knights, but deadly with bows. We blend the styles."

"A hybrid corps?"

"Yes. Three hundred men to start. Recruited from border lords and trusted Saracen defectors."

Ethan smiled faintly. "You've thought this through."

"I've had a year watching both sides bleed. Speed wins more battles than steel."

Ethan reached for a charcoal stick and marked the Jordan valley. "We need roads here—better ones. From Jerusalem to Jericho, and on to the Dead Sea garrison. If Saladin swings north next year, he'll send men through Moab again."

Balian nodded. "I can pull labor from Ibelin and Ramla."

Ethan hesitated. "And the mines?"

"Profitable," Balian said. "The copper extraction in the Sinai is steady, but still vulnerable. We need a proper road to Gaza."

Ethan traced a line westward on the map. "Make that the first."

As the sun reached noon, their conversation deepened. No longer just tactics, but foundations.

"We need families moving into the empty villages," Ethan said. "New blood. Farmers, not warriors."

"From where?"

"Europe. Call for settlers through Acre and the Genoese merchants. Offer land—three years tax-free."

"That will draw thieves and debtors."

"And also bakers. Masons. Weavers. We need people willing to build."

Balian folded his arms. "You mean to transform the kingdom."

Ethan looked at him. "I mean to make it last. Even without me."

Silence.

Then Balian's voice dropped low. "Are you dying?"

Ethan shook his head, slowly. "Not yet."

He flexed his right hand again. "In fact... I'm healing."

Balian looked at him, uncertain.

"Gerard says it's God's will."

Balian frowned. "Do you believe that?"

"I don't know," Ethan said quietly. "But it's happening."

He pulled back his sleeve and showed the arm. Pale but firm, the skin whole. The edges where rot once gnawed now faint scars.

Balian took it in with silent awe.

"Then maybe there's still time," he said finally.

"Time enough," Ethan replied, "to change everything."

They parted with firm words and firmer plans—fortified roads, a corps of light cavalry, letters to Genoa, and a call for grain storage in Acre and Jaffa.

Ethan returned to his quarters late that afternoon and sat for a long time beside the brazier. The warmth soothed his joints, and for the first time in weeks, he felt no stiffness in his knees.

He reached down, rubbed his calf. No swelling. No discolored blotches.

Gerard had said the mold was not a cure, but something like mercy. Ethan still didn't know what to call it. It didn't matter.

What mattered now was momentum.

The kingdom was not yet safe. But for the first time, it had breath. It had roots, dug not just into earth and stone, but into ideas. Roads. Training. Settlement.

Survival by design, not desperation.

He unrolled a parchment and began sketching a new map—one that stretched not just over geography, but through time.

One that might still be standing when he was not.