CHAPTER 32 - 32: SPEARS IN THE EARTH

The courtyard below the royal chambers echoed with the sound of clashing wood and shouted instruction. Ethan leaned on the carved stone balustrade, watching as a dozen young townsmen stumbled through a mock spear drill. Their movements were ragged—too loose, too eager—but the intent was there. He could work with intent.

Balian stood beside him, arms folded. "Not bad for bakers and cobblers."

"Better than nothing," Ethan replied. "But not good enough to hold a line when the Mamluks come thundering."

Balian gave him a sidelong look. "You're planning something."

Ethan nodded. "Monthly training. Every town and village within the kingdom's reach. Once every moon, the local levy gathers—not just to swing a sword, but to drill. Line work. Formation. Discipline."

Balian raised an eyebrow. "Militia like that will start to think they're soldiers."

"That's the idea," Ethan said. "We'll never match Saladin's numbers or his cavalry. But if our common men can hold ground—if they can lock shields and drive spears—we'll make his charges bleed."

Balian gave a low chuckle. "That's what you were sketching last night? Those... long spears?"

"Pikes," Ethan said. "Fourteen feet, maybe sixteen. Ash shafts, iron tips. I'll have the smiths in Bethlehem begin forging prototypes this week. We'll start with fifty."

"Hard to carry. Slow to move."

"Harder to break," Ethan countered. "You plant them. You don't chase with them. They're for stopping what comes at you."

The Armory, Two Hours Later

Ethan spread a charcoal sketch across the armory table. Anselm and the quartermaster peered at the unfamiliar design. The pike, its length dwarfing the short spears currently in use, was drawn in sections—wood grain etched with careful arrows indicating grain alignment, a spearhead shaped like a flattened leaf with a central ridge for durability.

"You'll need longer kilns to harden the tips," Ethan noted, tapping the drawing. "And tighter shafts. They need to flex, not snap."

The quartermaster whistled low. "They'll be hard to store."

"Bundle them upright. Wagon them to the field. Issue per ten men."

Anselm scratched at his chin. "And the men?"

"They'll need gloves. Leather wraps. Training in bracing and pivoting. I'll write down a twelve-count drill pattern for starters. Get them used to moving together."

He glanced toward the window where the city wall caught the golden edge of afternoon. "We'll need officers who understand the flow. Not just nobles—militiamen promoted for reliability. Balian can help select them."

Council Chamber, That Evening

The council met in one of the smaller stone rooms, lanterns casting gentle light against polished olivewood. Balian stood by the fire, arms crossed, while Gerard, Odo de St. Amand, and Anselm sat around the central table with notes and ledgers before them.

"Let's talk militia," Ethan said, seating himself.

Gerard raised an eyebrow. "You want them to drill monthly?"

"Every moon. Each village. Jerusalem's force will serve as the model. Ten officers from the city's trained garrison will rotate out and oversee the countryside rounds. We'll give them stipends. Loyalty grows where duty is given value."

Odo de St. Amand tapped the table. "It will strain the budget. Food, lodging, oversight..."

"We'll use trade surplus from Acre," Ethan said. "Paper exports are up. The Italian merchants have started paying in silver again."

Anselm nodded. "And the Montgisard timber is coming down early. We can start on new storage barns for weapons."

"Then it's time to scale this," Ethan said, spreading another scroll. "Starting with the first cohort in Bethlehem. They'll be issued the pike prototype by next month."

Gerard leaned in. "And what do we call this formation of yours?"

Ethan looked around the room and smiled faintly under the edge of his mask.

"The Crown Guard," he said. "A wall of common men, with spears long enough to stop a charge. Let's see how Saladin handles that."

Two Days Later — Workshop Yard, East of the Citadel

The yard bustled with saws, planers, and the hiss of iron in coal-fired forges. Ethan stood with Anselm and two of the lead blacksmiths beside the first finished pike prototype.

It stood nearly fifteen feet long, ashwood grain shining under beeswax polish, the iron head sharp and leaf-shaped, socketed deep and bound in bronze bands. It felt right in Ethan's hands—heavier than a javelin, but balanced.

"This is the future of our walls," he said.

A group of six volunteers from the city stood nearby, each gripping a training pike—oak shafts without points, weighted to match. Ethan stepped before them and raised his voice.

"Feet wide. Shafts down. Brace low. On my count—forward line!"

They moved slowly, awkwardly, but with increasing confidence. Six lines of men in three ranks extended their practice poles outward, forming a crude but serviceable wall of wood.

Balian watched from the archway.

"We'll need twice this many by spring," he called out. "If you want to hold the Jordan Valley."

Ethan turned, smiling.

"Then we better start planting spears like seeds."

That Night — Ethan's Writing Table

The candle flickered low as Ethan wrote, his ink dark and steady.

To the master of the forge at Acre,

You are to begin crafting iron pike heads by the dozen. I am enclosing the pattern, with measurements exact. These are not javelins. These are to hold back horses.

Send word when fifty are done.

—Baldwin, King of Jerusalem

He sealed the scroll and leaned back, arm sore, hand stained. Outside, the night wind whistled through the stone corridors, cool and clean.

Pikes. Monthly drills. Militia that would march in rows, not mobs.

It was slow work. But he could feel the shape of it—Jerusalem, not just surviving, but becoming something different. Rooted. Balanced. Ready.

And if the armies of Saladin came again, they would not find the kingdom soft or scattered.

They would find a wall of iron and will, standing in their path.