Chapter 135: Chapter 135: The Weight of Stone
November 1, 1180 — Jerusalem
The wind coming down from the Judean hills was dry and brisk, laced with dust and the faint smell of olive wood fires. Jerusalem stirred beneath a pale autumn sun, its newly painted banners fluttering atop towers and rooftops. The city was no longer just a fortress or a shrine. It had become the seat of a kingdom expanding far beyond the hills that birthed it.
King Baldwin IV, wrapped in a thick mantle of Tyrian wool, rode slowly down the slope toward the construction yard at the edge of the city walls. A pair of guards followed discreetly behind, their cloaks drawn tight and their eyes constantly moving.
Before him stretched a worksite unlike any other in the kingdom. Scaffolding ringed the rising foundations of a new granary, while nearby a wooden frame stood partially dismantled over what had once been a kiln. Dozens of workers—stonemasons, carpenters, and Arab artisans—moved in bursts of activity between wagons, stacks of stone, and barrels of lime.
He was joined near the scaffolding by Balian of Ibelin, freshly returned from Damascus. Dust still clung to the hem of his cloak, though he wore his usual calm expression.
"It’s strange not to hear the sound of hammers echoing off minarets," Balian said. "I’m still getting used to the quiet of Jerusalem again."
"You made good time from Damascus," Baldwin replied. "Three days ago, you rode in with my nephew. How did you leave the city?"
"Stable," Balian said. "Restless, but stable. The citadel remains under control, and the Arab notables are keeping their word—for now. The markets are open, the mosques conducting prayer, and the patrols haven’t met resistance in a week."
"And the steward?"
"Appointed and sworn," Balian nodded. "Sir Gervase of Sidon. Young, but capable—and loyal. He’s been in the north since the first Aleppo campaign, and his command at Homs proved he could work with native administrators."
Baldwin’s brow lifted faintly. "Good. A Frank in charge sends a message—Damascus is no longer a frontier but part of the kingdom."
"He has five hundred men, half of them under his direct command, half from northern barons we trust," Balian said. "Enough to keep order but not so many the locals feel choked."
Baldwin nodded once, his gaze flicking toward the north where Damascus sat beneath the autumn sky—distant but no longer defiant.
"And the boy?"
"He was restless the first day, but he’s adjusting," Balian said with a smile. "He still wants to ride, to ask questions about everything. I told him the weight of a crown doesn’t come all at once."
Baldwin allowed a faint smile. "No. It comes in pieces—stone by stone."
Together they walked toward a flat area cordoned off by ropes and covered in chalk markings. A deep, square pit had been filled in days earlier with gravel, broken stone, and something more experimental—an artificial binder inspired by ancient Roman designs and knowledge carried east by Byzantine engineers.
Two older men in heavy robes and dust-covered caps stood near the pit. One of them, a Frankish master mason named Géraud, bowed slightly. The other, a wiry Saracen artisan named Mukhtar, kept his gaze steady as Baldwin approached.
"Well?" the king asked. "What’s the result?"
Géraud cleared his throat, kneeling by the pit and gesturing for a long wooden rod. He plunged it down into the mix, then withdrew it slowly. The rod came back with damp grit clinging to its end.
"Still too soft, Your Grace," Géraud admitted. "We tried the three-to-one ratio again—three parts volcanic ash, one part lime—but the bonding isn’t holding under weight. It dries too slowly and crumbles under pressure."
Mukhtar nodded. "The Romans had a secret—pozzolana, they called it. Volcanic dust. We have ash from the furnaces and lime from the hills, but not the true ingredient."
Baldwin frowned. "And there’s none closer?"
"Some deposits near Laodicea, possibly," Mukhtar said. "But we would need more time and wagons to confirm it. What we use now binds, but not with the strength needed for towers or domes."
The king knelt slowly, ignoring the discomfort in his knees, and ran his gloved hand along the rough edge of one of the hardened slabs.
"What about waterproofing?" he asked. "For cisterns, aqueducts?"
"There is promise there," Géraud replied. "The mixture, when dry, seals tight. We tested it with olive oil and water. It holds for some time. But for load-bearing structures, it is not yet ready."
"And if I want arches?" Baldwin asked, his eyes fixed on a partially collapsed form where an experimental vault had cracked under its own weight.
"You’ll need better binding, or reinforced timber forms during curing. It’s not impossible, sire—just... delicate. We are close."
The king stood slowly, pain tightening his jaw. "Then keep at it. This kingdom cannot rely on wood and mud forever. If we are to rule Syria, we must build as the Romans did—permanent, proud, unyielding."
"We will," Mukhtar said with quiet conviction. "But it may take another season—winter will slow the work."
Balian spoke up. "There is some progress, Baldwin. What they’re doing now would already impress half the masons in Europe. The Arab kilns burn hotter. The craftsmen are learning from each other. A year ago we were patching towers with sandstone and prayer. Today we are dreaming of aqueducts."
Baldwin allowed himself a faint smile. "Dreams require mortar as much as vision."
He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the towers of the Holy Sepulchre rose above the rooftops like a crown of stone. Even now, architects were sketching plans to reinforce the church’s dome and add proper drainage channels to prevent another collapse in rainy seasons.
"Send a message to Tripoli and Antioch," Baldwin said. "Have them dispatch scouts to volcanic regions—anywhere pozzolana might be found. And I want a warehouse built to store these experiments—what works, what fails. We cannot afford to forget what we’ve learned."
"As you command," Balian replied.
The king took one last look at the slabbed pit, at the half-cracked arch, at the workers covered in dust but shouting instructions in three languages.
It wasn’t enough yet. But it was the beginning.
As they turned to leave, Baldwin whispered to himself, barely audible over the sound of the wind:
"We will build a kingdom that will last."