The morning light spilled into Baldwin's chambers, illuminating a clutter of parchments on Ethan's table: sketches of counterweight trebuchets, reports on irrigation channels, and a map marked with planned fortresses at Montgisard and Gaza. Ethan, as King Baldwin IV, sat hunched over a fresh sheet, quill in his bandaged hand, drafting letters to distant rulers. His leprosy-wracked body ached, but the neem-turmeric paste, now mixed with aloe vera from Saladin's captured texts, had further eased the inflammation of his lesions. The willow bark tea kept his fever at bay, granting him the focus to push his reforms and secure Jerusalem's future. Montgisard's victory had bought him time, but Saladin's shadow loomed, and the court's vipers—Sibylla, Raymond, Joscelin—watched for any stumble.
Ethan's reforms were taking root. Reports from Jaffa described irrigation channels watering fields, doubling crop yields in test plots. Acre's carpenters had built a second waterwheel, grinding grain with efficiency that stunned local merchants. The counterweight trebuchet prototype in Jerusalem had hurled a stone eighty paces in its latest test, and Anselm, the master of the royal works, was training smiths to replicate it in Ascalon. Yet resistance simmered—some barons grumbled about costs, and the patriarch had sermonized against "unnatural machines," citing divine reliance over human ingenuity. Ethan, blending Baldwin's authority with his modern pragmatism, had silenced them in court, but whispers persisted.
His latest challenge was manpower. The militia training program had begun, with weekly drills in Jerusalem teaching citizens spear and bow tactics. Balian of Ibelin reported enthusiasm among the city's men, but rural barons resisted, fearing armed peasants might challenge their authority. Ethan's offer of land grants in Galilee had drawn a trickle of European settlers, but not enough. To bolster the army, he needed allies—external powers to counter Saladin's inevitable return. Baldwin's memories supplied names: Manuel I Komnenos, Emperor of Byzantium, a powerful but cautious ally; and Leo I, King of Armenian Cilicia, whose mountain warriors could tip the balance.
Ethan dipped his quill, crafting a letter to Manuel first. His modern perspective shaped a tone more direct than the flowery diplomacy of the era. "To the Emperor of the Romans," he wrote, "Jerusalem, victorious at Montgisard, seeks alliance against the Ayyubid threat. We offer trade—grain, relics, access to our ports—for your ships and soldiers. Together, we can hold the Holy Land for Christendom." He paused, Baldwin's memories warning of Manuel's pride. He added, "Your wisdom and strength are renowned; let us unite as brothers in faith." The letter to Leo was similar, emphasizing shared enemies and promising Armenian merchants favorable terms in Jerusalem's markets.
He sealed the letters, entrusting them to envoys with orders to sail for Constantinople and Tarsus. The alliances were a gamble—Byzantium was distant, Armenia unpredictable—but Ethan's 21st-century mindset saw the value of coalitions. If he could secure even a few hundred Byzantine cataphracts or Armenian archers, Jerusalem's defenses would strengthen significantly.
His thoughts turned to fortification. Montgisard's victory had exposed the need for a stronger defensive network. The planned fortresses at Montgisard and Gaza were underway, with stone quarried and masons dispatched. Ethan envisioned a chain of outposts along the southern border, each armed with counterweight trebuchets to deter Saladin's incursions. Expanding into Jericho, with its vital springs, remained a priority—control of water could sustain armies and deny resources to enemies. But building required men and money, and the barons' reluctance was a hurdle. Could he introduce simpler construction methods, like pulleys or basic cranes, to speed fortress building? His modern knowledge was vague on mechanics, but he'd seen enough documentaries to sketch rough designs.
A knock interrupted his musings. Balian entered, his face lined with fatigue but bright with news. "Sire, the militia in Jerusalem numbers three hundred trained men, and Jaffa reports a hundred more. The irrigation channels in Acre are drawing settlers, and the trebuchet design is being studied in Ascalon. Your vision spreads, but the barons—Joscelin chief among them—complain of overreach."
Ethan's jaw tightened beneath the mask. Joscelin's loyalty to Sibylla was a constant thorn. "Summon the court," he said. "I'll address them tomorrow. And send word to Anselm—prioritize the Montgisard fortress and test a pulley system for lifting stones."
Balian bowed, but his eyes held concern. "Sire, Sibylla has been meeting with Joscelin and Raymond. They speak of your health, your 'radical' changes. The victory at Montgisard holds them at bay, but not for long."
Ethan nodded, Baldwin's memories confirming the threat. Sibylla's ambition for her son's future crown was a slow-burning fuse, and Raymond's regency gave him leverage. He needed to solidify his authority before their scheming boiled over.
That evening, Ethan stood by his window, staring at Jerusalem's moonlit domes. The weight of his dual identity pressed heavily—Baldwin's duty to the kingdom, Ethan's desire to survive and innovate. Was he becoming Baldwin, losing the barista who'd dreamed of a quiet life? The leprosy treatments were holding, but each day was a battle against his body. The new aloe mixture soothed his skin, and he'd ordered Gerard to experiment with mint-based infusions from the Arabic texts, hoping for a stronger analgesic. But his health was a means to an end—to reform Jerusalem, to outlast Saladin, to leave a legacy.
A scout's report, delivered at dusk, darkened his mood: Saladin was regrouping in Egypt, his spies probing Jerusalem's borders. The alliances with Byzantium and Armenia were urgent, as were the fortresses and militia. Ethan's modern mind envisioned a kingdom fortified not just with walls but with resilience—irrigated fields, efficient mills, trained citizens, and a network of castles. He'd push for a crane design to speed construction, perhaps inspired by Roman engineering he'd read about. If he could streamline fortress building, Jerusalem could hold its frontier against Saladin's next assault.
As he prepared for the court meeting, Ethan adjusted his mask, his band ¯aged hands steady despite the ache. Tomorrow, he'd face Sibylla, Raymond, and the barons, presenting his reforms as divine will to counter their doubts. The letters to Manuel and Leo were on their way, carrying hopes of alliance. The kingdom was changing—fields watered, machines built, fortresses rising—but so was Ethan. He was Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem, and Ethan Caldwell, a man out of time, and the balance between them would determine the kingdom's fate.