The air at Montgisard crackled with anticipation as Ethan, as King Baldwin IV, stood before a makeshift testing ground, his silver mask reflecting the midday sun. His leprosy-ravaged body shuddered, a fever spiking despite the chamomile-mint-aloe infusion Brother Gerard had prepared. New lesions had erupted on his chest, resisting the neem-turric paste, and the pain gnawed at his resolve. Yet Baldwin's mories drove him forward, and his modern ingenuity fueled the mont: the first test of a simplified hwacha, a cart-mounted array of six bamboo tubes loaded with oil-soaked arrows, rigged with rags for ignition.
Anselm, the master of the royal works, adjusted the cart, his face tense. "Sire, the tubes are prid. We've no gunpowder—only oil and pitch—but a spark should launch the arrows. Ready?"
Ethan nodded, his bandaged hands gripping a staff for support. Balian of Ibelin and a handful of knights watched, alongside a skeptical Joscelin de Courtenay and a curious Odo de St. Amand. Ethan had envisioned the hwacha from a distant mory—a Korean weapon of volleys and fire—and adapted it to 12th-century materials. If it worked, it could terrify Saladin's forces; if it failed, it might undermine his reforms.
Anselm struck a flint, igniting the rags. The tubes flared, and with a sputter, five arrows launched, arcing into the sky before crashing into a wooden target a hundred paces away, the pitch igniting small fires. The sixth tube misfired, bursting with a hiss, scattering embers. The knights cheered, but Joscelin scoffed. "A toy, sire, not a weapon," he muttered.
Ethan's jaw tightened beneath the mask. "A beginning," he countered. "Refine the tubes—use tal next ti. This will grow." The test was promising, but the misfire highlighted the need for better craftsmanship. His mind raced to other technologies—windmills to harness coastal winds for milling or water pumping, and latrines to curb disease among the militia. Sanitation could save lives, freeing n for war; windmills could support new settlents. He'd task Anselm with sketches tomorrow.
The celebration was cut short by a scout's breathless report: Saladin's forces had launched a larger raid near Gaza, a thousand n testing the new Montgisard fortress and militia—a journey of so three days' ride south from Jerusalem under normal conditions, though the rugged terrain and Ethan's frail state would stretch it to four. Ethan's heart sank—his reforms faced their first real trial. Despite his fever, he mounted a litter, rallying two hundred knights and the Gaza militia to ride south, a grueling trek that would take four days with frequent rests to spare his worsening condition. Balian protested, but Ethan's voice was firm. "I lead, or they doubt ."
The journey was agonizing, each jolt of the litter intensifying his pain over the four-day trek from Jerusalem to Gaza, a distance of about 75 miles through rocky hills and desert paths. At Gaza, the fortress's walls—bolstered by the pulley system—stood firm after three days of construction progress, its trebuchet hurling stones that shattered an Ayyubid advance. The militia, trained in spear and bow, held the line after a day of fierce fighting, their discipline a testant to Ethan's program. He directed from the ramparts, a day after arriving, Baldwin's strategies guiding his commands, his modern tweak of archers on the flanks turning the tide. The raiders retreated after losing two hundred n, but the cost was fifty militia lives. Ethan's leadership shone, but his fever worsened, his vision blurring as he collapsed into the litter for the four-day return journey to Jerusalem.
Back in the capital, a storm brewed in the court. Sibylla and Raymond had rallied barons during Ethan's absence, drafting a petition to limit his "radical" reforms—militias, machines, and fortress expansions—citing his health and the Church's unease. Joscelin presented it during a council eting, his voice dripping with false concern. "Sire, the barons fear your burden is too great. We propose a regency under Raymond to guide these changes."
Ethan's blood boiled, Baldwin's mories fueling his response. "You question God's will?" he rasped, rising with effort after the exhausting return. "Montgisard, Gaza—my leadership saved us. The militia held, the trebuchets struck. This petition is your ambition, not the kingdom's. Withdraw it, or face my judgnt."
Sibylla interjected, her voice smooth. "Brother, we seek stability. Your health—"
"My health led us to victory," Ethan cut in, his eyes blazing. "Support , or the court will see your treachery." The hall fell silent, Raymond's silence a tacit admission of guilt. The petition was withdrawn, but the tension lingered, a powder keg awaiting a spark.
In his chambers, Ethan collapsed, his body wracked with pain from the journey and battle. Gerard applied a new mixture—chamomile, aloe, and a trace of sulfur from a captured text, a risky experint to combat infection. The sting was sharp, but Ethan clung to it, his modern knowledge pushing for innovation. As the fever burned, he reflected: was he Ethan, dreaming of windmills and sanitation, or Baldwin, bound by duty? The line blurred, his identity a battlefield of its own.
A scout's final report confird Saladin's forces withdrawing to Egypt, a journey of so ten days across the Sinai, but their probes would return. Ethan's reforms—fortresses, trebuchets, the hwacha, militia—were taking hold, but the court's defiance and his health threatened all. He'd order windmill designs for Jaffa tomorrow, sanitation plans for Jerusalem. With each breath, he fought to save Jerusalem—and himself—against a tide of history and flesh.
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