The Leper King

The midday sun struck the western ramparts with silver light, and the mill in the Kidron Valley echoed with the slow, wet rhythm of pounding hammers. Paper—real paper—was being made by the hands of men who had never seen a book that wasn't bound in calfskin. Each day brought a few dozen more pages drying on stretched cloth frames, rough-edged but increasingly uniform. Jerusalem's people had begun calling the place "the Raining House," for the gentle dripping of pulp water from its stone basins.

Inside the citadel, Ethan sat at a high table scattered with vellum, sketches, and early test prints. His mask was off, resting beside a bowl of lukewarm wine vinegar where he soaked his arm twice a day. The mold no longer spread. It didn't retreat, either—but Gerard believed it was stabilizing, forming a faint, lichen-like barrier that seemed to resist other infections. A test applied to a wounded soldier near Gaza had shown promise: the fever dropped after two days. One more step forward.

But a problem had been gnawing at him all week—not one of logistics or medicine, but of legitimacy.

All his changes—his roads, his laws, his press, even his paper—were fragile without spiritual backing. The Pope had remained silent. Rome had sent no letters, no legates, no condemnation—but no blessing either. Ethan knew enough of history to understand the risk. If Rome viewed him as a heretic, the entire Kingdom of Jerusalem could fall from grace, or worse, be declared illegitimate. His nobles would abandon him. The orders might splinter. Even Acre's merchants would reconsider their support if they feared excommunication.

He needed the Pope. And not just as a passive ally. He needed active recognition. A statement that the King of Jerusalem, even one hiding behind a silver mask, still ruled with Heaven's favor.

So Ethan conceived of a gift. Not a letter, not coin—something greater.

A Bible.

But not any Bible. A printed Bible, yes, but also illuminated, glorified, and magnificent—one that bore the soul of a scriptorium and the ambition of a kingdom reborn. Something worthy of a pope's hand.

He would call it Liber Throni Petri: The Book of Peter's Throne.

That evening, he summoned Anselm and the press foreman to his solar. They stood amid scattered diagrams and woodblock sketches as Ethan explained.