The Weight Of The Stones

The nights in the caravansary were long and cold, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and burning wood. The fires burned low, their flickering light casting elongated shadows across the courtyard. Ishaq sat on a worn wooden bench beneath one of the archways, rubbing his hands together for warmth. Though he had been given a small chamber to sleep in, rest did not come easily.

He was not alone in this wakefulness. Across the courtyard, the night watch moved silently along the walls, their torches bobbing like fireflies in the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf howled, its voice swallowed quickly by the wind.

Ishaq exhaled slowly, his breath curling in the cold air like smoke. He traced a finger along the hem of his cloak, feeling the rough fabric between his fingertips. It was not his own—it had been given to him upon his arrival, a thick woolen thing lined with fur, practical but unfamiliar. He had once worn the robes of a craftsman, embroidered at the cuffs in fine silk. But that life had been left behind, buried beneath the ashes of Erzurum.

His hands ached. The past days had been spent reinforcing the caravansary walls, patching crumbling mortar, securing wooden beams where time had gnawed away at their strength. The labor was familiar, but it lacked the artistry of his former work. He was not designing minarets or carving intricate calligraphy into stone. Here, everything was built for survival, not beauty.

Yet there was something meditative in the repetition—the scraping of stone, the mixing of mortar, the precise placement of each brick. In the silence of his work, he could forget, if only briefly, the weight of all he had lost.

A movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. A figure approached, emerging from the dim corridors of the caravansary. As the firelight flickered, Ishaq recognized Nasir Al-Din. The caravansary master moved with the ease of a man accustomed to walking unseen, his dark robes blending with the night.

"You do not sleep," Nasir observed, his voice quiet.

"Neither do you," Ishaq replied.

Nasir smiled slightly. "Sleep is a luxury for those with nothing to protect."

He lowered himself onto the bench beside Ishaq, adjusting his cloak against the cold. For a long while, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. It was Nasir who finally broke it.

"You work well," he said. "The masons who built this place were skilled, but time is an enemy no man can defeat. The walls weaken. The stones grow weary."

Ishaq nodded, running a hand over the smooth surface of the bench. "I have done what I can with what is available."

Nasir studied him. "And if you had more?"

Ishaq hesitated. "More?"

"Better materials. More workers. Time."

Ishaq exhaled through his nose, considering. "Then I would not only repair the walls—I would improve them. Reinforce the gates. Raise the towers higher. Strengthen the foundation so that it may endure another hundred years."

Nasir's gaze lingered on him, unreadable. "Ambitious."

"Necessary," Ishaq corrected.

A slow nod. "Yes." Nasir leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The Mongols have swept across the east like a tide. They have taken cities greater than this, torn down walls thicker than ours. If they come, we will not stop them."

The words were spoken simply, without fear, without resignation.

Ishaq frowned. "Then why fight?"

"Because delay is its own victory." Nasir turned to face him fully. "If we stand, if we resist, then we buy time. Time for those who flee. Time for those who will rise against them. If we hold even for a little while, it matters."

Ishaq looked down at his hands, rough and calloused from his work. He had not thought of his labor in such terms. He had been fixing walls because they were broken, reinforcing gates because they were weak. But now, with Nasir's words, each stone laid seemed to hold greater weight.

He had spent his life building monuments to faith and art, structures meant to inspire awe. Now, he built walls to withstand destruction, to hold back death for as long as they could.

For the first time since he had arrived, he felt something stir within him—a quiet resolve, unfamiliar but steady.

"I will need more men," he said. "More hands to lift the stone, to mix the mortar. If we are to make this place last, I cannot do it alone."

Nasir's lips curved slightly. "Then you shall have them."

The following days were slow and unrelenting. Ishaq rose with the sun, his breath visible in the frigid air as he gathered tools and set to work. True to his word, Nasir provided laborers—travelers who had sought refuge within the caravansary, men who had once been merchants, scribes, and even warriors, now reduced to seeking shelter behind its walls.

They were untrained in the ways of building, their hands more accustomed to ink and steel than brick and mortar. But Ishaq taught them. He showed them how to mix the lime and sand, how to measure and cut stone, how to layer each brick so that it locked into place, forming something stronger than the sum of its parts.

The work was slow, grueling. Their hands bled, their muscles ached. But bit by bit, the walls of the caravansary grew stronger.

At night, Ishaq returned to his chamber, his body sore, his thoughts heavy. The weight of responsibility pressed upon him in a way he had never known. He had been a builder before, but this was different. These men depended on him—not just for shelter, but for survival.

One evening, as he examined a set of rough sketches he had drawn for a new gate reinforcement, a knock sounded at his door.

"Enter," he called.

The door creaked open, and a young man stepped inside. Ishaq recognized him—a Turkmen, one of the laborers who had been helping with the repairs. His name was Suleiman, though he spoke little and revealed even less about himself.

"Ishaq," Suleiman said hesitantly, lingering near the doorway.

Ishaq gestured for him to sit. "What is it?"

The younger man hesitated before stepping forward, his fingers curling around the edge of his belt. "There is talk among the men," he said carefully. "They say the Mongols are close."

Ishaq's jaw tightened. He had heard the same whispers. Rumors traveled quickly in a place like this, twisting and growing with each retelling.

"What do you believe?" he asked.

Suleiman's expression was troubled. "I do not know. But if they come… will these walls hold?"

Ishaq looked down at his sketches, at the carefully drawn lines and measurements.

"If we have time," he said finally, "then yes. They will hold."

Suleiman exhaled, nodding. "Then we must work faster."

Ishaq watched as the younger man turned and left, his footsteps fading into the corridor.

He looked back at his sketches, at the lines that would soon become stone, at the walls that would soon stand against an enemy that had burned cities to the ground.

And he knew that time was running out.