The sun burned high over the makeshift siege lines of Gjirokastër, bathing the encampment in a glare that shimmered off iron helmets and battered pikes. The acrid scent of spent gunpowder clung to every breath of wind—a testament to days of cannon fire aimed at the centuries-old walls. Here, on the rolling hills south of the city, the armies of Depë Zenebishi and the small Byzantine contingent under Aristos had settled into a tense rhythm of watchful waiting and sporadic bombardment.
From a short distance, the repeated thunder of the cannons reverberated through the camp, each boom punctuated by the distant crash of stone from the battered fortifications. Plumes of dust rose where the iron shot struck, but from where Aristos stood, squinting in the harsh sunlight, progress against the walls remained frustratingly slow.
He turned at the sound of heavy footsteps on the stony ground behind him. Depë Zenebishi approached, broad-shouldered and dressed in a mix of chainmail and rough leathers. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his dark, keen eyes flicked between Aristos and the line of cannons positioned along a hastily built earthen rampart.
"We shoot, we shoot," Depë said, his Greek blunt and choppy, "but walls stand." A note of impatience bled through each curt syllable.
Aristos wiped the back of his neck with a linen scrap. "The walls will come down in time. We have only so much powder, Zot " he replied, using a respectful title for the Albanian lord. "We must be careful not to waste our shots."
Depë's thick brows knit together, his frustration evident. "We cannot wait too long. Defenders have food… enough for months. If we give them time, reinforcements will arrive."
Aristos followed Depë's gaze across the dry moat to Gjirokastër's ramparts. Black smoke from cooking fires drifted above the battlements, and the Ottoman banners still snapped in the breeze. "I know," Aristos said quietly. "But if we rush the walls now, we'll lose too many men. We need a proper breach."
Depë exhaled, his breath harsh, then turned to watch a fresh company of his own warriors drilling nearby. They were an assortment of mountaineers and part-time fighters, sporting mismatched cuirasses, helmets, and new pikes courtesy of the Byzantine supply. A few of Aristos' own men were trying to teach them a more disciplined pike formation—straight lines, interlocking spears, steady footwork. But the Albanians, fiercely independent and more used to swift ambushes, grew restless under such rigid tactics.
"My men not used to stand so… stiff," Depë muttered, nodding at the ragged lines. "Hard to learn pike, hold ground. They prefer hills, surprise attack."
Aristos offered a wry smile. "I understand. But to crack this city, we need them to stand firm under cannon fire and repel Ottoman sallies. If the walls weaken enough for an assault, we'll need discipline to push through."
Depë grunted, unconvinced. "We fight as we know. Your men… teach what you want, but do not expect miracles." He spat on the ground, then shifted the topic with abrupt directness. "News from the north, Andrea Thopia took two more villages. And word from Shkumbin Valley—Gjergj Arianiti cleared the Turks. He holds the road now."
At that, Aristos' expression brightened slightly. "A good turn of events. Thopia's success means less pressure on us here."
Depë gave a curt nod of agreement. "Yes. But none of it matters if…"
His sentence trailed off as one of Aristos' artillery crews came bounding toward them, a young gunner panting for breath. "Captain, Zot!" he exclaimed, voice quivering with excitement. "The cannon fire just now—part of the upper wall has collapsed! Looks like a decent section, too."
Aristos and Depë exchanged a glance before hastening across the camp. They found the cannon emplacements arrayed in a jagged line—six guns in total, their muzzles still hot from recent discharges. Smoke lingered in the sultry air, and the sour smell of sulfur tickled Aristos' nostrils. From here, they had an excellent view over the city's southwestern bastion.
Sure enough, a large chunk of masonry had crumbled from the upper battlements, leaving a jagged gap where defenders once stood. Dust and debris still swirled in the air. Through that breach, the sky over Gjirokastër seemed wider, as though the fortress itself were drawing a labored breath.
Depë let out a sharp bark of approval. "Good. The walls come down. Now we storm!"
Aristos raised an arm to stall him. "It's too soon. We may have knocked loose some stones, but there's still a good stretch of wall standing. Any assault now would force us into a choke point. We'd be cutting through rubble—an advantage for the defenders."
Depë fixed him with a hard stare. "Better we try while they are shaken. If we wait, they recover."
Aristos nodded, conceding the point. "True. But we still have enough powder for a few days' worth of bombardment. We can open a bigger breach before committing your men to a bloody attack."
The Albanian warlord let out a long, slow breath, as though forcing himself to accept a harsh truth. "Always talk, Aristos… talk, talk." He jabbed a finger at the missing section of wall. "But you said the walls fall slowly. They do. Fine. I will trust you—for now."
A flicker of relief passed across Aristos' face. He pressed a hand to Depë's shoulder, a gesture of reassurance. "Have faith, Zot. With each passing day, our cannons will carve a wider path through their defenses. When the breach yawns wide enough for a true assault, your moment will come. I swear it."
Across the camp, the Albanian pike trainees paused to gawk at the destruction. A few let out triumphant cries, brandishing their weapons at the wounded fortress.The Byzantine gunners at the cannons exchanged grins and claps on the back, waiting for the barrels to cool.
Depë cast one last glance at the shattered rampart, a torn shape silhouetted against the deepening afternoon light. Then he growled a low command in Albanian, and his subordinates scattered to inform the rest of the besiegers of the slight but definite progress.
Aristos let his gaze linger on the crumbling stones. He could almost hear Captain Andreas' voice echoing in his mind—urging caution, reminding him that while victory was possible, it would not come cheaply or swiftly. Still, he could see the shift in the defenders' morale; the slow thunder of the cannonade was taking its toll.
He inhaled the sulfur-scented air and allowed himself a single moment of satisfaction. The walls are crumbling, he thought, recalling his promise to Depë. Slowly, yes—but crumbling all the same.
The sun beat down on the charred remains of Gjirokastër's southwestern wall, a silent testament to days of punishing bombardment. Smoke still drifted from the broken stones, swirling in lazy spirals that mixed with the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air. At last, after a steady pounding that had left the defenders weary and battered, the wall crumbled completely, opening a ragged breach wide enough for an assault.
Depë Zenebishi's men had wasted no time, hurtling through the shattered gap with ferocious determination. Their shouts rose above the confused clang of steel on steel; Albanian rebels—some in mismatched armor, others in simple leather jerkins—raced up the rubble-strewn slopes. The Byzantine support troops under Aristos followed close behind, pressing the advantage with disciplined pike lines.
The final clash was swift and brutal, but it soon became clear the defenders were hopelessly outnumbered. Within hours, Gjirokastër's inner fortress fell. The Ottoman banners that once snapped defiantly in the wind were torn down, replaced by the standards of Depë Zenebishi and the double-headed eagle of Byzantium. Triumph echoed through the streets—another Ottoman bastion toppled by the growing Albanian revolt.
Two days later
In the great hall of Gjirokastër's citadel, candlelight flickered against the cold stone walls. Aristos stood near a long, rough-hewn table, poring over a parchment map of Albania and the surrounding regions. His men and Depë's captains bustled about, moving supplies and sorting through captured weaponry. The mood in the fortress was jubilant yet tinged with a palpable sense of fatigue.
Depë Zenebishi himself strode in, shoulders thrown back with a prideful air. His normally severe expression carried the smallest hint of a grin.
"We took the fort, Aristos." His Greek still held its halting rhythm, but the words were charged with satisfaction. "Losses small. Victory big."
Aristos straightened, offering a respectful bow of his head. "Your men fought bravely and tthe cannons did their job —exactly as planned."
Depë dipped his chin in agreement. "Yes, good. My men see your ways work. Now they trust you more."
Aristos allowed himself a small smile. After days of tension with the proud Albanian lord, this was as good as open praise. "We've won an important foothold," he said, nodding toward the window overlooking the conquered battlements. "The Ottomans can't overlook this defeat."
Depë's jaw clenched, his momentary cheer dimming. "They will answer soon."
The gathering storm
The news arrived like a dagger in the dark—abrupt and ominous. Late on the second night after the fortress fell, a lone messenger, drenched in sweat and dust, pounded on the citadel gates. He brought word of a large Ottoman army, more than ten thousand strong, marching under Turahan Bey, one of Sultan Murad's most feared commanders. They were already crossing into southern Albania, burning villages suspected of rebellion and cutting off the mountain passes.
By dawn, Aristos and Depë convened an urgent council of war in the citadel's main hall. The atmosphere was grim.
Aristos tapped the map spread across the table, each line and mark illuminated by the weak morning light. "Turahan Bey is no minor warlord," he said. "He's a seasoned general who's crushed rebellions before. If he arrives in force, we could be trapped here in Gjirokastër with limited supplies."
Depë cast a glance around the chamber, where Albanian captains and Byzantine officers stood in a loose circle. "We have no time to fix walls," Depë said, voice firm. "We have little food. We cannot hold city against big force."
One of Aristos' lieutenants, a grizzled veteran named Markos, nodded in agreement. "We can't stay pinned down in a half-ruined fortress. We took it, but we don't have the men or material to repair the breaches—nor enough powder for another prolonged siege."
A murmur of assent rippled through the council. Supplies were meager; the captured stores from Gjirokastër were not enough to sustain a proper defense against a fresh Ottoman army. The local peasants, though grateful for liberation, had little to offer beyond their fields, already ravaged by war.
Depë slammed a callused hand on the table. "So we go. Burn what we cannot carry. Turks find only rubble."
Aristos met his gaze. "Scorched earth," he echoed. "It's harsh, but effective. If we can deny Turahan Bey the resources of the land, we can slow his advance. Meanwhile, we move north, join forces with Andrea Thopia and Gjergj Arianiti in central Albania. Together, we might stand a chance against such a large Ottoman army."
A tense silence followed, broken by one of Depë's older captains. "Do we abandon Gjirokastër to the Turks, then?" he asked, subdued anger in his voice.
Depë narrowed his eyes. "We can leave a small garrison, but they die if they stay. Better we hold strong in open field with allies."
Aristos spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "We must consider the long war. We've dealt the Ottomans a blow by taking this fortress. That victory still stands. But holding it right now… it's simply not possible with our numbers and resources. Turahan Bey's army is too large."
The men in the room exchanged reluctant nods, each realizing the painful truth: after their hard-won victory, they would be forced to abandon the very fortress they had fought so fiercely to capture. Yet none questioned the logic. To remain meant certain defeat.
A Bitter departure
By midday, the encampment within the city walls was a hive of activity. Soldiers loaded wagons with whatever supplies they could salvage—grain, dried meats, spare arms—and carefully packed the remaining barrels of gunpowder. Byzantine Engineers set small charges in the parts of the citadel too damaged to be defended, ensuring that if the Turks reclaimed Gjirokastër, they would inherit mostly rubble.
Depë's men moved through the surrounding fields, burning anything of value—grain stores, livestock pens, even fruit orchards—leaving nothing for Turahan's forces. In the courtyard, townspeople who had sided with the rebels hurriedly gathered their belongings, ready to follow the withdrawing army rather than face Ottoman retribution.
Aristos walked the collapsed stretch of the wall one last time, his boots crunching over loose stone and shattered mortar. The acrid scent of smoke and gunpowder clung to the air, mingling with the dry wind that tugged at the edges of his cloak. He paused, his gaze lifting to the bruised sky, where the last traces of daylight bled into deepening twilight.
He exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the cross that hung from his neck—a simple, worn piece of silver, dulled by time and battle. Kyrie eleison... The whispered prayer left his lips, carried away by the restless wind.
This city should have been a triumph, a sign that God's justice had not abandoned them. A city taken in Christ's name should not have to be surrendered so soon. And yet, here they were—packing what little they could carry, setting fire to the rest, and retreating into the hills like fugitives. Was this a test of faith? Or a punishment?
The weight of the moment settled heavily upon his shoulders. He thought of his men—some wounded, others weary. He thought of the dead, their souls already commended to God. And he thought of the fight yet to come, of the Ottoman tide that would not relent until all of Christendom was swallowed whole.
Pressing the cross to his lips, he murmured, "Lord, if it is Your will that we leave, then grant us the strength to return. If we must fall back, let it be so that we may rise again."
Down in the courtyard, Depë watched his men finish their work with grim determination. When he spotted Aristos, he offered a small nod.
"Next time, we keep city. But now… we must be smart."
Aristos returned the nod. "We'll regroup with Thopia and Arianiti," he said, voice steady. "Our fight isn't over."
Together, they descended into the bustling courtyard, where the final wagons were rolling out. The fortress gates stood open, as if awaiting the inevitable return of the enemy. For a moment, Aristos glanced back at Gjirokastër's proud silhouette against the sky—another victim of a war without mercy.
Then, shoulder to shoulder, the Byzantine contingent and the Albanian rebels departed, leaving behind the smoking ruin of their victory, marching north toward a war that was only just beginning.