The Port of Glarentza, Early April 1433
The dawn mist still clung to the wooden piers of Glarentza, curling in wisps around the crates and barrels stacked along the docks. The first light of morning shimmered on the Ionian Sea, its surface rippling as the tide ebbed and flowed beneath the hulls of the waiting ships. The air was thick with the scent of brine, tar, and freshly sawn timber as the port bustled with activity.
Men moved in a practiced rhythm, their voices mingling with the cries of seagulls and the steady pounding of boots on damp planks. Dockworkers heaved crates of iron-tipped pikes and bundles of armor onto the ships, their muscles straining beneath the weight of war. A wooden crane groaned under the strain of a Drakos cannon, its thick ropes creaking as they slowly lowered the massive iron beast into the hold of one of the modified transport ships. Below, sailors guided its descent, their hands steady despite the sweat slicking their brows.
"Easy, easy!" shouted a foreman, waving his hands urgently. "If that falls, we'll be fishing for bronze at the bottom of the harbor!"
A crowd had gathered along the docks—a sea of townspeople, merchants, and soldiers, their faces a mixture of awe and excitement. Children perched on the edges of barrels, their eyes wide as they watched the preparations unfold. An elderly woman clutched a wooden cross to her chest, murmuring a quiet prayer. A group of younger men, still too young for war, cheered as the soldiers boarded, dreaming of the battles to come.
Near the loading area, a group of monks oversaw the storage of posters and medicinal supplies, their brown robes fluttering in the sea breeze. "God's blessings upon you," one intoned, touching the wooden crates stacked high with dried herbs and linen bandages.
Nearby, an engineer clad in a soot-stained tunic wiped his hands on a rag and inspected another set of small boxes being loaded. He nodded in approval before turning to a young apprentice. "Check the fuses again. If we lose a cannon to damp powder, I'll make you scrub the decks from Glarentza to Himara."
Laughter rippled through the soldiers standing in formation, their shields slung over their backs, helmets tucked under their arms. The mood was high—this was no grim march to certain death but a mission of hope.
At the heart of the docks, Aristos, the officer in charge of the expedition, moved with sharp efficiency, ensuring everything proceeded as planned. His sharp eyes darted across the assembled men and cargo, missing nothing.
He turned to one of his lieutenants. "Have we accounted for the full shipment of gunpowder?"
"Aye, sir. Fifty barrels, secured in the hold. We triple-checked the seals."
Aristos nodded approvingly. "Good. And the provisions?"
"Enough salted meat and hardtack for four weeks. Water barrels filled and secured."
Satisfied, Aristos allowed himself a brief moment to take in the sight before him. Five ships, laden with men, arms, and purpose, ready to sail. He exhaled slowly. We are ready.
A sudden gust of wind sent the banners of Morea fluttering—the double-headed eagle of the Palaiologoi rippling proudly in the morning sun. The cheers from the crowd grew louder as the last of the cargo was secured.
As Aristos looked toward the pier, he spotted two familiar figures standing at the water's edge—Constantine and Captain Andreas, watching the scene unfold. It was time.
Captain Andreas stood with his arms crossed, his gaze sweeping across the bustling harbor with the trained eye of a soldier. The scent of salt and freshly tarred wood mixed with the distant aroma of baking bread from the market behind them. Around him, the final moments of preparation played out—the clank of metal as armor was secured, the rhythmic shouts of sailors adjusting sails, and the distant neighing of horses being led away from the docks. Beside him, Constantine stood silent, his cloak shifting with the morning breeze.
"This should be me leading them," Andreas said finally, his voice calm but firm.
Constantine exhaled through his nose, a wry smile playing at his lips. "And who would guard the Hexamilion while you sail off to play hero?"
Andreas turned his head slightly, brow furrowing. "You need someone with real battlefield experience on this mission. Aristos is a fine officer, but he hasn't led men in a campaign like this."
Constantine clapped a hand on Andreas' shoulder, his grip firm. "I need you here, my friend. The Hexamilion needs you." He let the words hang between them for a moment. "This expedition is important, yes, but if the Ottomans test our defenses while you're away, who would I trust to hold the wall?"
Andreas let out a short breath, shaking his head. "Damn it, you always know how to pin me down."
Constantine chuckled. "It's a skill that comes with wearing this crown."
A voice cut through their exchange. "My Emperor, Captain Andreas."
They turned to see Aristos, his armor polished but practical, his stance straight-backed and disciplined. His dark hair was tied back neatly, and his sword belt sat snug against his waist. Behind him, the last few sailors were making their final rounds, ensuring everything was secure.
"All is ready," Aristos reported. "The ships are fully loaded, the men are aboard, and the wind favors our departure."
Constantine nodded. "Good. Then all that remains is for us to entrust this mission to you."
Constantine folded his arms as he looked over the final preparations, then turned to Aristos. "You have one thousand solidi at your disposal," he said. "Spend them wisely—arms, provisions, bribes if needed. But no waste." A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "They're among the first we minted, after all. Treat them carefully."
Aristos smirked. "I'll make sure they don't end up in a dice game, my Emperor."
Constantine stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Your mission is to aid the Albanians, not to fight their war for them. Train them, arm them, and reinforce their siege, but do not squander your men on reckless engagements. If Gjirokastër falls, the Ottomans will strike back with force. Be prepared."
Aristos nodded, his expression serious. "I understand."
Andreas, still watching the loading of the last crates, finally spoke. "Stay disciplined, Aristos. If things turn, don't try to be a hero. A good officer wins the war by staying alive."
Aristos smiled slightly. "I'll do my best, Captain."
The gangplanks were being drawn up now, the ropes loosened from the moorings. The cheers of the crowd swelled as the sails of The Kyrenia unfurled, catching the wind like the wings of a great bird.
Constantine took a step back, his hands clasped behind him. "May the Lord guide your path," he said, raising his voice over the growing din. "And may you return in triumph."
With a final salute, Aristos turned on his heel and strode up the ramp onto the ship. The gangplanks were pulled away, and the fleet slowly drifted from the docks.
Andreas and Constantine stood side by side, watching as the ships moved into open waters. The banners of the empire fluttered in the wind, and for a brief moment, the horizon was filled with the promise of something greater—something more than just survival.
But as the ships grew smaller, fading into the distance, Constantine's expression darkened. He had sent them into a firestorm.
The Voyage and Arrival at Corfu
The Kyrenia cut through the calm waters of the Ionian Sea, its sails taut with the steady wind. The rhythmic creak of timber and the splash of oars from the escorting galleys filled the air, blending with the cries of gulls overhead. The small fleet sailed in close formation, their banners fluttering in unison as they pressed northward along the Greek coast.
On the main deck, Aristos stood near the railing, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The sun hung low now, its golden light casting long shadows across the rippling waves. The sea was merciful today—no raging storms, no treacherous winds—only the endless blue stretching ahead, guiding them toward Corfu.
The men, still fresh from the excitement of departure, had settled into the rhythm of the voyage. Some sat on crates, sharpening their weapons or adjusting their armor. Others gathered near the mast, murmuring prayers with the monks who had joined the expedition. The engineers huddled near the bow, discussing how best to position the cannons when they reached the siege.
Basil, a young soldier, leaned against the ship's railing, his gaze drifting over the endless sea.
"Strange, isn't it?" he said softly.
Aristos glanced over. "What do you mean?"
Basil shrugged, nodding toward the horizon. "Sailing toward a war we haven't even seen. On land, at least you know where you're headed. Out here, it's just water until we arrive."
Aristos gave a faint smirk. "You'll get used to it, Basil. War doesn't wait for solid ground."
A sudden call from the lookout interrupted them. "Land ahead!"
All eyes turned toward the horizon. There, rising from the sea like a darkened jewel, was the island of Corfu—Venetian territory.
The fleet adjusted course, angling toward the sheltered bay near the town. As the ships neared the shore, the towering walls of Corfu's fortress became visible, standing like a sentinel against the encroaching twilight. Venetian galleys bobbed in the harbor, their captains watching the approaching Byzantine fleet with quiet scrutiny.
"Lower the sails!" came the orders. Ropes were thrown, anchors dropped, and soon the ships rocked gently in the harbor's embrace.
A small Venetian delegation awaited them on the dock—no grand reception, just a handful of men in fine but practical attire. Their leader, a thin man with keen eyes and a well-groomed beard, stepped forward as Aristos and a few officers disembarked.
"Captain," the Venetian said smoothly in accented Greek. "I am Pietro Morosini, governor's aide. We received word of your arrival—your passage has been approved as agreed. You and your men may stay for the night, as per the arrangement."
Aristos offered a respectful nod. "We are grateful and will depart for Himara early tomorrow."
Morosini studied him carefully. "War stirs in Albania, and now Byzantine ships sail north with armed men. Venice values its neutrality, as I'm sure you understand."
Aristos met his gaze without hesitation. "We have no quarrel with Venice, nor do we seek to disturb that neutrality."
The Venetian pursed his lips, then gave a small nod. "Very well. Your men may remain for the night as agreed, but ensure there is no trouble."
Aristos inclined his head. "You have my word."
With that, the delegation departed, leaving the Byzantines to organize their encampment near the docks. Some men stretched their legs on solid ground, others remained aboard, resting for the next day's journey.
Aristos watched the fortress for a long moment before turning back toward his men. Tomorrow, they would set sail at dawn.
The morning sun had barely risen when the Byzantine fleet left Corfu behind, the dark silhouette of its Venetian fortress fading into the horizon. A steady wind filled the sails, carrying them swiftly across the Adriatic toward the Albanian coast.
After a couple of hours, the small port of Himara came into view, nestled between rugged cliffs and the shimmering blue sea. Unlike the grand harbor of Corfu, Himara's dock was modest—a cluster of wooden piers jutting into the water, weathered by salt and time. Beyond it, the town's whitewashed stone houses clung to the hillsides, their rooftops bright against the deep green of the surrounding mountains.
Bonfires flickered on the slopes above, signals from Depë Zenebishi's men, confirming that the Byzantines were expected. On the docks, a gathering of armed men stood waiting, their posture rigid, their weapons glinting in the sunlight.
As the ships approached, Aristos stood at the bow, studying the shore with a keen eye. The Albanian rebels were warriors of the mountains—fiercely independent, hardened by years of resistance against the Ottomans. They had accepted Byzantine aid, but trust was something that had to be earned.
With a final command from the helmsmen, the ships eased into the harbor, their hulls bumping gently against the wooden piers. Gangplanks were lowered, and the Byzantine soldiers began disembarking, their boots thudding against damp planks. The dock groaned under the weight of barrels of gunpowder, crates of weapons, and the canons, which had to be hauled ashore with the help of oxen and sweating laborers.
A small delegation of Albanians stepped forward, their leader a tall, bearded warrior clad in worn leather and chainmail. His dark eyes swept over the Byzantine force, lingering on the cannons before returning to Aristos.
"You bring arms and men," the warrior said in heavily accented Greek. "Good. But war is not won with gifts alone."
Aristos met the man's gaze without hesitation. "We bring more than weapons—we bring knowledge." He gestured to the engineers and veteran soldiers organizing the supplies. "Men who know how to fight the way the Ottomans fight. Cannons to tear down the walls of Gjirokastër. Steel to make your people stronger."
The Albanian's lips curled slightly—not quite a smile, but close enough. He gave a firm nod. "Then let us waste no time."
With that, the march to Gjirokastër began.
The journey inland was grueling. The mountain passes were steep and unforgiving, the narrow trails barely wide enough for the carts carrying the cannons. The soldiers moved in disciplined columns, while Albanian scouts darted ahead, their eyes scanning for signs of Ottoman patrols.
Villages along the route offered what aid they could—baskets of bread and dried meats, flasks of honeyed water, and whispered blessings from Orthodox priests who saw the Byzantine arrival as a sign from God. The locals spoke of the siege in hushed tones, of Depë Zenebishi's forces encircling Gjirokastër, of Ottoman garrisons still holding strong behind the city's walls.
"The Turks are trapped inside, but they do not yield," one elder warned Aristos as they passed through a small settlement. "They wait for reinforcements from the east."
Aristos exchanged a glance with his officers. Time was against them. If Murad's forces arrived before the city fell, all would be for nothing.
On the fourth day, as dusk settled over the land, the Byzantine force crested a ridge, and there, stretched before them in the valley below, was Gjirokastër.
Smoke curled from the besieged city, black scars of war marring the stone walls. The banners of the Ottomans still hung defiantly over the towers, while beyond the trenches of the Albanian rebels, flickering torchlight marked the positions of the encampments surrounding the city.
Aristos surveyed the battlefield, his mind already calculating the best approach. His eyes locked onto a weakened section of the southwestern wall, where the masonry was older, worn from years of exposure.
He turned to his officers, his voice hard and decisive. "We will set the cannons on that southwestern wall. We'll hammer them until the stone gives way."
Aristos drew his sword and pointed toward the city.
"It's time to give the Turks fire."