1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 237 The Final Ultimatum

On the walls of Joanina, the wind carried the acrid smell of burning warehouses in the distance.

Metaxas put down his binoculars.

His gaze passed over Abdul Bey, who lay sprawled in the middle of the street like a rag doll, and looked further into the distance. In the south of the city, the camp representing the Albanian garrison was deathly silent. There was no sign of any troops moving out; the gates were tightly shut, like an isolated island cut off from the world.

Throughout the city, more than a dozen black plumes of smoke rose into the sky. These were Ottoman military warehouses, granaries, and stables ablaze. The rebellious citizens, like a swarm of ants on fire, were frantically devouring everything in the city that belonged to the invaders.

The scales of victory have tipped.

No, they have completely sided with Greece.

Metaxas turned to look at the artillery observer beside him. His voice, amidst the clamor of the battlefield, was calm and undisturbed.

"Order the 'Eagle's Nest' position to cease shelling. Conserve ammunition."

"Yes, General!" The observer immediately turned on the handset of the communication phone.

Metaxas continued to issue orders, this time addressing his adjutant beside him.

"Find a soldier who can read Turkish, take a white flag, and go to the main fortress in the north of the city."

He paused, organizing his thoughts, each word seeming to have been precisely calculated.

"Tell the Turkish commander inside: Lay down your weapons and come out of the fortress. In the name of the Kingdom of Greece, I guarantee the safety of all surrendered soldiers and will give them the preferential treatment befitting their status as prisoners of war."

The adjutant was writing down the orders, and Metaxus's voice turned cold and hard.

"Tell him again that if they choose to resist, the city will fall and everything will perish. I, Metaxus, will not accept any form of surrender."

The adjutant's hand trembled slightly. He looked up and saw the general's emotionless eyes. He nodded heavily, turned, and strode away.

This letter is not a letter urging surrender.

This is the last straw offered to a drowning person.

The last main fortress of the Ottoman garrison in the north of the city.

This is the core of the city of Ioannina's defense system, with thick walls and ample supplies of ammunition and food. Theoretically, it could hold out for a month.

But at this moment, the acting commander of the fortress, a colonel named Farooq, stood on the crenellations of the corner tower, his hands and feet icy cold.

Wherever his gaze fell, there was hell.

The streets were filled with cheering birds and Greek civilians waving blue and white flags. They stared at the fortress with hatred, as if it were a tomb.

Further south, in the direction of the city, the camp belonging to Albania's "allies" was eerily quiet. Colonel Farouk's messenger, sent to plead for help, had vanished without a trace, receiving no response.

He sent men to contact the Bey residence in the city center, but the soldiers he sent never returned.

They were abandoned.

They were abandoned by their commander, abandoned by their allies, abandoned by the empire.

They became an army trapped on a deserted island, surrounded by overwhelming hostility from all sides.

"Colonel! The Greeks have sent a messenger!" An officer ran up the corner tower, panting.

Farouk took the ultimatum, which contained only a few words, his hands trembling.

POW treatment?

He'd heard of this before; it was the rule Europeans used to regulate wars between "civilized" people. When did these "infidels" become entitled to such treatment?

But another phrase, "to perish together with the enemy," pierced his heart like an ice pick.

He glanced at the faces of the young soldiers around him; their faces were filled with fear and confusion.

resistance?

What are we resisting for?

For a Sultan far away in Constantinople, who had even received a battle report that "Greece has suffered heavy losses and our army has made a victorious retreat"? Or for a mansion that was already engulfed in flames and could never be returned to?

Resistance is pointless. It will only turn the thousand-odd soldiers inside the fortress, along with the already crazed Greeks outside, into ashes.

Just as Farouk was torn between his inner conflict and on the verge of collapse.

Outside the fortress gates, another horn sounded.

A sentry reported in a panic, "Colonel! It's...it's Albanians! They've sent a squad, also flying white flags!"

Everyone was stunned.

Farooq rushed toward the top of the barricade.

He saw that Colonel Ismail's adjutant, the Albanian commander, was on horseback, standing outside the drawbridge.

"Colonel Farouk!" the Albanian adjutant called out, his voice carrying just the right amount of "anxiety" and "concern".

"Colonel Ismail sent me to mediate! He said, 'We cannot shed any more blood! For the safety of all our Muslim brothers in the city, and for the mercy of Allah, please accept the Greeks' terms!'"

These words, like heavenly music, entered Farouk's ears.

A perfect step.

A way for him to explain himself to his family and save face to the outside world.

He did not surrender out of cowardice; he made a "difficult choice" to "protect his Muslim brothers."

Farouk exhaled a long, long breath.

That last breath took away his final struggle and also ended the more than three hundred years of Ottoman rule in this city.

"Open the door."

His voice was hoarse and weary.

"We surrender."

3 PM.

All the gunfire in the city of Joanina ceased.

When Metaxus, riding his equally weary warhorse, led the main force of the Mountain Hunter Division, slowly entered the city's central square through the west gate.

The entire city was completely detonated.

Thousands upon thousands of Greek residents poured out of their houses, from their cellars of hiding, and from the narrow alleyways.

The streets were completely blocked.

An elderly woman with white hair broke through the soldiers' obstruction and rushed to Metaxas's horse. She kissed the mud stained by the horse's hooves, tears streaming down her face, repeatedly murmuring a single word in an ancient dialect: "Freedom...freedom..."

The young girls wove garlands of fresh flowers, still glistening with dew, picked from the garden, and placed them around the necks of every passing soldier.

The men brought out their treasured wines, uncorked them, and shoved them into the soldiers' hands without a word.

The children, waving small blue and white flags, rode on their fathers' shoulders, shouting "Long live!" in their clear, childlike voices.

This was not a bloody conquest.

This was a grand liberation, nearly four hundred years overdue.

The soldiers were engulfed by this wave of fervor.

Many of them were still young people under twenty. They marched all the way, enduring hunger and thirst, crossing mountains and valleys, and fighting amidst gunfire. They thought they had already hardened their hearts to the bone.

But when they saw the heartfelt smiles and tears of joy of their compatriots...

These young soldiers couldn't help but tear up.

They held their rifles tightly to their chests, their backs straight.

On the other side of the city center.

The heavy gate of the main fortress, engraved with the crescent moon emblem, slowly opened with a screeching sound.

The dejected Turkish soldiers, like zombies, walked out of the door in a long line.

They threw their rifles and knives one by one onto the open ground in the center of the square.

The weapons were piled up into a small mountain.

The sunlight shone on the cold steel, reflecting a dazzling light.

That light heralded the end of an old era.

Metaxas did not linger in the square.

He walked through the cheering crowd, escorted by a squad of personal guards, and headed straight for the Bey mansion, which had been partially destroyed by artillery fire.

In the basement of the official residence, there is a well-preserved telegraph machine left behind by the Ottomans.

He went into the stuffy basement and dismissed everyone.

He personally turned the crank of the transmitter and put on the headset.

The cold, metallic touch quickly brought him back to his senses from the city's frenzied celebration.

His fingers tapped the key with practiced ease and steady speed.

There were no lengthy battle reports.

There was no exciting description.

There is only one word.

One word that says it all.

Radio waves, carrying this weighty word, traversed the war-torn mountains, flying towards the distant East, towards the man who was anxiously waiting for it.