Malta Short Let: Cozy Stay in Gzira
Sliema Area Modern Designer Finished 2 Bedrooms + Games Room. First floor with Maltese Balcony Large back Terrace with swinging sofa Fully Airconditioned + Full Kitchen 3 TVs, including 65” with backlight.
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THE GREAT SIEGE

I have witnessed countless invasions. Romans and Carthaginians. Arabs and Normans. Waves of conquest washing over my shores like the relentless Mediterranean.

But nothing prepared me for the summer of 1565.

Nothing prepared any of us.

I was still weak, still recovering from my encounter with lightning when I had intervened to save Ġużepp and Toni. Still learning what it meant to be more than a witness.

The Ottoman fleet appeared on the horizon at dawn, May 18th. First a smudge where sea met sky, then a forest of masts and sails stretching across the eastern horizon. One hundred and thirty-eight vessels carrying an army of forty thousand men—over four times Malta’s entire population.

From Fort St. Angelo, Grand Master Jean Parisot de La Valette watched through a brass spyglass, his weathered face betraying no emotion. At seventy-one, he had spent a lifetime fighting the Ottoman Empire, including years as their slave after being captured in battle. Now, Sultan Suleiman had sent his greatest generals to crush the Knights once and for all.

“It begins,” La Valette said simply, collapsing the spyglass with a decisive click.

Beside him stood Ġużepp Cumbo, now Captain of the Maltese militia. At forty-seven, the privateer’s son had become La Valette’s most trusted Maltese commander.

“My men are ready, Grand Master,” Ġużepp said, his eyes fixed on the approaching armada.

La Valette turned to him, studying the younger man’s face. “Are they? Ready to die, if necessary?”

“Ready to fight for their homes. Their families.” Ġużepp met the Grand Master’s gaze. “Ready to prove that Maltese blood is worth as much as that of any Knight.”

The old warrior nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes. “Then remind them what the Turk did on Gozo twelve years ago. One thousand islanders—men, women, children—taken as slaves. We cannot surrender. Not even if the walls crumble around us.”

On La Valette’s other side stood François de Brienne, now a Knight Commander. His right hand trembled slightly—a lasting reminder of the lightning strike months before. “The Turkish generals will offer terms,” he predicted.

“And I shall reject them,” La Valette replied. “Tell your Knights, Commander: This island becomes our tomb or our victory. There is no middle ground.”

I felt their resolve, hard as the limestone beneath their feet. But I knew what they did not—the terrible price that would be paid for that resolve.

Men of iron will
Preparing to face the storm
Blood price not yet known

THE FIRST SACRIFICE

The Ottoman strategy became clear within days. Their massive cannons—including the enormous “Basilisk” that fired stone balls weighing nearly 90 kilograms—targeted Fort St. Elmo at the tip of the Sciberras Peninsula. Though the smallest of Malta’s fortresses, St. Elmo controlled the entrance to Marsamxett Harbor. The Turks would need to take it before bringing their fleet safely to anchor.

What they expected to be a quick victory became a month-long ordeal.

Throughout the siege, Toni Bajada—Ġużepp’s lieutenant—organized a network of brave Maltese swimmers who carried messages between the isolated fortresses. As the most skilled swimmer himself, Toni often took the most dangerous night-time routes across the harbor while Ottoman ships patrolled the waters.

On a moonless night in early June, Toni slipped into the waters of Grand Harbor, a waterproof pouch containing La Valette’s orders strapped to his back. Ottoman ships patrolled between positions, making the 800-meter swim a deadly gamble.

I felt him enter my waters, his strong arms cutting through the darkness. I sensed Ottoman sailors above, their lanterns swinging as they scanned the harbor’s surface.

In my weakened state, I could do little. But as I had done during the lightning storm with Ġużepp and Toni, I attempted something—a subtle push against the water’s surface, creating a small disturbance fifty yards from where Toni swam. Just enough to draw the sailors’ attention away.

It worked.

Turkish voices called out. A lantern swung toward the ripples I had created. And Toni, sensing the distraction, dove deeper, swimming beneath the patrol boat unseen.

He emerged from the water at St. Elmo’s small sea gate, gasping but triumphant. The defending Knights, exhausted after another day of relentless bombardment, greeted him with desperate hope.

“Reinforcements?” asked the commander, his face blackened with gunpowder.

Toni shook his head, water streaming from his hair. “La Valette sends supplies, but few men. He orders you to hold as long as possible.”

The Knight’s expression hardened. “Tell the Grand Master we will hold until the last man falls.”

Meanwhile, in Birgu, Rozina Cumbo had transformed the courtyard of her small hospital into a triage center. Dozens of wounded arrived daily—mostly from St. Elmo, but increasingly from Birgu and Senglea as Ottoman bombardment expanded.

“We need more bandages,” she told her assistant Katerina, her hands bloody as she extracted a Turkish arrow from a militiaman’s shoulder. “And the willow bark infusion is almost gone.”

Katerina—now a confident medical practitioner—nodded grimly. “I’ve set the women to boiling more seawater for cleaning wounds. But we’ll need more vinegar.”

As they spoke, François de Brienne entered, supporting a young Knight whose left arm hung uselessly at his side.

“Turkish musket ball,” François explained as Rozina directed them to a bloodstained table. “Can you help him?”

Rozina examined the wound with practiced hands. “The ball went clean through. With proper care, he might keep the arm.” She looked up at François, noting the exhaustion on his face. “And you, Commander? When did you last sleep?”

“Sleep is a luxury we cannot afford,” he replied, but the slight slur in his words betrayed his fatigue.

“Even La Valette rests,” she countered, pressing a cup of watered wine into his hand. “Drink. Rest for an hour. A commander who collapses from exhaustion helps no one.”

François accepted the cup with his good hand. “Your husband builds defenses that save lives. You repair bodies that save souls. Between you, the Cumbos are Malta’s greatest defense.”

As he spoke, a tremendous explosion shook the walls. Dust sifted down from the ceiling.

“Another mine,” François said grimly, setting down the untouched cup. “The Turks dig tunnels beneath our walls to place gunpowder. I must go.”

As he rushed out, Rozina exchanged a look with Katerina. “Check his quarters tonight,” she said quietly. “If he hasn’t slept, put valerian in his wine.”

I felt their exhaustion. Their determination. Their sacrifice. But the true test had only begun.

On June 23rd, after thirty-one days of relentless assault, Fort St. Elmo finally fell. Of the over five hundred defenders who had begun the battle, none survived. But they had accomplished what seemed impossible—delaying the Ottoman advance long enough for La Valette to strengthen Birgu’s and Senglea’s defenses.

The cost was staggering. The Turks had lost eight thousand men—twenty percent of their invasion force—to take a fort that should have fallen in days.

The Ottoman commanders, Mustafa Pasha and Piali Pasha, ordered a demonstration to break defender morale. The bodies of slain Knights were decapitated, nailed to wooden crosses, and floated across Grand Harbor for the defenders to see.

La Valette’s response was swift and terrible. All Turkish prisoners in Birgu were beheaded, and their heads fired from cannons back into Ottoman lines.

The message was clear: This would be a fight without mercy.

THE PEOPLE’S DEFENSE

With St. Elmo fallen, the full fury of the Ottoman assault turned to Birgu and Senglea—the twin fortresses protecting Grand Harbor. No longer would the Turks underestimate their opponents.

Ġużepp Cumbo’s militia now faced its greatest test. The Knights, though skilled and courageous, numbered less than seven hundred. Against forty thousand Ottomans, the eight thousand Maltese fighters would make the difference between survival and annihilation.

On the walls of Birgu, Ġużepp organized his men into rotating companies. Farmers who had never left their villages now stood alongside Knights, loading arquebuses and firing at Ottoman soldiers building siege works.

“Remember,” Ġużepp told a nervous group of fishermen-turned-fighters, “you know this land better than they do. Every rock, every cave, every path. Use that knowledge.”

And use it they did. While the Knights commanded the formal defenses, the Maltese executed countless small operations that disrupted Ottoman efforts. Nighttime raids destroyed siege equipment. Countermine teams—led by Maltese quarrymen who had spent lifetimes cutting limestone—detected and collapsed Turkish tunnels before explosives could be placed.

I watched with pride as my people rose to the challenge. No longer merely subjects of the Knights, but partners in Malta’s defense.

In mid-July, Mustafa Pasha ordered a massive assault on Senglea from the harbor. Ottoman engineers constructed a floating bridge of wooden planks laid over barrels, allowing hundreds of janissaries—elite Turkish soldiers—to approach where the fortress walls were lowest.

The attack began at dawn. Hundreds of Turks flooded across the floating bridge while their artillery pounded Senglea’s defenses. The Knights and Maltese militia returned fire, but the Ottoman numbers seemed overwhelming.

Victory seemed within Turkish grasp—until a Maltese sentry noticed a fatal flaw in the Ottoman plan.

“The bridge isn’t anchored properly!” he called to Ġużepp, who was directing defense of a nearby position. “If we hit it from the side, the current will tear it apart!”

Ġużepp immediately gathered thirty Maltese militiamen who knew the harbor’s underwater topography. Led by Toni Bajada, they slipped into the water at a blind spot in the Ottoman lines. Swimming beneath the surface, they reached the floating bridge’s moorings and began cutting the ropes with knives.

I could feel them in my waters, moving with purpose. This time, I tried something new. A subtle current, just enough to help guide them to the weakest points in the bridge’s construction.

Within minutes, the bridge began to shift. As sections broke free, panic spread among the Ottoman forces crossing it. Knights and Maltese defenders, seeing the enemy’s confusion, intensified their fire. Hundreds of Turkish soldiers fell into the harbor, weighed down by armor and weapons.

What had begun as a certain Ottoman victory became a disaster. By midday, over eight hundred Turkish soldiers had died, and the floating bridge lay in ruins.

That evening, La Valette summoned Ġużepp to Fort St. Angelo.

“Your men performed admirably today,” the Grand Master said, pouring two cups of wine. “Particularly Bajada and his swimmers.”

“They fight for their homeland,” Ġużepp replied, accepting the cup. “For their families.”

La Valette studied him over the rim of his cup. “The Knights fight for Christ and our Order. Your Maltese fight for their homes. Perhaps both causes are strengthened by the other.”

Ġużepp nodded. “Perhaps that is why we shall win, Grand Master. The Turk fights for conquest. We fight for survival.”

“Indeed.” La Valette set down his cup. “I’ve come to a decision. When—not if, but when—we prevail, I shall build a new city on Mount Sciberras. A fortress city that will make Malta impregnable.”

“A fitting monument to those who died defending these islands.”

“Not merely a monument,” La Valette corrected. “A home. For Knights and Maltese alike.” He fixed Ġużepp with his penetrating gaze. “Your people have earned that right with their blood.”

I felt a shift in that moment. The Knights, who had come as Malta’s masters, now acknowledged the Maltese as essential partners. Not subjects, but fellow defenders of a shared home.

THE DARKEST HOUR

By early August, the siege entered its most desperate phase. Ottoman mining operations had damaged sections of Birgu’s walls. Food supplies dwindled. Ammunition ran low. The summer heat intensified, bringing disease to both sides.

In Rozina’s infirmary, the situation grew dire. Hundreds of wounded filled every available space. Medical supplies were nearly exhausted. She and her team worked relentlessly, using everything from honey to moldy bread to treat wounds when conventional medicines ran out.

“We need more clean water,” Rozina told Katerina, her face pale with exhaustion. “The wounded die more from fever than from Turkish weapons.”

Katerina nodded grimly. “I’ll organize the children to carry water from the cisterns.”

“Be careful. The bombardment has intensified.”

Indeed, the Ottoman cannons pounded Birgu day and night. The sound of masonry cracking and collapsing became as constant as the crash of waves against Malta’s shores.

On August 7th, disaster struck. Ottoman sappers successfully detonated a massive mine beneath the Castile Bastion—one of Birgu’s critical defensive positions. The explosion tore a gaping hole in the walls. Within minutes, hundreds of janissaries swarmed toward the breach.

The few Knights stationed at the position fought desperately but were quickly overwhelmed. The Ottomans poured into the gap, certain of victory at last.

What they didn’t expect was the second line of defense—a hastily constructed barricade manned by Ġużepp’s militia. Unlike the Knights with their heavy armor, the Maltese fighters were more agile, using the rubble-strewn ground to their advantage. They struck from multiple angles, falling back behind cover before Ottoman marksmen could target them.

Word of the breach reached La Valette, who immediately gathered all available Knights and rushed to the scene. When he arrived, he found the Maltese militia already containing the Ottoman advance.

Rather than taking command, La Valette placed himself and his Knights under Ġużepp’s direction.

“This is your battlefield, Captain Cumbo,” the Grand Master declared. “What are your orders?”

Without hesitation, Ġużepp directed the Knights to reinforce the center while his Maltese fighters continued harassment from the flanks. The strategy worked. Ottoman momentum stalled as they faced both the Knights’ disciplined defense and the Maltese fighters’ unpredictable attacks.

I watched this battle with a mixture of pride and anguish. My people fighting with extraordinary courage, yet dying by the dozen.

A strange energy built within me—not like the lightning, but something born of my connection to the defenders. I felt drawn to their struggle, compelled to act despite my limited strength.

As the battle reached its peak, Ġużepp spotted a group of Ottoman soldiers preparing a small cannon to fire down the narrow street directly at La Valette’s position. The Grand Master, focused on directing Knights in front of him, didn’t see the threat.

Ġużepp was too far away to intervene. He shouted a warning, but his voice was lost in the cacophony of battle.

In that moment, I concentrated every fragment of my remaining energy. Not on the cannon—I couldn’t affect something so large—but on a pile of loose stones beside it. Just a slight shift, enough to send a single rock rolling underfoot. It was the same kind of small influence I had discovered I could exert after the lightning storm.

An Ottoman gunner stumbled. The cannon’s aim shifted slightly. The shot fired, but instead of striking La Valette and his command group, it shattered a nearby wall. Rubble rained down, temporarily blocking the Ottoman advance from that direction.

The momentary reprieve allowed Maltese reinforcements to arrive. By nightfall, the defenders had sealed the breach with a new barricade. The Ottoman forces withdrew to regroup.

That small intervention drained what little energy I had recovered. For days afterward, I existed in a twilight state, barely aware of the continuing battle.

The defense of the Castile Bastion became legendary even before the siege ended. What few outside accounts acknowledged, however, was that it had been primarily a Maltese victory. The Knights received the glory, but it was Ġużepp’s militia that had held the line at the critical moment.

Throughout August, similar attacks tested the defenders’ resolve. Supplies dwindled further. Gunpowder became so scarce that defenders collected unconsumed grains from fired Ottoman cannonballs to reuse in their own weapons.

Every day, Toni Bajada risked his life swimming between Birgu and Senglea, maintaining communication between the isolated fortresses. Without his efforts, coordinated defense would have been impossible.

In the midst of this desperate situation, a small relief force—known as the “Piccolo Soccorso”—arrived from Sicily with minimal reinforcements and supplies. Though insufficient to break the siege, it raised defender morale by proving they had not been forgotten.

Limestone walls crumble
Blood and gunpowder mingle
Hope like thin thread holds

THE TURNING TIDE

By early September, the situation had grown desperate for both sides. The defenders had suffered terrible losses and faced critical shortages. But the Ottoman army, far from its supply bases and suffering from disease in the summer heat, was also weakening.

Mustafa Pasha, under pressure from Constantinople to deliver victory, decided on a final all-out assault. But before committing his main force to Birgu, he moved to neutralize Mdina—Malta’s old capital city inland.

With most fighting-age men drawn to defend the harbors, Mdina’s walls were manned primarily by the elderly, the young, and a small detachment of Knights. When Ottoman forces approached, Maltese defenders employed a brilliant deception.

Every able person in the city—including women—donned whatever armor could be found and lined the walls. From a distance, the Ottomans saw what appeared to be a fully manned fortress. Local knowledge suggested the Turks’ water supplies were running dangerously low, making a prolonged siege impossible.

The Ottoman commanders, unwilling to commit resources to what might be a lengthy operation, abandoned their plans to attack Mdina. This critical decision preserved Malta’s inland city and allowed the harbor defenders to maintain their focus on Birgu and Senglea.

I watched this deception with admiration. My people had learned centuries of survival skills, passed from generation to generation. They understood how appearance could be as powerful as reality.

On September 7th, the long-awaited Christian relief force—the “Grande Soccorso”—finally arrived from Sicily. Nearly ten thousand Spanish and Italian soldiers came ashore on the northern coast of Malta. Though Ottoman forces still outnumbered them, the Turks were exhausted, disease-ridden, and demoralized after months of resistance that had cost them over twenty thousand casualties.

Mustafa Pasha, recognizing the changed situation, ordered a fighting retreat. By September 8th—after nearly four months of continuous battle—the last Ottoman ships departed Malta’s shores.

The Great Siege had ended.

Victory had cost Malta dearly. Nearly a third of the island’s population had perished. Birgu and Senglea lay in ruins. Fields were burned, cisterns damaged, villages destroyed.

But Malta stood undefeated.

In Fort St. Angelo, Grand Master La Valette gathered the surviving Knights and Maltese commanders. His face, more deeply lined than before the siege, showed both exhaustion and fierce pride.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying across the silent room, “we have witnessed a miracle. The greatest army in the world has broken against Malta’s shores.”

He turned to where Ġużepp stood with Toni Bajada and other Maltese commanders. “Some will write that the Knights of St. John saved Malta. But we know the truth.” He bowed his head slightly to the Maltese. “Without your courage, your knowledge of these islands, your willingness to fight alongside us, we would have fallen within weeks.”

Ġużepp, bandaged from multiple wounds and thin from months of privation, nodded in acknowledgment. “And without the Knights’ leadership and military expertise, we would have fallen just as quickly. This victory belongs to all of us.”

La Valette smiled—a rare sight that transformed his austere features. “Indeed. And so shall the new city we build. I have already written to Rome and Madrid. Construction begins as soon as we have buried our dead.”

After the meeting, Ġużepp made his way slowly through Birgu’s shattered streets to the infirmary where Rozina had worked throughout the siege. He found her tending to wounded men—both Maltese and Knights receiving the same careful attention from her hands.

She looked up as he entered, exhaustion etched in every line of her face. Without a word, she crossed to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her head against his chest.

“It’s over,” he whispered, stroking her hair.

“Not for these men,” she replied softly. “Not for the widows and orphans.”

“No,” he agreed. “But Malta lives. And will rebuild.”

She looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Did we win, truly? Look at the cost.”

“We survived,” he corrected. “Against the greatest empire in the world. And in surviving, we showed them—and ourselves—what Malta truly is.”

François de Brienne found them there, his right arm now permanently damaged but his spirit unbroken. The three embraced, united by experiences that would bind them for life.

“La Valette has asked me to help design the new city’s defenses,” François told them. “He wants your input too, Ġużepp. Says the Maltese perspective must be included from the beginning.”

“Times are changing,” Ġużepp observed. “A month ago, the Knights might not have thought to ask.”

“War reveals truth,” François replied. “And the truth is that Malta belongs to both Knights and Maltese. We defended it together. We’ll rebuild it together.”

As they spoke, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway—Salvatore Cumbo, Ġużepp’s privateer father. His appearance was nothing short of miraculous. For five years, he had been believed dead, never returning from one of his corsair raids. Yet here he stood, older, with new scars on his weathered face, having led a private fleet that harassed Ottoman supply ships throughout the siege. “Father,” Ġużepp said, stunned. “We thought you lost at sea.” Salvatore smiled grimly. “The sea and I understand each other too well for that.” His expression softened slightly. “When I heard of the Ottoman fleet, I knew I had to return. How could I stay away when my son fought for Malta’s survival?” He stepped forward awkwardly, pride and uncertainty warring in his expression. “The stories of your courage reached even our ships. The Captain of the Maltese militia. The healer who saved hundreds.” He hesitated, then extended his hand to his son. “I was wrong, years ago. There are indeed things more important than profit.” Ġużepp took his father’s hand, then pulled him into an embrace. “We have all learned that lesson, Father.”

I watched this reconciliation with satisfaction. Fathers and sons. Knights and Maltese. All transformed by the crucible of siege.

As for me, I too had changed. My brief interventions during the battle had awakened something new—a realization that after millennia of observation, I might have a more active role to play in Malta’s future.

But that would come later. For now, I retreated deep into the limestone heart of my islands, seeking recovery from the energy I had expended.

Malta would rebuild. A new city would rise—Valletta, named for the Grand Master who had led the defense. And I would watch, as I always had, but with a new understanding of my connection to this land and its people.

Broken walls stand proud
Victory carved in limestone
Malta's heart beats on

THE TRUE VICTORS

In the gathering dusk, Ġużepp and Toni Bajada stood on what remained of Birgu’s walls, surveying the debris-strewn landscape where Ottoman forces had camped just days before.

“How many did we lose?” Toni asked quietly.

Ġużepp shook his head. “Too many to count yet. Perhaps a third of the Maltese militia. Nearly two hundred Knights.”

“And who will remember them?” Toni’s voice held an edge. “Already, messengers race to Rome and Madrid with news of the Knights’ great victory.”

“We will remember,” Ġużepp replied firmly. “Our children will know that Maltese blood purchased this victory as surely as that of any Knight.”

Toni nodded, his gaze distant. “They outnumbered us ten to one. Yet we prevailed.”

“Because we had no choice. This is our home.”

As darkness fell, they made their way toward the harbor where skiffs waited to carry them to their families. François de Brienne joined them, moving carefully with his lightning-damaged arm.

“La Valette spoke to the Council today,” the Knight said. “He told them plainly that without the Maltese militia, the siege would have been lost in the first month.”

“Will his words reach beyond that room?” Ġużepp asked.

François smiled wryly. “History is written by survivors, my friend. And thanks to you, we both survive to tell the tale.”

As they reached the water’s edge, François paused, looking out over the harbor where so many had died. “I’ve been thinking about that night, during the storm when lightning struck so close to you and Toni. Both of you swore you saw something—a guardian figure. After what I’ve witnessed in this siege, I’m inclined to believe there was something watching over Malta even then. Preparing us for what was to come.”

If only he knew how close to the truth he stood.

I, Il-Ħares, the Guardian, had watched over Malta for millennia. But during the Great Siege, I had done more than watch. In small ways—ways I was only beginning to understand—I had participated.

And like Malta itself, I had been transformed by the experience.

At dawn the next day, Grand Master La Valette stood on Mount Sciberras—the peninsula where Fort St. Elmo had stood—and looked out over Grand Harbor. Beside him, architects and engineers already sketched plans for the new city that would bear his name.

“Here,” he said, pointing to the highest point, “we shall build the Church of Our Lady of Victory. And beyond it, a city with defenses that will make any future attacker tremble.”

Ġużepp, invited to this planning session, studied the proposed layouts. “The Maltese quarters should have direct access to the harbor,” he suggested. “Our fishermen and boatmen will be the city’s lifeblood.”

La Valette nodded approvingly. “So they shall. This city belongs to all who defended Malta.”

As planning for the new city proceeded, life slowly returned to the shattered islands. Fields were replanted. Homes rebuilt. The dead—both Knights and Maltese—were buried with honor.

In churches across Malta, prayers of thanksgiving rose alongside lamentations for the fallen. The siege had forged a new identity—neither purely Knight nor purely Maltese, but something unique to these islands.

And I, watching from ancient stones, felt Malta’s heartbeat strengthen. These people—my people—had withstood the greatest test in their history.

The Knights would receive most of the glory in chronicles written for European courts. But here, on the blood-soaked limestone of these small islands, the truth would be remembered: Malta’s survival came through the combined courage of foreign Knights and native defenders.

The Great Siege had revealed Malta’s true strength—not in walls or weapons, but in the fierce determination of those who called these islands home.

And in centuries to come, as new powers rose and fell, that strength would endure.

As would I, the silent guardian, watching over Malta’s continuing story.