Manno continued. ‘The Persians, the Romans, the Franks, the malaka Turks, and even the French have tried to take her away from us, but they fail. Syros, she belongs to us, and she will always come back to us, the Greeks!’

Silence settled over us, each sensing the other’s disappointment as our little boat chugged through gentle waves. The scenery was nothing but bushland and boulders, dull as the island of Yaros, but without the dolphins and falcons and stories of buccaneers. Manno peered at our disillusioned faces, then back at the landscape.

‘Ah, no worries, you must wait to see our city, she is coming now, you wait . . . We, the Greeks, we build our city so beautiful that we had to hide her away from the pirates. Still they came, so we build another city on the top of the hill over the first, and from there, we fire our big cannons at the invaders until they leave us in peace.’

We rounded a promontory. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ I gasped as we continued towards the picturesque harbour. ‘How very beautiful.’

A steeply sloping natural amphitheatre rose from the port giving us a unique view of all the buildings.

‘Here, we have the best schools, theatres and libraries in all Greece, and we trade with every one of the other islands. They all admire us.’

Grand Venetian dwellings stood proud, dwarfing the smaller, white, flat-roofed Cyclades houses with tiny square windows. Neoclassical villas, perhaps built by rich and flamboyant sea captains at a time when Venetians ruled the country. Painted in a multitude of pastel colours, the houses appeared crisp and clean, rinsed by sunlight and staring solidly out to sea. Balconies with ornate spindles, jutted like open drawers from the smooth, plastered walls of peach, ochre, or pale blue. Elegant folding louvres and fancy fascias framed tall windows. All this, displayed below ridged, terracotta tiles on an apex pointing to heaven.

‘Oh, it’s so beautiful!’ I gazed at the eclectic buildings delivered from the dull topography with all the colour and excitement of a surprise gift. As we drew close, I felt myself change too. One could never be sure of what lay ahead, but the view was so uplifting, I felt hope for the first time since the sinking. Perhaps everything would turn out well in the end.

Our boat entered the harbour. Moored at the quayside was a grey naval vessel, daunting as a prison. They’ve come for me. I had cost our country many thousands, when they needed it most. Now I must rise up and accept the consequences. If I pretended to be twenty-three, I also had to act as if I were twenty-three.

From now on, I’d stop cowering and face the future. A noble speech to myself, yet, my insides wilted. What might happen? Would they hang me when they discovered all the facts?