The Mistress of Spetses – a historical novel is set during the Greek Revolution of 1821 and chronicles the life of Laskarina Bouboulina—the first female admiral who led a fleet against Ottoman naval power. A key figure in Greece’s liberation after nearly 400 years of Ottoman rule, she became a symbol of modern Greece and female empowerment.

Told from Bouboulina’s perspective, the novel follows her transformation from a young woman to a revolutionary leader and naval commander. Defying societal norms, she amassed wealth through controversial ventures to fund Greece’s fight for independence, financing and leading the warship Agamemnon into battle. Known for her commanding presence, she became a local heroine of Spetses and an icon of Greek valour.

Who was the Mistress of Spetses?

A widow of two captains and mother of seven, Bouboulina was a formidable leader navigating political intrigue, personal struggles, and daring revolts. Was she a brilliant strategist, an unrelenting privateer, or a woman driven by passion and ambition?

Set against the backdrop of the Aegean’s turbulent waters, The Mistress of Spetses blends survival, rebellion, and devotion, capturing the legacy of a bold woman who helped shape modern Greece.

No verified paintings of Laskarina Bouboulina exist, leaving her likeness a mystery. Based on scarce portraits and descriptions, she likely bore the features of an Arvanite woman—perhaps resembling the author’s aunt Velpo.

“Laskarina was not just an image; she became my muse, driving me to tell her story,” writes Linardakis. “On Spetses, I felt her presence in the whispers of locals who spoke of her as if she still walked among them.”

Born on May 11, 1771, amid rebellion, Bouboulina was reportedly the daughter of a revolutionary who died in a Constantinople prison. After his death, her mother found refuge on Hydra before remarrying and settling in Spetses. From these early hardships, Laskarina rose to legend, her exploits blurring history and myth.

Twice widowed, she married two influential captains and raised ten children—seven of her own and three from her marriages. Her resilience echoed that of the author’s mother, a widow who raised four sons alone.

Spetses, Hydra, and Psara—known as the Islands of Freedom—were strongholds of resistance, where pirates disrupted Ottoman trade. In 1824, Psara fell, its people massacred or enslaved, drawing Europe’s attention to Greece’s fight for independence.

Bouboulina’s story is one of survival, leadership, and the relentless pursuit of freedom. Linardakis sought historical accuracy, drawing from diverse sources across multiple countries to bring her legacy to life.

The Mistress of Spetses chapter excerpt: Betrayal and Loss

The war had shifted. Greece had changed. Once a land of united revolutionaries against the Ottomans, Greece had now turned against itself, crumbling under the weight of its own ambition. Victory was within reach, looming on the horizon, but so was greed, envy, and betrayal. This new Greece was chaos. Possibly I expected this, because it reflected the Greek way—an eternal tragic drama, where victors often turned on each other. It was happening again.

Nafplion, a coastal city in the eastern Peloponnesos region, became the center for the new provisional government and the first capital of modern Greece. In just a few months, Nafplion was already in turmoil. It had become its own battleground, not of swords and cannons, but of political divisiveness, deceit and shifting loyalties. It was fractured—divided between rival politicians, warlords, and island captains who once saw comrades in arms, now saw the opportunity in the ashes of revolution.

I had sacrificed everything: my fortune, my ships, my blood. All for the cause of Greek independence. And yet, the same men who fought at my side, now viewed me as a threat.

The first signs came in whispers. I heard their murmurs in the streets of Nafplion, later in the ports of Spetses, and even as far as Russia. The merchants, suppliers, and villagers, who once sought my favors, now averted their eyes and turned their backs when I passed. I was too bold, they said—too wealthy, too powerful. Anyone who wielded such influence was dangerous.

They saw a woman who commanded fleets, manipulated people, and proved to be forceful. Could I blame them for judging me? These Greeks believed I sought to rule, rather than to liberate. I had no place in their vision of a new Greece.

They didn’t understand that my pursuits were directed to freeing Greece, and we were achieving this. However, many more wanted wealth, while I had already experienced the financial gains in my life. This was not my goal. It reminded me of the Ottoman proverb I first heard in Constantinople, “Aptal zenginliği, akıllı ise mutluluğu hayal eder.” A fool dreams of wealth; a wise man, of happiness.

The second sign came in ink

Captain Mihali, my trusted friend and seaman, delivered the tightly sealed letter to me on the deck of my beloved vessel, the Agamemnon. The document was from Nafplion, sealed with the mark of the new government. I opened it with steady hands, but as I scanned the words, my heart skipped several beats, and my breath quickly became shallow.

The letter was a summons and decree—an order for me to relinquish my remaining ships to the state and withdraw involvement from all military and political affairs. There was no acknowledgement of my contributions to helping the freedom efforts for a new Greece. No mention of the gold I poured into the war effort. No gratitude for my fallen son. Tipota nothing. Instead, there was only exile by demanding my retreat to Spetses, the island I once ruled.

My exile was designed to be a quiet execution of my legacy. This decisive mandate showed how these few Greeks had become like Ottomans, demanding my submission, as though I were a subject of some new empire. However, it was worse, they wanted all my wealth and my banishment from any leadership role.

I re-read the letter in silence, tightening my grip on the quarto paper until the edges began crumpling beneath my fingers.

“They want to cast me into the sea, like a forgotten relic.” I muttered. Thinking intently, my teeth clenched and I was in pain.

Captain Mihali stood beside me as I read the decree aloud. He stood in silence before snapping.

“They are afraid of you, Kyria Laskarina. You command more respect than most of them. That is the danger.” He said, his voice grave, as if knowing it was God’s plan. He looked down to the trusted and weathered wood deck. Shifting his weight, his right hand pulled a komboloi from his wool trouser pocket, the beads clicking softly as he let them slide between his fingers, in an attempt to lessen his tension.

“They want you gone.”

“I did not fight for this country just to be cast aside like some spent coin!”

I turned and stared out over the port side, my eyes sweeping across the endless stretch of the sea. Although it had never bothered me, this time, the salty breeze stung my face as I gripped the gunwale, of the Agamemnon—once the pride of my fleet, an intimidating commercial vessel turned remarkable warship. Now, she lay at anchor, weary from the recent years of battle.

I rested my arms on the bulwark’s edge, feeling the rough, weatherworn wood beneath my palms, the only barrier between me and the restless waters beyond. It would need to be refinished. The deck was eerily silent, except for an occasional creak of an empty crate. The once-majestic sails hung in tattered remnants, whispering tales of the recent wars we had weathered.

I traced the scars along the hull—repairs hastily done, wounds barely mended. The Agamemnon was still young, yet already bore the marks of hardship and trauma. Much like me. A ship was nothing without its men, and men were nothing without loyalty. Though loyalty, I had learned, could be bought. My coffers were nearly empty, and the new government had already claimed what little remained.

The tide was shifting, and for the first time in years, I felt unmoored—adrift in uncertain waters, with no clear horizon in sight. My fleet had been my sword, my wealth had been my shield, and now, both were to be taken from me. Soon, I would float, directionless, in a vast expanse where even the sea seemed indifferent to my fate.

The confrontation

It wasn’t long before the government sent its messengers. They were not emissaries, nor diplomats; instead, they sent soldiers.

Christos Koutsis, my son-in-law’s uncle, once a trusted member of my household, now stood at the gates of my estate in Nafplion, flanked by armed men. Two men moved forward, grasped my arms, and lead me to the center street. They positioned me to stand opposite Christos, a familiar face, twisted by duty and by cowardice.

“You were once a guest in my home. I welcomed you into my family. I fed you. I gave you wine. And now, you betray me? Know this Christos Koutsis, one day, you will face your own judgement.”

He began reading the decree aloud:

“By executive order of the Provisional Administration of Greece, Laskarina Bouboulina of Spetses is hereby stripped of her command. All remaining assets belonging to her estate in Nafplion shall be seized by the Judiciary for the benefit of the Nation. She shall remain expelled to Spetses for a period of ten years.”

The words hung in the air, heavy as cannon smoke.

The violent birth of modern Greece attacked me from all sides. I listened to every word, my hands clasped behind my back, my face betraying their notice, all emotions taken from me. When he finished, the guards pushed me forward again.

My voice cut through the silence. “And, what of my sacrifices? Will they seize the blood I have shed? The son I lost? What about the ships I have given? Or have they already taken those too?”

I continued, “I demand a trial. A fair trial, to reflect the values of my Greece, the Greece I fought for!”

Koutsis hesitated, and then resumed, “I have read the decree. The decision has been made. The government—”

“The government?” I interrupted, my voice sharp, “The government would not exist without me. Without my ships, without my gold.”

I spat at his feet. “Ftou!” A curse and a protection against the envy that had poisoned them. I scanned the faces of the soldiers behind him. Some lowered their eyes, others—young and unsure—held my gaze, their expressions torn. They had heard the stories. They grew up knowing my name, before they knew their own cause. A few had even fought under my command.

I took another step forward against the guards’ wishes, closing the distance between Koutsis and myself. I was unarmed, but I did not need a weapon.

“You have come into my home like thieves in the night, something even the Ottomans would never have done, they had more honor, and you expect me to bow?” My voice was firm, and laced with venom.

His face twitched, and then, he muttered, “This is not my choice.”

I let out a cold, bitter laugh, “Yet, it is your hands that carry it out.”

I turned my back on them. “Take what you came for, then! If it is scraps you seek, you will find them. I have already given Greece everything else.”

The aftermath

In the days that followed, they ransacked my warehouses and shipyard, emptied my home, seized what little remained, leaving me with nothing—not even my dignity. The house in Nafplion, previously awarded to me for the grand accomplishments and contributions to the war cause, once a center of strategy and power, was now emptied and bare. They took everything—stripping what little wealth remained. I had bled for Greece, and yet, in this new nation, there was no place for me.

As the last night fell, I was granted a solitary walk up to Nafplion’s Palamidi Fortress which, had stood for over a century, its stones worn by time and war. I climbed the 999 steps against the cliff edge, and soon reached the Palamidi fortress. My hands touched the stone walls, and then I took a seat on its edge, cherishing the horizon stretched before me. It was the same sea that once carried me to victory, it was now whispering only of loss. Below, the waves crashed against the jagged rocks, as relentless and unforgiving as the battles I had fought.

The wind tugged at my graying hair, whispering echoes of past victories and bitter betrayals. It was from these very shores that I had once commanded fleets. Now, I was little more than a relic, a name they wished to forget. The Venetian tower, Bourtzi, still stood protecting the harbor waterway, a silent sentinel against the threats of the past and those yet to come. I would return to Spetses, to the sea—the one constant in my life, my true home.

“The sea will remember me,” I murmured.

After they took control of my home and belongings in Nafplion, and I boarded their vessel back to Spetses, under the command of familiar faces—this time, lost in their new strength, clearing me from their paths.

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the whispers of the waves, the wind’s mournful sigh, and the distant cries of the gulls circling above. The betrayal had not come from the Ottomans, but from my own people—those I had trusted. Captain Mihali had been right, they wanted me forgotten. But, I would not let them write out my history. I swore to the sea that they would not silence my legacy.

I would retreat to Spetses, not in defeat, but in defiance. Let them claim my wealth, my titles, even my Nafplion home, but they could never take the sea from me. So long as the waves rolled against the shores, I would endure. So long as the currents sighed my name, I would never be lost.

I would be remembered.

The author

Dr Nikos Linardakis’s debut novel, The Mistress of Spetses, chronicles the life of Laskarina Bouboulina, a fearless leader who shaped Greek history.A first-generation Greek-American, Linardakis draws inspiration from the resilience of Greek women — his mother and aunts, whose wartime stories influenced his work. Born in Chicago, he studied at Benedictine University and earned his medical degree from The Chicago Medical School. After losing his father to cancer, he and his brothers supported their family through music, guided by their mother’s strength. As Editor-in-Chief, he published 11 medical textbooks with McGraw-Hill and contributed to works by Gibbs-Smith, Random House, and Harvard Medical School.