Rewarded with a clear view of the Ida range, they ate a picnic that Lockhart had deliberately made more liquid than solid. Halfway through the second bottle of retsina, Anna lay back and looked at the clear sky, a breeze blowing her brown hair across her face.

“Well?” she began. “Aren’t you going to take advantage of me now that you’ve lured me to the top of this mountain?”

“Oh—if I must,” Lockhart replied, trying to sound calmer than he felt. He looked straight at her.

“Well, get on with it then.”

He needed no further encouragement.

He swore he would never forget the motorcycle ride home, with Anna’s arms clutched tightly under his shirt, the setting sun casting their long shadows in front of them.

Manoli had neglected to tell Lockhart about the bats. The entire roof of the large cave was a twitching mass of leathery wings and fur. Canopies had been erected to shelter the men from the droppings. Despite feeling exhausted, Lockhart eyed the creatures warily.

“Couldn’t you have found a cave without this ugly lot?” he asked Manoli.

“I rather like them. They keep the same hours as us, and they behave very well.”

“I just hope they’re not vampires.”

“No,” laughed Manoli. “But we could make an offering to Carna if it would make you happy.”

“You and your bloody nymphs.”

It was seven in the morning, and the band had just arrived at the hideout. The remainder of the journey had passed uneventfully, although they had briefly rested at a small church at the foot of Mount Tsilivdikas, where Lockhart had taken the opportunity to pray for the first time in ages.

Lockhart looked around. Some of the men were eating bread and cheese, and others were turning in for the day. He couldn’t work out if he felt more hungry than tired. He lay down underneath a splattered canopy and found that he couldn’t sleep. He stared at the damp rock a few feet away, watching water droplets snake their way down to a small puddle. It reminded him of a passage by Louis MacNeice.

Sleep to the noise of running water

To-morrow to be crossed, however deep;

This is no river of the dead, or Lethe,

To-night we sleep

On the banks of Rubicon—the die is cast;

There will be time to audit

The accounts later, there will be sunlight later

And the equation will come out at last.

MacNeice too had read Greats at Merton, although he had left before Lockhart had arrived. For a time, Lockhart had wanted to emulate the poet, especially after he had read MacNeice’s excellent translation of Agamemnon. But he knew that he would never get near, especially after Anna had been characteristically frank about his scribblings.

The air was cool in the cave, and he started to shiver slightly. He tucked the thin blanket around his shoulders, which did little to help. He thought of Anna, his best critic, and little Amy. That was too painful. Sleep would be a release, a temporary relief from the images of the dying oberstleutnant and his driver.