Lockhart also taught the men how to cut a throat, although some of them appeared not to need the lesson. Manoli had warned him that at least two of their group were murderers, but with a common enemy, an unholy alliance had been formed between farmer and criminal.

Although not refined, the men were clearly capable fighters. Centuries of bloody feuds on the island meant that many Cretans were born warriors. Children as young as six knew how to use a rifle, and during the invasion, teenagers fought alongside their fathers and uncles. It was said that the only good thing to come out of the occupation was that the islanders were no longer killing each other. However, the ancient Cretan art of thieving continued unabated, as the shortages got worse.

With their preparation over, the band left the cave. Lockhart knew that the men were as ready as they would ever be. They might not be up to the standard required at Arisaig, but Lockhart had neither the facilities nor the time. The men handled the weapons and the explosives well, but he was worried that they lacked the discipline to take orders during an engagement.

The route to Armenoi was tortuous. Once again, Manoli had underestimated the length of the journey. It took three nights, stumbling along broken paths used only by sheep and goats. Many of the men’s boots were in bad shape, and Lockhart feared that two of them would not make it. When they removed their boots at the end of a night’s walk, their feet were raw and bleeding. The antiseptic cream from his medical kit was soon exhausted, and Lockhart cursed that he had not taken the boots from the young crewman who had rowed him ashore.

The nights were cold too, and the wind, funneled through the mountain passes, was vicious. No matter how many layers Lockhart put on, it was never enough. But he was lucky—some of the men’s clothes were flimsy, and they made a brave show of not complaining.

By day, they sheltered in caves, which were as cold as the nights. Those that they used were too small to light fires in, so they slept tightly packed together. The smell of the mass of male bodies reminded him of the digs at Knossos—there was something uniquely foul about Cretan sweat, Lockhart thought. And no fires meant no hot food, which sapped morale still further. But they had cigarettes, which helped.

These conditions caused Lockhart to marvel at the stamina of the runners, who undertook journeys such as this week on week, month on month. They had done so for the past two years, taking messages from one group of andartes to another. Usually wiry and small, they made twice as much speed as Lockhart’s group. They traveled alone, and seemed to exist on very little food. Their feet were horrific to behold.

As they tried to sleep, Manoli would quietly recite the Erotocritos, a seventeenth-century Cretan epic poem, the ten thousand lines of which he knew by heart. One passage stuck in Lockhart’s mind.