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your whole body onto the upper horn that you’re grasping with your left hand. At the same time, with your right you must
extend the end of the cord until you can slip it over the final ring, into the right hook. Simple, no?’
    ‘It’s easy for you to say, grandfather,’ replied the boy, panting as he tried to carry out Kritolaos’ instructions. ‘This thing is hard! It just won’t bend,
and then . . .’ continued Talos, unhappily abandoning his efforts, ‘and then, you mean to tell me it takes all this work just to fix the cord? Damn it, grandfather, if I really had to
defend myself against an enemy, as you say, he could easily cut me to pieces while I’m standing here like an idiot with this thing that won’t bend. I don’t think you should have
counted on me, old man. Maybe you’re like Khiron or the father of Laertes but I’m not the great Achilles, or brave Ulysses. I’m Talos, the cripple.’
    ‘When you’re finished feeling sorry for yourself,’ burst out Kritolaos, irritated, ‘and when you’ve stopped whimpering like a little girl, I’ll tell you some
more things you should know. To begin with, here’s one: stop thinking that everything can be learned easily and immediately. All difficult things require willpower, and learning to use this
bow is certainly not an easy task. It’s not muscles that are lacking, it’s your faith in yourself. Now let’s stop this small talk, take the bow and do as I’ve told
you!’
    The tone of his voice was so commanding that Talos didn’t consider even the smallest objection. He swallowed the knot that he felt rising in his throat, and grasped the upper horn of the
bow with his left hand, pulling the cord with his right. He clenched his teeth, drawing on all his force. Painfully straining his muscles, he began to pull with a constant, continuous effort.
    ‘Yes, boy, like that, grip tight!’ Kritolaos instantly heard his own words echoing in his mind. He saw a small hand reaching up to squeeze his index finger from a rough cradle, the
distant light of a sunset that entered through a crack in the door, the long shadows. The image suddenly faded as he saw Talos’ face dripping with sweat, the expression of triumph in his
reddened eyes. He had conquered the great horn bow! Talos grasped the bow-stave in his left hand, and his right touched the string that vibrated with a low hum.
    ‘Is this what you meant, grandfather?’ Talos asked smiling. Kritolaos’ look was full of emotion and amazement.
    ‘You’ve strung the bow of Aristodemus,’ he said with a tremor in his voice. The boy looked at the gleaming weapon, then lifted his eyes serenely to his grandfather’s,
filled with tears.
    ‘The bow of Kritolaos,’ he murmured.
    *
    Many months had passed since the day Kritolaos had begun to teach Talos to use the bow. Every day, the old man had demanded increasingly intense training from the boy. The
incredible perseverance of the old master overcame even Talos’ occasional discouragement. By the end of autumn, when the first cold winds blew up from the mountains, the boy had become quite
agile. His arms, stretched by constant exercise, had become brawny and muscular. His physique was well developed; although he was just a little over sixteen, he seemed much more a man than a
boy.
    Kritolaos, on the contrary, was in quick decline. It seemed that the energy that was blossoming in the boy’s limbs must have been draining from Kritolaos’ tired bones. The effort of
continuous concentration had rapidly exhausted the old man’s spirit. As the days passed he became increasingly fretful, hurried by his fear of not finishing the task he had begun. This very
fear seemed to feed the endless attention needed to direct and guide the boy, protected from prying eyes in some hidden valley or solitary clearing.
    Talos’ exercises were progressively more difficult; Kritolaos had taught him to make arrows, to balance them perfectly, and to shoot with great