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precision and power. The bow itself, rigid
at first because it had not been handled for so long, had repeatedly been on the verge of breaking. Talos had greased it thousands of times and warmed it by the fire, so that it gradually became
more elastic.
    The moment of his final test approached; the test that for Talos represented a kind of initiation, his passage into manhood. He was excited and enthusiastic about his constantly growing prowess,
but at night, stretched out on his straw pallet, he often remained awake thinking. It was hard to understand what the old man was aiming for with this continuous and even brutal drilling. He had
taught Talos to use his staff as well as the bow. And Talos had learned to bend the cornel crook to his will, while exploiting its formidable power. Certainly, defending the flock from thieves and
from wild animals was a valid reason for wielding such weapons; but that couldn’t explain everything. Talos continued to puzzle over this problem without coming to an answer. Also, he was
very worried about Kritolaos’ rapid decline. The old man was stooped over, his legs had become very unsteady. Sometimes the light in his tired gaze seemed to be going out.

3
THE CHAMPION
    T HE DAY THAT K RITOLAOS had chosen for the final test arrived: clear but very windy.
    The old man and the boy woke up very early and quickly reached the high spring. Talos threw off his cloak and washed himself in the chill spring water. At Kritolaos’ signal, gripping the
bow, he put the sheepskin quiver over his shoulder and walked forward about thirty paces. The old man stood near a young cornel tree, straight and slender. He took its topmost branch and curved it
downward so that its tip nearly touched the ground. He turned to Talos.
    ‘Careful!’ he shouted. ‘When I let go of the branch, I’ll count to three, and you let fly. All right?’
    ‘Yes,’ replied Talos, reaching for the quiver. Kritolaos had made the test as difficult as possible: the boy had to hit a small, rapidly moving target, calculating the speed and
direction of the wind. Talos looked up at the leaves of the trees and again at the target, which seemed incredibly small: a twig at this distance! He chose a long, rather heavy arrow, and slowly
put himself into position to shoot.
    ‘Here we go!’ shouted Kritolaos, releasing the slender branch and moving quickly aside. The tree whistled like a whip, swaying rapidly. Talos held his breath. He followed the target’s
movement for a second, gripping the bow lightly with his left hand. He shot; the heavy arrow, perfectly balanced, flew through the air with a muffled roar. It tore through the tree’s bark and
ended up in a nearby field.
    ‘I failed, damn it!’ raged Talos, running towards the still-moving target.
    ‘By Hercules, my boy, you hit it! You got it, I tell you!’ The old man marvelled, still watching the tree. ‘Great Zeus, from thirty paces, in movement, and with this
wind.’ He turned towards the breathless boy. ‘You got it, understand? What did you expect, to nail it straight through the middle? Talos, do you know what this means? In a few months .
. . you’ve done this just in a few months!’
    The old shepherd shook with emotion, his knees trembled. It was evident that he had anxiously awaited this moment.
    ‘Wait, help me to sit down, my boy. My knees won’t hold me up. Come here, sit next to me. There, good. And now listen to me, boy: you will become a great archer, as great as Ajax
Oileus, like Ulysses—’
    Talos laughed heartily. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, grandfather! Don’t you think that toothless mouth of yours is opened too wide? It was just luck!’
    ‘Impertinent little bastard!’ exclaimed Kritolaos, his eyes rolling upwards. ‘I’ll break this staff on your rump. You’ll learn to respect your elders!’
    Talos tumbled sideways to escape the stick that the old man jokingly threatened him with, then jumped to his feet and ran towards the