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forest. He called to his dog, ‘Here, Krios. Run! Come
on, old thing, catch me!’
    The animal flung himself after its young master, wagging its tail and barking. It was a game they had played many times. He hadn’t yet caught up to the boy when Talos stopped short: behind
a leafy beech tree stump stood a man, unmoving, wrapped in a heavy cloak of dark wool, his face half covered by a hood. He paused a moment, staring at the boy. Then he snatched up a bundle of twigs
and hurried away along the path. Meanwhile Kritolaos, panting, had reached the boy. Obviously disturbed, he gripped Talos’ arm.
    ‘What’s the matter, grandfather, haven’t you ever seen a wayfarer?’
    Kritolaos continued to stare in consternation at the hooded figure rapidly moving away. The old man put the bow to Talos. ‘Kill him,’ he commanded.
    ‘Have you lost your mind, grandfather? Why should I kill him? I don’t even know who he is, he hasn’t hurt me or anything.’
    ‘He saw you using the bow. He’s not one of us, he’s a Spartan. You must kill him. Now, while there’s still time.’ The old man’s voice betrayed his fear.
    ‘No, I can’t,’ Talos replied calmly. ‘If he attacked me, maybe I could shoot him, but not like this; he’s unarmed, and has his back turned to me.’
    Kritolaos didn’t speak another word that whole day, despite Talos’ efforts to cheer him up. He seemed terribly discouraged, as if all of his hopes, his very reason for living, had
been rubbed out in a single moment. The following days were full of anxiety for the old man: he kept a close watch even at pasture, and hardly dared to let his young charge practise with the bow.
When he did allow it, he sought out distant, out-of-the-way places: he acted as though they were being watched, spied upon; every noise startled him, made his eyes brim with tears. Talos became
very worried.
    Days passed, months. Springtime was almost over, and nothing untoward had happened. Kritolaos seemed reassured, but his health was quickly declining. Some days he didn’t even go out to
pasture. He sat on his stool for long hours; men from nearby farms going to work or to pasture with their sheep stopped to talk to him. They all seemed strangely troubled, as if they knew that
Kritolaos’ end was at hand. In the evenings, Talos returned alone with the flock and little Krios. After finishing his tasks, he would sit at his grandfather’s feet and talk with him
for hours. Talos reported his progress with the bow, which he still carried with him. Sometimes he was gone for several days at a time, when the pasture was far away, and slept in a crude hut made
of branches, twigs and leaves.
    One day, as springtime was ending, Talos was on the slopes of Mount Taygetus, not too far from his home. Kritolaos hadn’t felt well the night before, and Talos didn’t want to be too
far off. His mother could easily reach him if she needed to, or send someone after him.
    It was almost noon, and hot. Talos sat under a tree, looking towards the plain where the silver olive trees glimmered. Behind him was a long stretch of road that came from the north and appeared
deserted. Talos had heard from friends of his who were servants in the city that important things were about to happen. The sailors of Gytheum, who brought the fish to market, had seen an immense
fleet coming from the east during the night: hundreds and hundreds of ships with long bronze rostra ploughing through the waves. A great king had sent them from his empire beyond the sea, to wage
war on Athens.
    Talos had only very vague ideas of what went on away from his mountain. He had heard Kritolaos speak of the other nations of Greece, but he had never seen anyone except the people of Taygetus
and the warriors of the city. Talos wondered why that great king would want to declare war on such a small city as Athens. Why would he come with all those ships, if what the sailors of Gytheum
said were true? He thought of how much