(Before the gates of ancient Troy, 1241 BCE)

As the horse-mounted women approached the leather-lashed gates of the city, Penthesilea felt at these high walls her destiny and the future of the Daughters of the Moon would somehow be forever altered. A dream she had the night before, while asleep among her warriors, had awoken her in the darkness. She saw only a majestic eagle gliding over a flat, lonely plain toward the sea. It had a dying hawk in its talons. It was an image which she fought back into the recesses of her mind as she and her elite warriors neared the poised sentries. They stared down at the women from the walls of Troy. There was no time or need to consider defeat, for it would only mean domination and subjugation for her sisters over time. It was imperative that the clan would go on as they had, with or without her as their present queen. Sustaining the Daughters of the Moon throughout time had always been Penthesilea's greatest wish.

A showing of great courage in concert with all she had learned in warfare would be the best she could provide her sisters on the adjacent battlefield—and by extension, all those within the walls who would one day speak of her. Like the Greeks, their perpetual enemy, the Amazons had the concept of "Yστεροφημια"—'Isterophimia,' the desire for great remembrance in death. It was a way of transcending one's life across many future generations, carrying with one's passing the heroic essence of what a person had become. In the case of a great warrior or leader this could morph into a power to inspire unlimitedly. Like ripples in a vast lake, the destination and distance of such waves of determination and heroism might have unknown boundaries.

Penthesilea and her small forces approached the tall gates amid shouts and the signaling of drums and horns inside. After some moments the gates opened cautiously, only a distance wide enough for horse and rider to pass in one by one. The war party was greeted favorably by an emissary of the city's king and the women's horses were led to stalls with fresh water. Penthesilea and her warriors carried with them their weapons to the steps of an area where they took a defensive position to await the return of their queen after her formal greeting. The women remained tense, in a state of readiness, trusting no one. They ate cautiously and drank slowly the refreshments offered them by attending women inside the palace. Both groups—Amazons and Trojan maids—marveled at the appearance of the other.

Up several flights of stone stairs the Amazon queen, wearing her shining helmet was led, flanked by Trojan warriors. And at every level was positioned a row of robust sentries, fully armored and poised with bows and swords. Finally at the top terrace of the citadel, Penthesilea was brought into a great hall with columns and a railing over-looking the battlefield and the sea in the distance. Colorful banners and tapestries hung without, where beneath them, seated at a table, several women sat in a somber state, seeming to attend to a central, mourning woman. She was dressed all in black with a hood covering her head. Approaching from a side door, an elderly man in red and blue finery appeared. Penthesilea took off her helmet and discerned that this was King Priam himself.

This legendary patriarch of the Trojan city was rumored to be father of more than fifty children. Though he was weathered and stooped, he had a grace and kindness about his face which Penthesilea had not seen in men before. Speaking a language derivative of the former Hittite kingdom, known to many of the nomadic tribes, he greeted her wholeheartedly, taking her hand and inviting her to sit with the other women at the table. Dried fruit and sweet bread was brought out, with goblets of cold water.

"You have come at a most sad time," the old king told her. They were in the presence of servants and other well-dressed women who had attended the royal table out of curiosity. All had heard of these Amazon women who were said to be 'warriors equal to men.' Meeting their queen on this day would be a moment which, in all their lives was certain to not happen again. Each woman in the room was speechless, in awe of the unexpected youthfulness and beauty Penthesilea displayed, bereft of her helmet and being so incongruent in her trappings as a warrior.

"Here before you is Andromache, wife of my son, Hector," Priam said, solemnly, holding a hand out toward the hooded woman. "He was our most courageous. A loving father. And the one my people here called with great affection, 'The tamer of horses.'"

The hooded woman before her remained unmoving and silent.

"And beside her is my good wife, Hecuba. Mother to our household of many princes and maidens. Some are said to be most fair in all the world."

Penthesilea looked into the faces of both women—the mourning wife and grieving mother. She had seen such expressions on female faces many times among her own clan. Returning from battle and on the faces of those who received them.

"He was slain by the treachery of the gods," Andromache said softly, as if waking from a trance. Her voice came from within the hood. "They play with us like we are leaves in the wind. They decide who will fall . . . and even when . . . in this endless scourge."

Penthesilea did not reply. She only addressed Priam, solely.

"I have come to you with twelve of my best. To be purified of my own sin. This you have granted me by ordeal of your own dilemma here. And I will fight till the death if necessary to be absolved of that sin. I offer you this with my warriors' superior efforts in the process. We shall route your enemy as it is ours as well. The Achaeans have committed grave assaults on the Daughters of the Moon in past generations. We have no love for these Greeks, nor have we in our history, love for any men."

The women all stared at her motionlessly.

"Our mothers and grandmothers shall be present when we ride our horses into the Greek camp to seek this long overdue revenge," Penthesilea continued steadfastly. "I promise you."

Andromache slowly removed her hood and looked expressionlessly across the table at Penthesilea.

"Do not boast too mightily, my fair warrior. . . though queen of a woman tribe you may be. But you have not yet met with the forces which have gathered here a Troy. Men stronger of shoulder await you beyond our gates. And they have among them enchanted soldiers who, with favors of the gods and goddesses, possess abilities frightful and peerless on any blood-soaked field. Do you truly believe your fair shoulders and noble face can succeed where my brave husband has failed?"

Penthesilea stared back, motionless, yet undaunted by the pain-inspired words.

"Before he killed my Hector, the one they call Achilles . . . 'waster of tower and town' . . . the monstrous destroyer, was blessed by his own gods. He filled the Xanthos River with the bodies of Trojan soldiers. Its waters swirled red, coating the rocks with a lasting reminder to all that the forces at work here are more terrible than men, more cunning than women. The gods who attend this war are crueler than any Trojan or Greek. They are playful like children, yet mad with maiming and death as their toys."

A uniform silence in the great hall answered Andromache's laments.

"And now you . . . a mere woman, have come to promise what our greatest warriors cannot do?"

Penthesilea took Andromache's comments fair-mindedly. She could see and hear the anguish of heartbreak. Her words were being spoken by one like herself, a passionate woman. And it was a sentiment she detected was unanimous within the walls of the citadel following the sacred burial of Hector and his many fallen comrades.

Priam intervened. "Now that the truce will be lifted, and the dead have been buried on both sides of our strong walls, there will be much fury when we open our gates once more. The men have vowed to take our forces to the sea. To burn the Achaean ships."

Finally Queen Hecuba spoke up. Her hair, streaked with gray, was held back by a narrow golden band. Her ashen face contrasted starkly with the black gown which looked to have been slept in for days. For the first time the elderly woman looked directly into the eyes of Penthesilea.

"My son was able to push beyond the fortifications of the Greek camp," she said wistfully. "He torched one of their ships on the coast! It gave our forces strength and courage. And for this, in death, he was dragged for days around the walls of our city. Yet he was denied the burial of a hero."

Hecuba's head dropped back, defeated, into her hands as it had been when Penthesilea entered the hall.

"It was Achilles . . . Peleus' aweless son," Andromache added. The 'demon of ashen spears' who committed this atrocity in our sight. We could only watch the horror of it from here. Above the ramparts. The men beat their chests and faces while he was dragged. We wailed, and bit our lips till they bled."

"Yes," Priam added, with waning vitality. "Our son indeed made the Greeks feel their weakness after so many years. He defeated their hero, Patroclus. He who had donned the charmed armor of Achilles."

The old king spoke these words with pride but the comment could not belay his great sorrow. In his aged face Penthesilea could see his exhaustion from the war.

"Yes! But only until all hope was forgotten again!" Andromache interjected bitterly, wiping tears from her eyes. "The return of Achilles to the war made us prisoners again of our city. My young son, Astyanax, born during this long siege, is now fatherless, and I will remain a tortured widow here. If defeated, we women shall all be slaves to these Greeks. The palace is forever cursed by their deities . . . goddesses who brought that woman into our household as a trophy for Paris!"

Priam held up a hand to silence her. But Andromache audaciously continued.

"He will not give her up . . . this wastrel brother of Hector! He and his whore, Helen. They have tortured us all and brought this palace to this edge of destruction!"

All in the room bowed their heads in grief and remained silent.

Penthesilea knew Andromache referred to the woman whose beauty was said to have 'launched a thousand ships.' It was Helen, Penthesilea had heard of as far away as the plains of Themiskryra, who had incited this Great War between and among so many men. It was a merciless conflict which had raged on now for over nine years.

The Amazon queen could not imagine any woman causing so much strife simply by her appearance. It was clearly the product of male vanity, lust and greed, she knew which had led to so much death and suffering. What woman of her clan would have caused so much strife and destruction over any single male? Penthesilea mused. Could any one man or woman incite such stupidity in the opposite sex? It was an absurdity which, nevertheless by happenstance, now connected intensively to Penthesilea's own fate. She would soon play that fate out in the drama of the Trojan War—though for reasons relating to no one in the great hall.

Andromache gathered her strength and spoke once more before covering her head again by her cloaked hood.

"Penthesilea, my weak brother-in-law and his benevolent father our king . . . they still allow this prize of a beast to walk the halls of our kingdom freely! Following her light footsteps are rancid pools of blood. Never to be washed from these floors!"

The sound of these words had no sooner echoed in the room, than in walked affectedly majestic a young woman wearing a white gown. Its splendor and finery were fitting for a princess. She had much gold on her arms, neck and fingers which mirrored her sun-hued locks, coiled fastidiously around the sides of her head. Her chin was held high with confidence, but her countenance lacked for any hint of true dignity. The features of her face were indeed striking and fair, accented by light, ice-blue eyes. Yet this woman, in any unadorned totality, seemed to Penthesilea not unlike some of the young women she had known as sisters of her own clan—and whom were compared to herself when mere physical beauty was rarely discussed.

The woman pretentiously passed in front of Penthesilea to take a chair at the end of the table, revealing a shapely body accented only by her silken dress. The clothing seemed to the Amazon, too tight and impractical. Her sandals were unsoiled, looking to never have stepped beyond polished tiles on either side of the wide Aegean. The others in the room remained still and habitually unimpressed by this 'princess' as she crossed the room slowly. Andromache refused to look at her from her hood. There was no doubt to Penthesilea that this woman was the infamous Helen, wife of a Mycenaean king, abducted by Paris, and brought with resolve to keep her here in the fortified and besieged palace of Troy.

For several moments Penthesilea and Helen exchanged glances—sizing up their own attributes of power. Their own divergent paths of coexistence among men were silently expressed. There were no words between them. All was understood in the simultaneous blinking of their eyes.

"But now . . . Penthesilea," Priam said, breaking the awkward silence which had descended around the table. "Your presence has harkened a fortuitous time for us. Your image on the battlefield will spark courage among my men once more. All of my allied forces have heard of you . . . and your brave 'Daughters of the Moon.' What warrior is not aware of the Amazon's swiftness of horse or accuracy with a bow? Your javelins meet their mark upon men more often than not, and your own fame with the labrys only validates what your name cries out . . . 'Penthesilea—She who makes mourners of men.' All of our children know that your Amazon queens descended from Ares . . . Lord of War, himself."

Hearing these words of praise, Penthesilea looked back across at the now unblinking blue eyes of Helen.

Priam continued robustly for the women to hear.

"Many a tribe . . . fighting for me on the battlefield has encountered your women on the broad plains of Themiskryra, Penthesilea. And did so with great trepidation. For on all sides of the Euxine Sea, I've heard it said your warriors are without equal. All men fear and respect your sisters. They know you will fight like lions to the death, and especially you . . .a lioness they say who can bring slaughter to flocks. My men shall be reborn in valor. And this knowing that fighting shoulder to shoulder with you will leave no Greek standing. Not within the range of your arrows or the hurl of your spears."

Pride swelled in Penthesilea's heart. And heeding Andromache's wise words to not boast further, she quietly nodded her head, simply in recognition of the old king's praise.

"Today you will charge out of these gates first. When the sun is high. You will be flanked on both sides by my chariot brigade. Accompanied by Polydamas, our field commander. And with him . . . Pandarus, our best archer, and the mighty warriors, Aeneas and Glaucus. They will take strength from your presence, and assist your warriors."

Penthesilea noted the configuration in her mind well. Visualized her moment to break free and fight on her own terms.

"Following closely to your warriors, and with a roar of revenge will be our cavalry of nomads, with foot-soldiers just behind, prepared to trample the dying Achaeans as oxen lay waste the corn on a threshing floor."

Penthesilea kept her head down and still said nothing.

Queen Hecuba suddenly stood and spoke with clarity and with dignity.

"Bring it within your lofty powers and unearthly grace, Penthesilea . . . to break through to the Greek ships this evening. Just as our brave Hector did. Our triumphant-souled men are prepared to torch those sails tonight. They rail to make bright candles of the triremes on our shores. And those flames shall be seen most angrily from the home of the Mycenaean gods on Olympus!"

King Priam moved closer to Penthesilea, as if to speak to her privately.

"I beseech you on this day, Child of Ares, to absolve not only your own unspoken sin, but to also avenge for me the sons whom the Fates have torn from my embrace by the Achaean sword and spear."

Penthesilea nodded with reverence once more.

"Whatever the outcome of this tumult," Priam said loudly and lastly, placing a steady hand upon her shoulder. "So be it for all. For when the history of this war is finally written . . . you and your sisters will be remembered like my son as the rarest of heroes."

Penthesilea looked not again at any of the grieving women. She merely stood and gathered her weapons and helmet. She turned and descended the stairs alone to marshal her sisters to their horses. To await the battle to begin.

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