The Last of Her Line

Achilles slaying Penthesilea, Athenian black-figure amphora C6th B.C., British Museum

The Last of Her Line

The last of her line of warrior queens

Penthesilea spurred the flagging Trojans

to combat with brave words and Priam had

faith until the oracle showed him her

limp form on a funeral pyre.

But the fleeting glory of the Amazon

inspired the armies of Troy, dispirited

by nine years of encirclement, by Hector's

death and they followed her wild mare to

the battlefields and fought as they never

had before, lancing and axing the Greeks

driving them back to the beached ships

with newfound fury, their wild warcries

crowning the seagulls' wails. Blood

gored the plains of Ilium and heads rolled

like stones on the breach of Achaean

          offence

until Achilles, still mourning Patroclus

joined the battle to confront the warrior

woman. The air thundered with battle

the cries of the dying, the speared, the

gutted. Pacing each other, the half god

the Amazon each scented victory. Ah

Penthesilea's spear glanced off dread

Achilles' shield, his greave and in  his

turn Chiron's pupil pierced the warrior

woman through her breast, penetrating

the horse to stick her body like meat

upon a spit. Plucking the helm from her

head, Achilles looked with rage on the

dead beauty of the woman whose courage

matched his and he lusted helplessly

for those slack limbs to entwine his

that dead mouth to catch  his, that gone

breath to sweeten his life. There is

no victory in conquering

                    there is no glory!

he cried in anguish and tried to die.

c.1980