To Olympus by chariot
with Hera as my driver.
"You did well,"
she tells me.
"Both men survived the encounter,"
I admit.
"That was the goal,
and yet,
the showdown between Achilles and Agamemnon
left a sour aftertaste.
The anger in both men crested like a wave
that withdraws into a churning mass,
remaining just offshore,
doubling and redoubling,
never dissipating.
I worry for its return."
Hera shakes her head.
"You are a puzzle, Athena.
So focused
on goals,
on tactics,
on battle plans,
that you no longer see the war."
"Yes, my queen."
This I must say as a courtesy.
Father's sister,
Father's consort,
for the nonce,
deserves the outer trappings of my respect
but now she deigns to lecture me on war?
What does Hera know of war?
Her chariot,
trimmed with gold and silver,
bedazzled by precious gems,
horses transformed into peacocks,
This is no chariot of war!
And yet,
Hera remains my most potent ally
against Aphrodite,
against Apollo,
against Artemis,
against Ares
in the war to demolish Priam's Ilion.
Through the gritted teeth of a forced smile
I tell my Dearest Stepmother Aunt,
"Yes, my queen."