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  Virginia White wakes up from a rest on her day-bed thinking of the Silk Road, the thin thread of money connecting East and West. The importance of Troy. Its culmination. The elegance and wealth of Troy, the gateway of the trade routes opening onto to the burgeoning civilisation of Greece, the markets of the growing known world. The fortune seekers, and adventurers, trekking the dangerous path. The whole thing had grown into a choking matted cobweb of commerce that threatened to destroy the earth.

  While she was dreaming it was so clear what had happened. Her subconscious was capable of encompassing the lot in fluid images melting into each other in slick movement across time and space. The transference to being conscious is also generous in scope, though more confused and laced with ignorance, coloured by the memories and fancies of her own history. She and Jeff had played the stories of Marco Polo, Arabian Nights, Ali Baba, been pirates and thieves, on boats, on horses made of sticks, sword-fighting, charging like knights, been musketeers. And she listened with interest to Caroline's raves about ancient Greece, her specialty. Yet as she rises, she knows nothing of the trade routes and commerce, starting as a single silk thread, now stifling the planet with the madness of money. In the present, she has only the wisps of having dreamed something brilliant, her self as a restless being inhabiting transmogrifying bodies, freely flying through the ages. The artistic temperament, as the Surrealists tried to show, straddles the worlds of consciousness.

  The mental work of her dreaming gives her energy to complete tasks necessary to living in the wilderness. Gathering twigs and bark, making the fire, boiling the billy, sweeping, washing up, placing things neatly, getting it together to go back to her work. Walking, climbing the rainforest track, her brain barely registers the brilliant day; the songs of birds seem like distractions. Drawn by a magnetism to her piece, she approaches a towering fortress, a rugged defiance in her own emotions, a dead tree teeming with life but not tree-life. It is black and green, impossibly inelegant.

  She is fooling herself. Virginia wonders if she is going mad. So many women artists have gone mad, or got so depressed they killed themselves. A raging torrent of indignation, energy, righteousness makes them work their hearts out until one day their sanity breaks and they have no more to give. Without giving what is the point of living? Because Virginia is not mad, she fights her doubt with logic and righteous intention, but the axe falls leaden. She is afraid of destroying, rather than creating with her tools. Craft deserts her; she might as well be chopping fire wood. She considers killing herself.

  She mounts the rudimentary ladder, sits down in despair. Soon, allowing the words of self-admonishing to cease, she is being transported to another place and time, by the fact of her work, by her imagination, by her concentration, by something beyond her. She meditates, she dissolves. She does hear the voice of someone called Cressida. Virginia relaxes. She poses, one of the forms she has not yet shaped, on the prow of the non-existent ship in the viridian shade and chill of the bush in a dappled sun.

  'Because they do not know, because they were not there, they think old Cressida is lecturing when she speaks. The arthritis in my fingers cramps the movement of my hands which were once strong and supple. Such a calcification occurs in mentality too. My memory does not have the flexibility of its youth. It has hardened around my own viewpoint, but I was there and I do know. The concrete accuracy of my recall is shaped by my personal vision, both my expectations and what I actually saw in my role as spy in the palace, plus, of course, by what I made of it all, later.

  'Perhaps you think that Achilles dispatched Penthesilea in a back street, that there were skirmishes in different parts of the city and hand-to-hand combat happened in conditions of chaos. The crowds afflicted with mass blood-lust acting as a herd responding to rumours of where the action is, as if rounded up by the hounds and wolves of carrion hunger, is a possible view of events. It is, after all, how people behave during eruptions of rebellion and insurrection. The overthrow of Priam, the destruction of Troy and all her gubernatorial customs stemming from matrilineal descent, the control of wealth, the dispensation of justice, the secular and religious rituals Trojans enjoyed celebrating birth and respecting death, was not at all like a revolution, a people's uprising. It was a cold, calculated take-over, glamourised by a crude sculpture on wheels, Greeks bearing gifts, a wooden horse of grotesque size, an armour-plated tank, a military operation. The Aegeans insinuated a police force with the trickery of an undercover operation and proceeded, thereafter, to create war.

  'Naturally the populace mobbed in anger, at times. Long had the hebephiles of Sparta, Ithaca and Athens converted the aggressive and competitive instincts of male youth into the arts of war, exulted these pursuits into the games of Olympus as if, indeed, the gods themselves enjoyed nothing more than the activities of might. Boys fight and compete. Give them weapons and they will go on a rampage. But, what do I, a single Amazon, know of the needs of greedy gods? Amazons could not hold back the tide. The ugly wooden horse collapsed slowly in the forecourt of the palace. It fell off its wheels and couldn't be moved.'

  Like Gig's caravan.

  'Even the Greeks were ashamed of it. Ulysses, military prodigy that he was, reckoned the real appeal of war was as a spectator sport. He had his troops construct an arena in the agora of their encampment for the matches of skill and strength. The hoi polloi did not, themselves, want to get hurt, and the politicians, councillors, bursars, priests, ladies of fashion, historians and court gossips wielded a power he measured as equivalent to feats of courage. Penthesilea will face the best, Achilles. Much fanfare accompanied Penthesilea's march to our camp, overlooking the River Scamander. The warrior-women's tent was a bigtop with the Amazonian flag flying from the mast of its centre pole. The dining board was a long table at which all Amazons ate, whether their jobs were cleaning, clothing, feeding or dressing wounds, fighting or carrying. Long-limbed dogs kept guard, lying watchfully at the four corners of our ground. I will record here and just once that there was never ever known entry by spies into the Amazons' living quarters. Although a spy in the court, full of its perfumed scents, I could pass in and out as I pleased. We did not question the acumen of canine discernment, merely used it to our advantage. Women collaborating with the enemy were immediately met by our diplomats and asked their business by an Amazon in control of her tongue. My counter-agent, the scholarly Greek, wondered how this could be. Failed attempts to penetrate the Amazon enclave to glean the secrets of our chain of command were subjects of endless interest.

  'Did he not know that dogs only told the truth, or did he think that the dogs said nothing? Such trivial topics amused me for no more than a second. Achilles did not underestimate Penthesilea any more than he did any other opponent. Patroclus was slain after donning Achilles' armour, but there was, on this day, no mistaking the angry eyes, the fire of hatred behind the clouds of sultry arrogance. Seated ringside next to Briseis and Cassandra in an enclosure for females of a certain obtained standard of dress, I, Cressida, truly wished that my queen would win. I wanted to barrack and lend my energy and enthusiasm. I was caught up in the moment. The agora was crowded. Briseis and Cassandra reflected on the fate of Hector. Polyxena hoped, within my earshot, that Achilles would, for a change, fight fairly. For my own safety I was not privy to any tricks we may have had up our sleeves. The Greek princes, heroes, Nestor, Ajax, Diomedes, Menelaus and the rest of them each had his own tent, an entourage, servants and soldiers separate, and, although Agamemnon was supposed to be their chief, they operated along lines of alliances behind the goal of the shared outcome, the conquest of Troy, for the honour of Zeus, their father god. Or riches. Or domination. It's a rickety system if you want to keep intelligence secure. We all knew the secrets of their love lives, their passions, their weaknesses, what they had for breakfast, who was likely to betray whom, because their encampment was rife with spies. Everyone was aware Patroclus was the one who commanded the Achilles' heart. His boys, the Myrmidons, were god-given gifts. Achille
s' armour, however, did not save his lover. Thetis made her son impervious. Wounds he sustained healed as they were inflicted.

  'Penthesilea's arrow started the conflict. Amazon arrows stung the strident Myrmidons and pinged off Achilles' suit of brilliant metal. The skills of war were so refined and graceful at this pin-point in history that those not in battle had no fear of injury. Achilles was contemptuous of the arrows. They were as annoying gnats. What truly irritated him was there was nothing for him to do except march around displaying his splendour. Amazon arrows shot out from sniper's holes at irregular intervals as Penthesilea herself took her time arriving at the contest.

  'Beneath the veneer of civilisation, the sophistication of both the Greeks and the Trojans, war itself is barbaric. Witnesses to this occasion were at a blood sport. The playful beginning would end in tragedy. The fate of the locals was in the hands of mercenaries shaping up against each other. Cassandra, beside me, was disgusted. She knew what was going to happen. Already the assembly was dispersing, muttering that the Amazons were not being fair to Achilles. The Amazons, other Trojans opined, had to stick to their nature. They were archers, and their lives were at stake. The city was in a state of siege and the residents needs must obey the curfew at sunset. This, I think, was what Penthesilea was taking into account. If she could occupy Achilles during the daylight hours, frustrate him by not being available at dawn, when he was fresh and his troops blinded one with the beauty of their pageantry, she could catch him in hand-to-hand combat with a minimum of distraction and have a reasonable chance. Our Penthesilea did not lack confidence, but she did know that brains play a big part in success.

  'I snuck past the sphinx (the dogs) at the gate. There grew a lotus flower in these parts that was irresistible to Amazons who felt they deserved a break. I saw cleaners and cooks who had been busy for forty-eight hours sitting at the dinner board relaxing, taking a narcotic drink, because, they said, it is probably our last chance to feel proud. Already our medical team was treating wounded Amazons. Our jackal detail had brought in three bodies by the time I was there. How quickly disillusionment set in when the vision was glory!

  'The detractors, however, were in the minority. For the most part unity was achieved because there was a common enemy and action. Amazons were in danger. The camp was busy. Outnumbering the pessimists were those with impossible optimism. When I found the crone I was looking for, she said, we have not been in this situation before and she did not know what I should do. It depended, she thought, on whether I believed my fate belonged with the sword or the word. There was a place for me in the last phalanx, the team of Amazons ready for clash of sword and shield. The smell of freshly oiled leather, the sight of polished steel, the industrious activity of other swordswomen, intoxicated me, infected me with the excitement of the fray. I stood in my court robes among Amazons clad in short tunics, tall boots, flexing their muscles, lunging and parrying, waiting impatiently for the call. We, warlike women, had been bred for this moment. We all had the training. I stripped off the soft fabric, and stood naked, letting the cold evening air ready my nervous system. Thalestris held up the suede jerkin for me to thrust my arms in its holes, quickly she buckled the shield holster into place. I stepped into the tunic. It was tight. I had put on weight in the luxury of the palace. My boots were worn and the leather worked with lard. My feet slipped in smoothly.

  'We trotted out along the streets of the city of Troy in ranks of four, heading straight for the arena. We noticed some of our archers in position and others helping each other back to camp. Tears of excitement, pride, pressed on my lids. I jogged and chanted, carrying my sword in my right hand and my shield in my left. Achilles, by this time, was bored with the tricks Penthesilea was playing, yet he was not prepared to slay Amazon warriors whom members of his company were quite able to deal with. The man was furious, smelling blood. Penthesilea rose in stature as we formed an avenue for her entrance into the open-air stadium, shields clipped on our chests and swords aloft in both hands. Penthesilea issued the challenge to Achilles in formal and customary fashion. Her voice echoed and silenced the crowd. A bout between the greatest was more interesting to all concerned than the hacking of infantry into one another. Now it was Achilles' turn to play. His agility was a wonder to behold. His armour seemed to fit his musculature like a glove.

  'He killed Penthesilea slowly, wound by wound. Her fight, her faith in herself, her determination to keep going until the end was gripping. As she had made him wait all day, he was going to make her suffer all night. All the myths were true. He could not be beaten. The sun rose and Achilles stood over his kill like a lion, not letting anyone near. Agamemnon called a halt. He was not heeded. Ulysses and Nestor realised they had brought a savage to help them overpower Troy when they again witnessed what he did to the vanquished. In the beams of the dawn light, Achilles looked around with a cunning gleam, he wanted an audience. The Greeks, in their under-shirts, watched. The local people took notice of him. He fanned his Myrmidons in staggered formation. He stripped the dead body of Penthesilea naked. The show pony became a vicious stallion. He reared and showed his erection. He raped her corpse in front of us and looked satisfied with himself. Agamemnon, who was apparently prepared to sacrifice his daughter, Iphigenia, to the gods for success in this war, by the lure of marriage to the great Achilles, made his way across the arena, with the pomp and ceremony of a magistrate, hoping to stop this abuse. He was checked in his tracks because Achilles had begun to butcher the remains of the valorous warrior Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons. The hero charged through the pavements of the doomed city, roaring, "this is your queen, this is the carcase of the Amazon".

  'The experience brutalised us. We had to absorb into our consciousness behaviour beyond our comprehension. Dripping with the red syrup of Penthesilea's vital juices, his argental armour, streaked and undone, darkening in the shadows of buildings, shining like jagged lightning when he emerged from the shade, Achilles carried Penthesilea like a slaughtered sheep across the vacant land, past our growling dogs to the palisades of the River Scamander, and tossed her over the bank. Then Achilles processed back to his camp, slaying any Amazon foolish, brave or angry enough to stand in his path as if she were wheat in a field. His men behind him slashing and stabbing, their active weapons catching flashes of sunlight in a spiteful show of heat. I divested myself of battle-gear and ran naked as a Trojan whore to my courtly robe, my passport to safety, and when I donned it I made my face a mask. I saw my sisters jailed and caged as the Greeks went forth to clean up in the wake of Achilles' wrath. They set fire to our bigtop. They burnt our fleet at anchor in the bay. They stole our horses.

  'Surviving Amazons were scattered to the four corners in any camouflage they could muster. The conversation went on within the palace walls.

  '"If only Paris had presented the golden apple to Minerva."

  '"To be impoverished by Juno?"

  '"Rendered loveless by Venus?"

  'How come, I thought, the language had suddenly changed? Time was running like a swift river beneath the bridge of our still moment, ladies at tea.'

  The bridge of our still moment. Ladies at tea, watching the river flow. Like time. The same and always different. Virginia moves along her slippery log to the creek and splashes cold water over her face.

  'We, the Amazons, went underground. Some believe beings reside in the burning centre of this planet as beings exist in the icy reaches of outer space. The human mind is limited. The imagination, for instance, cannot go beyond the spectrum of colour, beyond ultramarine and infrared, beyond black and white. If I try to spread my understanding no one will believe me. Who listens to the rocks? Diamonds, rubies, gemstones and quartz? Who can hear the wisdom of the minerals? Zinc, gold, coal and sand? Molten lava turns to stone and bodies of humans turn to dust. When hell is furious, she erupts. It stands to reason. When she cools, rich mystery is left behind. Pure wealth. Knowledge of good and evil. Golden apples. A white stone. Earth. Eve.'

  Virgini
a feels as if she has taken magic mushrooms or LSD, as if she had been tripping. She walks for several hours, choosing the steepest paths, feeling a thirst for competition, incidentally training for Sunday.

  Her steel wool hair springing from her skull, Virginia returns to her house. She reads, still standing, Mary Daly who says that the courage of men is the effrontery to lie. 'As Shape-Shifting Witches shift focus back/ahead into our own context… We are aware that the gods of patriarchy are pale derivatives and reversals of ancient yet always Present Goddess(es).' Her body has no need for food; it is liquid, full of vibrant air, sinewy muscles. Away from clocks, away from calendars, weeks could disappear in the bush. Time is intense. Her work is immense. There is no room for fear, no personal place for boredom. Her internal life has magnified to the extent that her face seems strange to her, grainy, wrinkled. Her eyes, as she checks the mirror, are ferocious. 'I cannot be old until I'm old, and I am no longer young' she tells her image.

  She does not sit down or contain her emotions: anger, anguish, adventure, yearning, love, distress, ambition, surreal fantasy, molecular-hormonal disturbance, the bliss of being and non-being; thoughts of time present, time past, time future, pushing boundaries of knowledge and security; sensations spinning around her spinal cord like fluids injecting themselves into the nerves and shooting up to her crown giving her energy to burn.