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Themysciran Chronicles IV 17.1-27

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                              In the wars of liberation,
Hippolyta, Zeus’s champion, warrior queen, born of
goddesses, fought the brutal tyranny of Men, back to
back in battle with Philippus, her lieutenant. Antiope,
legendary general and favorite of Athena,
flayed the soldiers’ ranks with arrows, spear, and sword, leading
the mortal world’s greatest fighters through the bloody,
righteous gash – and at her side, Menalippe the prophet.

Marching on the next city where their sisters lived enslaved,
the Amazons camped rough. At dusk, Menalippe waited
at attention beside a canvas tent (sword sheathed and holding,
in place of weapons, a clean cloth, a flask of almond oil,
a vessel of cool spring water) until Antiope
lifted the threshold and said, “You may serve.”

Broken spears served as pillars for the martial shelter,
its crown hardly tall enough for Menalippe to stand,
but the efficient span enclosed the rudiments of a
general’s craft: boards across two saddle racks for a table
strewn with military plans, upended crates for chairs and
folded blankets whispering tonight’s promise of rest.
Menalippe had already cleaned her armor,
buffed away the grime and gore until the leather gleamed
its honorific carmine hue. Antiope’s fingertips
tested the oiled sheen, following the angled gorget down
between her breasts. “Suitable,” said Antiope, ever
terse and direct, but giving orders here with her breath
kissing her attendant’s throat. “Take it off.”