The contingent of warriors arrives not long after Hector is laid to rest under the fecund earth. They are resplendent in their armor, all polished bronze bright enough to hurt the eyes, spear points in the shape of leaves promising the death of Achaeans, vengeance for Hector and all the lost brothers, sons, fathers of fair Ilium. Penthesilea is brighter of all, god-blooded as wrathful Achilles himself.

Cassandra could imagine a future where this warband arrived a mere few days earlier, and changed everything. She could see, in her mind's eye, Penthesilea of the swift spear fighting side by side with Hector, tamer of horses, and bringing death to Thetis' son earlier than the gods had foreseen. But that was a cruel mirage, a trick of her imagination. Cassandra knew, even as the gallant horsewomen reached the tall walls, that their doom was as certain as Troy's itself.