Your historians call me seductress, but I was ever in love’s thrall. Your playwrights speak of witchcraft, but my talents came from the gods themselves. Your poets sing of my bloodlust, but I was always protecting my children. How wilfully they refuse to concede that a woman could be powerful, strategic, divinely blessed to rule. Death will silence me no longer. This is not the story of how I died. But how I lived.