Lights rise on ATHENA (The Virgin), her flesh covered in ivory, her drapery and armor in solid gold. Soon HERA, the Queen of the gods, wearing the polos crown enters. In her hand she holds a pomegranate; the emblem of fertile blood and death (and a substitute for the narcotic capsule of the opium poppy). As she ascends the steps of the Parthenon, ATHENA addresses her. ATHENA: Hera, good morn to you. HERA: And to you, Athena. ATHENA: By your countenance it would seem less so… HERA: This daybreak I’ve heard a disturbing query. ATHENA: Might I answer? HERA: You might, were you not a virgin. ATHENA: Ha! You know that’s a myth, dearest Hera. There are Romans and Greeks whose foreheads have sprung tales of- HERA: Yes! I know, but you should hush, your father might hear you. ATHENA: You think I care about what Zeus hears, your husband and brother? I’ve given him bigger headaches at my birth than may leap from this! HERA: Yes. That you have, dear Athena. That you have.
(The Weaver's Song)