His mother is already aware of his secret; seizing her moment, she makes her move: ‘My son, is it so hard to feign to dance among these girls and join hands in play? What is there like this beneath chilly Ossa and the heights of Pelion? Oh if only it were mine to join loving hearts and carry another Achilles in my bosom!’ He is softened and blushes for joy, casting sly, wanton glances, and lightens the hand that pushes the garments away. His mother sees his indecision, sees that he would fain be forced, and throws the folds over him. Then she softens the stiff neck, lowers the weighty shoulders, loosens the strong arms; she subdues the unkempt hair, fixing and arranging, and transfers her necklace to the beloved neck. Constraining his steps with an embroidered hem, she teaches him how to walk and move and how to speak with modesty. As wax that an artist’s thumb will bring to life receives shape and follows fire and hand, such was the semblance of the goddess as she transformed her son. Nor did she struggle long. Charm is his in plenty and to spare, though manhood demur, and doubtful sex cheats the observer, hiding in narrow divide.

They go forward. Gently Thetis cautions and presses, over and over again: ‘So then, my son, will you bear your step, so face and hands, copying your companions in fashions feigned, lest the ruler suspect you nor let you join the soft quarters and the falsehood of our artful enterprise go for nothing.’ So she speaks, nor ceases her trimming and touching. So when Hecate returns weary from virginal Therapne to her father and brother, her mother attends her as she walks, herself covering shoulders and bared arms, herself relieving of bow and quiver, drawing down the girt-up gown and proudly ordering the dishevelled locks.

Forthwith she accosts the king and there calling the altars to witness she speaks: ‘I give this girl, oh king, the sister of my Achilles (see you not how fierce she looks, how like her brother?) into your keeping. High-mettled, she asked for weapons on her shoulders and a bow, asked to shun wedlock Amazon fashion. But I have enough to worry about on my man-child’s account. Let her convey the baskets and the holy things, do you rule and tame the froward wench and keep her in her sex, till it is time for marriage and relaxing of modesty. Don’t let her practice wanton wrestlings or wander in woodland wilds. Raise her indoors, shut her among girls like herself. Especially be sure to keep her away from the beach and the harbour. You saw the Phrygian sails the other day. Ships have now learned to cross the sea and violate mutual laws.’