Lavinia, the Aeneid Sounds of Celebration and Fiery Clamour
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Lavinia, the Aeneid Sounds of celebration and fiery clamour bellowing within the walls of the protected city clashed with the dying groans and howls of the men locked beyond its sacred walls, fated to die in an impious and unholy war for a king who would never touch a throne. Burning Amata was the loudest of these voices, Alecto’s venom pulsing in her veins, even as by her side blushing Lavinia sat unmoved, like the marble yet to feel the chisel of a worker. Yet despite the cool composure of her face, Lavinia’s mind ran wildly, now here, now there, whirring as the wooden toy of a child, set to spin upon cold tile. The princess of the golden hair was unsure what to think. Her lord Father had bid she marry the Prince Turnus of the Rutulians, and now said she must marry goddess-born Trojan Aeneas, with nothing to offer beyond leagues of starving men, to fulfil a prophecy set by the Fates. This Father Aeneas, this unwelcome suitor, this beggar at the feast, was like Paris come again, to steal the bed and maidenhead of a girl promised years ago. This bold Turnus, this youth eager to hunt, this wildcat, was no Menelaus - she was no wife yet. Fire raced through her belly, and a gentle blush darkened her fair cheeks. Around her the streets of the city brimmed with people, incensed with the fiery rage of Amata, hurling abuse with winged words at the crumbling palace of Latinus. Young virgins swarmed the streets, like bees, flushed from the hive in clouds of dark smoke, fresh faced and soft lipped, calling for boys doomed to die on the fields of a nonsensical war. Rose cheeked Lavinia was not among that number; though the lack of her presence was undoubtedly noticed, as she stood tall over the other girls by a head, she dare not attract the ire of the gods by preferring the wrong suitor. She had been the pride of her mother once; Amata had glowed to see her daughter so beloved, but now the goddess’ venom pulsed in her veins and she beheld her daughter with molten fury, beheld Turnus who had once been as a son with no space in her heart for the king by her side. Unlike her mother’s unchecked anger, gold haired Lavinia was as unmoving as the yew tree, tall and strong with roots embedded deep in the packed dirt, feasting upon the corpses settled deep in the immodest earth, even as the man she was fated to marry became smeared with blood beyond the cold stone of the city walls. This rose cheeked Lavinia, this pawn of the gods, this root of suffering, she was more a Helen trapped with fire and reputation, than a Helen stolen away under the cover of night. It was the cruelty of the gods, not the beauty of a woman, that drew out the suffering of Trojan Aeneas and his men, and led bold Turnus into furious lust for battle. Gold haired Lavinia sat silent in the shadow of her mother’s fire. The waters of the Scamander did not yet flow through the Tiber’s banks. Lavinia was yet obedient. By Bethanie, College II .