Coriolanus

Before we go any further, listen to me.

Speak, speak.

Are you all certain that you’d rather die fighting than starve to death?

Yes, we’re certain.

As you know, Caius Martius is our chief enemy.

Yes, we know.

Let’s kill him, so we can sell our corn at the price we choose. Are we agreed?

No need to talk about this anymore—let’s do it. Let’s go.

May I speak, good citizens?

We’re poor. The nobles are rich. The nobles have so much to eat that they overindulge and get sick, but if they’d only give us their excess food, we wouldn’t be starving any longer. We’d think they were compassionate if they helped us, but they think we’re too expensive to feed and don’t deserve to eat. They look at our thin, starving bodies and see them as a measure of their own abundance. Our suffering shows them how much they have. Let’s seek revenge with our pitchforks before we become as thin as rakes. The gods know I only say this because I’m hungry for bread, not thirsty for revenge.

Would you attack Caius Martius in particular?

We should attack him first. He’s like a cruel dog to the people.

Have you considered the ways he has served our country?

I’ve considered them very well, and I’d be happy to honor him for his service, except he already honors himself by being proud.

Don’t speak so harshly.

Listen, all that he’s famous for doing, he did simply to become famous. Slow-witted men can be content to say he acted on behalf of his country, but the truth is that he fought to please his mother and also, in part, out of pride. He has just as much pride as courage.

You call it a vice, but being proud is his nature. And you can’t accuse him of being interested in the spoils of war.

Even if I stop accusing him of pride, I’ll still have plenty of other complaints against him. He has so many faults, I grow tired of repeating them to you.

Who’s shouting? The other side of the city is taking action. Why are we standing around talking? Let’s go to the capitol!

Let’s go.

Wait, who’s coming?

It’s worthy Menenius Agrippa, one who has always loved the people.

He’s decent enough. I wish that all the other nobles were!

What are you working on, my countrymen? Where are you going with bats and clubs? What’s the matter? Please tell me.

The Senate knows what we’re upset about. They’ve known for two weeks what we intend to do, and now we’re going to show them. They say poor workers have bad breath. They’re about to find out that we have strong arms too.

Masters, my good friends, my honest neighbors, why will you harm yourselves?

We’re already hurt.

I tell you, friends, the nobles take very good care of you. For the relief you want from your suffering, you’d do just as well to rise up against the heavens as against the Roman state. The Senate isn’t going to change its course. However strong a chain you form, the Senate will break you because it’s ten thousand times stronger. The gods, not the nobles, are responsible for whatever you lack, therefore you should fall to your knees and pray, not raise your arms and fight. You’re getting carried away by your calamity, and you’re only inviting more trouble. You’re slandering the senators, cursing them as your enemies, without realizing that they care for you like fathers care for their children.

Care for us? As if! They’ve never cared for us. They force us to starve while their storehouses are full of grain. They make laws about loaning money that protect the loan sharks. Every day they repeal the laws that interfere with the interests of the wealthy and instead make strict laws to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars we fight in don’t kill us, these laws will. That’s how well they care for us.

You must either admit that you’re being extremely malicious or you’ll be accused of foolishness. I’ll tell you a relevant story. You may have heard it, but since it illustrates my point, I’ll venture to tell it again.

Well, I’ll listen sir, but don’t think you can trick us out of our suffering with a story. But if it pleases you, tell it.

There was a time when all the body’s parts rebelled against the belly. They accused the belly of being an idle, inactive pool in the middle the body, always hoarding the food, never working as much as the rest of the parts. The other body parts did see and hear, think, instruct, walk, feel, and together worked for the needs and desires of the whole body. The belly answered—

Well, sir, what did the belly answer?

Sir, I’ll tell you. With a disdainful smile—look, I can make the belly smile as well as speak—the belly tauntingly replied to the aggravated, mutinous parts that envied the food it received—much like you who rightly accuse our senators for not starving as you do.

What did the belly say? That the regal head, the watchful eye, the wise heart, the fighting arms, the mobile legs, the expressive tongue, with some small help from the other parts, if they—

What then? My word, you’re quite a speaker! What then? What then?

The greedy belly, the sink of the body, should be restrained—

And then what?

If the parts complained, what could the belly answer?

I’ll tell you. If you’ll exercise a little bit of what little patience you have, you’ll hear the belly’s answer.

You’re taking a long time to tell it.

Pay attention, good friend. The belly was serious and deliberate, not rash like his accusers, and so he answered, “It’s true, my fellow parts,” he said, “That I am first to receive the food supply that you live on. This is as it should be, because I am the storehouse and the shop of the whole body. But if you’ll remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, even to the court of the heart, to the throne of the brain, and through the ducts and chambers of the body, the strongest nerves and small inferior veins receive from me all that they need to survive. And despite all that, you, my good friends,” says the belly—

Yes, sir, go on.

“Even though all the parts can’t see at once what I deliver out to each, I can account that all parts receive from me all the flour I get, and that all I’m left with is the bran.” What do you say to that?

It’s an answer. How does it apply to us?

The senators of Rome are this good belly, and you are the unhappy parts. Examine their decisions and their responsibilities, see how they relate to the common good, and you’ll find that there is no public benefit that you receive that doesn’t come from them to you. Nothing is being taken from you. What do you think, you, the great toe of this assembly?

I am the great toe? Why the great toe?

For the fact that you’re the leader of these ignorant rebels who are the lowest, basest, poorest of men. You’re like a stray dog that runs after whatever it can catch first. But prepare your sturdy bats and clubs: Rome and you, her rats, are at the point of battle. One side is going to lose.

Hail, noble Martius!

Thanks. What’s the matter, you dissenting rebels? Are you make yourselves miserable by rubbing the minor itch of your opinion?

You always speak kindly to us.

Whoever speaks kindly to you flatters you undeservingly. What do you want, you dogs, who are satisfied by neither peace nor war? The one frightens you, and the other makes you self-righteous. Whoever trusts you sees you as lions, though he should see you as hares, and sees you as foxes, though he should see you as geese. You’re as unstable as a burning coal on ice or a hailstone in the sun. Your nature is to honor those who should be punished for their crimes and then to curse the justice that punishes him. He who deserves greatness deserves your scorn. Your instincts are perverted: you most desire the things that will make you sicker. He who depends on your approval swims with fins of lead and cuts down oaks with blades of grass. You should be hanged! Trust you? You change your mind every minute. You call the man you hated a moment ago “noble,” and you call the one you used to praise “vile.” Why do you cry against the noble Senate all around the city? Second only to the gods, they take care of you, you who would otherwise eat each other. What do the people want?

They want to sell corn at their own rates. They say the city has plenty.

Hang them if that’s what they say! They’ll sit by the fire and presume to know what goes on in the capitol: who’s likely to rise, who thrives, and who declines. They’ll take sides with factions and make hasty alliances, making some groups strong and squashing those that they don’t like beneath their cheap shoes. They say there’s enough grain? If the nobility would stop taking pity on the poor and let me use my sword, I’d slaughter these thousands of slaves into a pile of pieces as high as I could throw my lance.

No, they’ve almost all calmed down. Even though they make a scene, they’re actually very cowardly. But tell me, what happened with the other group of rebels?

They’ve disbanded. Hang them! They said they were hungry, they quoted proverbs: That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, that meat was made for mouths, that the gods didn’t send corn only for the rich. With these small statements they vented their complaints, and when the nobles answered by granting them a petition—which is unusual because it breaks the solidarity of the nobles and makes them look weak—they threw their caps into the air with joy, shouting their delight.

What was granted to them?

Five representatives of their own choosing to defend their ignorant views. Junius Brutus, Sicinius Velutus, and I don’t know who else. God’s death! The rebels would have to tear the roofs off the city before they could ever prevail upon me to grant them that. They’ll soon become more powerful and make more arguments for insurrection.

This is strange.

(to the rebels) Go home, you crumbs!

Where’s Caius Martius?

I’m here. What’s going on?

Sir, the news is that the Volsces are prepared to fight.

I’m glad about this. This means we’ll have a way to get rid of our excess population. Look, here come our best elders.

Martius, it’s true what you’ve been telling us lately: the Volsces are ready to fight.

They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to the test. It’s a sin, but I envy his leadership. If I could be anyone other than who I am, I would only wish to be him.

You’ve fought each other?

If a quarter of the world were fighting and he were on my side, I’d revolt to fight only him. He’s a lion that I am proud to hunt.

Then, worthy Martius, help Cominius with these wars.

As you promised earlier.

Sir, I did, and I’ll keep my word. Titus Lartius, you’ll see me strike at Tullus’ face once more. Are you hesitating? Do you not want to fight?

No, Caius Martius, I’ll lean upon one crutch and fight with the other before I stay out of this business.

Oh, you were raised to fight!

Let’s go to the capitol. I know our greatest friends wait for us there.

(to Cominius) Take the lead.

Follow Cominius, and we’ll follow you. You deserve to go before us.

Noble Martius!

(to the citizens) Go now to your homes, be gone.

No, let them follow us. The Volsces have a lot of corn. Take these rats to gnaw at their granaries. Worshipful rebels, your courage is impressive, please follow us.

Was there ever a man as proud as Martius?

He has no equal.

When we were chosen as representatives for the people—

Did you notice his lip and eyes?

No, only his taunts.

When he’s angry, he’ll even taunt the gods.

He’d mock the calmness of the moon.

May this war destroy him! His courage has made him too proud.

A nature such as his, which has been amplified by all his successes, disdains his own shadow, which he walks on at noon. I wonder if his pride can handle being under Cominius’ command.

The fame he aims for, and with which he has already been graced, can’t be maintained or increased in any position other than the lead. Whatever goes wrong will be seen as the general’s fault, even though he’ll do the best job a man could do, and fickle public opinion will then say of Martius, “Oh, if only he had been in charge!”

Besides, if things go well, public opinion that favors Martius will steal praise away from Cominius.

Indeed, half of all Cominius’ victories have been credited to Martius, though he didn’t win them. And whatever faults Cominius has are seen as Martius’ honors, though Martius really doesn’t have any merit.

Let’s go and hear what’s happening. Let’s see how, our feelings about his personality aside, he prepares for this battle.

Let’s go.

So Aufidius, your opinion is that the Romans have spied on our council meetings and know how we proceed.

Don’t you agree? Haven’t all the plans we’ve ever discussed here that could be put into action against Rome been thwarted? Not even four days have gone by since I heard from the field, these are the words—I think I have the letter here—yes, here it is.

“They’ve raised an army, but it’s not known whether they will march east or west. The famine is serious, the people are rebelling, and it’s rumored that Cominius, your old enemy Martius—who the Romans hate worse than you—and Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, these three lead the attack, wherever it’s headed. Most likely toward you. Think about it.”

Our army’s in the field. We’ve never doubted that the Romans were ready to fight back.

You thought it was wise to keep your plans secret until they needed to be revealed, but it seems that the Romans knew your plans as soon as they were hatched. Since they know our intention, we can’t proceed as we had planned: to capture as many towns as possible before the Romans knew we were moving toward them.

Noble Aufidius, do your duty. Go to your men. Leave us here to guard Corioles ourselves. If they attack us, bring your army back before they take the city, but I think you’ll find they haven’t prepared for us.

Don’t be so sure. I’m certain when I say that some part of their army is already moving toward us. I leave you now, noblemen. If we happen to meet Caius Martius, he and I have sworn that we’ll always strike at each other until one of us can strike no more.

May the gods assist you!

And keep you noblemen safe!

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Please, my daughter-in-law, sing or express yourself more cheerfully. If my son were my husband, I would be happier with him away winning honors than lovingly embracing me in bed. Before he was full grown, when he was still my only child, when he was boyishly handsome and attracting much attention, when even if the king begged me I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight for an hour, I considered how honored he would become, and that unless he were inspired to make a name for himself, he would be no better than a picture hanging on the wall, so I happily let him face danger, because that’s how he was likely to find fame. I sent him to a cruel war from which he returned crowned with garlands of oak. I tell you, daughter-in-law, I jumped for joy more to see that he had proven himself as a man than I did when I first heard he was a boy child.

But if had he died in the war, madam, how would you feel then?

Then his noble deeds would have been my son—in them I would have found my legacy. Listen to me seriously: if I had a dozen sons and loved them equally, as much as I love our Martius, I would rather that eleven of them die nobly for their country than one choose the pleasures of making love over doing his duty.

(to Volumnia) Madam, the Lady Valeria has come to see you.

May I please be excused to have some time alone?

No, you may not. I think I hear your husband’s drum coming toward us. He must have plucked out all Aufidius’ hairs so the Volsces will avoid him the way children run from a bear. I think I see him stamping like this, and calling like this: “Come on, you cowards! You were born in fear even though you were born in Rome.” He’s wiping his bloody forehead with his armored hand. He’s unrelenting like a laborer who must harvest a whole field or not be paid at all.

His bloody forehead! Oh, Jupiter, king of the gods, not blood!

Don’t be foolish! Blood belongs on a man more than gold belongs on his trophy. When Hecuba suckled Hector, her breasts were no lovelier than Hector’s forehead when a Grecian sword struck it and it gushed furiously with blood. Tell Valeria that we welcome her in.

Heavens protect my husband from the deadly Aufidius!

He’ll beat Aufidius’ head down below his knees and then stand on his neck.

My ladies, good day to you both.

Sweet madam.

I’m glad to see you, your ladyship.

How are you both? You are remarkable house-keepers.

(to Volumnia) What are you sewing here? It looks like fine embroidery.

(to Virgilia) How is your little son?

Thank you, your ladyship. He’s fine, good madam.

He’d rather see the soldiers and hear a drum than do his schoolwork.

It’s true, he’s his father’s son. He’s a very good-looking boy. I spent half an hour with him on Wednesday. He is so determined. I saw him run after a golden butterfly, and when he caught it, he let it go and then went after it again. He fell down and got back up and again he caught the butterfly. I don’t know whether his fall enraged him or what, but he clenched his teeth and tore it. I tell you, he ripped it apart!

He has his father’s moods.

Indeed, dear, he’s a noble child.

He’s devilish, madam.

Set aside your stitching. Pretend to be an idle housewife with me this afternoon.

No, good madam. I can’t go out today.

Can’t go out?

She will, she will.

No. Please let me stay in. I won’t cross the threshold until my husband returns from the war.

You’re being unreasonable to confine yourself. Come, you must go visit our neighbor, who’s expecting a baby.

I wish her an easy birth and send her my prayers, but I can’t go see her.

Why not?

It’s not because I’m lazy or don’t care for her.

You’re like another Penelope, except they say that all the yarn she spun in Ulysses’ absence only filled Ithaca with moths. I wish your embroidery cloth were as sensitive as your finger, that way you might take pity on it and stop pricking it. Come with us.

No, good madam, please excuse me. I won’t go.

Truly, come with me, and I’ll tell you excellent news about your husband.

Oh, good madam, there can’t be good news yet.

I’m not kidding you. News came from him last night.

Really, madam?

Yes, it’s true. I heard a senator talking. He said Cominius the general is leading one part of our Roman army against the oncoming Volsces. Your husband and Titus Lartius are attacking their city Corioles. They have no doubt that they’ll win and that the battle won’t last long. On my honor, this news is true. Please come out with us.

Forgive me, good madam. I’ll do as you say from now on.

(to Valeria) Let her stay home, lady. The way she is now, she’ll only detract from our celebration.

I think you’re right—she will. Cheer up then, good sweet lady. Please, Virgilia, shake off your sad mood and come out with us.

No. In a word, madam, I simply can’t. I wish you much happiness.

Well then, goodbye.

Here comes news. I bet there’s been a battle.

I bet you my horse for yours that there hasn’t been a battle.

It’s a bet.

Agreed.

Tell us, has our general been in battle with the enemy?

They can see each other, but they haven’t fought yet.

So, your good horse is mine.

I’ll buy him back from you.

No, I’ll won’t sell or give him away. I’ll lend him to you for fifty years. Alert the town.

How far away are the armies?

Within a mile and a half.

Then we’ll hear their call to arms, and they’ll hear ours. Now, Mars, god of war, I pray to you, make our attack quick, so that with victorious swords we may march from here to help our friends on the battlefield! (to the trumpeter) Come, blow your blast.

(to the Senators) Is Tullus Aufidius inside these walls?

No. And there isn’t a man here who fears you any less than he does, which is virtually not at all.

(to the Volsces) Listen! Our drums are summoning our young soldiers. We’d rather break down our own walls than let them fence us in. Our gates, which look locked, are actually just gently shut. They’ll open on their own.

(to the Romans) Listen! In the distance, that’s Aufidius. Listen to how he’s beating your divided army.

Oh, they’re fighting each other!

Their noise tells us what to do. Raise the ladders!

They’re not afraid of us—instead they march out of their own city. Cover your hearts with your shields now and fight with hearts that are stronger than these shields. Go forward, brave Titus. They hate us more than we think, which makes me sweat with anger. Come on, my fellow soldiers. Whoever hangs back, I’ll think you’re a Volsce, and you’ll feel the edge of my sword.

I curse you with the plague of the south, you shameful Romans! You bunch of—may blisters and infection cover over you so that people will smell you before they see you, and may your disease spread on the wind for a mile, even when the wind blows against you! You look like men, but you have the souls of geese. Why did you run from slaves that even apes could beat? Pluto, god of the dead and the underworld! You ran away and didn’t fight back; your backs are red with blood and your faces pale with fear! Pull yourselves together and charge again, or, by the fires of heaven, I’ll stop fighting the Volsces and attack you instead. Listen, if you can hold steady, we’ll beat them and take their wives. They’re in our trenches. Follow me!

So, the gates are open now. Support me well. Fortune opens the gates for those who follow me, not for those who run from battle. Listen to me, and do as I say.

That’s crazy. I’m not going.

Neither am I.

Look, they’ve locked him in.

I’m sure he’ll end up in their cooking pot.

What happened to Martius?

He has undoubtedly been killed, sir.

He followed right behind the fleeing Volsces and entered the city with them. They closed the gates behind him, and he’s in there all alone to fight the whole city.

Oh, noble fellow! He’s braver than his sword, which cannot feel pain, and he stands firm while even his sword bends. You are gone for, Martius. A flawless red gem, as large as you, wouldn’t be as valuable a jewel as you are. You were the soldier {Cato │ A military adviser in ancient Rome.} would have wished for, not just fierce and terrible on occasion, but with your serious looks and your thunderous voice, you terrified your enemies as if the whole world were shaking with a fever.

Look, sir.

Oh, it’s Martius! Let’s rescue him or we’ll be assaulted by the Volsces, too.

I’ll bring this back to Rome.

And I’ll bring this.

Curse it! I thought this was silver.

Look at these scavengers who spend their time gathering worthless coins! Cushions, lead spoons, cheap swords, clothes that hangmen would bury along with whoever died wearing them. These lowly slaves are packing up before the fight is even over. They’re the worst! And listen to the noise Cominius makes! Let’s go help him! Aufidius, the one my soul hates, is driving our Roman army apart. Valiant Titus, take enough men with you to secure the city. I’ll go now with those who have the spirit and help Cominius.

Worthy sir, you’re bleeding. Your efforts have been too violent for you to fight again now.

Don’t flatter me. I’m not even warmed up yet. Good luck to you. Bleeding is more helpful to me than it is dangerous. I’ll find Aufidius and fight.

May the fair goddess Fortune fall deeply in love with you, and may she cast a spell on your opponents so their swords don’t strike you! Brave gentlemen, may you be successful!

May Fortune be no less a friend to you than she is to those she loves most! Good luck.

You’re the bravest, Martius!

Go, sound your trumpet in the marketplace. Bring all the town officials here. We’ll tell them what we’re thinking. Go!

Catch your breath, my friends. You fought well. We’ve cleared the enemy like Romans, neither foolish in our attacks nor cowardly in our retreat. Believe me, sirs, we’ll fight again. While we’ve been attacking, news has intermittently come to us, carried on the winds, about the battles fought by our friends. Oh, Roman gods! Grant them the success that we wish for as well, and may both our armies, with smiling faces, then gratefully offer you a sacrifice.

What news do you have?

The citizens of Corioles have left the city and are fighting with Lartius and Martius. Our group was driven to their trenches, and then I got away.

You’re telling the truth, but you’re leaving something out. How long ago did this happen?

More than an hour ago, my lord.

They’re not even a mile away. A little while ago we heard their drums. How could you waste an hour traveling only one mile and bring your news so late?

Volscian spies chased me and I was forced to go three or four miles out of my way. Otherwise I would have brought my report half an hour earlier.

Who’s over there, looking like he’s been skinned alive? Oh, gods, it looks like Martius, and I’ve seen him look like this before.

(from offstage) Am I too late?

I know the difference between the sound of Martius’ tongue and every lesser man even more than the shepherd knows the difference between the sound of thunder and a drum.

Am I too late?

Yes, but only if you’re drenched in your own blood, not the blood of others.

Oh, let me hug you with arms as strong as when I wooed my wife, with a heart as happy as the day we married and the candles burned down, telling us it was time for bed!

Prized warrior, how is Titus Lartius?

He’s busy with decrees: condemning some to death and some to exile, releasing men for ransom or pity, and threatening others. He’s holding Corioles in the name of Rome, as if the city were a greyhound on a leash, eager to please and ready to run.

Where is that slave who told me they had beaten you back to your trenches? Where is he? Call him here.

Leave him alone. He told the truth. But as for our men, the common soldiers, I curse them with a plague! May they be tried in court! Like stray dogs, they ran away from the Volsces, who are lower-bred than they are. They ran like a mouse runs from a cat.

How did you triumph then?

Do I have enough time to tell you? I don’t think so. Where is the enemy? Have you captured this field? If not, why did you stop before you did?

Martius, we’ve been fighting without enough soldiers or supplies, so we retreated temporarily to regroup, and then we’ll win.

What’s their battle formation? Do you know what side their best men are on?

My guess, Martius, is that the Antiates, who they trust highly, are in the front. Leading them is Aufidius, the very heart of their hope.

By all the battles we’ve fought, by the blood we have shed together and by the vows we made to remain friends, I beg that you put me directly against Aufidius and his Antiates. And that you not hesitate but rather fill the air with raised swords and darts. Now is the time for us to prove ourselves.

I wish you were going now to a gentle bath and to have balms applied to you, but I never dare to deny what you ask. Take your choice of the men who can best help you.

The men I choose are the ones most eager to fight. If there is any man here—and it would be a sin to doubt it—who loves seeing me smeared in blood, that fears more for his honor than for his personal safety, that thinks a brave death outweighs a bad life, and that his country is more important than himself, let him alone, or others if they feel the same, wave their arms now to tell me who they are. And then follow me.

Choose me! Make me one of your swordsmen! If these aren’t just superficial words, are there four among you who aren’t traitors? All of you would be able to fight the great Aufidius—your shields are as hard as his. I will only select four men, but thank you, all of you. The rest of you will fight our enemy in some other battle when the time comes. Please march, and I’ll quickly choose which men are best suited to this fight.

March forward, men. Perform well, and we’ll all share the honor.

Guard the gate. Do your job as I’ve explained it. If I send a message, send those hundreds of soldiers to help us. The remaining soldiers can hold the city on their own for a little while. After all, if we lose in the field, we can’t keep the city anyway.

Don’t worry, sir, we’ll guard the city.

Good, and shut these gates once I’m gone. Here comes our scout to bring us to the Roman camp.

I’ll fight only against you, because I hate you worse than a traitor.

We feel the same hatred. There’s not a snake in Africa that I hate more than your fame and envy. Prepare to fight.

Whoever runs away from this fight first must become the other’s slave until death, and after that may the gods curse him!

If I run, Martius, hunt me like a hare.

Less than three hours ago, Tullus, I fought alone inside the walls of Corioles, and I killed whoever I wanted. It’s not my own blood you see me covered in. For your revenge, fight me with your fullest force.

If you’re anything like Hector, the failed champion of your ancestors whom you’re so proud of, you won’t escape me here.

You’re intrusive, not brave. You’ve shamed me with your assistance, and I condemn you for it.

If I told you about all you did today, you wouldn’t believe it. But when I tell the senators, they’ll both cry and smile. Great noblemen will pause, shrug their shoulders in bewilderment, and wonder. Ladies will be frightened, happily frightened, and ask to hear more. The somber tribunes, who along with the moldy peasants hate it when you triumph, will say under their breath: “We thank the gods that Rome has a soldier like you.” But for you this victory was only like a small bite, since you had already had a feast of victory before.

Oh, general, Martius was like the horse, and we were only along for the ride. If you had seen—

Please, say no more. My mother, who has a right to praise me since I am her son, irritates me when she does so. I’ve done what you’ve done: I’ve done the best I can. I was trained as you were: to serve my country. Whoever who has done what he intended to do has accomplished more than I have.

Don’t dismiss the praise you deserve. Rome must know your value as her soldier. To conceal your achievements would be worse than stealing, and not less than slander, because for what you have done, no matter how highly we praise you, it will never be sufficient. So I ask you—in recognition of your importance to Rome, not to boast of your achievements—let me address you in front of our army.

I’m wounded, and my wounds hurt when they hear how I got them.

If your wounds don’t hear, they might think we’re ungrateful, become infected, and cause your death. Of all the many good horses we’ve taken from the enemy and of all the treasures we’ve won in the battlefield and in the city, we’ll give you one tenth to take now, before the rest is divided among us. Take whatever you choose.

Thank you, general, but my heart won’t to take a bribe to pay my sword. I refuse to stand there and listen to my deeds be told to those who saw me do them.

May these instruments, which you play in the wrong moment, never make a sound again! If drums and trumpets could flatter the enemy into submission in battle, then we should build our courts and cities on their false praise! When steel grows soft as the diplomat’s silk, let us make an army of diplomats! Stop all this flattery! Because I haven’t washed my bloody nose or because I triumphed over some weakling—which, you fail to note, many others have done, too—you praise me in overstated terms, as if I enjoyed having my small achievements puffed up with exaggerations.

You’re too modest. You express more resentment about the praise we offer than you express gratitude for our true account of your service. Allow me to suggest that if you’re going to get upset, we’ll tie you up as we would someone suicidal and then reason with you. It must be known, not only to us but to all the world, that Caius Martius is the hero of this war. So I give you my magnificent horse, whose value is known to our men, and all his equipment. And from this time on, in honor of what you did in Corioles, you will be called, with all the applause and clamor you deserve, Caius Martius Coriolanus! Use this additional title nobly, always!

Caius Martius Coriolanus!

I’ll go wash and when my face is clean, you’ll see whether or not I’m blushing. Thank you for this honor. I’ll ride your horse and try always to live up to this noble title you have given me.

Let’s go to our tent. Before we rest, we’ll write to Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, must go back to Corioles. Send us the best citizen of Corioles with whom we may negotiate a treaty, one that is fair to them and to us.

I will, my lord.

The gods begin to mock me. I, who just refused amazing gifts, must now beg something of you, my lord general.

Whatever you want is yours. What is it?

When I was in Corioles, I stayed for some time in a poor man’s house. He treated me kindly, and now he’s a prisoner. He cried out for my help, but I was focused on Aufidius, and anger overwhelmed my pity. I request that you free my poor host.

You’re persuasive! Even if he were the butcher of my son, he’d be as free as the wind. Release him, Titus.

Martius, his name?

By Jupiter! I’ve forgotten. I’m worn out and my memory is tired. Do we have any wine here?

Let’s go our tent. The blood on your face is drying. It’s time you were looked at. Come.

The town is taken!

It’ll be given back with fair conditions.

Conditions! I wish I were a Roman, but I can’t be other than what I am: a Volsce. Conditions! Under what conditions can a treaty be fair to the side that has lost? I’ve fought Martius five times, and every time he has beaten me. And I think he would beat me again in the future if we met in battle as often as we eat. By the elements, if I ever see him face to face again, I’ll kill him or he’ll kill me. My desire to beat him isn’t as honorable as it once was, for while I once wanted to crush him with our forces being equal, fighting fairly sword to sword, but now I’ll stab him however I can and let either my anger or my trickery bring him down.

He’s the devil.

Bolder, but not as subtle. He’s the only one who has compromised my honor, and for that I will seek vengeance. Neither sleep nor sanctuary, nor being unarmed, nor sick, nor the constraints of the temple or the capitol, the prayers of priests or times of sacrifice, none of these obstacles to my fury will stop me from hating Martius. Wherever I find him, even at home in my brother’s protection, despite the law of hospitality, I’ll wash my fierce hand in his heart. Go to Corioles, find out how it’s being occupied and who’s been taken hostage by the Romans.

You’re not going?

They’re waiting for me at the cypress grove, south of the city mills. Please bring word to me there about how things are going so I can plan my journey accordingly.

I will, sir.

The fortuneteller tells me we’ll receive news tonight.

Good news or bad?

Not the news people prayed for—they have no love for Martius.

In nature, animals learn who their friends are.

Tell me, who does the wolf love?

The lamb.

Yes, to devour him, as the hungry citizens would love to devour the noble Martius.

Martius is like a lamb, a lamb that roars like a bear.

Martius is like a bear, a bear that lives like a lamb. You two have been around a long time, answer one question for me.

What do you want to know, sir?

Tell me a quality that Martius lacks but that you two have in abundance.

He doesn’t have just one fault—he has every fault.

Especially pride.

And boasting, above all.

One thing is strange though. Do you two know how you are regarded by the nobles of the city? Do you?

How are we seen?

Because you talk of pride now, won’t you get angry if I tell you?

No, not at all, sir.

Well, it doesn’t take much. Even the slightest incident will cause you to lose your patience and let your disposition take over. You become angry at what you should have enjoyed, and your only enjoyment comes from being angry. And yet you blame Martius for being proud?

We’re not alone in our opinion, sir.

I know you can do very little alone. Without all the help you get, your actions would be totally insignificant. Your abilities aren’t strong enough for you to do much on your own. You talk of pride. If only you could see yourselves as you really are! I wish you could!

And what if we could, sir?

You’d see that you are equal to all the other unqualified, proud, violent, testy government officials—in other words, fools—in Rome.

Menenius, you have a bad reputation, too.

I’m known as a moody aristocrat, and one that loves a cup of hot wine not diluted by even a drop of water from the Tiber River. I’m said to be somewhat flawed as a judge because I’m hastily swayed by the first argument I hear. I’m quick to anger at the slightest disturbance. I stay up late at night and don’t rise early in the morning. I say whatever I think and express my anger when I speak. Meeting two statesmen such as yourselves—I cannot call you lawmakers—if I don’t like the drink you give me, I make a crooked face at it. I don’t think you deserve the respectful titles of your profession, when I find most of what you say to be asinine. And though I can tolerate those that say you are respectable, serious men, the ones who say you are honest are deadly liars. If you see these same qualities in me, doesn’t it make sense that I’m known for my bad qualities? What harm can your misperceptions do to my character, if I already have a bad reputation?

That’s enough, sir. We know your reputation well.

You don’t know anything about me, or about yourselves. Your ambition is to have poor citizens take off their hats and bow down to you. You’ll waste a whole morning listening to a dispute over three pence between an orange vendor and a wine tap seller and then postpone settling the issue until the next day. When you’re hearing a matter between two parties, if you’re feeling the tiniest bit sick, you become very dramatic: you violently refuse to be patient and, demanding a chamber pot, dismiss the controversy, leaving it even more entangled as a result of your hearing it. The only justice you show is in calling both parties scoundrels. You’re a pair of strange men.

Come, come. You’re well known to be a better dinner-table conversationalist than a serious judge.

Even our priests would become mockers if they encountered anyone as ridiculous as you. When you stay on topic, what you say isn’t worth the wagging of your beards. And your beards don’t even deserve the honorable burial of being stuffed in a seamstress’ cushion or being entombed in the pack saddle of a donkey. You say Martius is proud, but even guessing conservatively, he’s worth all your predecessors since Deucalion, who survived the flood, even though some of them may have been hangmen. Good evening to you both. To keep talking with you would infect my brain, since you are the herdsmen of the beastly common people. I must go.

How are you, my dear noble ladies? You are like the moon on earth—what are you looking at?

Honorable Menenius, my son Martius approaches. For the love of Juno, let’s go.

What? Martius is coming home?

Yes, worthy Menenius, and he’s proudly victorious.

I take my hat off in thanks to you, Jupiter, king of the gods. Hoo! Martius is coming home!

Yes, it’s true.

Look, here’s a letter from him. He sent another to the Senate and another to his wife. I think there’s one at home for you.

My household will be thrilled tonight. A letter for me!

Yes, I’m certain there’s a letter for you. I saw it.

A letter for me! It makes me live seven years longer, and all the while I’ll laugh at my doctor. The most well-established prescription according to the great doctor Galen is nothing but an experimental cure, and compared to this news, it’s worth no more than horse medicine. Is he wounded? He was likely to come home wounded.

Oh, no, no, no.

Oh, yes, he’s wounded, and I thank the gods for it.

As do I, if he’s not wounded too much. If he brings home victory, the wounds are appropriate.

He’s wounded on his forehead. Menenius, this is the third time he’s come home with the garland of oak.

Has he thoroughly beaten Aufidius?

Titus Lartius writes that they fought each other, but Aufidius got away.

It was Aufidius’ time to die. For all the chests in Corioles and the gold that’s in them, I bet that if Martius had captured him, he would’ve gotten the beating he deserved. Does the Senate know about this?

Good ladies, let’s go. Yes, yes, yes! Cominius has written to the Senate and named my son responsible for the victory. His accomplishments in this war are double all his past deeds.

It’s true, there are wonderful things said about him.

Wonderful! Yes, it’s true, and none that he didn’t earn.

Oh, gods, may these words be true!

True? Pooh-whoo!

True? I promise they’re true.

Where is he wounded?

May you be well, good sirs! Martius is coming home. He has new reasons to be proud. (to Volumnia) Where is he wounded?

In the shoulder and in the left arm. There will be large scars to show the people, when he stands to receive his place as consul. When he defeated the king Tarquin, he was wounded seven times.

Once in the neck and twice in the thigh. There are nine wounds that I know of.

Before this last expedition, he had twenty-five wounds in total.

Now it’s twenty-seven. Every gash represents an enemy who has died.

Hark! The trumpets.

These men walk ahead of Martius to introduce him. Many cheers welcome him, and he leaves behind many tears. Death, that dark spirit, lies within his strong arm. When he raises his arm, it comes down upon his enemies and they die.

Romans, let it be known that Martius fought all alone within Corioles’ gates. There he won, along with honor, a new name. The name “Coriolanus” now respectfully follows “Caius Martius.” Welcome to Rome, the renowned Coriolanus!

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

No more praise. I don’t like it. Please now, no more.

Look, sir, your mother!

You have, I know, begged all the gods to grant me victory!

No, my good soldier, get up. My gentle Martius, worthy Caius, and through your honor achieved by your actions, newly named—what is it?—Coriolanus must I call thee? (Coriolanus rises) But oh, your wife!

There you are, my lovely silent wife! Would you have laughed if I had come home in a coffin, since you are crying to see me come home in victory? Ah, my dear, your eyes look like the widows and the mothers who have lost sons in Corioles.

Now, the gods crown you!

Are you still alive?

(to Valeria) I’m sorry, my sweet lady.

I don’t know where to turn. Oh, welcome home! And welcome, general! Welcome all!

A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep and I could laugh. I’m happy and sad. Welcome. May a curse reach to the very root of anyone’s heart who isn’t happy to see you! Rome should honor you as it would three men. However, we have some bitter old men here who refuse to applaud you. But welcome, warriors! Some things just are what they are, and fools don’t understand.

You’re right.

You’re always right, Menenius.

Make way. Keep walking.

(to Volumnia and Virgilia) Give me your hands. Before I can go home and rest, I must visit the nobles because they haven’t only welcomed me back but have also honored me with this new name.

I’ve lived to see all my wishes come true and to possess all the things I wanted. Now there’s only one thing left, which I’m sure that Rome will give you.

Mother, you know I’d prefer to serve the senators as a soldier than to be a public servant myself.

Let’s go the capitol!

Everyone is talking about him. People who are nearly blind wear glasses just to see him. Babbling nurses let babies cry in a tantrum while they talk about him. The kitchen maid pins her best linen around her dirty neck and climbs up the wall to see him. Storefronts are boarded up, leaden roofs covered over and all different types of people are riding their horses on top of the roofs, all trying to see him. Priests who rarely come out in public are mixed in with the common people and struggle to find a place in the crowd. Women who usually wear veils are letting their pale cheeks get sunburned. There is such mayhem that it seems like whichever god is guiding Martius has taken over his very body and given him a godly way of being.

It seems like he may become a member of the consul.

We’d lose power if he were admitted to the consul.

He won’t be able to translate his fame in battle into some other kind of victory. If he tries, he’ll lose the honor he has won.

That’s comforting.

Don’t doubt the common people we represent. Their longstanding hatred for him will cause them to overlook his new honors with only the slightest provocation. And given his pride, he’ll undoubtedly provoke them.

I heard him declare that if he were to seek nomination to the consul, he would never appear in the marketplace wearing the traditional poor man’s gown to show his humility. Nor would he show off his wounds to the people to win their approval.

Is that so?

He said he’d rather not be in the consul if he couldn’t be admitted simply by the wishes of the middle class and the nobles.

I hope he stays with that plan.

Most likely, he will.

What will happen to him then will be as we wish: he’ll surely lose.

He must lose, or else our power will be over. We must remind the people of how much he still hates them, that if he were in charge, he’d make them work like mules, he would never listen to their requests and he’d take away their freedoms. He wouldn’t recognize their humanity or their souls. He’d hold them captive like the camels who only get fed so that they can carry heavy loads in service of the war and develop sores in the process.

We need to suggest this possibility to the people at a time when they’re already irritated by his arrogance. There will be many occasions for this. It’s as easy to get him to show off his pride as it is to get dogs to chase sheep. His pride will be like fire to their kindling wood, and their blaze will ruin him forever.

What’s going on?

The capitol sends for you. It’s thought that Martius will be admitted to the consul. I saw mute people form crowds to see him and blind people to hear him speak. Married women threw their gloves to him and ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchiefs. As he passed by, the nobles bowed to him as they would to Jupiter’s statue. The common people made a shower with their caps and thunder with their shouts. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Let’s go to the Capitol and keep our eyes and ears open for the time being, while our heart remains set on our plan.

I’m with you.

Hurry up. They’re almost here. How many are being considered for the consul?

Three, they say. But everyone thinks Coriolanus will get it.

He’s a brave man, but he’s too proud, and he doesn’t care about the common people.

There have been many great men who have flattered the people but whom the people never liked, and there have been many that the people liked for unknown reasons. Since they can like someone without knowing why, at least when they dislike someone, it’s for an equally vague reason. So for Coriolanus not to care whether they like him or not shows that he actually knows them quite well, and out of his own indifference to public opinion, he lets them know that he doesn’t care.

If he didn’t care whether or not he had their support, he would be indifferent to either doing them good or harm. But he provokes their hatred with more intensity than they can they can hate him with in return. He has done everything possible for them to see him as their enemy. However, to pretend to desire the ill will of the people is as bad as flattering them for their approval—something he would never do.

He has served his country honorably and his route to prominence has not been nearly as easy as those who, having been lenient and kind to the people, only tipped their hats to get ahead. But he has boasted in their faces so much about his fame and his actions, that if they don’t pay attention to this, they would be harming themselves. If they lie about his prideful behavior, no one would believe them. Everyone would say otherwise.

Stop talking about him. He’s a worthy man. Make way. They’re coming.

Once we decide what to do about the Volsces and send for Titus Lartius, the main point of this meeting is still to reward his noble service in defending his country. Therefore, most respected and honorable elders, the present consul and the general in our victorious battles desires to report a little of the worthy work performed by Caius Martius Coriolanus, whom we have invited here both to thank and to honor. (Coriolanus sits)

Speak as long as you need, good Cominius. Leave nothing out. Better that he think we don’t have the resources to reward to him than that we don’t have the patience to listen to the full report. (to the tribunes) Representatives of the people, we request you to listen kindly, and afterward to convince the people to agree to what we suggest.

We’ve come here to consider this question, and we’re inclined to honor and advance the cause of our constituents.

Which we’ll happily do, and soon, if he can remember to value the people more highly than he has previously.

That’s not the point. I wish you had been silent. Please, will you let Cominius speak?

Most willingly. But my caution was more important than you realize.

He cares about the common people. Just don’t expect him to be closely involved with them. Worthy Cominius, speak.

No, stay where you are.

Sit, Coriolanus. Never be embarrassed to hear of your noble deeds.

I’m sorry, your honor. I’d rather let my wounds heal than hear how I got them.

Sir, I hope my words didn’t cause you to get up.

No, sir. While I don’t run from fights, I do often run from praise. But you didn’t flatter me, so I wasn’t offended. But the people you represent are worth so little, so I care so little about them.

Please, sit down.

I’d rather let someone scratch my head in the sun when the trumpet summons me to battle than sit here and listen to my small deeds be over-embellished.

Representatives of the people, your constituents reproduce all the time, and there’s only one good man among every thousand of them—how can he flatter them? You see now he’d rather risk his whole life for honor than risk one of his ears to hear about it. Go on, Cominius.

I won’t say much. The deeds of Coriolanus shouldn’t be spoken of lightly. It’s well known that courage is the highest virtue and brings the highest dignity to whoever has it. And if that’s true, there’s no one in the world who is more dignified than the man I speak of. At age sixteen, when Tarquin attacked Rome, his fighting exceeded everyone else’s. Our former leader, whom I reference with all praise, saw him fight victoriously against adults when he was still young and had a beardless chin. He protected the overwhelmed Romans and as the consul watched, he defeated three enemies. He fought Tarquin himself and brought him to his knees. In that day of fighting, when he was young enough to play a woman on stage, he proved to be the best man in the field, and he was rewarded with a garland of oak. He entered into manhood, though he was still a boy, with the force of a rising tide. He has led the attack in seventeen battles since then, and he has won the garland over his fellow soldiers every time. As for this last battle, outside of and within Corioles, I have no words to describe what he did. He stopped the Roman deserters and by his rare example made these cowards overcome their fear and become warriors. The men obeyed and fell beneath his prow like waves beneath a sailboat. Wherever he swung his sword, he marked the sign of death. From head to toe he was covered in blood, and his every motion was followed by dying cries. He entered the deadly gate of the city alone, and he painted it with the blood of their inevitable destiny. Without help, he retreated, but with a sudden burst of energy he attacked Corioles with the force of a planet. Then the city was all his. After a while, as the noise of war began to wear him down, his spirit reinvigorated his tired body, and he came back to the battle and ran furiously at the enemy, as if it were an endless slaughter. He never stopped to catch his breath until both the field and city were ours.

Worthy man!

He definitely measures up to the honors we have for him.

He rejected our spoils and looked at precious things as if they were the common muck of the world. He doesn’t desire anything. To him, doing his deeds is its own reward, and he’s happy to spend the time to do the job well.

He’s very noble. Let’s call him here.

Call Coriolanus.

Here he is.

Coriolanus, the Senate is very happy to admit you to the consul.

I’ll always owe them my life and services.

All that remains is for you to speak to the people.

I beg you, let me skip that custom. I can’t put on the gown, stand without an undershirt, and show off my wounds just so they’ll vote for me. Please let me pass on doing this.

Sir, the people must have their say, and they won’t leave out one bit of the ceremony.

Don’t fight them on this. Go through with this custom and stand honorably as your predecessors have.

I’ll blush as I play this part. The people will be deceived.

(to Sicinius) Did you hear that?

To brag of the things I’ve done and show them my old scars, which I should hide—as if I’d received them only for the people to gasp at!

Don’t insist on this. Tribunes of the people, we ask that you recommend our proposal to the people. And to our noble consul wish we all joy and honor.

May all joy and honor come to Coriolanus!

You see how he intends to use the people.

May they know his intentions! He’ll ask for their support even though he hates that it’s in their power to give it.

Let’s go inform them of what’s happened here. I know they’re waiting for us in the marketplace.

If and when he asks for our votes, we shouldn’t deny him.

We can deny him, sir, if we want to.

We have the right to deny him, but it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. If he shows us his wounds and tells us of his deeds, we must honor those wounds with our votes. And if he tells us of his noble deeds, we must then tell him of our gratitude. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the people to be seen as ungrateful would make us into monsters.

And it wouldn’t take much to make us worse thought of. When we complained about the corn, he didn’t hesitate to call us an unstable mass of people.

Many people have called us that. Not because some of us have brown hair, some black, some blond and some bald, but because our opinions are so diverse. I truly think that if all our opinions were to come from one mind, they would go east, west, north, and south. All they could agree on would be to go in different directions.

Do you think so? Which way do you think my opinion would go?

You’re stubborn, so your opinion will stay stuck inside you until another man’s will expresses itself first. If yours could come out, though, it would surely go south.

Why that way?

To lose itself in the plague-ridden air. Three-quarters of it would melt away in the contagious dew, and the remaining quarter would have a conscience and return to help you get a wife.

You’re never without your jokes. It’s okay—you can laugh at me.

Are you all ready to vote? It doesn’t actually matter, since the majority vote wins. If only he cared about the people, he would be the most deserving man there ever was.

Here he comes, wearing the gown of humility. Watch his behavior. We’re not supposed to all stay together but rather go up to him where he’s standing, either alone or in groups of two or three. He’s supposed to make his request to us individually, and each of us has the separate honor of giving him our own vote in our voice. Follow me. I’ll show you how to go up to him.

Okay, okay.

Oh, sir, you don’t understand. Don’t you know that the most honorable men have done this?

What am I supposed to say? “Please, sir”—Curse that! I can’t force myself to say such a thing. “Look at my wounds, sir. I got them while serving my country, while men who were undoubtedly your brothers cried and ran away from the battle.”

Oh, gods! You can’t talk about that. You need to get them to think well of you.

Think well of me! Hang them! I wish they would forget me, like they have forgotten the virtues that the gods didn’t sufficiently instill in them.

You’ll ruin everything. I’m leaving now. Please, keep it clean with them.

I’ll ask them to wash their faces and brush their teeth.

So, here comes a pair.

You know why I’m standing here.

We do, sir. Tell us what brought you here.

It’s what I deserve.

It’s what you deserve!

Yes, but it’s not what I desire.

You don’t desire it?

No, sir, I never desired to trouble the poor with begging.

You must think that if we give you something, we hope to get something from you.

Well then, tell me: what will it cost for you to give me the consulship?

The price is to ask for it kindly.

Please, sir, kindly let me have it. I have wounds to show you, which I’ll show you in private. Your vote, sir, what do you say?

You’ll get my vote, worthy sir.

It’s a deal, sir. That’s two deserving votes I’ve secured. Thank you your charity. Goodbye.

(to the other Citizens) This is strange.

If I could vote again, but never mind.

I ask if you would please vote for me, since I am wearing the customary gown.

You’ve served your country nobly, but you aren’t deserving.

What do you mean?

You’ve defeated her enemies and you’ve protected her friends, but you haven’t loved the common people.

You should consider me virtuous because I don’t give my love away easily. Sir, I’ll flatter my sworn brothers, the people, so they’ll think well of me. It’s a custom they consider noble. And since they’d rather decide based on what hat I’m wearing than on who I am, I’ll practice taking off my hat and bowing insincerely. That is to say, sir, I’ll pretend to be enchanted by them, as some popular men do, and give my false admiration plentifully to those who desire it. So I ask you, may I be consul?

We hope you’ll be our ally, so we happily vote for you.

You’ve been wounded many times serving your country.

I won’t confirm what you already know by showing my wounds to you. I’ll just take your votes and not trouble you further.

May the gods give you much joy, sir!

Most sweet voters! It’s better to die, better to starve, than to beg to be chosen for a position you already deserve. Why must I stand here in this hypocritical toga and beg the commoners for their meaningless approval, which I shouldn’t need? Custom forces me to do it, and what custom requires, we must do. It’s an ancient tradition that has gone on for so long that no one can see that it’s a huge mistake. I wish I didn’t have to play the fool, but the honor of the consulship goes to he who will. I’m halfway done. I’ll do the other half.

Here come more votes. Your votes: I have fought for your votes and stayed out on watch for your votes. For your votes I have been wounded more than two dozen times and been in thirty-six battles. For your votes, I have seen and heard many things and done some things less and some things more—all for your votes, so I can be in the consul.

He has served nobly and must win any honest man’s vote.

Therefore let him be the consul. May the gods give him joy and make him be good to the people!

Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul

Worthy voters!

You’ve stood here for the time required, and the tribunes approve you with the people’s endorsement. All that remains is to make it official. We must go now to the senators.

It’s over?

You’ve done the required custom, and the people admit you to the consul. Go meet the senators so they can approve your election.

Where? At the Senate house?

Yes, Coriolanus.

May I change out of these clothes?

You may, sir.

I’ll do that first, and once I feel like myself again, I’ll go to the Senate house.

I’ll keep you company. Will you come, too?

We’ll stay here with the people.

Good luck.

He has the consulship now, and he looks happy about it.

He wore the gown of humility, but his heart was still proud. Will you let the people’s vote stand?

How are you, good people? Have you chosen this man?

He has our votes, sir.

We pray to the gods that he deserves your favor.

Amen, sir. I’m not certain, but I think he mocked us while asking for our votes.

He expressed his contempt for us in no uncertain terms.

No, that’s just the way he speaks. He didn’t mock us.

All of us, except you, say he used us scornfully. He should have showed us his marks of merit, the wounds he received for his country.

I’m sure he showed you.

No, no. No one saw them.

He said he had wounds he could show in private. He waved his hat scornfully and said, “I should be the consul but because of this ancient custom, I can’t be without your votes, so give me your votes.” When we gave them to him, he said, “I thank you for your votes. Thank you. Your most sweet votes, now that you’ve given me your votes, I have no further use for you.” Isn’t that mockery?

You were either too ignorant to see it, or if you did see it, you were too childish and accommodating to deny him your vote.

Couldn’t you have told him as you were instructed? When he had no power and was only a petty servant of the state, he was your enemy. He has always spoken against your freedom and the legal privileges you have. Now that he’s arriving in a position of power and influence on the state, if he remains such an evil enemy to the people, you might have cause to curse yourself for giving him your votes. You should have said that while his acts of bravery do entitle him to the consulship, he should also be gracious and think well of you for giving him your approval. He should transform his hatred toward you into love and become your political advocate.

If you’d said that, as you were advised ahead of time, it would have touched his spirit and changed his inclination. You might have gotten a gracious promise from him, which you could have held him to when you needed it. Or else it would have provoked his angry nature, which is easily done, and he would have gone into a rage. You could have used his anger as reason not to vote for him.

Didn’t you notice that he asked for your vote in blatant contempt even when he needed your approval? So don’t you think that his contempt will harm you when he has power to exercise? Didn’t you have any courage? Couldn’t you cry out against the status quo?

Haven’t you ever refused to vote for someone? And now you give your vote to someone who didn’t even ask for it but mocked you instead?

He’s not confirmed. He can still deny him.

And we will deny him. I’ll get five hundred people to vote against him.

I’ll get a thousand people and their friends, too.

Go do it immediately, and tell those friends that they’ve chosen someone for the consul who will take away their freedoms and give them no more voice than dogs have that are repeatedly beaten for barking even though their job is to bark.

Let them come together and make a wiser judgment to revoke your ignorant election. Emphasize his pride and his longstanding hatred of you. And don’t forget the contempt with which he wore the gown of humility and how in his quest for your votes, he scorned you. Your admiration of his past service kept you from noticing of his present way of being, which was insulting and inappropriate and reflective of the hatred he feels for you.

Blame us, your tribunes. Say that we pushed you not to let these obstacles stop you from voting for him, but that you must repeal your election of him.

Say that you chose him based more on our instructions than on your own true feelings, and that because you were preoccupied with what you thought was expected of you, you went against your own interest by voting him consul. Lay the fault on us.

Indeed, don’t spare us. Say we told you all about him, about how young he was when he began to serve his country and how long he has done so, about the noble family he comes from—the same family as Ancus Martius, Numa’s daughter’s son, who was king after great Hostilius. He’s from the same family as Publius and Quintus, the ones who built our best water conduits. And his great ancestor, suitably named Censorinus, was chosen twice as censor by the people.

We asked you to remember that he’s a man descended from a famous family, who also has earned his own high praise. But you have found, weighing his present behavior against his past, that he’s definitely your enemy, and you repeal your hasty approval.

Say that you never would have done it—emphasize that—if we hadn’t put you up to it. And then, when you have enough people on your side, go to the capitol.

We will. Almost everyone regrets the vote they gave.

Let them go on their own. Better to risk this mutiny than wait for the undoubtedly bigger one that would come later. If, his nature being what it is, he goes into a rage over their refusal, both watch for and take advantage of his anger.

Let’s go to the capitol. We’ll be there before the uprising of the people. And it will appear to be their own initiative, which it partially is, although we urged them into action.

Tullus Aufidius had assembled a new army?

He had, my lord, and that was why we needed to reach an agreement sooner than expected.

So then, the Volsces will be able to attack us again when the time is right.

They’re worn out, lord consul, so we won’t likely see their banners wave again in our lifetime.

Did you see Aufidius?

He came to me, under high security, and cursed the Volsces because they had failed so miserably by letting the town be captured. He has retreated to Antium.

Did he talk about me?

He did, my lord.

What did he say?

He spoke of how often you and he had met in battle. He said that of all things on earth, he hated you the most and that he would pawn his fortunes until he was hopelessly broke in order to defeat you.

He’s living in Antium?

In Antium.

I wish I had a reason to go there and show him how much I hate him, too. Welcome home.

Look, here are the tribunes. I hate them because their authority is an insult to the power of the nobility.

Go no further.

Ha! What did you say?

It will be dangerous for you to go any further.

What’s changed?

What’s the matter?

Hasn’t he been approved by the nobility and the common people?

No, Cominius.

Have they broken their promise like children?

Tribunes, let us through. He’s going to the marketplace.

The people are furious with him.

Stop, or a riot will break out.

Is this your herd? Why do these people have the right to vote, if they can vote one way and then immediately change their mind? What’s your job? If you control what they think and say, can’t you control what they do? Have you incited them against us?

Be calm, be calm.

It’s a deliberate plot to undercut the authority of the nobility. If we succumb to it, we’ll have to live alongside these uncontrollable people who themselves are incapable of governing.

Don’t call it a plot. The people say you mocked them, and recently when corn was given to them for free, you complained and slandered us, the representatives of the people, calling us opportunists, flatterers, and enemies to nobility.

You were already known as such.

Not all of them thought so.

Have you informed them since?

How would I inform them?

By the way you do business.

Possibly, but whatever I do, I do it better than you would do as consul.

Why then should I be consul? If I am as bad as you, make me your fellow tribune.

You cause too much disturbance among the people. If you want to get where you want to go, you must ask kindly to get there. You’re a long way off from doing that. And without doing so, you’ll never be noble enough to be consul or even be his equal as a tribune.

Let’s stay calm.

The people have been deceived and now incited. Trickery like this is not how Romans behave. Coriolanus shouldn’t be dishonored by these false accusations because his bravery makes him so clearly deserving.

Talk to me about corn! This was my speech, and I will speak it again—

Not now, not now.

Not when the people are so agitated, sir, not now.

As sure as I’m alive, I will speak now. My nobler friends, I beg your pardon. As for the two-faced, stinking masses, let them see themselves clearly because I will not flatter them. I say again, by flattering them, we encourage the seeds of rebellion, disobedience, treason against our Senate—seeds that we ourselves have plowed for, sowed, and scattered by mingling them with us, the honorable ones. The only virtue or power that we lack is that which we have given to these beggars.

That’s enough, no more.

No more words, we beg you.

What? No more? I have shed my blood for my country without fearing opposing forces, so my lungs will speak until the hated measles—that we caught by trying to help the people—cause us to become infected and die.

You speak of the people as if you were a god to punish them, not a mortal man just like them.

It would be a good idea for us to let the people know this.

Know what? About his anger?

Anger! If I were as calm as in midnight sleep, by Jove, this would still be my opinion!

It’s a poisonous opinion that shall remain where it is and not poison any further.

“Shall remain”? Do you hear this, Triton of the minnows? Do you hear his absolute “shall”?

It was inappropriate.

“Shall”! Oh, good but most unwise nobleman! You dignified but reckless senators, why have you permitted this many-headed monster to choose a representative whose arrogant “shall” is just the monster’s noisy horn and who has the nerve to say he’ll take advantage of your power and use your resources for his own purposes? If he’s in power, then it’s your mistake that has you bowing to him. If not, then wake up from your dangerous tolerance of him. If you’re good leaders, don’t be common fools. If you’re not, let them have seats with you in the Senate. If they were senators, that would make you into commoners. And if you had equal say, the interests of the common people would outweigh yours. The people chose as their representative someone who addresses his “shall,” his common man’s command of “shall” to the most dignified legislature since the Greeks. By Jove himself! It lowers the position of the consuls and my soul aches to know, when there are two authorities and neither is supreme, how quickly chaos will arise in the space between them and use one to overthrow the other.

Let’s go on to the marketplace.

Whoever gave the advice to give out corn from the storehouse for free, as they used to do in Greece—

That’s enough. No more talk of that.

Even though the people had more absolute power in Greece, I think whoever gave that advice invited disobedience and caused the ruin of the state.

Should the people give up someone who speaks for them?

I’ll give my reasons, which are worthier than their wishes. They know they didn’t earn the corn, as they certainly never did any service for it. Even when they were drafted to fight the war when the center of the state was threatened, they wouldn’t leave the city gates. This kind of service doesn’t deserve free corn. When they were in the war, their mutinies and revolts, which were the only times they showed any courage, didn’t speak well for them. Their frequent accusation that the Senate was hoarding corn had no basis, so it could never be the reason for our generous gift. Well, what then? How will this many-headed monster repay the Senate’s kindness? Let their actions express what their words should be: “We asked for it, we are the majority of the population, and out of fear they gave in to our demands.” In doing this we degrade the nature of our position and make the rabble think that our sympathy is fear. In time this will break open the locks of the Senate, and the scavengers will devour us.

Okay, that’s enough.

Enough overstatement.

No, there’s more! I swear there’s both divine and human confirmation of what I have to say. A divided government—in which one part rightfully despises the other and the other part makes insulting accusations without any reason, and in which people of class, title, and wisdom are reduced to deciding things just by voting yes or no—will be unable to focus on important matters and so instead will deal only with trivial concerns. When governing becomes so difficult, it makes sense that nothing will get done well. So I beg you, you who won’t be afraid to take action because you care more about preserving our government than you fear the consequences of doing so, you who prefer a noble life over a long one and are willing to use a dangerous medicine to help someone who would otherwise surely die, you must immediately remove the representatives of the common people. Don’t let the tribunes use their poisonous flattery. When they dishonor you, it’s an impediment to justice. It robs the state of your much-needed integrity and leaves the state without the power to do the good it would because evil forces are controlling it.

He has said enough.

He has spoken like a traitor and must be punished as a traitor.

You wretch. I feel overwhelming contempt for you! Why should the people have these stupid tribunes? By depending on you, they fail to obey the Senate’s higher authority. In a rebellion, actions that are wrong but unavoidable are sanctioned because of the circumstances under which they are chosen. But when times are better, it must be said that what is right must be done. So throw the tribunes’ power in the garbage.

That’s blatantly treason!

This man is consul? No.

Aediles, come here!

Seize him.

Go, call the people.

(to Coriolanus) In the people’s name I call you a traitorous rebel, an enemy to the people. Obey, I command you, and follow me to your interrogation. (SICINIUS tries to seize CORIOLANUS)

Get off me, old goat!

We stand behind him.

Old man, take your hands off him.

Get off me, you rotten thing! Or I’ll shake your bones out of your clothes.

Help, you citizens!

Both of you, show more respect.

Here’s the man who would take all your power away from you.

Seize him, aediles!

Down with him! Down with him!

Weapons, weapons, weapons!

Tribunes! Noblemen! Citizens! What’s happening! Sicinius! Brutus! Coriolanus! Citizens! Peace, peace, peace! Stay, wait, peace!

What’s going to happen? I’m out of breath. Chaos is near. I can’t speak. You tribunes, talk to the people! Coriolanus, be patient! Speak, good Sicinius.

Hear me, people. Be calm!

Let’s hear our tribune. Please speak, speak, speak.

You’re about to lose your freedom. Martius will take everything from you. Martius, who you have just selected for consul.

No, no, no! That’s the way to incite them further, not calm them down.

To destroy the city and tear all the buildings down.

What is the city if not the people?

True, the people make the city.

By everyone’s agreement, we were selected to speak for the people.

You still do.

And most likely, you’re about to speak.

That’s the way to destroy the city, to bring the roof to the foundation and bury it all, and yet the heaps and piles of ruin have a distinct hierarchy.

This deserves death.

Either let us exercise our authority, or let us lose it. On behalf of the people who we were elected to represent, we declare that Martius deserves to die immediately.

So grab him, take him to the Tarpeian rock, and throw him off the edge.

Aediles, seize him!

Surrender, Martius, surrender!

Let me say one thing. Please, tribunes, let me say just one thing.

Peace, peace!

(to Brutus) Act as you should if you’re a true servant of your country. Proceed moderately, not with the violent solution you have in mind.

Sir, those moderate ways that seem prudent are actually poisonous when the problem is serious. Grab him and take him to the rock.

No, I’ll die here.

There’s some among you who have seen me fight. Come, try for yourselves to do what you’ve seen me do in battle.

Put that sword down! Tribunes, go away for a while.

Grab him.

Help Martius, help him, you who are noble. Help him, whether you’re young or old!

Down with him, down with him!

(to Coriolanus) Go home, be gone, go away! All will be lost otherwise.

(to Coriolanus) Get out of here.

Stay where you are. We have as many allies as enemies.

Will it come to that?

(to Coriolanus) The gods forbid! I beg you, noble friend, go home. Leave us to handle this situation.

It’s dangerous for all of us now, and you can’t fix it yourself. Go now, I beg you.

Please, sir, come with us.

I wish they were barbarians—which they are, even though they were born in Rome—and not Romans—which they aren’t even though they born on the steps of the capitol—

Go away. You’re understandably angry, but stop speaking your anger. There will be time for that in the future.

I could easily beat a large number of them.

I myself could fight a pair of the best of them—indeed, the two tribunes! But now the odds are beyond calculation, and courage becomes foolishness when it stands beneath a falling building. (to Coriolanus) Will you go now, before the mob returns? Their rage is like dammed up water that will overflow its banks.

(to Coriolanus) Please, go now. I’ll try to reason with them, even though they’re unreasonable. We must try every possible solution to fix this problem.

Let’s go.

He has ruined himself.

His nature is too noble for the world. He wouldn’t flatter Neptune for his trident or Jove for his power to make thunder. He speaks his mind, and whatever he feels, he must express. And when he gets angry, he forgets that he can also be killed.

That was fast!

I wish they’d gotten away!

I wish they were in Tiber! What the hell! Couldn’t he talk them out of it?

Where is this traitor that would drive the people from the city and considers himself to be every man?

You worthy tribunes—

He’ll be thrown without mercy from the Tarpeian rock. He has resisted justice, so justice will deny him any trial other than the strength of public opinion, which to him is worthless.

He’ll soon know that the noble tribunes speak for the people, and we, in turn, put their wishes into action.

He will, I’m sure of it.

Sir, sir—

Peace!

Don’t call for his murder. Seek a lesser punishment instead.

Sir, didn’t you help him escape?

Listen to me. Because I know this consul’s strengths, I can also tell you his weaknesses—

Consul! What consul?

The consul Coriolanus.

He’s not consul!

No, no, no, no, no.

Good people, if the you and the tribunes will permit me to be heard, I want to say a word or two that will cost you nothing other than the time it takes to listen.

Speak quickly then, for we’ve agreed to do away with this monstrous traitor. To banish him would still leave us in danger, and to keep him here would mean our certain death, so he must die tonight.

The good gods forbid that our renowned Rome, whose gratitude toward her deserving children is Jove’s law, should behave like an unnatural mother and eat her own child!

He’s a disease that must be cut out.

No, he’s just a limb that has a disease. It would be fatal to cut off the limb but easy to cure the disease. What has he done to Rome that’s worth killing him for? He’s killed our enemies and lost more ounces of his own blood than his body still has. He shed it for his country. For his country to take from him the blood he has left would bring eternal shame to all of us who permit it.

That’s totally wrong.

That’s missing the point. When he served his country, it rewarded him.

When a foot becomes infected with gangrene, is it no longer respected for the service it had done previously?

We’ll hear no more. Go take him from his house, before his contagious infection spreads any further.

One word more, one word. When this fast-moving rage realizes the consequences of acting quickly without thinking, it will be too late to slow it down. Let the legal system solve this dispute, otherwise factions will form, as there are those who support him, and Rome will be destroyed by Romans.

If that were true—

What are you talking about? Haven’t we experienced his obedience? Haven’t our aediles been struck by him? Haven’t our own efforts been resisted? Come.

Consider that he’s been brought up in wars since he was old enough to draw a sword. He doesn’t know how to use refined language. He can’t tell the difference between meal and bran. Let me go to him and try to convince him to answer your questions peacefully in court. Legal judgment may still cost him his life.

Noble tribunes, this is the humane way. The other course of action will prove too bloody, and we have no idea what we’re getting ourselves into.

Noble Menenius, you may act on behalf of the people. Good people, lay your weapons down.

Don’t go home.

Meet us in the marketplace. We’ll wait for you there. If you don’t bring Martius, we’ll continue with our original plans.

I’ll bring him to you. (to the Senators) Come with me. We must bring him, or something worse will happen.

Yes, let’s go to him.

Let them shout their fury. They can put me to death on the wheel, let wild horses drag me, or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, making the fall so far that you can’t see the bottom. It won’t change who I am compared to them.

You are nobler than they are.

I wonder if my mother still sides with me. She used to call them slaves in rough wool clothes, traders of cheap items who were always taking their hats off to those of higher rank and whose jaws dropped in silent amazement when someone like me made speeches about peace or war.

I’m talking about you. Why did you want me to be more subdued? Would you have me be untrue to my nature? Would you rather I pretend to be someone else?

Oh, sir, sir, sir, I wanted your power to be made official before you used it up.

Stop it.

You would’ve been enough of a man without fighting so hard to prove yourself. The people wouldn’t have condemned you if you hadn’t shown them your true disposition before they lost the power to stop you.

Let them hang.

Yes, and burn, too.

Come, come, you’ve been a bit too rough. You must go back and fix things with the people.

There’s no remedy. Unless you go, our good city will break in two and be ruined.

Please, listen to this advice. I’m as stubborn as you are, but I’m smart enough to use my anger to my advantage.

Well said, noble woman. Before he returns to the masses, given the current violent climate in the state, which demands a solution to this problem, I’d like to put my armor on, even though I am barely strong enough to wear it.

What should I do?

Return to the tribunes.

And then what?

Take back what you said.

For them! I can’t take back what I’ve said to the gods, but I must I take back what I’ve said to the people?

You’re too rigid. You can never be too noble, except in extreme circumstances. I’ve heard you say that in war, honor and strategy go together. If that’s the case, tell me, why wouldn’t they also go together in times of peace?

Hush, hush!

That’s a good question.

If it’s honorable in war to pretend to be other than how you are, if it serves your end goal, why is it less honorable to do so in times of peace?

Why do you ask?

Because you have to speak to the people now—and not to give them instructions or to talk from your heart. What you say can’t reflect the truth of what you really feel. However, this doesn’t dishonor you any more than it would to capture a town with flattering words, a town that would otherwise take your fortune and spill your blood. I would feel it honorable to hide my real nature if my fortune and my friends were at risk. I speak for your wife, your son, these senators, and the nobles about this: you’d prefer to show the miserable commoners how you frown than flatter them in any way, even for the sake of their approval and to protect what might be ruined without it.

Noble lady! Come with us. Your honest words may heal not only present dangers but also past losses.

I beg you now, my son, go to them, with your hat in your hand. And once you’ve extended your hat to them—do what they ask—get on your knees and kiss the ground, bow your head and humble your proud heart like the ripest mulberry that falls from the branch the moment it’s touched—for in this situation actions speak louder than words. Or tell them that you are their soldier and admit that because you were raised on the battlefield, you never learned a gentle way with words, but you realize you should have spoken more kindly when asking for their votes. Tell them that you’ll work for their benefit from here on out, to the extent of your political power and physical ability.

(to Coriolanus) Do as she says, and their hearts will belong to you. If you ask, they’ll pardon you as easily as they speak their nonsense.

Please, go now. Submit to them, although I know you’d rather pursue your enemy through the fires of hell than flatter him in a boudoir. Here’s Cominius.

Sir, I’ve been in the marketplace. You’ll need to argue your case strongly or defend yourself with calmness—or don’t come at all. Everyone is angry.

Just speak kindly.

I think that’ll work, if he can control his temper.

He must, and I beg you, say you will and then go do it.

Do I have to show them my head without a helmet? Do I have to betray my heart and speak words that are lies? Well, I’ll do it. But if I lose, they’ll grind me into dust and throw it against the wind. To the marketplace! You’re asking me to play a part that I will never play convincingly.

Come, come, we’ll tell you what to say.

I beg you now, sweet son. You’ve said that my encouragement is what made you into a soldier, so I encourage you now to play this new role.

Well, I must do it. I’ll hide my true nature and become like a whore! My voice, which ordinarily calls for war, will harmonize with my drum and become the voice of a eunuch or a virgin that sings babies to sleep! I’ll smile like a servant, cry like a schoolboy, and speak like a beggar! My armored knees, which ordinarily only bend in my saddle, will bend like a man receiving alms! I won’t do it because it will dishonor my true nature, and what I do with my body will degrade my mind.

This is your choice then. It is more dishonorable for me to have to beg you than for you to have to beg them. Everything will be ruined. I’d rather endure the consequences of challenging your pride rather than be afraid of it, for I fear death as little as you do. Do as you please. Your courage comes from me—you sucked it from me as a nursing baby—but your pride is all your own.

That’s enough, mother. I’m going to the marketplace. Don’t scold me any further. I’ll deceive them into liking me, steal their hearts, and come home beloved by all the tradesmen in Rome. Look, I’m going. Give my regards to my wife. I’ll come back as consul. Never again doubt how well my tongue can flatter.

Do what you need to do.

Go! The tribunes are waiting for you. Be prepared to answer questions mildly. I’ve heard that they have even stronger accusations than the ones they’ve made so far.

The key word is “mild.” Please, let’s go. Let them invent accusations against me, and I’ll answer honorably.

Yes, but mildly.

Well, mildly it will be then. Mildly!

Drive this point home: his aim is to be a tyrant. If he dodges this accusation, confront him with his ill-will toward the people, and that the spoils won from the Antiates were never distributed.

Is he coming?

He’s coming.

Who’s he with?

With old Menenius and those senators that have always favored him.

Do you have a list of all the individual votes taken in our poll?

I do. It’s ready.

Have you counted them by district?

I have.

Bring the people here now, and when I say, “The decision of the people is,” whether it’s death, fine, or banishment, if I say, “fine,” have them cry, “Fine,” if “death,” cry, “Death.” They must insist on their legal right to decide this and the power that comes from the truth of their cause.

I’ll tell them.

And when they begin to cry out, don’t let them stop. The chaotic noise will force their decision to be carried out on the spot.

Very well.

Prepare them for this. They have to be able to get the signal when we give it to them.

Do it.

Get him angry right away. He’s accustomed to always winning and being as controversial as he pleases. Once he’s provoked, he won’t be able to rein in his temper. Then he’ll say how he really feels, and most likely we can use that as reason to break his neck.

Well, here he comes.

Stay calm, I beg you.

Yes, like a stable boy that for the smallest amount of money will tolerate being called a slave over and over again. May the honored gods protect Rome and supply the chairs of justice with worthy men! Let there be love among us! Fill our large temples with demonstrations of peace and not our streets with war!

Amen, amen.

A noble wish.

Come close, you people.

Listen to your tribunes. Be quiet!

Let me speak first.

Well then, talk! Stay calm.

Are there any further charges against me besides these? Will everything be settled here?

Will you agree to listen to the people, respect their representatives, and undergo lawful punishment for the offenses we’ll prove you committed?

Yes, I agree.

All right citizens, he says he agrees. Think of the wars he has served in. Think about the wounds on his body—each of them is like an enemy’s gravestone.

They’re no more serious than scratches from a prickly plant. They’re scars that you’d only laugh at.

Consider also that because he doesn’t speak like you, you think he’s attacking you. Don’t mistake his coarse way of speaking for hateful words. He’s just talking the way soldiers talk. He’s not speaking ill of you.

Okay, that’s enough.

How did it happen that I was approved for consul with a unanimous vote and in the next moment I’m disgraced by a change of opinion?

Answer our questions.

Well it’s true then. I thought so.

We accuse you of trying to do away with the established legal system in Rome and to put yourself in a position of tyrannical power. For this you are a traitor to the people.

How am I a traitor?

No, stay calm. You promised.

May the people fall into the fires of the lowest hell! You’re calling me a traitor? You slanderous tribune! If your eyes had killed twenty thousand people, your hands had killed a million, and your lying tongue had killed those numbers together, I would still say to you, ”You lie” with a voice as honest as the one I pray to the gods with.

Do you hear this, people?

Throw him from the rock!

Peace! We don’t need to aggravate him further. What you’ve seen him do and heard him say—beating your officers, speaking ill of you, opposing our laws with force, and now defying those who have the great power to put him on trial—even this, which is criminal and punishable by death, deserves the most severe penalty.

But since he has served Rome so well—

Why do you talk about service?

I talk about what I know.

What do you know about service?

Is this the promise that you made your mother?

Listen, I beg you—

I’ll listen no more. Let them throw me from the steep Tarpeian rock, make me a wandering exile, skin me alive, or condemn me to live on just a grain a day. I wouldn’t buy their mercy at the cost of the truth, nor would I hold back my beliefs for the freedom they can give me, if I had to say to them, “Good day.”

As much as he could, he has continually conspired against the people, looking for ways to take away their power, and now he’s finally taken violent measures, and not only in front of justice itself but also those who attempt to carry it out. In the name of the people and by our power as tribunes, from this moment forward we banish him from our city. If he ever enters the gates of Rome again, he will be thrown off the Tarpeian rock. I declare this on behalf of the people.

It shall be so, it shall be so. Take him away. He’s banished, and it shall be so.

Listen to me, good people, my friends—

He’s been sentenced. There’s nothing more to say.

Let me speak. I have been consul, and I can show you the wounds I’ve received fighting for Rome. My feelings about the welfare of my country are more tender, more holy, and more profound than how I feel about my own life, my dear wife’s reputation, her ability to bear my precious children. So I would like to say—

We know your loyalty. What do you want to say?

There’s no more to be said: he is banished as enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so.

It shall be so, it shall be so.

You pack of common dogs! Your breath reeks like the rotting swamps. I value your opinion of me as much as the dead carcasses of unburied men that stink up my air. I banish you! Stay here with your indecisiveness and let every feeble rumor change your minds. When you see your enemies plumed helmets approaching, may you fall into despair! May you retain the power to banish the ones who would protect you, until at last your ignorance—which makes you unable to foresee anything before it happens and leaves you alone in the city as your own worst enemy—leads you to be captured by some nation that defeated you without a fight! With hatred, I turn my back on you and the city. I will seek a new life elsewhere.

The people’s enemy is gone. He is gone!

Our enemy is banished! He is gone! Hoo, hoo!

Go, see him go out the gates, and look at him with contempt, as he looked at you. Torment him—he deserves it. Let a parade follow us through the city.

Come, come. Let’s see him go out the gates. Come. May the gods protect our noble tribunes! Come.

Stop crying now. A brief farewell! The people, like a many-headed beast, push me out. Stop it, mother. What happened to your courage? You used to say that adversity was a test of character. That even common people can handle the chance circumstances of their lives. That when the sea is calm all boats float equally well. That when fate strikes you hardest, you must have the skill of a nobleman to endure your wounds with dignity. You used to repeat these sayings to me, sayings that would make anyone who heard them enough invincible.

Oh, heavens! Oh, heavens!

Stop it! Please, woman—

Now the typhoid fever strikes all the tradesmen in Rome and the economy is crumbling!

Enough, enough, enough! You’ll love me when I’m gone. Stop it, mother. Bring back your old spirit, when you used to say that if you had been the wife of Hercules, you would have done six of his twelve required tasks and saved him that much effort. Cominius, don’t despair. Goodbye. Farewell, my wife, my mother—I’ll be fine. My old and true friend Menenius, you cry more than a young man, and the salt is bad for your eyes. My former general, I have seen you be brave, and you have seen many heart-hardening spectacles. Tell these sad women that it’s as foolish to cry over inevitabilities as it is to laugh at them. Mother, you’ve always taken comfort in the risks that I take. Know this for a fact: even though I go alone, like a lonely dragon whose swamp is more feared and talked about than it is seen, I will either exceed common expectations or be caught by crafty traps and trickery.

My firstborn son, where will you go? Take good Cominius with you for a while. Figure out a plan other than just dealing with things as they come up.

Oh, the gods!

I’ll go with you for a month and help you find a place to stay and a way to communicate with us. That way, if they overturn your sentence, we won’t have to look all over the whole world to find you and lose momentum on your return.

No, I must go alone. You’re too old, and you’ve been in too many wars to go roaming around with someone like me, who’s still fresh. Just take me to the gate. Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and my noble friends. When I go, wish me safe travels and smile. I promise that so long as I’m still alive you’ll hear from me, and the news will be the same as it’s always been about me.

That’s the best news an ear can hear. Let’s not cry now. If my arms and legs were just seven years younger, by the good gods, I’d go with you all the way.

Give me your hand. Come.

Tell them all to go home. He’s gone, and we won’t go any further. The nobles who sided with him are angry.

Now that we’ve exerted our power, let’s at least pretend to be humble, like before.

Tell them to go home. Explain that their great enemy is gone and that their freedoms have been restored.

Send them home.

Here comes his mother.

Let’s not talk to her.

Why?

They say she’s crazy.

They’ve seen us. Keep walking.

Some coincidence, running into you. May the gods repay you for this with the plague!

Calm down. Don’t be so loud.

If I could cry quietly I would. You should hear me cry—No, you will hear me.

Where are you going?

(to Sicinius) You stay, too. I wish I had the power to say that to my husband.

Are you a woman?

You fool, are you trying to insult me? Listen, fool. Wasn’t my father a man? Are you so ungrateful that you’d banish the man who swung his sword for Rome more times than you’ve even opened your mouth to speak?

Oh, blessed heavens!

He fought nobly for Rome more times than you’ve ever spoken wise words. I’ll tell you what: go! No, stay actually. I wish my son were in the lawless deserts of Arabia, with his sword in hand, and your people stood before him.

What would happen then?

What would happen? He’d kill you, and your family line would end.

Your bastard children’s, too. He’s a good man, and he was wounded fighting for Rome!

Now, now, stay calm.

I wish he had continued to honor his country the way he always did, rather than renounce his loyalty.

I wish he had.

“I wish he had”! It was you who incensed the commoners. Those people are like cats and no more able to judge his character than I am able to know the unknowable mysteries of heaven.

Please, let’s go.

Yes. Please, sir, do go away now. You’ve done enough. But before you go, hear this: as much as the capitol building stands taller than the lowest house in Rome, that’s how much my son, her husband, the man you banished, exceeds all of you.

That’s enough. We’re leaving now.

Why would we stay to be harassed by someone who is so out of her mind?

Take my prayers with you.

I wish the gods had nothing else to do but carry out my curses! If I could just meet with them once a day, it would unclog the heavy weight from my heart.