Coriolanus: Pride Plus Betrayal Equals Bad News for Everybody

Coriolanus at the Gates of Rome by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, 1730

In a Rome more ancient than that of Julius Caesar or Titus Andronicus, Shakespeare’s Coriolanus centers around the marquee-stealing pride of an exceptional Roman soldier, and – no surprise here – the disastrous effects of that greatest of errors.  The arrogant master of arms in question is Coriolanus, but don’t look for that name to pop up until the penultimate scene of Act One; until then, the man who will be known as Coriolanus goes by Martius.  This original name is a great fit, since his prowess on the battlefield inherently associates him with Mars (Roman god of war), and all things martial.

No, not that kind of martian.

Though his reputation precedes him, we don’t get to see our martian friend in action on the battlefield before we see him in the throes of his other powerful passion – hating the common people.  Charming, right?  Being of Roman nobility, Martius disdains the lower class, and is only too happy to give these “dissentious rogues” a piece of his discriminating mind when the need arises.   The commoners have been kicking up an accusation-heavy fuss concerning their oppression at the hands of the ruling class (particularly as it relates to corn for some reason), and have thus been granted tribunes to represent them in the government.  Martius is livid.  He’s really not a “no taxation without representation” kind of guy.   Martius speaks his mind in all things, so his feelings about the common people and their representatives are no secret.  As the play opens, the protesting citizens label him “chief enemy to the people.”

Don't mess with these Romans' corn

But civil strife gets put on hold as Rome takes to arms to answer the threat of the neighboring Volscian army (Volsci was a region in what is now Italy to the east of Rome).  In the ensuing battle, Martius gets to do what he does best: channeling his anger through his sword, albeit on behalf of a state he has complicated feelings about (you know, hating the majority of the population and everything).  Martius, after sassing his markedly less courageous fellow soldiers, storms through the open gates of the enemy city of Corioles, only to have those gates shut behind him.  So at that point, the battle pits Martius, Roman super-soldier, fighting single-handedly against a whole enemy town.  His countrymen give him up for dead, but Martius fights his bloody way through the enemy, opening the gates for his fellow Romans to march through and claim the Volscian city of Corioles for Rome.

Martius is welcomed home as more of a hero than ever, given the name Coriolanus to commemorate his military achievement, and finds himself a candidate for the high-ranking government position of counsul.  Here’s the big twist: guess whose vote Martius Coriolanus is going to need to be elected?  That’s right!  He now has to campaign to his most bitter enemy: the commoner.

There is a Roman tradition wherein a candidate like Coriolanus must don humble attire, hit the streets and basically beg the common people for their votes.  As if that weren’t distasteful enough for him, Coriolanus is also expected to show the commoners his battle scars, as testament to his service to Rome.  That’s a big “no deal” for Coriolanus.  Though his military résumé makes him a tough candidate to reject, Coriolanus whines and moans his way through this entire process.  He is so contrary about it all that the tribunes who represent the lower class, rightly fearing the consequences of Coriolanus’ election, are not only able to get the public to change their votes from yes to no, but, thanks to Coriolanus’ predictably hot temper and some well-timed button pushing, they are nearly able to have Coriolanus thrown off of a cliff for being such a hateful, arrogant jerk!

Cooler heads prevail (though his is not one of them), and Coriolanus is simply banished from Rome, but this is a huge betrayal in the mind of the very recent Roman war-hero.  He is so ticked off that he seeks out his Volscian arch-nemesis and offers to join his side.  “Banish me, will they?  I’ll show those lower-class-loving Romans!”  This former adversary, Aufidius, welcomes Coriolanus to the team, and even splits the leadership of the Volscian army with him 50/50.   This alliance is surprising all the way around, as Coriolanus had, in his Roman heyday, been particularly hell-bent on killing Aufidius.   For his part, Aufidius had embraced the rivalry.  However, in the one on-stage battle earlier in the play, even when a bunch of other Volscians jumped in, Coriolanus was able to hold his own against Aufidius.  So it’s interesting that as Aufidius’ own servants witness the strange alliance, they privately confess that they feel that Coriolanus to be a far better soldier than their own master.

Now a Volscian general, Coriolanus continues to make Aufidius look like a chump.   Coriolanus effectively takes charge of the whole Volscian army (sorry, co-captain Aufidius), and proves himself more skilled a warrior than ever, laying waste to any Roman opposition before him.  In fact, only the emotional petition of Coriolanus’ mother keeps Coriolanus from destroying Rome itself in his quest for revenge against his ungrateful country.   With this sentimental change of heart, Coriolanus decides that rather than destroy one people or another, he will engineer a peace between them. 

Coriolanus by Nicolas Poussin, 1650 (depicting his mother's plea)

This is a huge personal breakthrough for the warlike Martius Coriolanus, whose notorious temper, arrogance, and stubbornness have been so much to his detriment.   However, having been all but assured of their victory, not all of the Volscians appreciate the sudden turnaround from their turncoat commander Coriolanus.  Some feel that Coriolanus violated their trust by not following the military mission against Rome to its bloody, and Volsci-favoring, conclusion.

Aufidius, his own pride having been so wounded by Coriolanus, senses his opportunity to tip the scales back in his favor, and incites a band of dissenting Volscian conspirators against Coriolanus.  As Coriolanus returns to Corioles to publicly present the peace treaty to the Volscian leaders, Aufidius provokes his former rival, calling him the ever-inflammatory “boy,” in response to which the suddenly less-temperate Coriolanus draws his sword, only to be promptly stabbed to death by Aufidius’ conspirators.   

Bam!  End of story.  Oh, if it’s any consolation, moments after the murder, Aufidius claims suddenly to be “struck with sorrow.” [Spend your money however you want, but I don’t buy it.]

There was a lot to not like about Coriolanus, so it’s easy to lay his tragic end at his own doorstep.  Be that as it may, there’s a flipside here.  Notice that both his banishment and his assassination are accomplished through manipulation, but Coriolanus himself is always direct.  He doesn’t conspire or sneak around talking trash; if Coriolanus has a problem with you he will tell you to your face.  His success on the battlefield is based not on strategy, but by what he can accomplish with his own two hands.  Others, meanwhile, seek promotion through underhanded means.  As Coriolanus applies his straight-dealing to the political arena, there is something admirable in him.  He refuses to play the political game with all its flattery, compromise, and maneuvering.  His advisors tell him “that’s just how it is,” but Coriolanus replies “that’s not how it should be, so I’m not going to do it like that. “  [I think we’d admire a contemporary politician who could be that gutsy.]  His prejudice against the lower class is certainly a huge fault, but there is some reason to believe that the Coriolanus who was working to engineer peace between Rome and Volsci was a more enlightened individual, thanks to his own experience and misfortune.  However, because his pride had created such ill-will in his adversaries, Coriolanus never had the opportunity to affirm and explore the better person he had become.  In that sense, it would seem that, when dealing with others, the first and last person you actually betray is yourself.