And that’s what happened. Brutus took charge of the rebellion, marching to Rome. As Livy writes: “The terrible occurrence created no less excitement in Rome than it had done in Collatia; there was a rush from all quarters of the City to the Forum” (59). There, Brutus retold the story of the rape of Lucretia by the son of the king, and other abuses by the ruler of Rome. Livy: “By enumerating these and, I believe, other still more atrocious incidents which his keen sense of the present injustice suggested, but which it is not easy to give in detail, he goaded on the incensed multitude to strip the king of his sovereignty and pronounce a sentence of banishment against Tarquin with his wife and children” (59). The revolution ended with the royal family in exile, Tarquin himself soon to be murdered “in revenge for the old feuds he had kindled by his rapine and murders” (60), and Brutus and Collatine named the first consuls of the new Roman Republic.
Why did Lucretia take her life? Consider her own explanation. Her last words in Livy before stabbing herself are blood-chilling: “It is for you . . . to see that [Tarquin] gets his deserts; although I acquit myself of the sin, I do not free myself from the penalty; no unchaste woman shall henceforth live and plead Lucretia’s example” (58). She cannot really prove that she is blameless, and therefore that she deserves to live, except by taking her own life. In the absence of the deed, she is just a teller of tales. In her case, the tale is true. But of others to come, who knows? She will not provide a model for those who would behave unchastely and tell tales to escape just punishment.
Taking her own life is the ultimate proof of her accusation against Tarquin. He is, after all, the son of the king and heir to the throne: the second most important Roman of all after his father. Had she merely accused him, he could have denied everything; at worst, he could have portrayed the sexual initiative as her own. There were, after all, no signs of physical abuse. He said/she said. It seems reasonably safe to say that the legal procedures of sixth century BCE Rome probably didn’t favor a woman making an accusation against a powerful man. But for what conceivable reason would a woman who had not been treated as Lucretia said Tarquin treated her come forward entirely of her own volition, make such an accusation, and then kill herself?
But it is not, finally, a desire for revenge against Tarquin that motivates her: Rather, her motivation is to establish by deed her rectitude in her own light—even though the only deed sufficient to do so will cost her life.
Here is Shakespeare giving voice to Lucretia as she is pondering what to do:
“O, that is gone for which I sought to live,
And therefore now I need not fear to die. (151)
* * *
For me, I am the mistress of my fate,
And with my trespass never will dispense,
Till life to death acquit my forced offence.” (153)
Here, honor is all: but honor is not “honors” bestowed by others. As in the case of Achilles in his rage over Patroclus, it is inner greatness expressing itself. Lucretia’s honor is a god-like perfection beyond the capacity of death to erase—and indeed, may require her death, as it does here, to express itself fully. Here’s more of Shakespeare’s presentation of her interior monologue:
“My honour I’ll bequeath unto the knife
That wounds my body so dishonoured.
’Tis honour to deprive dishonour’d life;
The one will live, the other being dead:
So of shame’s ashes shall my fame be bred;
For in my death I murder shameful scorn:
My shame so dead, mine honour is newborn.” (170)
Lucretia’s suicide is a deed for the ages because of the perfection of honor her fearlessness achieves. Oh yes, and it brought to an end the 25-year reign of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus and the 224-year-old kingdom of Rome. The heroic type, facing death without fear in fulfillment of a sense of inner greatness, can indeed be a menace to society.
The fall of the kingdom of Rome was not something Lucretia appeared to have sought, but rather a consequence of a chain of events she set in motion. It seems likely that she would not have been displeased by the news of the exiled Tarquin’s murder, nor of the demise of a dynasty whose corruption her rape made plain. But it seems equally unlikely that she would have felt in any way triumphant. Such an emotion would have been entirely extraneous to her purpose and resolve. She achieved perfect justice to herself and her honor in her final act, her suicide. Nothing was missing. When she said, “It is for you to see that he gets his deserts,” her point was not to demand that her witnesses seek justice for her sake, but rather to suggest that they do so for their own—because all those hearing her story and witnessing her emphatic demonstration of its truth ought properly to be compelled for reasons of their own honor to act against Tarquin. That her witnesses rose to the occasion speaks well of them. The historic consequences of their willingness to take up arms to see that Tarquin gets his deserts commend her heroism to us. But they add nothing to the perfection of her honor, which she achieved solely on her own account.
I suppose it would be possible to take the side of the Roman dynasty in its dispute with the avengers of Lucretia, perhaps on the grounds that although Tarquin was reprehensible and deserved his ignominy and death, his crime did not warrant overthrowing the king. But I know of no one who has made that case, in literary or other terms. Lucretia is purely heroic, first in her willingness to give up her own life out of obligation to her inner perfection, second in the universal post facto acclaim of others for her action and for the outcome of the ensuing chain of events.
The latter element, the acclaim after the fact, is by no means a certain by-product of the heroic willingness to risk death. Others who have put their lives on the line out of a sense of inner greatness, and who have posed a mortal threat to existing political order, have been more ambiguous figures in terms of the conclusions people have reached about the rectitude of their actions.
Coriolanus, a possibly mythical figure, was a great warrior who won glorious victories for Rome in the first years of the Republic. Plutarch describes his character from his first foray into battle, where he won a laurel for saving the life of another Roman soldier:
It would seem that when a young man’s ambition is no integral part of his nature, it is apt to be quenched by an honourable distinction which is attained too early in life; his thirst and fastidious appetite are speedily satisfied. But serious and firm spirits are stimulated by the honours they receive, and glow brightly, as if roused by a mighty wind to achieve the manifest good. They do not feel that they are receiving a reward for what they have done, but rather that they are giving pledges of what they will do, and they are ashamed to fall behind their reputation instead of surpassing it by their actual exploits. It was in this spirit that Marcius [dubbed “Coriolanus” after his victory over the Volsci at Corioli] vied with himself in manly valour, and being ever desirous of fresh achievement, he followed one exploit with another, and heaped spoils upon spoils, so that his later commanders were always striving with their predecessors in their efforts to do him honour, and to surpass in their testimonials to his prowess. (IV)
Pressed to seek political office, as was the custom for successful generals, Coriolanus expected no less from the people of Rome than that they spontaneously acknowledge his worthiness to lead them. He was reluctant to pander to them in order to obtain their approval—to show them the scars from the wounds he suffered fighting for Rome, per custom. In Shakespeare’s version, Coriolanus