The Lioness at the Capitol

The Lioness at the Capitol

When Rome conspired against Caesar, it was his wife who became the lioness.

In this reimagining of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Calpurnia refuses to remain the silenced, fearful wife history remembers. When her ominous dream foretells Caesar’s death, she dons disguise and dagger, stepping into the Senate itself to confront betrayal and fate. Fierce as a lioness, she claims her place in Rome’s story — and in her husband’s destiny.

My name is Calpurnia, though all the world doth know me as the wife of Gaius Julius Caesar. He is the statesman, the conqu’ror unconquered, the reformer, the star that shineth o’er Rome. I am but Calpurnia, a matron who by fortune’s hand was joined to a hero. Yet to me he is no marble god, but simply Jules—my Jules—the man whose spirit is vast as empire, whose pride is high, yet whose vision pierceth beyond the common gaze. Oft his greatness bends to tenderness, and he frets o’er trifles, yea, even the loss of a single hair.

I love him still, though time with him is scant; though cruelty shadows him, though faithless he hath been. I love him, for he was, and is, my destiny.

Last night I wak’d in the hush of our house. Only the faint flame of a torch, kept by Fortunatus, did break the darkness. Fortunatus—the lucky one, so nam’d, and so indeed, for Caesar cherisheth him near as a son, and hath sworn to grant him freedom. Yet methinks the lad would not be loosed; his world is Caesar, his breath, his glory. Their promise of liberty is a game, not a severing.

But I wak’d, for a dream most dread did seize me. I beheld Caesar’s statue, bleeding from a thousand wounds, and many citizens came forth to dip their hands in that crimson flood, their smiles most fell and devilish. The graves themselves did ope, and the dead rose up to stalk the streets. I knew it for an omen of ill, and near I stirr’d him from his slumber. Yet he slept as sweet as any child, and I held my tongue till morning.

At dawn, when his eyes did break the light, I spake of what I saw. Twice, thrice I told it, for sleep still clouded his wit. At last he mark’d it well, and fear did take him. For Caesar is much given to omens, and he confess’d this vision portended death. I urg’d him then to forbear the Capitol, for danger waiteth there. “Send Mark Antony in thy stead,” quoth I, “for he is thy truest friend, and the senators revere him almost as they do thee.”

He was in sore perplexity, for that day’s oration was of weight upon his path to pow’r. Yet I perceiv’d he lean’d toward the wiser choice, to shun the Senate. Still, he array’d himself in his fairest toga, wrought by Prius, the most modish tailor of Rome. Fear trembled in my voice as I besought him: “Why art thou so finely clad? Dost thou mean to go unto the Senate after all?”

He look’d upon me, calm of breath, and answer’d: “I know not yet. But Brutus cometh anon to fetch me thither; I would first hear his counsel on thy dreams.”

My heart sank, for I trusted not the man. I believ’d his love for Caesar but a shadow, not the substance. Soon Brutus enter’d, and Jules recounted all—my dream, the bloodied statue, the citizens dipping their hands therein. Brutus laugh’d, a coarse, disdainful sound, and spake thus: “My lord, doubt not that honour’d Calpurnia hath receiv’d a vision from the gods; yet the sense she gives it is awry. This dream doth herald not thy death but thy greatness! For thou art Rome itself, and thy blood sustaineth it. Therefore in vision did the people bathe therein—to be part of thy glory, which is the glory of Rome. Mark me: this very day within the Senate thou shalt be crown’d a king!”

Straightway was Caesar persuaded. Though I pleaded still, he silenc’d me: “My dearest wife, canst thou not see thy woman’s fears near kept me from my duty? The Senate, the people, yea, all Rome expect me. Mine is the task to lift the city from her mire, to purge corruption, to redeem the poor from misery. I shall be crown’d, and a new age of justice and plenty shall dawn upon our land.”

No more was said; he strode forth with Brutus, boldness written on his brow. I remain’d, leaning on a marble column in our peristyle, yet a fire grew within me. The gods had sent the vision to me, and me they charg’d to act—though at cost of life itself. Time was short. I call’d Fortunatus, and bade him bring his choicest toga and a

pair of shears. He obey’d, though much amaz’d; but when I put the blades to my tresses, he cried aloud: “Lady Calpurnia! Wilt thou despoil thy beauteous hair? No Roman matron of honour would so debase herself!”

“When this is o’er, I shall purchase a peruke more splendid than before. For now I must wear a man’s face, else the Senate’s doors be shut against me,” said I, and my long locks fell.

He star’d as though I were mad, but I declar’d the omen and Brutus’ false gloss upon it. “We must save him, else he is lost,” quoth I.

“We?” he answer’d, scornful. “A woman and a slave?”

“Yes, we. For women and slaves are the very backbone of Rome. Men go forth to conquer, to forge decrees, to spill blood. Yet we keep the hearths, the households, the commerce; without these three pillars, Rome were but dust. Haste then, and gird me in thy toga, that I may pass for a man; together we shall go to the Capitol and guard Caesar’s life.”

Fortunatus made ready a chariot and drove as swift as steeds would bear. All the way I pray’d to Juno that my lord be not struck down by rogues, those false champions of a dying Republic. At length we arriv’d; Caesar, surround’d by friends, was even then ascending to the Senate. Fortunatus gave the reins to a trusted hand, and we hasten’d within. I knew the chamber where my lord would tarry ere he spake, and thither we slipp’d, hiding us behind a column. From the folds of my toga I drew a dagger, and clasp’d it firm, praying to Jove I need not use it. Fortunatus, too, unsheath’d his blade, and in his eyes I read the same resolve.

Like a lioness in wait, I fix’d my sight upon my lord, who spake with a supplicant on bended knee. I mistrusted the man’s manner, so I lean’d further, ready to spring. A knot of senators clos’d round, so thick I scarce could keep Caesar in view. Boldly I stepp’d forth among them, hoping their throng would cloak my presence. I came near enough to hear their flatteries and their oaths. Then sudden—one drew a dagger, crying, “Hands, speak for me!”

Juno herself whisper’d in my ear: Strike now! I flew at him, my blade swift and true. It pierc’d him as if through soft wax; his blood gush’d forth upon his toga’s white. Astonish’d, the others falter’d—but not my lord. Seeing Fortunatus arm’d, Caesar seiz’d his weapon and thrust him aside to safety. In a breath he was upon Brutus, whose steel was naked. With a single stroke, fierce and full, Caesar smote him down. The youth fell lifeless, while I held my dagger to Cassius’ throat.

Yet Caesar’s gaze was fix’d upon Brutus, dying in his blood. With tears he cried: “Et tu, Brute? How couldst thou—thou, my friend, my almost son?”

“My lord, tarry not!” I shouted. “Summon thy guard! Thou hast shewn respect to a Senate that deserveth none. It is tainted, betray’d, unworthy of thy loyalty!”

Caesar call’d, and the guard rush’d in. “Seize Cassius, bind him fast! Hunt Metellus, Trebonius, and the rest—let none escape!”

Swift they went, and we remain’d amid the corpses of once-trusted men. Fortunatus knelt, crying with relief: “My lord, thou art safe!” Caesar rais’d him, embrac’d him, then turn’d to me. I flew into his arms. At that instant came Antony: “Julius—what is here?”

Long was Caesar silent. At last he spake: “My faithful wife and loyal slave have sav’d me from the knives of traitors I nam’d as friends. Now see I my folly—that I dream’d they would crown me king. Blindness, too, that I believ’d not the words of her who hath ever held my fate within her heart—my wife, my love, Calpurnia.”

And so was my lord preserv’d, yet within me swell’d no triumph but a solemn awe. For though my hand had turn’d the dagger from his breast, I knew the skein of Fate is never cut so lightly. The gods had granted us this day, but what morrow they prepare none may tell. Yet if doom must come, let it not find me silent, nor idle, but ever watchful at his side. For I am Calpurnia, wife to Caesar, and his destiny is mine.