Then the matrons assembled in a body around Veturia, the mother of Coriolanus, and his wife, Volumnia:  whether that was the result of public counsel, or of women’s fear, I can not clearly ascertain.  Anyhow, they succeeded in inducing Veturia, a woman advanced in years, and Volumnia with her two sons by Marcius, to go into the camp of the enemy, and in prevailing upon women to defend the city by entreaties and tears, since men were unable to defend it by arms.  When they reached the camp, and it was announced to Coriolanus that a great crowd of women was approaching, he, as one who had been affected neither by the public majesty of the state, as represented by its ambassadors, nor by the sanctity of religion so strikingly spread before his eyes and understanding in the person of its priests, was at first much more obdurate against women’s tears.  Then one of his acquaintances, who had recognised Veturia, distinguished beyond all the rest by her sorrowful mien, standing in the midst with her daughter-in-law and grandchildren, said, “Unless my eyes deceive me, your mother, and wife and children, are at hand.”  Coriolanus, bewildered, almost like one who had lost his reason, rushed from his seat, and offered to embrace his mother as she met him; but she, turning from entreaties to wrath, said:  “Before I permit your embrace, let me know whether I have come to an enemy or to a son, whether I am in your camp a captive or a mother?  Has length of life and a hapless old age reserved me for this—­to behold you first an exile, then an enemy?  Have you had the heart to lay waste this land, which gave you birth and nurtured you?  Though you had come in an incensed and vengeful spirit, did not your resentment abate when you entered its borders?  When Rome came within view, did not the thought enter your mind—­within those walls are my house and household gods, my mother, wife, and children?  So then, had I not been a mother, Rome would not now be besieged:  had I not a son, I might have died free in a free country.  But I can now suffer nothing that will not bring more disgrace on you than misery on me; nor, most wretched as I am, shall I be so for long.  Look to these, whom, if you persist, either an untimely death or lengthened slavery awaits.”  Then his wife and children embraced him:  and the lamentation proceeding from the entire crowd of women and their bemoaning their own lot and their country’s, at length overcame the man.  Then, having embraced his family, he sent them away; he himself withdrew his camp from the city.  After he had drawn off his troops from Roman territory, they say that he died overwhelmed by the hatred excited against him on account of this act; different writers give different accounts of his death:  I find in Fabius,[48] far the most ancient authority, that he lived to an advanced age:  at any rate, this writer states, that in his old age he often made use of the expression, “that exile was far more miserable to the aged.”  The men of Rome were not grudging in the award of their due praise to the women, so truly did they live without disparaging the merit of others:  a temple was built, and dedicated to female Fortune, to serve also as a record of the event.