ALEXAS                       ‘Good friend,’ quoth he,

‘Say the firm Roman to great Egypt sends

This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,

To mend the petty present, I will piece

Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the East,

Say thou, shall call her mistress.’ So he nodded,

And soberly did mount an argent steed,

Who neighed so high that what I would have spoke

Was beastly dumbed by him.          (1.5.41-9)

Alexas isn’t above asserting his own status here as an intimate of Antony as well as Cleopatra, recalling (or suggesting) that Antony addressed him as good friend. Antony’s words are exemplary, witty, conceited, flattering, perfectly judged. He knows Cleopatra so well. And so he reminds her that he is the firm Roman, firm as constant, steadfast, but also an implication of solidity, groundedness, manly rigour and vigour—a contrast both to the fluidity and lightness of Egypt and also to how, later in the play, he will be described in terms of melting and dissolution. Now, however, he is firm, monumental—Roman. And Cleopatra is great Egypt, a stately powerful queen, to whom he, the Roman, pays tribute (and not the other way around). His present? The treasure of an oyster, the gift of the pearl—a touch of bathos, this trifling little fishy thing, but also sensuality, imagined taste and touch. It’s such a petty present, such a small gift, he continues, that he’ll have to make up for its meanness by piecing, repairing or decorating all her throne with kingdoms, as if he were patching it up or gilding with other gifts, this pearl being insufficient to do so on its own. He will bring other greater tributes, territories, new realms for her to rule, and lay them at her foot. All the East shall call her mistress, Antony concluded, according to Alexas. Alexas didn’t even get a chance to respond to this neat piece of courtesy, however, because—ever the man of action (and he knows this will please Cleopatra too)—Antony immediately soberly mounted his argent steed. This is the Oxford text, taking a straightforward approach to a Notorious Textual Crux in suggesting that Antony’s horse is argent, silver, perhaps meaning white as it does in heraldry, or perhaps a silvery grey. Other editors have suggested arm-gaunt, made lean by its service in many battles and campaigns. The Folio text has arm-girt, presumably girded about with arms, ready for battle. Argent has a sleek, lone-ranger, good-guy quality, the hero on the white horse, but whatever the choice, this is a war horse, and Antony’s in his other element, off to do battle, no time to wait. The horse, too, is impatient to go, knowing its business is elsewhere; it neighs so high, so loudly that Alexas’s own words are drowned out, and he is rendered dumb as if he, not the horse, were the beast. Alexas is clever here, aiming to please Cleopatra not just in his own wit but because Antony’s words are the only ones that matter, and his own, however eloquent, simply don’t count; they don’t need to be heard, and even Antony’s horse is more important. (Would an early modern audience more readily take into account messenger conventions, know that Alexas has travelled for miles and days and days since seeing Antony, giving him plenty of time to prepare and hone his anecdote for his Alexandrian audience? Perhaps.)