MESSENGER Free, madam? No, I made no such report.
He’s bound unto Octavia.
CLEOPATRA For what good turn?
MESSENGER For the best turn i’th’ bed.
CLEOPATRA I am pale, Charmian.
MESSENGER Madam, he’s married to Octavia.
CLEOPATRA The most infectious pestilence upon thee!
[She] strikes him down
MESSENGER Good madam, patience!
CLEOPATRA What say you?
[She] strikes him
Hence, horrible villain, or I’ll spurn thine eyes
Like balls before me. I’ll unhair thy head,
She hales him up and down
Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine,
Smarting in ling’ring pickle. (2.5.57-66)
Either the messenger just gives up—it’s got to come out eventually—or else he thinks he can string it out just a little longer. It’s risky, correcting Cleopatra: Free, madam? No, I made no such report. I didn’t say that Antony was, strictly speaking, free. He’s bound unto Octavia. So, he’s finally named her, but the context here still isn’t quite clear: what does bound mean in these circumstances? Cleopatra’s confused (or being willfully obtuse, or hoping against hope) initially interpreting bound in terms of debt or obligation: why, for what good turn is he bound to her? what kind of favour has he done her, what kind of obligation is he under? Again, plenty of choices for the messenger, perhaps just throwing caution to the winds, it’s still going to come out anyway, or perhaps, well, duh, he’s bound for the best turn in the bed. He picks up turn—one good turn deserves another, in Cleopatra’s interpretation—and gives it its sexual sense. The news is finally out, then.
Cleopatra seems genuinely shocked, and upset: I am pale, Charmian. But the messenger just has to plough on, he’s let the cat out of the bag now, best to get it over with, how bad can it be? In any case, it’s not as if Antony is merely having a dalliance with Octavia, it’s not just a fling—perhaps that’ll make it better? Madam, he’s married to Octavia. There it is, whole truth out, no ambiguity. Antony’s married. And Cleopatra unleashes a storm. The most infectious pestilence upon thee! Curse you! Take that! And Cleopatra strikes him down, boof, the messenger’s on the ground, and (presumably) she’s laying into him. Good madam, patience! Don’t shoot the… But she’s having none of it. What say you? I’m sorry, did someone say something? do you have something to say for yourself? And she renews the attack, making terrible threats, hence, horrible villain, get out of my sight, or I’ll spurn thine eyes like balls before me. I’ll have your eyeballs out of your head and I’ll kick them across the room! Or else I’ll unhair thy head—and it seems that she grabs the unfortunate messenger by the head and drags him along, hales him up and down. And she imagines an even more grotesque and spectacular punishment: thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, smarting in lingering pickle. Wire would lacerate the skin even more than a leather whip, leaving wounds which would sting painfully in salt water, so that this blameless herald of bad tidings would be left smarting in lingering pickle. Pickle helps to make it ridiculous though, the sound of the word: these horrifically violent threats are just that, empty—probably; a touch of bathos at any rate. Although the messenger is certainly having a bad time of it, being beaten up comprehensively by the furious, disbelieving—and terrified—Cleopatra.