ENOBARBUS  [to Antony]     Ha, my brave Emperor,

Shall we dance now the Egyptian bacchanals,

And celebrate our drink?

POMPEY                     Let’s ha’t, good soldier.

ANTONY         Come, let’s all take hands

Till that the conquering wine hath steeped our sense

In soft and delicate Lethe.

ENOBARBUS              All take hands.

Make battery to our ears with the loud music.

The while I’ll place you, then the boy shall sing.

The holding every man shall beat as loud

As his strong sides can volley.

Music plays. Enobarbus places them hand in hand   (2.7.95-105)

Nobody’s listening to Caesar, and nobody cares that he’s having a rotten time; meanwhile, Pompey wanted Alexandrian revels, and that’s what he’s going to get, courtesy of Enobarbus and Antony. Everyone’s drunk enough that it doesn’t seem to matter that—provocatively, deliberately—Enobarbus addresses Antony as his brave Emperor, and also, it’s his suggestion that counts, that they dance now the Egyptian bacchanals, the dances associated with the veneration of Bacchus, god of wine, so celebrating our drink, giving the general drunkenness a veneer of religious ceremony, as if consecrating it to the appropriate god. Pompey wants to be at the centre of things, emphatically aligning himself with Antony, so that his loyalty and honour can’t be questioned—let’s ha’t, good soldier, although he may also be genuinely excited at the prospect of something so exotic and debauched as an Egyptian bacchanal. It’s Antony’s show, though, and he gives the instructions with grace and elegance, perhaps with a mocking note (he too is very drunk, he’s just more used to it): come, let’s all take hands till that the conquering wine hath steeped our sense in delicate Lethe. This is the point in the rugby club social where the homosocial can tip into the homoerotic, as braying, macho officers and squaddies—shirts off, inhibitions lowered—dance together, hand in hand, dance until they’re finally overcome by drink, the conquering wine, so that they fall, insensible, their senses drowned in delicate Lethe, the waters of forgetfulness. No one will remember this in the morning, and so anything goes. Enobarbus translates for the lower ranks: all take hands. Then make battery to our ears with the loud music, really crank up the volume, so that the beat goes right through us, floor and walls vibrate. The while I’ll place you; I’ll get you into position while the music plays (it seems as if there’s a cataclysmically loud introduction first) then the boy shall sing. (There might be claps and whistles at this prospect.) The holding every man shall beat as loud as his strong sides can volley. There’s going to be a refrain to this song, the holding, and everyone has to join in that, beating it out—stamping feet, clapping, drumming, pounding chests, even—as loudly as he can, so that his very body becomes an instrument, reverberating with the noise. Noise, bodies, closeness, rhythm, action: Enobarbus is orchestrating a drunken celebration of military men, allowing some, at least, of the energies that would otherwise have been spent in battle to be released. This is Antony in one of his elements, loving the energy, the physicality, the intimacy of shared rhythm. It can have a sexy, dangerous edge—which is another reason why Octavius Caesar is so uncomfortable.