Enter Agrippa at one door, Enobarbus at another

AGRIPPA         What, are the brothers parted?

ENOBARBUS  They have dispatched with Pompey; he is gone.

The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps

To part from Rome, Caesar is sad, and Lepidus

Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is troubled

With the green-sickness.

AGRIPPA                     ’Tis a noble Lepidus.

ENOBARBUS  A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar!

AGRIPPA         Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!

ENOBARBUS  Caesar? Why he’s the Jupiter of men!

AGRIPPA         What’s Antony—the god of Jupiter?           (3.2.1-10)

One of the effects of the previous little scene between Ventidius and Silius is that an audience might be thinking, ah, it’ll be back to Egypt and Cleopatra now. But no, this scene more or less picks up directly after the scene of bacchanalian revels on board ship. This is the aftermath and the consequences, as the leaders go their separate ways—as commented on, with not a little cynicism, by Enobarbus and Agrippa. Their entry from different doors is almost itself a satire on this sort of scene, where two characters who both know what’s going on have an artificial exchange of news for the benefit of bringing the audience up to speed. So, what, are the brothers parted? Have they gone yet? Brothers itself is ironic here, as Agrippa asks after Caesar, Antony, and Lepidus, whose words and actions towards each other have so often been anything but fraternal, and includes Pompey—so recently the enemy of all three—in that designation too. Yup, says Enobarbus, they have dispatched with Pompey, finished their business with him and sent him packing. And the other three are sealing, just finishing up, as it were sealing the letters and treaties they’ve written, final handshakes and earnest promises to stay in touch. Octavia weeps to part from Rome—ah, her, yes; she, now Antony’s wife, will be leaving with him, it seems, and Caesar is sad, because he’s got to say goodbye to his sister. (Notably, Enobarbus doesn’t say how Antony feels about it.) And Lepidus—there might be a smirk here, or a guffaw—since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says (so, Enobarbus and Menas are definitely still mates then) is troubled with the green-sickness. Lepidus is being mocked for being girlish and weak but it’s not just that he’s suffering from green-sickness, the kind of anaemia thought to afflict unmarried girls, it’s also simply that he’s green in the face, sick to his stomach still—he’s still got a hangover from the other night. (He could also be green with jealousy at the success of the others, their evident supremacy, and his knowledge that he’s made a fool of himself and is so very firmly the passenger in the triumvirate.)

It’s Lepidus, as ever, who becomes the butt of the joke. ’Tis a noble Lepidus, says Agrippa, solemnly, echoing Lepidus’s own ’tis a strange serpent in his unmatched discussion of the crocodile with Antony, as if the latter exchange has become a running joke—did you hear about Lepidus’s crocodile? A very fine one, agrees Enobarbus, but then he’s off on another flight, attributing Lepidus’s green-sickness more explicitly to his unrequited love for Antony and Caesar, as if he’s a teenage girl with a crush. O, how he loves Caesar! Agrippa gets it: nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony! (Particularly with the crocodile echo having been set up, is there also the suggestion that Lepidus has been paying extravagant compliments to the other two, being semi-quoted and mocked here, so attempting to get back in their good books and to become a power player once more? Perhaps.) But mostly Agrippa and Enobarbus are mocking (somewhat camply, or at least it can be played that way) the rival claims to supremacy of Antony and Caesar, in a kind of Roman fandom: Caesar? Why he’s the Jupiter of men! A god, I won’t hear a word to the contrary. So what’s Antony then, given that he’s even better? The god of Jupiter! Boys, boys…