CLEOPATRA   Is this certain?

MESSENGER  Or I have no observance.

CHARMIAN                 Three in Egypt

Cannot make better note.

CLEOPATRA   He’s very knowing,

I do perceive’t. There’s nothing in her yet.

The fellow has good judgement.

CHARMIAN                             Excellent.

CLEOPATRA   [to Messenger] Guess at her years, I prithee.

MESSENGER  Madam,

She was a widow—

CLEOPATRA               Widow? Charmian, hark.

MESSENGER  And I do think she’s thirty.  (3.3.21-28)

And this is all accurate? asks Cleopatra? Is this certain? Can I rely on your reports? Or I have no observance, replies the messenger, defensively or assertively; look, I’ve seen her, this is first-hand, eye-witness reporting and testimony. (This is particularly appealing to a legally-minded audience, in its careful, albeit comic establishment of the reliability of testimony.) He might be relaxing slightly into his role as a trusted source, confident in what he’s got to say; surely there’s nothing that could be quibbled with here? Charmian wants to reassure Cleopatra too: we’ve got to trust him, he was there, and he’s the best source we’ve got, that’s why you sent him: three in Egypt cannot make better note. (Also—Charmian’s often got a slightly cynical subtext—there’s no alternative, none of us three have seen her, he has, all we can do is take his word for it. He’s been to Rome; we’re in Egypt.) And Cleopatra does seem satisfied: he’s very knowing, I do perceive’t. I trust this guy, he’s an expert, a reliable witness, in my own expert judgement of his character. Excellent, says Charmian, a reassuring smile to Iras, hoping that an explosion might be being averted, that Cleopatra is going to remain reasonably sanguine about this latest turn of events, Antony’s marriage to Octavia, that she won’t feel so threatened and cornered and despondent that she lashes out, for instance (or has the messenger beaten).

Cleopatra’s indeed starting to relax and feel more confident too, and so she can risk one of the more nuclear-option questions, at which Charmian and Iras immediately tense. Guess at her years, I prithee. How old is Octavia? The messenger can either plough on, oblivious in his new-found false sense of security, or he can frantically try to come at the ‘right’ answer, looking to Iras and Charmian for hints or clues. Madam, she was a widow. He perhaps plays for time, hoping that this suggests a particular maturity—and Cleopatra seizes on it, gleefully, just as he’s hoped: widow? Charmian, hark. Ha! But the messenger continues, either obliviously or desperately, pausing to invent a number that he thinks will soothe and satisfy, or else (if he’s very young) an age that suggests complete off-the-market over-the-hill undesirability. And I do think she’s thirty. Thirty! Total crone! In performance, Octavia is almost always younger than Cleopatra, and Cleopatra is older than thirty—and so Charmian and Iras (and maybe the messenger, depending on how it’s been played) wait for the explosion, wincing—although it’s more interesting, perhaps, if Cleopatra is properly taken aback by this, winded temporarily, more than just a brief ouch. Can age wither her? Has it? Is this a real blow?

And pretty much every woman in the audience thinks, yup, been there, or, so that’s what lies ahead, being casually written off, just like that.