Enter Cleopatra and Enobarbus

CLEOPATRA   I will be even with thee, doubt it not.

ENOBARBUS  But why, why, why?

CLEOPATRA   Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars,

And sayst it is not fit.

ENOBARBUS  Well, is it, is it?

CLEOPATRA   Is’t not denounced against us? Why should not we

Be there in person?

ENOBARBUS  Well, I could reply

If we should serve with horse and mares together,

The horse were merely lost; the mares would bear

A soldier and his horse.        (3.7.1-9)

Not in Egypt, it will be come apparent, but, perhaps more strikingly, this is the first time that Octavia’s exit has been followed immediately by Cleopatra’s entrance (Octavia has followed Cleopatra earlier in the act)—so there’s a sense of jumping straight to where the action is, the action that has been the focus of such opprobrium in Rome in the previous scene. Cleopatra isn’t talking with Antony, however, but with Enobarbus, and they’re in the middle of a quarrel. I will be even with thee, doubt it not, she says; I’ll get back at you for this. But why, why, why? Enobarbus is frustrated; she’s not been listening to him, and not explaining herself. Well, thou hast forspoke my being in these wars, and sayst it is not fit. You’ve spoken against my presence here, in these wars; you’re trying to keep me out of it, trying to keep me away from Antony, saying that it’s not appropriate that I should be anywhere near the battle that’s imminent. Enobarbus, unsurprisingly, stands his ground (and he’s not being at all courteous in his address, noticeably): well, is it, is it? It’s not, appropriate that is, in fact it’s a terrible idea, for you to be anywhere near here—anywhere near Antony—when he’s about to lead his troops into battle. Cleopatra thinks she has a point, though: is’t not denounced against us? Isn’t it the case that war has been declared against me too? This is my war as much as Antony’s! Why should not we be there in person? This is a question of dignity and status, of being taken seriously, perhaps more than wanting to be with Antony. She can be magnificently haughty, here: no one tells me what to do, and no one makes war on my behalf, without me being there.

Enobarbus, as ever, is entirely unimpressed with this sort of thing, not mincing his words in his reply. He’s got no time for questions of who’s entitled to be where, and the laws of war, he’s a practical and experienced soldier—and, moreover, he knows Antony and he knows Cleopatra, and he knows the two of them as a couple. His argument is that she can’t be anywhere near Antony because she will simply distract him. It would be like having stallions and mares serving together in the cavalry: the horses, the stallions, would be completely, utterly, merely lost (merely, mare-ly—Enobarbus can’t resist the quibble). All that would end up happening is that the mares would bear a soldier and his horse, the former on their backs and the latter attempting to mount them. Disaster. It’s not a flattering portrait of Antony, suggesting that he’s got no self-control, that his desire (and his love) for Cleopatra would overcome even his best interests as a soldier and general—but it’s an observation born of Enobarbus’s long experience, even if he’s exaggerating and being extremely reductive in his pragmatism.