CLEOPATRA              I’ll give thee, friend,

An armour all of gold. It was a king’s.

ANTONY         He has deserved it, were it carbuncled

Like holy Phoebus’ car. Give me thy hand.

Through Alexandria make a jolly march.

Bear our hacked targets like the men that own them.

Had our great palace the capacity

To camp this host, we all would sup together

And drink carouses to the next day’s fate,

Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters,

With brazen din blast you the city’s ear;

Make mingle with our rattling taborins,

That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together,

Applauding our approach.

Exeunt                         (4.9.26-39)

 

Cleopatra turns her beam on Scarus—I’ll give thee, friend, an armour all of gold—and with friend he must be putty in her hands, that word drawing him, for a moment, into the intimacy of her orbit. Never mind the golden armour, that used to be a king’s; Cleopatra called him friend! It pleases Antony, though; Cleopatra’s doing the right thing by his men: he has deserved it, were it carbuncled like holy Phoebus’ car. If that golden armour were as encrusted with jewels as the chariot of the sun god himself, Scarus would still be a worthy recipient of it. (This scene hums with language of the sun, daylight, gold; in retrospect, this is ominous.) Give me thy hand: it’s Cleopatra he wants to walk with, though—and there could be a laugh, if Scarus is still clutching her hand, in wonder. Through Alexandria make a jolly march! Enter the city in triumph; make a joyful noise! (There’s a biblical quality to some of the language here, perhaps ominous again, both in its hubris and, in old testament terms, its associations: Saul, David.) Bear our hacked targets like the men that own them: the targets, the shields, are hacked and battered by the battle, as are the men that bear them—but those men are proud of their wounds, the visible marks of their valour.

 

Then Antony’s characteristic expansiveness, at which Cleopatra might be permitted a quick smile of relief, or a glance at one of her women, if they’re there (after all, unexpected post-battle guests are where it all starts to go wrong for the Macbeths, give or take the witches): had our great palace the capacity to camp this host, we all would sup together and drink carouses to the next day’s fate, which promises royal peril. If only our house were big enough for you all to come and stay, we could all party together, all night, drinking deeply, making toasts (ever more extravagant) to tomorrow, which surely will be make or break, the most crucial moment of our campaign and our lives. (This is the last hurrah.) But alas no. House not big enough. So: trumpeters, with brazen din blast you the city’s ear! Play for your lives, in triumph and exaltation! Loud as you can! Make mingle with our rattling taborins; drums, loud as you can too, that heaven and earth may strike their sounds together, applauding our approach. However many soldiers this scene can muster (and in a modern production, it won’t be nearly as many as the Victorians), there can still be tremendous aural spectacle in the soundscape, pushing all the buttons of military power and display, drums and trumpets, shouts and marching feet. Antony the victorious general again, his Cleopatra at his side, as together they enter Alexandria in triumph.