Alarum afar off, as at a sea fight. Enter Antony and Scarus

ANTONY         Yet they are not joined. Where yon pine does stand

I shall discover all. I’ll bring thee word

Straight how ’tis like to go.

Exit

SCARUS                      Swallows have built

In Cleopatra’s sails their nests. The augurers

Say they know not, they cannot tell, look grimly,

And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony

Is valiant, and dejected, and by starts

His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear

Of what he has and has not.                        (4.13.1-9)

Another rapid cut; Antony and Scarus are now up the hill above the city, looking out to sea—and the noises off suggest that a sea battle is about to begin, drums and trumpets, and perhaps the sound of a drum beating for the rowers. But when Antony starts to speak, there’s a clarification: yet they are not joined. The fleets haven’t yet met, the battle isn’t properly underway. What’s stopping them, what’s the delay? is the implication of Antony’s observation. He’s spooked, a bit, and so he goes further up the hill, or at least to a better vantage point, where yon pine does stand, to see what’s going on. I shall discover all, he promises, and bring thee word straight how ’tis like to go. I’ll be right back with an update, to let you know how things are looking. Antony’s jumpy, anxious; things aren’t happening in the way that he imagined. Scarus is left to give a sobering update; it seems that he knows more than Antony does. Swallows have built in Cleopatra’s sails their nests. Birds nesting in the rigging of Cleopatra’s ships?—not a good sign, say the augurers, the soothsayers (a flashback to the soothsayer in one of the first scenes, with his prognostications—so lightly mocked by Charmian and Iras—of death, not love). Or rather the augurers DON’T say anything—it’s clear that they don’t think it’s a good sign, but they’re unwilling to say, they’re anxious too, don’t want to bring bad news (yet again, this is a play in which the messengers get shot)—and so they say they know not, they cannot tell, they look grimly, and dare not speak their knowledge. It’s completely clear from their faces that they think this is a terrible omen—but they’re too frightened to deliver it, especially to tell Antony. And Antony himself? He is valiant and dejected, up and down; one minute he’s full of valour and defiance, next melancholy and despair. By starts his fretted fortunes give him hope and fear of what he has and has not. He’s all over the place, doesn’t know what to think any more; because he’s had such a chequered career recently, and also because he feels like his luck is wearing thin or running out; he’s anxious and apprehensive, and whereas once that would be a spur to action, the impetus to prove himself and the doubters wrong—not any longer. It’s a neat, dispassionate, evocative portrait of a man whose time is up, who is on the way down, a leader who has lost his touch and his nerve.