ANTONY Eros,
Wouldst thou be windowed in great Rome and see
Thy master thus with pleached arms, bending down
His corrigible neck, his face subdued
To penetrative shame, whilst the wheeled seat
Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded
His baseness that ensued?
EROS I would not see’t.
ANTONY Come then; for with a wound I must be cured.
Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn
Most useful for thy country. (4.15.71-80)
Antony has to spell it out, what being taken alive by Caesar might mean: Eros, wouldst thou be windowed in great Rome, standing among the crowds along the streets, crammed into a window, looking down at the triumphal procession, to see thy master thus—he demonstrates, perhaps—with pleached arms, his arms bound tight around him, made less human, pleached as a tree, trained along a wall or into a particular shape and, because a tree, perhaps readied for pruning, being hewn, lopped, cut down. And bending down his corrigible neck, his head bowed in submission and humiliation, ready for correction—that correction including the executioner’s sword—and penetrative shame, a blade, but also a shame that cuts to the quick, to the very heart. Whilst the wheeled seat, the natty triumphal chariot of fortunate Caesar, on whom the fates have smiled, is drawn before him, forcing him, your master—me—to follow it, ensuing—as if branded with baseness, further shamed as if by the mark of a slave. Intolerable. Is that what you want to see, Eros, to be present at my total, final humiliation?
I would not see it, says Eros, with his characteristic low-key simplicity. No, you’re right; I don’t want to see that. I don’t want to see you like that. Come then, says Antony; there’s only one way out. With a wound I must be cured. That’s the only thing that will prevent such a grievous harm being done to me. So draw that thy honest sword—he gestures to it—which thou hast worn most useful for thy country. You’ve been so loyal and so brave, lad—now’s the time to be loyal and brave once again.