CAESAR I wrote to you
When, rioting in Alexandria, you
Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts
Did gibe my missive out of audience.
ANTONY Sir, he fell upon me ere admitted, then.
Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want
Of what I was i’th’ morning; but next day
I told him of myself, which was as much
As to have asked him pardon. Let this fellow
Be nothing of our strife. If we contend,
Out of our question wipe him. (2.2.71-81)
Caesar’s—sort of—being petty here, but also painting a pretty damning portrait of Antony in Egypt: I wrote to you and you didn’t write back! You were too busy partying in Alexandria, and you simply pocketed up my letters, took them without any response (there’s a nice mental image of Antony just shoving the letters somewhere without a second glance) and with taunts did gibe my missive out of audience. You mocked my messenger! You insulted him! You were mean and nasty and so he ran away because you laughed at him! (The harsh treatment of messengers is a recurrent motif in the play.) Sir—and this can be heavy with irony; are we really having this conversation?—he fell upon me ere admitted, then, says Antony. He confronted me without formal invitation or the proper protocol and process, I was taken by surprise, taken aback. Three kings I had newly feasted: I’d been out on the lash with the guys the night before (you know, those kings I hang around with all the time when I’m in Egypt—pulling rank, as an aside) and, well, it was all a bit morning after the night before, mouth like a—you know—and all I needed was a Berocca and a fry-up, no loud noises, bright lights or unexpected international diplomacy. I did want of what I was; I wasn’t myself. (Or it could be that the ill-fated messenger arrived mid-revel, when Antony wasn’t his usual sunny morning self.) Enobarbus can snigger or confirm; Caesar can look censorious and affronted, knowing that he’s being mocked for not being one of the boys, something that Antony’s ambivalent about, but well able to weaponise when it suits him. I made it up to him the next day, though, told him of myself, explained and apologised, asked his pardon. Let this fellow be nothing of our strife; for goodness sake, you don’t need to bring him into any quarrel that we might be having—that’s petty and pointless. (Messengers are the little people, by definition.) If we contend, out of our question wipe him; take ‘being rude to messengers and not taking them seriously’ off my charge-sheet, at least.