CLEOPATRA               It is my birthday.

I had thought to’ve held it poor, but since my lord

Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.

ANTONY                                 We will yet do well.

CLEOPATRA   Call all his noble captains to my lord!

ANTONY         Do so. We’ll speak to them, and tonight I’ll force

The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen,

There’s sap in’t yet. The next time I do fight

I’ll make death love me, for I will contend

Even with his pestilent scythe.

Exeunt [all but Enobarbus]                            (3.13.186-195)

Wonderfully unexpected, oddly homely, Cleopatra can be wondering, even childlike in her production of this detail: it is my birthday! And everyone’s forgotten and I wasn’t going to say in the midst of all the military and political disaster, never mind our quarrel—but now, well. I had thought to’ve held it poor; there wasn’t going to be any kind of celebration, or not much, at least, quiet night in. But since my lord is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra. Selfish, self-centred, needy she may be, but sometimes Cleopatra’s emotional instincts are spot on. Because you’re yourself again, I can be me. The two of us; we make each other who we are. Co-dependence, yes, to a more cynical modern eye, but also deep understanding and security; interdependence. We will yet do well, responds Antony: we, the two of us, as well as everyone else; so long as we’re together, it’s going to be alright, and the confident alliteration reinforces it.

Cleopatra is the one who breaks the focus between them, reminds the reader at least that there are others in the scene who’ve been watching and listening for the best part of a hundred lines; she’s now confident in speaking for both of them, reiterating his order: call all his noble captains to my lord! But she’s rewriting, too, determinedly putting a more positive spin on it, for Antony spoke of summoning his sad captains, and now they are become noble; that’s Cleopatra’s note here, a reclamation of dignity, honour, aspiration. Gaudy glory. Do so, Antony repeats; we’ll speak to them, and it’s not clear whether we now is Antony alone, or Antony and Cleopatra. He does lower the tone a little: tonight I’ll force the wine peep through their scars, I’ll fill them so full of drink that they’ll forget their hurts. Come on, my queen, there’s sap in’t yet. That’s an invitation to Cleopatra alone, and partly a sexual one, surely, while the captains are gathered together, the party prepared. There’s life here still, and desire—and they’re a couple who have always made up their quarrels in bed. The next time I do fight I’ll make death love me, I’ll be so avid and passionate in my violence; I will contend even with his pestilent scythe. I’ll take him on, and kill more in battle than he manages to slaughter even through plague and pestilence. Bring it on: Antony the lover and Antony the fighter, inextricable. Off they go, Antony and Cleopatra in one direction, perhaps, and at speed, the others (Charmian, Iras, servants) in another, to put together a party. Enobarbus remains.