Alarum. Enter Antony again in a march, with others [including soldiers, drummers and trumpeters, and Scarus]

ANTONY         We have beat him to his camp. Run one before,

And let the Queen know of our gests. Tomorrow,

Before the sun shall see’s, we’ll spill the blood

That has today escaped. I thank you all,

For doughty-handed are you, and have fought

Not as you served the cause, but as’t had been

Each man’s like mine. You have shown all Hectors.

Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends,

Tell them your feats whilst they with joyful tears

Wash the congealment from your wounds, and kiss

The honoured gashes whole.                       (4.9.1-11)

A jump cut: here’s Antony again, but with more soldiers, in a march—or sometimes, being carried on their shoulders in triumph. More trumpets, drums, shouting, because We have beat him—Caesar—to his camp. They’ve done it, the battle’s done, and won. Antony’s thoughts are now, immediately, for Cleopatra: she has to know, right away, so run one before, and let the Queen know of our gests. He doesn’t just want her to hear the news, he wants a bit of bragging to precede them: tell her of our feats at arms (he means his, it’s a royal we, and he’s thinking of himself as Cleopatra’s knight, with the courtly word gests). Tell her how amazingly I performed; tell her to prepare a royal welcome, and a lover’s. He’s still the general, though, as well as the lover, when he tells his soldiers that tomorrow, before the sun shall see’s, before it’s even light, we’ll spill the blood that has today escaped. He’s either saying that they’ll mop up the rest of the stragglers from Caesar’s army, the ones that haven’t made it back to camp or, perhaps more likely, they’ll execute certain of their prisoners, as would be expected. A clinical, pragmatic blood-letting; Antony’s a politician, as well as a general. He thinks as much of his loyal soldiers as of Cleopatra in this moment: I thank you all, for doughty-handed are you, you’re tough, lads, and brave with it, and you have fought not as you served the cause, but as’t had been each man’s like mine. You didn’t fight simply as enlisted men, doing a job, but rather as if you were fighting in your own cause, on your own behalf—fighting for yourselves as much as for me. You believed in it, and in me. You have shown all Hectors, warrior heroes the lot of you, honourable and fierce. (Hector, of course, came to a bad end, although still a byword for bravery and valour.) So, enter the city, clip your wives, your friends. Go and embrace your loved ones; friends here is friends but also families, and also lovers. Go and celebrate! Tell them your feats, your glorious deeds (you might embroider a bit, that’s OK) whilst they with joyful tears wash the congealment from your wounds, and kiss the honoured gashes whole. Antony imagines a scene of jubilation and intimacy, free emotion, where the women cry happy tears that washe away the blood from the soldier’s wounds, and kiss them better. It’s sensual, excessive (he’s imagining Cleopatra doing the same to him)—and also a little flash forward to Coriolanus…