CLEOPATRA See, Caesar! O, behold
How pomp is followed! Mine will now be yours,
And should we shift estates, yours would be mine.
The ingratitude of this Seleucus does
Even make me wild.—O slave, of no more trust
Than love that’s hired! What, go’st thou back? Thou shalt
Go back, I warrant thee; but I’ll catch thine eyes
Though they had wings. Slave, soulless villain, dog!
O rarely base! (5.2.146-154)
A thoroughly convincing loss of temper from Cleopatra—and an opportunity, after all, for her to let rip at someone, anyone, release some of the tension and the anger and the fear that she can’t direct at Caesar. Moreover, it’s an opportunity to align herself with Caesar: see, Caesar! Will you look at this!? O, behold how pomp is followed! How are the mighty fallen! Look at how readily followers will switch their allegiance! Mine will now be yours—my treasurer, no less—and should we shift estates, if the tables were turned, our positions reversed, all your followers would come over to me just as readily. Yours would be mine. (She can’t resist a moralising dig—o fortune, o the contingencies of power—but of course Caesar likes moralising himself. Clever.) The ingratitude of this Seleucus does even make me wild—interesting that it’s ingratitude that she chooses, rather than disloyalty or treachery—but of course she’s implying that she herself is grateful to Caesar, that ingratitude is therefore the worst possible crime, throwing generosity or mercy back in the face of the one who offers it. Clever, again.
Then she turns on Seleucus (and one wonders how fully he’s been briefed? Or is this the sort of thing that Cleopatra’s servants have come to expect anyway?) O slave, of no more trust than love that’s hired! You’re no better than a whore! Your service is as easily bought, your protestations of loyalty as cheap and meaningless! What, go’st thou back? (As Seleucus cringes, or makes to retreat back into his office; comic potential in his stumbling, his making towards an exit trying to retain some dignity.) Oh yes, thou shalt go back, I warrant thee—yes, get out of my sight! But I’ll catch thine eyes though they had wings—I’ll still scratch your eyes out as you go, you won’t be able to move fast enough to avoid me! (Someone—Iras, Charmian; a soldier; Caesar himself?—moves to restrain her, perhaps.) Slave, soulless villain, dog! That’s the sort of insults that she resorts to when she can’t move, a parting shot. O rarely base! Scum! Lowest of the low!
Somewhere for the adrenaline to go, finally, and all the frustration and fear—and Cleopatra regroups—ready for her next move.