The syrup of poppies was beginning to take the edge off Antony’s hangover when Menestes showed Antonia Hybrida into her husband’s study.

She was a large woman, and every ounce of her seemed to be muscle; if anything she was even bigger than her husband. Like Antony, she had heavy-set features, small dark eyes, and thick auburn hair; and again like her cousin, her nose and chin tried very hard to meet across her small full-lipped mouth, one curving its beak downwards, the other upwards.* It was not a pleasant visage, especially on a woman.

They had been married for eight years, a union sought by Gaius Antonius Hybrida and acceded to by Antony solely on the grounds of the bride’s sizeable dowry. It had begun badly when Antonia had attempted to exercise her not inconsiderable temper on him; always one to resent intrusion into his behaviour, Antony had responded in kind, words and fists had flown on both sides, and things had gone swiftly downhill. ‘Little’ Antonia’s birth had done little to improve the situation, if anything it made it worse. Husband and wife rarely spoke, save through Menestes (whom Antonia resented), and Antony had ceased his infrequent visits to his wife’s bedchamber; in fact he had taken a great deal of pleasure in parading his many conquests (of all backgrounds) in front of Antonia, and making sure that their cries of ecstasy were heard throughout the house (that is to say, when he was sober enough to remember, or to induce cries of ecstasy).

Antonia Hybrida’s request for an audience had therefore come out of the blue, and to Antony it was just further evidence – if his headache of Vesuvian proportions wasn’t enough – that today was not going to be his day.

“The lady Antonia Hybrida, domine.” introduced Menestes, in a manner which was seemingly neutral but which could hide a multitude of dislikes.

Antonia picked up on it. “Out, you simpering queen, and don’t dare to take that tone with me again.”

“Or you’ll what?” queried Antony, his own voice still hoarse and scratchy but suffused with enough of a threat to give his wife pause. Antonia had inherited her father’s taste for inflicting pain; something Antony had quickly become aware of and something he had broken her of with a little pain inflicting of his own.

Antonia said nothing.

“You can leave us, Menestes. If you happen to hear me cry out don’t worry, it’s not what you think: she doesn’t have it in her to kill me just yet.”

Menestes nodded and closed the door behind him. As Antony was reclining upon the couch Antonia took what should have been his seat behind his desk; fortunately it was a large chair.

“What do you want? And keep it brief.” said Antony, not paying her the courtesy of looking at her when spoke.

There was a pause as Antonia weighed up exactly how to proceed. She decided to cut to the heart of the matter.

“Your creditors were here yesterday. Again. The Greek dealt with them. He fobbed them off. But they‘ll be back, and you have nothing to pay them with. ”

Antony’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he fixed his gaze upon her. “That is no concern of yours.”

Antonia snapped back, her fears forgotten as she expressed her frustration. “You make it my concern. All you do is get drunk and whore about with Poplicola, Pompeius Rufus and Varius Cotyla while the wolves are at the door. Am I supposed to do nothing while you fritter away what little money you have on your lusts?”

Her husband whistled, but his voice held no trace of amusement. “You are bold today, aren’t you? Too bold perhaps…”

His words hung in the air; but for no more that a couple of seconds, for Antonia was in full spate.

“You wasted your consulship, and you’re out of Caesar’s favour. You’re just like your fortune: spent. And if you think otherwise then all that wine has addled your wits, Antonius. The men you owe money to know now that you will never be in a position to repay them. They will take everything you have left.”

“Then with any luck, Antonia, they’ll take you too,” said Antony, his tongue dripping venom. “Though I doubt they’d get much for you. You never were any good at it, were you? Being married to you is a punishment, but sleeping with you is a fate worse than death!

“They say that you can’t tell the difference between a prostitute and a matrona in the dark, but you can certainly tell the difference between a woman and a rhinoceros, and, sadly, what with sharing your bed, I speak from experience.”

With that Antony got up from the couch and walked over to the window that looked out onto the peristyle garden, pausing only to pick up and apple from the fruitbowl on his desk. Taking a bite with his small sharp teeth he began to chew, acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Antonia remained sat in his chair. She had come this far, and she had felt worse than the lash of Antony’s tongue before. Much worse.

“You should talk to Caesar.” It came out sounding more like a demand than a request.

Antony continued to munch absentmindedly. When he came out of his reverie all he said was “Oh, are you still here?”

“If Caesar gives you a position it would show your creditors that you weren’t a lost cause, that you could still get them their money back.”

Antony, the apple devoured, through the core out of the window and rubbed his sticky fingers on his tunic. He leant down behind his wife’s shoulder, as if conspiratorially, and his voice was low.

“Get out, Antonia. Get out. The day I take advice from you is the day I cut off my balls and become one of Cleopatra’s eunuchs. Get out.”

Antonia got up and went slowly towards the door. There was an air of resignation in her huge form.

Antony ensconced himself in his chair. He could resist crowing, yet he found that his words didn’t seem to carry the conviction he tried to imbue them with.

“You forget, Antonia: one day I will be where Caesar is. One day I’ll be the First Man in Rome. I’ll have denarii pouring out of every orifice. And you? You’ll be a lonely and decrepit old woman, unremembered and unloved even by her own kin. Won’t that be nice?”

Antonia smiled as she made her way back to her rooms: she too had heard the doubt.

Annoyed with himself, Antony sought reassurance in oblivion.

“MENESTES!” he roared “Get me something to drink!”

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* I know that's a description from McCullough, but I just love it. Sorry.