The morning of September 2nd was calm, and at an early hour Octavian’s workmanlike ships stationed themselves about three-quarters of a mile from the mouth of the Gulf of Ambracia, where they were watched by the eyes of both armies. They were formed into three divisions, the left wing being commanded by Agrippa, the centre by Lucius Arruntius, and the right wing by Octavian. At about noon Antony’s huge men-o’-war began to pass out from the harbour, under cover of the troops and engines of war stationed upon the two promontories. Octavian seems to have thought that it would be difficult to attack them in the straits, and therefore he retired out to sea, giving his enemies the opportunity of forming up for battle. This was speedily done, the fleet being divided, like Octavian’s, into three squadrons, C. Sossius moving against Octavian, Marcus Insteius opposing Arruntius, and Antony facing Agrippa. The sixty Egyptian ships, under Cleopatra’s command, were the last to leave the Gulf, and formed up behind the central division.
Antony appears to have arranged with Cleopatra that her ships should give him full assistance in the fight, and should sail for Egypt as soon as the victory was won. He intended, no doubt, to board her flagship at the close of the battle and to bid her farewell. They had separated that morning, it would seem from subsequent events, with anger and bitterness. Cleopatra, I imagine, had once more told him how distasteful was her coming departure to her, and had shown him how little she trusted him. She had bewailed the misery of her life and the bitterness of her disillusionment. She had accused him of wishing to abandon her cause, and she had, no doubt, called him coward and traitor. Very possibly in her anger she had told him that she was leaving him with delight, having found him wholly degenerate, and that she hoped never to see his face again. Her accusations, I fancy, had stung Antony to bitter retorts; and they had departed, each to their own flagship, with cruel words upon their lips and fury in their minds. Antony’s nature, however, always boyish, impulsive, and quickly repentant, could not bear with equanimity so painful a scene with the woman to whom he was really devoted, and as he passed out to battle he must have been consumed by the desire to ask her forgiveness. The thought, if I understand him aright, was awful to him that they should thus separate in anger; and being probably a little intoxicated, the contemplation of his coming loneliness reduced him almost to tears. He was perhaps a little cheered by the thought that when next he saw her the battle would probably be won, and he would appear to her in the _rôle_ of conqueror--a theatrical situation which made an appeal to his dramatic instincts; yet, in the meantime, I think he was as miserable as any young lover who had quarrelled with his sweetheart.