For Mark Antony, bathing wasn't indulgence. It was recalibration for a general's duties. An essential prelude to his power.

Envisage him at day's end, bathing in his private chambers.

Follow him through the sequence: tepidarium first, warm and humid, designed to ease muscles that carried the weight of empire. Then the caldarium, thick with steam that exorcised tension like bad spirits sweated out through skin.

Next comes oil — not delicate dabbing, but generous pouring. Olive oil massaged by hands that understand exactly how much pressure a general's shoulders can bear. Galen praised such treatments for keeping bodies "supple" and blood flowing "like wine at banquet." The oil lifts grime, yes, but also the particular exhaustion that comes from making life-and-death decisions before breakfast.

Then the strigil — curved bronze scraping away oil and sins in smooth strokes, removing the day's accumulated weight before night's pleasures begin.

The frigidarium follows: plunge so cold it shocks blood awake, clears eyes clouded by politics and wine. The kind of cold that makes gods take notice and mortals remember they're still alive.

Finally — scent. No self-respecting Roman left unanointed. Pine, cypress, myrrh mixed with oils chosen not just for health, but for impact. As Pliny noted, "for the sake of skin, and pleasure of those nearby."

Antony, with his Greek sympathies and Dionysian theatrics, likely favoured frankincense and cedarwood — rich, resinous, impossible to ignore. Scents that announced his presence before he entered rooms, that lingered in marble corridors long after he'd passed through.

Heat, cold, oil, and touch — a ritual to ready the body for war, for politics… or for Cleopatra.