MACBETH Both of you
Know Banquo was your enemy.
MURDERERS True, my lord.
MACBETH So is he mine, and in such bloody distance
That every minute of his being thrusts
Against my near’st of life; and, though I could
With bare-faced power sweep him from my sight
And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not,
For certain friends that are both his and mine,
Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall,
Who I myself struck down. (3.1.115-124)
It doesn’t really matter if the Murderers know Banquo was their enemy or not, whether they believe this story that Macbeth has cooked up, whether he’s managed to convince them. They’re in, they’ve made their minds up, perhaps more on the basis of need, spurred by his calculated taunts, than on the basis of actually agreeing with his reasoning. If Macbeth says that Banquo was their enemy then, for the purposes of this business, he was. True, my lord. So Macbeth can push forward: he’s my enemy too, even more than yours, in such bloody distance that every minute of his being thrusts against my near’st of life. Careful, almost out of control there, sounding a bit obsessed, one of those long, tumbling sentences that are a sign of Macbeth spiralling, losing it just a bit. He’s my enemy to such a degree, in such bloody distance (blood, again) that every minute of his being, every moment that he lives—it’s like a slap in the face, it thrusts against the things that matter most to me, strikes at the very core of my being. It’s churning me up, a kick in the guts. (Yes, obsessed. Banquo’s got to me, I admit it.) I’m King, after all; I could with bare-faced power sweep him from my sight, I could simply go after him openly, because that’s my prerogative, who’s going to stop me destroying him? I could just bid my will avouch it, say that it’s what I wanted, my orders; that it was done at my pleasure and my command. But, you know (you clearly don’t know, you pathetic little men): politics. We’ve still got friends in common, me and Banquo, whose loves I may not drop. I can’t afford to alienate them by being seen to take him down. I need their support (I need their friendship, implicitly). I’ve got to be seen to mourn his death, wail his fall, even if I’ve ordered it, even if I myself struck down my friend, my closest comrade. Which is what I’m doing now.
