Marcia. Eclectus!
Commodus. No, swear to me by your eyes....
Marcia. Cleander is a traitor. He has brought
A host together, he has armed your people
To strike you dead unless you quell this strife:
He fraudulently bore the public grain
To private granaries, till famine raged,
And still it rages on. Although I tremble
To move you with the sorrow worst to man
Of finding falsehood in the services
That fashioned every day, I, who must die
So soon beside you, yet proclaim with Rome
Cleander is a traitor. [She gazes into his eyes.
Commodus. So you doom him,
So! Woman, how I hate you. From his youth
When every office nearest to myself
Was his, and he familiar with my pleasures,
My needs, my health, my privacy, my sleep,
Even then he was a traitor? All must end
If such a hollow, such inanity
Gape round me as existence. [Re-enter Cleander.
... Let him die!
Cleander. ... The cup!
Commodus. He promised me
To bring it. It is brought. A poison-bowl!
Drink, drink, Cleander; pledge me!
[Cleander drops the cup and crouches at his feet.
Cleander. I am lost,
Crushed by your sudden anger. Could I drink?
’Twas an oblation. Are you not a god,
And through my service? Dare you cast me off?
Dare you discard such deep fidelity?
Gods do not so desert.
Eclectus. You are condemned. The crowd impatient.
Cleander. Master, by our youth,
By all my fond devotion.... If I erred,
It was for you. I twisted circumstance
For you, I stole, I lied....
Marcia [calling]. Laetus!