Scene Four

Deep woodland. Pools of darkness, shafts of sunlight.

Conlag is killing a dog, pulling its back legs over its back, rolling, trying to keep the dog from biting him.

Conlag Leader! Leader are you! Leader of the pack are you! ’Ere. (Winning.) ’Ere, ’ere. (Laying over the twitching dog.)

There. There.

He stands, holding the dog by its back legs. He screams at the surrounding forest, turning.

All right dogs! Here’s your leader! Fucker of your wives! Eat him now! I’ll get out your way now! Up a tree, over a stream!

Eh? Take – (Whirling around, swinging the dog with two hands.) him!

He throws the dead dog. It falls on the ground. He runs a few paces then trips and falls.

Oh I’ve hurt my foot, oh!

He lies still. A silence. He looks behind him.

No dogs?

He jerks himself into a crouch.

I just killed the lead dog of a pack and they’re not chewing my balls? Pack of fucking British hunting dogs?

What else they gone off for? What’s rawer than me? Juicier? (He giggles.) Something that’s died! And I am still alive. I. Am. Oh my foot.

He sits back from his crouch and looks at his foot.

If your feet go in times like these, you may as well bury yourself. Right there. Up to the waist. Some warrior band or another will be along to cut you to pieces.

(He stands.) It’s all right! (He falls.) It’s not all right. (He shouts.) It’s got to be all right!

(He stands. Low:) Oh fuck.

He walks a few yards with difficulty.

The Slave, startled in a hiding place, stands up. They stare at each other. A silence.

I threw a dead dog away, somewhere round here. Something to eat, in the days ahead. Eh?

A silence.

Burn the farms, did they? Run off, did you?

He laughs. She steps back.

I’m not after your hole. I’ve been in and out of it all. That’s nothing to me. Help me to walk. (She stays still.)

I’m a murderer. (She stays still.)

I’ve got a bad foot. (She stays still.)

Me and Daui. We were going to the sea. Get a boat. Now he’s dead. So you come with me.

She stays still.

There is a land. The stories say it’s there so it’s got to be. Over the sea. The forests are thick. The deer are free. The pigs are there for the taking. Put your hand in a river there, the fish come to kiss your fingers. And no Gods, no creepy crawlies, no souls of dead heroes bashing around in the undergrowth, giving you the shits. And no people! No people! It is there! The stories say so!

Off we go then.

They are both suddenly startled. They stare in the same direction.

Something –

She gestures ‘Be quiet.’ A silence. They hear it again.

Your owners, running. Or Romans running after them.

He laughs. The Slave slaps his face. He stares at her. She pulls him down into hiding.