When Adona speaks, the silks of her veils flutter.

Adona Don’t bump me!

First Cook My back’s gone!

Steward Watch the crops! I won’t have crops kicked about! Even in this godforsaken –

First Cook But it’s my back, it’s gone.

Second Cook His back’s gone.

First Cook Oh!

The First Cook falls to his knees. The stretcher lurches.

Adona What are you doing!

Steward Put her down.

Adona Don’t you care? Don’t you have any respect?

First cook Sorry.

Steward Gently!

The Steward helps them put the stretcher down.

Shit.

The three men squat, exhausted. They look at the sheaves then at each other. They each stand and rush to a sheaf. They rub ears of wheat between their hands blowing the chaff away. They eat desperately, throughout the scene.

Second Cook First field for miles, not harvested or burnt. We could bake bread! Stone bread – last us for days –

Adona Steward! Up again!

Steward My Lady –

Adona Where I am – the household is! the house may be burnt! But the household is here!

The man who fell down! Whip him!

First Cook I’m just a cook Madam, who worked in your kitchens!

Adona Whip him. Where I can see.

Steward (to himself) Shit.

Second Cook That’s right Ma’am. We know about feeding you, not carrying you about.

Steward We have to rest my lady, if we’re going to stay alive.

Adona You’re going to abandon me.

The Steward shouts.

Steward No!

Adona You’ll all be punished. Do you hear? When things are put to rights. When the Legions come from Rome.

Second Cook She goes on and on about Romans coming to save her.

I don’t believe there ever were Romans.

Or the children’s story is right. The Romans were giant, stone snails. The roads are the slime they left behind.

First Cook I’ve seen the recipes of Ancient Rome. They were real enough. Bastards with bellies lined with iron.

The First Cook winces and holds his back.

Second Cook Your back bad?

First Cook Nothing wrong with it. I’m going to talk to this bastard.

The First Cook winks. The Second Cook touches his nose. The Second Cook begins to wander away, eating ears of wheat. The Steward is hunched.

(To the Steward:) A powerful lady, our Mistress.

Steward Indeed.

First Cook Three days lugging her about. What she got under there.

Second Cook Must be wine. She’s pissed.

Steward Huh.

Second Cook Smells like she’s shat herself.

Steward That’s enough.

A silence.

The Second Cook moves further away.

First Cook I say run. Leave the old bag.

Steward I didn’t hear that.

The Steward grabs the First Cook by the throat.

First Cook I just want to get on with my trade.

Steward Cooking?

The Steward scoffs and pushes him away.

First Cook My family goes back a long way. To the kitchens of the Emperors of Rome.

There’s a story in my family. One of us, a long time ago, served up an ox to an Emperor. Whole. ‘What?’ cried the Emperor. ‘Cook an ox with the entrails and all the shit entire?’ And my ancestor is dragged in on his knees. He begs a sword. But not for his throat. He slashes the ox’s basted belly – and out tumble, why chicken hearts, stewed larks, the tasty livers of little lambs. The kidneys of the ox drained of the blood and folded in the delicate flesh of marinated, white fish. All of it bound with butter, garlic, parsley and dry white wine.