For centuries, a handful of powerful families have divided up this countryside amongst themselves. I recognise in those around me that blend of shrewdness, vitality and fatalism that the inhabitants of my city have developed over time to survive the oppression of domestic authorities and the violence of conquering powers. We are staging the performance in a space that lies between the city and the countryside. Within this same splendid landscape, vast patches of reed beds coexist with the ruins of villas dating back two thousand years, the remains of aqueducts built several centuries later at the behest of popes who all hailed from those very same families, and blocks of flats which, during the building boom, replaced the shacks, enriching new families of builders. Darkness is falling; we were supposed to be here three months ago, but we’ve only arrived now because a public notice effectively cancelled the performances at the start of the summer. We’ve arrived now and are sharing a Septemberal atmosphere that adds value to the work of those hosting us, who continue to create beauty in these interstices despite being – like all of us – subject to the violence of a new, victimising and rabid cultural power. In their case, it first condemned them and then granted a conditional pardon. Thus, with an arrogant absurdity that leaves the sword hanging over their heads. My voice, beneath those ancient arches, evoked a disarmed future, but now, when the image of that sword returns to my mind, it stirs thoughts of rebellion.