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James K. Baxter Complete Prose Volume 1

[‘Centurion’]

Lord, at the third hour we hoisted
Them up on the crossed poles – the people’s prophet,
And the two robbers taken in the act
(Heavy to lift, great-armed and bushy-bearded:
I’ve seen the Carthaginians, that was, crucify
Two lions with snares taken, harriers of the fold.)

It was hot on the bald hill;
Though I’ve a good enough stomach I never liked
Butcher’s work drawn out – the quick sword
Rather, the thing done hand-to-hand hot blooded;
And afterwards with bandaged wounds to lie drinking
Black wine somewhere under the shade of a sycamore,

Watching the village women fill their jars
At a cold stream, tremulous, feasting our eyes.
We Greeks are easy-going . . . Forgive me,
Lord – What did you ask? The prophet?
He died soon (they flogged him well out of kindness,
Remembering your favour): he was dead by sundown.

How did he take it? Better than most: no word
Until the finish, and then in the people’s language
I never cared to learn – a prayer maybe
Or a nursery rhyme, they’ll say anything, strung there.
I thought he was talking to someone, but no one
Was there, only us and the temple hangers-on.

After he died, the earthquake that upset me.
I never liked this country – hard
Waterless rock, men like longfaced camels
And their hot fruity women; a man not knowing
Whether it’ll be next a knife in the back
Or poisoned dates, or something new like the earthquake.

And he played on my nerves, there sweating blood
And flyblown, with that broad Nubian forehead.
Not the torture: that’s the way we live.
But he had the look of one not made for it;
As if we were doing a job we had no right to.
Lord, excuse my babbling. It was the earthquake.