Spiced Lamb with Unleavened Bread

I walk down the hill, careful now of mud and that awful wrench
From old knees and uneven ground. I place each foot with care.
Each easy foot swing a battle won, each stab of pain a battle lost.
The setting sun shone from behind, casting my shadow across the ground.
My mind goes back to the windswept top.
The ancient twisted olive tree, bare of fruit and grey of leaf
And at the brow three stakes, each with huddled women at its feet.
Two less thieves to steal my stock and the one I came to see.

We come from Lydia, I a trader now here in Palestine.
The servants had spoken to my wife and then she to me.
They are afraid to talk to me. I am not sure why.
So words came third hand, or fourth or fifth from the Nazarene.
In my work, I have learnt when in a stranger's land
To avoid his women and his gods. But something struck
That did not fit, yet would not quite go from me.
And so I walked out on this last chance to see a Nazarene.

It had rained, I mean rained in Palestine, my feet were badly shod.
Not far or high, yet tiring at my age. I walked slow
And pressed my hands against each knee. I was not eager
For what I would find. I value Roman peace
But not their love of death. My son pesters me
To see the Games yet I feel unease. I do not like
Even the sacrifice of lamb and dove,
Yet know the gods too must feed.
My son now is of Rome. Gauls, Jews and Lydians
Soon all are gone and only Rome prevails.

When I reached the top I saw just the three.
Often ten, twenty. Once, when I was young,
I walked along their great road and all day,
At thirty paces a new tree. This time only three.
There were Roman guards, from Smyrna I would guess.
Bored and sullen as soldiers always seem.
Just a few to show their contempt but on the next hill
I saw a Roman camp. Another man stood back
And watched me closely then looked away.
His masters had no interest in foreigners.
This a local squabble for a local god.

And so I looked and saw a man, a man in pain.
No Greek hero or demigod, just a man
With a Jewish face. I saw a mole on his chest
And another on his cheek. I saw the dirt, the sweat.
I saw the shuddered rhythm of his breath. I listened
As he spoke softly with the thieves. I took trouble
Not to catch his eye. We owe respect to those
Who, though yet breathing, have now died.
Just a man and that same pain I have seen
On every Roman tree.

The news had come. Travelled fast.
The story told said it was the priests,
Their fear lest ten thousand Jews should rise
And lest fifty thousand would then die.
The priests had the harder choice,
Better a single man should die.
So I took this one last chance
To see the Nazarene

There was a chill wind, I did not stay.
He would not have known my being there.
My bones ached and my feet were sore.
I turned and picked my path
Down the stony way.

As the pathway eased, I relaxed my step.
My mind now turns to home and what awaits me there
My Lydian wife and my Roman son. My accounts,
Excuses for a task undone. And supper,
Spiced lamb with unleavened bread.