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The Slavegirl in the Tavern

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Some time ago Eulalia published a poem, with this title on DA.
Unsurprisingly, for those knowing me, I completely ignored the theological background, but really got captivated with the little slavegirl working there.
At this time I still tried to improve my skills with colours and, as you can see, rather failed.
But I still would like to present little Sami to Eulalia as a 'Thank You' for the poem.
 

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Thankyou so much, Zungur - that brings Sami to life beautifully, very much how I imagine her - scruffy but bright and perceptive, nipping around the shadowy tavern with its shady customers constantly demanding her service.

The poem is here on the Forums, I'll try to find it.
 
‘Sami, more wine!’
I scamper among the drinkers,
nimble, barefoot,
toting the heavy jugs,
balancing bowls –

‘Shift yourself, sow’s turd,
customers waiting!’ –
Boss’s tawse
stings my bare thigh –
skip, Sami!

Already weary,
such a long night,
Passover –
drunks and dropouts,
all the dregs
of Jerusalem –

‘Sami, more wine!’

Ears and eyes sharp,
slave-mouth shut –
in this place,
and on my errands,
I learn a lot.

At the benches,
all the chat
tonight’s about him,
that strange Nazarene –
him who whipped up
the feathers in the Temple –
been arrested!

Dark in the doorway
a huge fellow,
awkward, unsteady –
already been drinking,
I guess –
but I know my duty.

When I get to the guy
he’s slumped on a bench,
head in his hands,
mumblling in his massive beard.

I curtsey cutely,
‘Sir, will you have
some bread and wine?’

He looks up, startled,
wide, weather-wise eyes,
a farmer, sailor, fisherman maybe?
Huge hands, no city type.
‘Er, what? No – yes – okay…’
His accent’s northern.

While I fill the cup,
he stares at me –
all the men do,
but he’s not clocking my tits,
my bum, my naked legs,
it’s like he’s peering through me…

Suppliantly kneel,
making my offering.
As he breaks the bread
I smile and ask,
politely, shyly,
‘Sir, are you from Galilee?’
‘NO!’

His anger shakes me,
‘Er, I’m sorry sir…’
I bow my head.

‘Sami, more wine!’

I scuttle away.

Two Roman soldiers stomp in,
nobody looks at them,
eyes fix on goblets, dice, the floor.
Boss looks obsequious, but sly.

‘Have you got any Galileans here?’
He shrugs, ‘Galilee, shmalilee,
they’re all my customers,
should I care where they come from?’

The Roman tuts, frustrated,
‘Well, if you spot
any of the gang
that were with that so-called prophet,
just call the Temple Guard,
don’t bother us with them –
your priests are pestering the Governor,
he's your problem, not ours!’

Boss nods, they turn to go,
but fire a parting shot,
‘Fucking religious maniacs,
you Jews are all either crooks or crazy,
I’d crucify the lot of you!’

Boss looks livid,
I try my charm,
knees-bend, eyes lowered,
‘Sirs, will you have a drink?
On the house, of course.’
‘No, we’ve got work to do –‘
but they scan me up and down,
while boss looks daggers –

‘You’ve got a bright brat here!’
‘Too bright for her own good,’
my master snarls. They laugh,
‘She needs a Roman whip –
we’ll bring you one
next time we drop in –
give her some army discipline –
eh, lass?’

By their grins they mean it.
Misery-guts should thank me
for attracting Roman custom,
but he won’t.

Samaritan slave-girl –
my parents must have chucked me,
didn’t need a girl.
But – my luck! – slavers found me,
raised me on the whip and watery gruel
till I was grown enough to sell.
Three jars of his cheapest
he traded for me.

So now I dance
between the drunks,
serve them,
and let them do with me
whatever he says they can –
once they’ve paid.

‘Sami, more wine!’

It’s deep night now,
but starry Jerusalem’s
noisy, running and shouting,
sounds of a crowd
close by,
chanting –

a name, something like Barbaras.

Quiet a moment,
now it’s a different word –
I recognise, and shudder -

‘Crucify!’

My legs shiver, cold,
dawn’s coming,
but this is the chilliest hour.
My slave-shift’s nothing,
might as well be naked,
like on a cross…

Cuck-cuck-cuck-croo!’
Next door’s old rooster’s restless –

‘Sami, more wine!’

The men still drinking
huddle round the fire,
I’m glad when they call,
a chance to get my bare thighs
near the coals.

The big man’s still there,
huddled on the bench –
they’re joshing him,
they’ve sussed he’s Galilean too,
but he goes on yelling ‘No!’,
swearing like Satan.

I fear a fight –
I’ll call the boss…
But wiser wits prevail,
‘Your brain’s turned
cock-a-doodle-do!
When you get crucified,
they’ll have to hang you upside down,
or you won’t know where you are!’
They laugh, and leave him.

Half-light, quiet,
but I hear –
no, first I smell –
the donkey’s-clop,
hauling the night-shit from the barracks.

Like every dawn,
it stops outside,
the driver comes in
stink fills the tavern,
but he buys
a cupful of the dregs.

Holding my breath,
I kneel and serve him,
low before the lowest of the low.

He mutters to the boss,
‘Up on the practice-yard
they’re scourging him –
you know what that means…’

He gulps the lees and leaves,
the donkey plods
on its triumphant way.

Only the big man’s left,
still crumpled, shaking –
he’s hardly touched his wine.
I cross to him, kneel,
‘Sir,’ I say,
‘Please drink your wine,
the inn must shut at sunrise.’

He lifts his head and stares
like I’m some ghost raised from the Pit,
the dawn-light shows a haggard, salt-tanned face –
suddenly I see, blurt out,
‘I know you , Sir!
You were with the one
who came in the name of the Lord,
on a donkey!’

Yahweh! He leaps to his feet,
whips from his cloak a cutlass –
blood on the blade –

Cuck-cuck, cuck-croooooooo!’

Poleaxed, he tumbles,
drops the sword,
howling, a heap in the dirt.

Shit-scared,
I run to the boss –
he’s counting his shekels,
‘What is it slut?
You can see I’m busy!’

‘Sir, that big man by the door,
he’s acting weird,
drew a sword on me,
like he would butcher me,
then threw it down
when the cock crowed!
Now he’s just blubbing
like a baby…’

‘Gehenna, that’s all I need!’
He finds the sobbing wreck,
kicks him, ‘Hey you,
get out!
I don’t want trouble, but
if you don’t shift your arse,
I’ll call the Temple Guards!’

The giant stumbles to his feet,
and lurches out,
rolling like a ship
on a stormy sea.
Boss locks the door.

‘Hey slave-slag, listen!
A crucifixion, that means customers,
but this place looks a pig-sty.
You’d better get it clean
as the Holy of Holies
by the third hour –
if I spot a crumb, a wine splash,
gob of spit you’ve missed,
you’ll lick it up,
and then I’ll flay you
like they’ve skinned
that mad messiah!’

He whaps his strap
across my bum,
then goes, with a jug of wine.

I sweep and scrub,
rinse all the goblets,
gather all the scraps
and leftovers
and eat them starvingly,
then tumble on my heap of rags
by the dying ashes.

What was it all about,
that mountain of a man,
breaking so?

A night to remember!
 
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