THE WEEKLY SCREED, 12 December 2007

The frisking of the Magi
by David Benjamin

JUDEA, ca. 0 A.D. — Three elegant but dusty figures, astride camels, approach a frontier outpost somewhere in Palestine. Several burly men, wearing the insignia of mighty Rome, halt the travelers. One soldier speaks.

“Mornin’, fellas. This is a security checkpoint. We’re with the Transportation Security Administration of Rome, Judea Branch, Bethlehem Barracks. I’m Captain Marcus Suspisius. And these are my trusty sidekicks, Gropus, Friscus and Delaieus.We’re gonna have to inspect your bags.”

“Oh no, that won’t necessary,” replies one of the travelers, whose silken raiment is a muted purple in hue. “We three kings of Orient are.”

“King, shming,” the lead centurion snarls. “Everybody gets inspected.”

Melchior, the spokesking, acquiesces. “Very well, but please. We’re in a hurry.”

“Aren’t we all?” says Suspisius. “So, you boys traveling for business or pleasure?”

“Oh, neither. We are westward leading, still proceeding — toward the perfect light, that we may fall prostrate at the feet of the Angel of Angels, Savior of Mankind, Lord of Hosts and newborn King of Israel.”

“King of Israel?” says Suspisius, nervously. “Not so loud, pal. The only king in these parts is Herod. And he’s not the type to welcome competition. If he thought there was a newborn king in this valley, he’d have us out impaling babies ‘til we couldn’t lift our sword arms.”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand. We seek to worship not an earthly King, but he who rules over all of Heaven and earth — a holy child born this day of a virgin mother.”

Suspisius sighs. “Guys, look around. This is Judea — the armpit of the Middle East. All we got here is sheep, shepherds, sheep, dirt, fleas, lice, sheep and a lot of Hebrew terrorists with daggers and ax handless, not to mention the sheep. Did you ever stop to think you might’ve gotten a bum steer? I mean, of all places, how’d you end up here?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” says Melchior. “Over field and fountain, moor and mountain, we are following yonder star.”

“Yonder star? Where?”

“Yonder.”

“Really? I never noticed. How ‘bout you, Friscus? Delaeius? You ever see yonder star?” The guards shake their heads.

“But that’s impossible,” says Melchior. “It’s brighter than day, with choirs of angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold, and sing that glorious song of old.”

“Well, we work the day shift,” says Suspisius. “And after we knock off, we tend to drink heavily. I’ve seen my share of snakes, pink elephants. But angels?”

“Well, never mind,” says Melchior. “We’re in a hurry. Remember?”

Suspisius makes a decision. “OK, listen, you guys are a little strange but you seem harmless. We’re gonna let you through, but we still have to give your luggage a little once-over. Let’s see… That satchel there. You mind opening that up? OK, that’s — Wait a minute. What is that stuff?”

“This. Oh, just a little frankincense. A gift for the holy — ”

“Frankincense? What’s it for?”

“Oh, well, you set a match to it and it exudes this lovely — ”

“Hold it, king! You’re hauling combustible materials into Judea, during a period of Orange Alert? How much you got there?”

“About a pound, I guess.”

“Whoa! Don’t you know you can’t carry more than 3.2 ounces of flammable or combustible fluids, pastes or powders, secured inside an unlocked TSA-approved terra cotta container bearing the seal of the regional director of the provisional Roman government? This jewel-encrusted casket doesn’t qualify, king. I’m gonna have to confiscate your ralphincense.”

“Frankincense.”

“Whatever. Let’s get this over with, whaddya say? What the hell you got up there on your camel, guy?”

Balthazar looks alarmed. He says, “Myrrh. Actually, it’s a little myrrh tree.”

“A tree?” asks Suspisius. “You’re taking a tree to Bethlehem?”

“Well,” Melchior says softly, “Myrrh produces an aromatic resin useful for making perfume, potpourri — ”

“No, no, no, no,” says Suspisius. “You think they’d let me keep this cushy day-shift gig if I started letting people strew uninspected agricultural items all over the landscape? Haven’t you guys ever heard of hoof-and-mouth disease? Smallpox? Cholera? Lepers!?”

“But, but,” spluttered Melchior. “Myrrh is just a fragrant unguent.”

“Yeah, you look like a fragrant unguent, pal, What’s with the lavender kimono anyhow? Listen, the agricultural inspector is due in a month. Meanwhile, your myrrh stays right here on that shelf, along with all the other loco weeds, toadstools and love-apple plants.”

Suspisius next glares at Caspar. “You!” he bellows. “Open your pouch!”

Caspar obeys and Suspisius looks within. “Well, this I recognize. How much gold you got here, king?”

“Perhaps ten ounces, perhaps — ”

“Never mind,” says Suspisius. “What we’ve got here, obviously, is a financial instrument whose value exceeds 1,000 aurei. You can’t enter Judea with that much gold. Think of the economy, king!”

“Aurei,” asks Melchior, “What’s an aurei?”

“Funny you should ask, cause it looks like you’ve got about 5,000 of ‘em in here,” says Suspisius. “And their journey to the West ends right here. Yo, Gropus, looks like Herod’s gonna have a Happy New Year, after all.”

“Wait!” cries Melchior. “You’re taking our gold and giving it to Herod?”

“That’s the rule. Besides, Herod needs the money. Would you believe he blew his whole year’s imperial allowance on a gal named Sal?”

“But you’ve seized everything. All our gifts to the Christchild. Though we are monarchs, we go destitute into Bethlehem.”

“Listen, king. This here’s the Roman Empire. You think Caesar got rich and powerful by letting foreigners cross borders with financial instruments big enough to gag a dromedary?” asks Suspisius. “Which reminds me: How long since you deloused those mangy camels? And by the way, your shoes. You got any metal in your shoes?”

“Well,” says Melchior, crestfallen, “the stitching is spun silver.”

“OK, take ‘em off. Leave ‘em behind.”

“Barefoot?” wails Caspar. “Barefoot into Bethlehem?”

“Please, have mercy,” begs Melchior. “It’s supposed to say in the Bible that we came bearing a veritable king’s ransom. But now, Holy Scripture will be a lie. The Savior gets nothing from the Magi.”

“Ah, he’s better off, trust me,” says Suspisius. “You give the little pisher all this stuff, pretty soon he’ll start putting on airs like you guys — acting like he was king of the Jews or somethin’. Not good.”

“Yeah,” says Delaeius. “Around here, that’s the sort of attitude could get you crucified.”