I have a knack for stories. I always try to put myself in the place of the characters, or maybe of one of the supporting roles, or even of a passer-by, watching the fuss these foreign men are creating in Jerusalem’s market. They’re clearly not from here, and they seem important, for they requested an audience with Herod, the “mad king,” as I like to call him. I sneak into the palace through the kitchen, where a girl who fancies me works. I walk as if I mean business straight into the room where Herod is receiving his strange visitors. They don’t beat around the bush, and I hear them asking in a strong eastern accent “Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” Uh-oh, Herod will not like that. He says to the visitors he’s going to check with his advisors, and bursts through the door with evil in his eyes.

A servant of the palace grabs me by the arm and commands me to lead the visitors to a room where they can rest. I hear them talking in a foreign language and looking around suspiciously. They insisted in bringing all their belongings inside, and I could smell myrrh and frankincense, and I think I saw some gold too. “These guys are not joking around,” I think, “they really brought gifts worthy of a king!” They clean themselves, take turns to sleep, and then raise in the next morning eager to know the answer to their question.

Herod receives them with the friendliest of the smiles. “Bethlehem is the city you are looking for. It’s just about 10 kilometers south. You should get there in no time. Please, send regards to the king and queen on my behalf. Oh, and do come back when you find this baby, for I too want to worship him.” Old viper, I know him better. He means evil.

But I am puzzled. Who might that king be? I thought we Jews would never have a king again, but these men seem positive about it. How could it be?

I sneak out before they assign me to clean the mess the visitors’ horses made in the garden.