EYES ON A HOLIDAY

A little philosophising whilst three wise men discuss the baby's future and the crippled soldier becomes pessimistic...

The problem with being a conquered people, thought the crippled Roman soldier as he watched a trickle of Jews making their way, some of them bleary-eyed and weary whilst others looked very much like children reluctantly on their way to school, to the synagogue for morning prayers, the problem with being a conquered people is you have all these soldiers and civil servants wandering through your land, looking down on you and thinking your religion is nuts and poo-pooing you for believing it. Of course, it is nuts: I know that, all religions are nuts and even though I was a proud Roman soldier I was never actually a proper Roman, but came from the West where we worshipped much more sensible gods, and even they were nuts if you looked at them through thinking eyes....

It was the Sabbath. The trickle of people became a torrent and he watched curiously as the Inn-Keeper and his wife, complete with teenage son and tiny babe in arms, joined it. Like everyone, they had to go or questions would be asked, uncomfortable questions, and they would have no answers.

When the streets were empty and the sounds of worship whispered out of the synagogue, he wandered towards the Inn.

“Why, hello darling,” enthused Balthazar, holding a goblet to his lips, “You not joining in the mass worship of our jolly hosts in their Holy House?”

“Synagogue,” grunted the soldier, wincing at the pain as he tried to look less crippled, and failed. He lowered himself painfully onto a bench, and sighed.

“We've been to see the baby,” grunted Melchior. “Have you taken a peek?”

“Parents haven't got two sesterce to rub together,” grunted Caspar. “It seems gifts were expected. Silly habit if you ask me: one baby looks very much like another baby, that's my opinion, all poo and puke. Still I left a pouch of frankincense. Just a little pouch, mark you. Paupers like that wouldn't know what to do with a cartful! You leave a gift?”

“I left the light,” nodded the soldier. “And as you can see from my poor legs it cost me a great deal of effort raising it so high! Pity it'll be going out soon.”

“I met some darling little shepherds,” sighed Balthazar. “They really were the sweetest of men, if not a little rough and drunk! They bore a nice white fleece. But the baby, you might ask: I gave him myrrh, just a little, for I foretell he is not to enjoy a long life...”

“Nah,” muttered the soldier, “there's talk of an uprising against our lot, the Romans, you know, and if there is he'll no doubt bear arms in battle and be dead by the time he's thirty!”

“That's the way of men,” sighed Melchior. “So, my friend Balthazar, myrrh was a well considered gift in evil times. I gave a gold coin, for I see they must flee for their lives before this year is out, and coin will be helpful when they seek for shelter in far-off lands!”

Balthazor nodded, serious for a moment.“I spoke to Herod, the darling little man, and I mean little most specially, if you get my drift: he knew nothing of a new king being born and I got the feeling that there might be a night of the long knives before long if he decides there’s the least chance of one rising to challenge him and his line. He hopes to be the father of a mighty dynasty of darling little men, and when the Romans are ousted in battle, to form a Jewish empire of his own. So that baby, if his destiny is to be a king as the stars foretell, must be polished off before it becomes a threat.”

“I see that too,” nodded Caspar. “Herod has dreams above his station, I fear. And it is clear as day to me that f he does win himself an empire it will be one of drifting sands...”

“The silly man,” scoffed the crippled soldier, “has he any idea how mighty the Roman army is? Can he conceive of the force commanded by just one Centurion, and multiply it by a thousand, all equipped with steel and ready to go? If your baby is to be a soldier against that unbeatable force I fear he will be massacred even if he has a hundred men at his command!”

“I whispered to the father, an insignificant little worm called Jo-Jo, that he might well spend the coin I gave for the baby to finance a holiday. Egypt's nice at this time of year, they say, and being part of the great Empire he should have no trouble with borders.” nodded Melchior. “And anyway, the determined traveller can always find a way, borders or no borders, when all that stands in the way are dunes of drifting sand.”

“I heard rumour that Herod is such a b*****d he might even order the slaughter of all infants in order to get the one,” murmured Caspar.

Balthazar shook his head. “I doubt he'll go so far, darling,” he said. “As I see it he intends to make it known that he could do that. Such knowledge would reach the ears of the parents in that dreadful stable, and without the dire king actually doing anything they'll flee. Once in Egypt " for that is the logical place for them to go ... they're hardly likely to return whilst this king still reigns. So your gold coin could save the child, darling.”

“That is what I whispered to the carpenter,” nodded Melchior.

“I wonder...” muttered the crippled soldier.

“You wonder what?” asked Caspar.

“The child had a twin, born before it in that same stable.”

“What of it, darling?”

“Will the same threat fall on her? Will the king fear that a queen might arise from this sorry little town?”

Melchior laughed. “A queen? Never! At least, not in these parts. The girl will become a woman and hence a drudge, for that is the natural order of things! She will bear sons, maybe, for that is the function of all women everywhere: the only true function! Then she’ll probably die soon enough, her job being done.”

“Never was a truer word said, darling...” muttered Balthazar. “And a sad one. I had a mother once...”

“As has everyone,” said Melchior quietly.

“She was no drudge, yet she died, not yet thirty summers old, darling. She died the death of women, bearing one child too many, and that child was me...”

“And therein lies the frailty of our species,” muttered the old soldier. “And at the same time it is the men who fight and die in bloody agony and the women who dress their wounds. Something is awry, somewhere. Sometimes I ask myself why it is we fight.”

Caspar looked surprised.

“For glory!” he said. “At least, that's why the fighting class fight! For the glory of their masters!”

“And the sorrow of their women,” muttered the crippled old soldier. “That is how I see it.”

“Have you a little woman awaiting your return, darling?” asked Balthazar.

The soldier shook his head sadly. “You might say I have one or many, but not one of them is waiting,” he said sadly. “You see, I am a soldier and only a foolish wench might expect me to return alive!”

“Amen,” sighed Caspar.

© Peter Rogerson 24.11.12, revised 30.11.16