A Christian, a Muslim and a Jew walk into a bar . . .

In 14th century Italy

The framing conceit of Giovanni Boccaccio’s Decameron is that a party of young men and women have fled the plague in Florence and taken refuge in the countryside, where they amuse themselves telling each other stories: ten stories on each of ten days. Within the framework the stories are intended to amuse. Beyond the framework they shed light on issues of importance in early Renaissance Italy.

The third story on the first day, told by a young woman named Filomena, describes a fix that a Jew of Alexandria named Melchizedek found himself in at the court of the Turkish sultan Saladin. Melchizedek was in the business of lending money, which was prohibited to Muslims. Saladin had spent himself into a corner and needed a bailout. He called upon Melchizedek.

Saladin might simply have robbed Melchizedek, but that would have been the last time he got anything out of the Jewish lender. Instead he put a riddle to him. If Melchizedek failed to solve the riddle, Saladin would fine him the amount he required.

“Thou art a very learned man and deeply versed in matters of divinity,” said Saladin, “wherefore I would fain know of thee whether of the three laws thou reputest the true: the Jewish, the Saracen or the Christian.”

Saladin was requiring Melchizedek to choose among Judaism, Islam and Christianity which was the true faith. Theologians had debated the question. Soldiers had fought over it. The money-lender had to do what the thinkers and fighters had failed to do.

Melchizedek recognized Saladin’s game and played for time. “My lord, the question that you propound to me is a nice one,” he said. “And to acquaint you with that which I think of the matter, it behoveth me tell you a little story.”

Melchizedek proceeded: “There was once a great man and rich, who among other very precious jewels in his treasury had a very goodly and costly ring. Whereunto being minded, for its worth and beauty, to do honour, and wishing to leave it in perpetuity to his descendants, he declared that whichsoever of his sons should at his death be found in possession thereof by his bequest unto him should be recognized as his heir and be held of all the others in honour and reverence as chief and head.”

The great man died, and the ring passed to one of his sons, who was duly honored by his brothers. This son died, leaving the ring to one of his sons, who similarly became the foremost among his brothers. The process continued through several generations.

In time the ring came into the possession of a man with three sons, each virtuous and obedient and equally loved by their father. The father was torn at having to make a choice among the three. He contrived an escape from his dilemma. He enlisted a craftsman to secretly make two new rings so like the original that the father himself couldn’t tell them apart. When the father was on his deathbed, he brought the sons in separately and gave each a ring, letting him think it was the genuine and only one. He then died.

One son produced the ring he had received and proclaimed primacy over the others. Another son did the same. Likewise the third. Each believed himself the true heir, but none could disprove the claims of the others. The identical rings concealed their secret.

“The three rings being found so like unto one another that the true might not be known, the question which was the father's very heir abode pending,” said Melchizedek. “And yet pendeth.”

Saladin smiled as he saw where this was going.

“And so say I to you, my lord,” Melchizedek concluded, "of the three laws to the three peoples given of God the Father, whereof you question me, each people deemeth itself to have His inheritance, His true law and His commandments. But of which in very deed hath them, even as of the rings, the question yet pendeth.”

Saladin acknowledged he had been outwitted. The sultan forgot about the loan and instead made Melchizedek his chief financial adviser – “in high and honourable estate," by Filomena’s telling.