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A quarter ounce of blow and four of the dirtiest Roman hookers I could find.
I was not only given a vision of where Jesus was born, but the extensive navigational and shipbuilding experience necessary to travel to South America to obtain coca 1000 years before the Vikings did. I was also granted a vision by god of the horticultural knowledge necessary to grow coca somewhere Jesus adjacent, and the advanced knowledge of chemistry necessary to extract it in its pure form.
I show up and basically stay up for three days talking about bread and drinking wine, occasionally excusing myself to bang my hookers, drunk off my ass on wine the entire time.
I'm eventually ejected from the manger, which really pisses me off. I hold a grudge.
The energy I have been given by excessive cocaine use allows me to rise through the ranks of Roman society, all the while holding a deep grudge, as the other wise men get all the credit for bringing their shitty gifts. One by one I start eliminating the people that were at the manger, aa my oversized cocaine-enhanced ego can't take the slight. Until one day I hear about some jerkoff running around calling himself king of the Jews, and my final revenge arrives at last.
My name? Pontuis Pilate.