This post is a chapter of Neither Slave nor Free, a serial novel that tells a literary-fictional, historically-plausible backstory to the New Testament letter, Philemon. New chapter every Sunday. Listen to it on Spotify or Apple Podcasts.
Risking crucifixion, Onesimus, an enslaved shepherd, flees his bitter half-brother and master, Philemon, only to find that freedom requires more than mere escape.
“. . . a masterful grasp of the cultural, political and spiritual context of the time . . . The heart of the novel beats for hope, and asks one essential question: what does it mean to truly be free?” —Claire Gibson, author of Beyond the Point: A Novel
“. . . one of the best historical novels I’ve ever read on a New Testament figure . . . Mead’s novel utilizes cutting edge scholarship as he weaves a beautiful and inspiring story of hope and faith.” —Demetrius K. Williams, Professor of Comparative Literature and Religious Studies, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukie; Editor of Onesimus Our Brother: Reading Religion, Race and Slavery in Philemon
“Through characters that are vividly complex, defying any easy, moralizing categorization, Mead delivers a thrilling piece of historical fiction that sheds needed light on a tiny letter whose controversial impact has been, and remains, gargantuan.” —Tommy Givens, Associate Professor of New Testament Studies, Fuller Theological Seminary
Want a different chapter?
Enjoying the story? Subscribe or upgrade to paid.
Customize which emails you receive here.
Story Recap
Onesimus, Philemon, and two other slaves travel to Hierapolis, where Philemon hopes to find a luxury buyer for his wool. The traveling party hears reports of deadly brigands on the road. When Philemon reveals the purpose of their journey, Onesimus remembers but does not divulge that he failed to take last season’s raw wool to a fuller of sufficient quality for luxury buyers.
After finishing their food, they made their way to the fabric vendors and the stall of Philemon’s first target. It was a tent with two interior poles. The dealer stood near one of them, behind a worktable draped with mauve fabric. He wore a flowing robe of the same hue over an embroidered linen tunic and was tying a bundle for an elegant middle-aged woman. As they entered the stall, the dealer’s eyes darted up and then back down to his work. “Welcome. I’ll be with you shortly,” he said, focused on the bundle.
Ropes fanned out from the top of the second pole, like spokes on a horizontal wheel, and attached to the tops of head-height stakes several cubits away. Sheets of fabric in dozens of purple shades draped over the ropes. Hierapolis was famous for its mineral hot springs, which craftspeople used to mix madder-root dyes that set in wool more permanently than other dyes. This made the city a production center for the purple fabrics prized by wealthy Romans. The root dyes from Hierapolis were so effective, they rivaled the Tyrian purple, milked from mollusks on the coasts of Phoenicia and Caria.
Onesimus slipped into a triangular space between sheets and ran his fingers over the fabric. The fibers were impossibly long and fine, and the color was perfectly even, as if the wool had been shorn from mulberry sheep. He lingered over the handsome cloth, stroking it with the back of his fingers. It was certainly a cut above Colossian fabric. He looked up and noticed Philemon frowning at him. He jerked his hand away and scooted out from between the sheets, wrinkling his nose as if to rearrange it on his face.
The woman left the stall with her package, and the dealer turned his attention to Philemon. “Thank you for waiting,” he said.
“No trouble,” said Philemon. “Your fabric is beautiful. The highest quality.”
“Indeed,” said the dealer, smiling. “I take it you are not here to buy?”
“What makes you say that?” said Philemon.
“A foolish customer compliments what he wishes to buy. And you don’t strike me as foolish.” His smile broadened. “Plus, your slave is carrying a bag overflowing with wool.”
“Perceptive,” said Philemon, appearing impressed. “As a matter of fact, I’m not a customer. I’m looking for a long-term buyer of my wool. Someone I can trust,” he said. “But now, where are my manners. My name is Philemon Cassius Titus. I’m an old friend of Marius Cordus, who recommended you.”
“Ah. Marius,” he said, hardening slightly, a reaction at odds with his warm tone. “Clever fellow. I knew him and his father for many years. Collected my taxes.”
“Shrewd businessmen,” said Philemon, his tone cold. “I grew up with him. We shared a tutor.”
The merchant nodded. “Nicomachus Kalyterou,” he said, extending his hand to Philemon. “How may I help?”
“We keep a flock in Colossae.”
The dealer nodded.
“For many years, we’ve sold to military suppliers. My father was an auxiliary. It’s what he knew. I helped him run the business, but I’ve always thought our wool was too fine for such a purpose. Recently he passed away, so it’s struck me as the right time to seek the proper kind of buyer.”
“I see,” said the merchant, his face serious. “My condolences.”
Philemon nodded.
“May I?” said the merchant, gesturing toward the bag of wool.
“Please,” said Philemon, waving at Tertius to let down the bag.
The merchant reached in and withdrew a clump three times the size of his hand. He took it to his workbench to examine. He smelled it. He tugged it. He held it in the sunlight and bent over it to study the fibers. He returned the clump to the bag and withdrew another, scrutinizing it in the same way. It, too, he returned to the bag, then looked up at Philemon. “My advice is to stick with military clients,” he said.
“Whatever do you mean?” said Philemon.
“I can’t use this wool,” said the merchant. “It’s clean enough, but your fuller has combed it too quickly. The fibers are torn and small. Won’t spin into the kind of thread I require. Also, the wool has a yellow tint to it. I’ve seen it before in Colossian wool. Throws off the dye color. If you wish to sell to luxury dealers, I’d suggest a new fuller, but that won’t change the tint.”
“Nonsense,” said Philemon, looking offended. “Our fuller is excellent. From Hierapolis, in fact. Stachys Aristou.”
“I know him. He does fine work.” The merchant sighed and gestured at the bag of wool. “All I can say is this doesn’t look like his work. Either his standards have dropped, or another fuller prepared your wool.”
“He did it,” insisted Philemon. “And the wool is not tinted. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Here,” said the dealer, pulling a wad from a bag under his table. “This is from one of my current suppliers.”
Philemon pulled a clump from his bag and set it beside the dealer’s. Next to the dealer’s wool, Onesimus could clearly see the golden tint. “I don’t see what you’re talking about,” said Philemon.
The dealer sighed and said, “Nevertheless, I won’t buy the wool.”
“Very well,” said Philemon, his tone curt. “I thank you for your time. Could you please direct us to Apollodorus Xanthou?”
“If I may say so,” said the merchant, “I highly doubt Apollodorus will . . .”
Philemon cut him off. “If you would kindly direct us.”
The merchant nodded deferentially and explained how to find the next dealer. They followed the directions but had no better luck; the second dealer drew the same conclusions. This time Philemon said nothing in reply but simply asked for directions to their final contact. The dealer again tried to spare them the trip, but Philemon insisted once more. Results with the third merchant were no different.
By the time they left the city it was mid-afternoon. Philemon walked ten paces in front of the slaves, smoldering, while Onesimus hung back, behind Primus and Tertius, avoiding provocation. After a mile, Philemon stopped and wheeled around, looking straight at Onesimus, waiting for him to catch up. His face was severe. Onesimus instinctively slowed his pace and began chewing a hangnail. When Onesimus had finally closed the gap, Philemon said, “Did you take the wool to Stachys?”
Onesimus tore at the hangnail with his teeth. The familiar sting blunted his fear. Should he lie? Surely the truth was obvious at this point. “No,” he said, sheepish.
“No?” said Philemon, raising his voice. His brows etched a deep furrow between his eyes, and his jowls rippled. “I expressly told you to take the wool to Stachys.” His face reddened.
“I would have, sir, but Pater . . .”
“You listened to that fool over me?” He was now yelling. “You miserable slave!” Philemon’s right arm flashed across his body as he struck Onesimus with the back of his hand. Onesimus recoiled and closed his eyes, holding his face. When he reopened them, Philemon had turned and started back down the road, kicking angrily at loose pebbles, his right hand balled into a fist that he pumped at his side every few steps, cursing under his breath.
Onesimus dawdled and again drifted to the back of the group, sipping at his wineskin for comfort. At first his face felt hot and fat, but then his jaw began to ache, and the swollen red skin of his cheek stung. Selfish bastard, he thought. What should he have done? Yes, Philemon had told him to take the wool to the fancy fuller, but at the time, he was not his master. Onesimus fixed on the impossible situation Philemon had put him in. Anger surged in his chest, and he clenched his teeth as he pictured his brother’s irate face before he’d lashed out. Had Philemon expected him to disobey the paterfamilias? The thought of running in the opposite direction crossed his mind, escaping back into the city crowds. He wanted to yell. He kicked a cobble off the muddy road, and his toe began to throb.
A few miles out of town, the market traffic thinned, and Onesimus found himself half a stadium behind the rest of the party. He suddenly felt vulnerable. He picked up his pace and walked closer to Primus and Tertius, who glanced over their shoulders as they heard his footsteps slapping the dirt road behind them. Philemon still marched at the front of the group, but he’d also shaded closer to the two burly slaves.
They passed within three miles of Colossae, and the sun set behind dense clouds, bleeding the last light from the day. Rain pattered on the near-dry ground. Still at the back of the group, Onesimus sipped wine, straining to see the road ahead and any movement in the fields adjacent.
A mile from Colossae, he heard a voice call out from twenty steps behind: “Hello!” All four travelers whirled around, searching for its source. Two men loped out of the darkness. As they drew closer, Onesimus could see they were broad-shouldered, but shorter than Philemon and the other two slaves. He didn’t recognize them. Both had rough-trimmed beards and flowing hair that covered their foreheads, ears, and necks. They wore gold nose rings and cloaks pinned at their right shoulders, and the grassy stench of horse dung wafted from their clothing. Broad flat swords with curved ends and long handles hung without scabbards from their belts.
Tertius and Primus gripped the handles of their weapons. Onesimus felt sick and chewed his cheek. He drifted beside and behind the other three.
The two long-haired men scanned the travelers. Onesimus could see them registering the weapons and baggage carried by the slaves. Still sizing them up, one of them said, “How far are you heading?” His accent was thick and northern.
“Colossae,” said Philemon, his voice shaky, its pitch higher than normal. “And you?”
“Perga.”
“Three days’ journey,” said Philemon, his voice still shaky. “Traveling through the night?”
The spokesman nodded.
“Best be careful,” said Philemon. “Reports of bandits on this road.”
“That so,” said the spokesman, unmoved.
Onesimus narrowed his eyes, studying the men in the cloud-filtered moonlight. They weren’t carrying any luggage. Emboldened by their seeming intent not to harm, he said, “Where’s your baggage?”
The spokesman smiled as if Onesimus had told a joke. “We travel light. Only what we carry in our cloaks. And on our belts.” He made a restrained but menacing gesture toward his sword.
“Well, we must be on our way,” said Philemon. “Will you join us as far as Colossae?”
“We have important matters to discuss. We’ll follow behind. But we’d take some food if you have any.”
“I’m afraid we’ve eaten the last of it,” said Philemon. “We’ve only been out for the day.”
The spokesman nodded.
“Farewell, then,” said Philemon, and the four travelers turned again toward Colossae, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. Onesimus heard footfalls on the wet road behind as the two men followed at a distance. He could hear them speaking. Their low tones and sharp whispers sounded like a coarse tongue other than Greek. Then, after several moments, he realized he could no longer hear them. He looked back along the road, and they were gone.