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
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Story Recap
Before they return to Colossae from the summer pastures in the mountains, Neos, an enslaved junior shepherd, reveals to Onesimus and the other shepherds that the last time he was with Felicitas—a female slave from another household in Colossae—they discussed the prospect of marriage.
Felicitas heard a knock at the slaves’ door. She dropped her scrubbing brush into a bucket of water, got up from her knees, and straightened her tunic, which was fastened high on her ribcage by a red fabric belt, accentuating her breasts. Thick chestnut hair flowed to the middle of her back, all but a few errant strands gathered by a kerchief matching her belt. Jewels of sweat glistened at her temples and dripped down her cheeks. She crossed the wet floor on bare tiptoes, opened the door, and saw Apphia and Monica standing on the step. The women wore somber woolen clothing. “I’m washing floors,” she said, preempting their invitation.
“I thought you already had permission,” said Apphia, sounding frustrated.
Felicitas wavered, trying to ignore the panicky tremor in her stomach. Her left eye drifted toward her nose, making it hard to focus, and she felt her head begin to ache. “I do have permission,” she said, still wavering. In fact, the week before, Marius’s chief kitchen slave had assigned her the Saturnalia shopping.
“You said you’d come,” said Apphia, her tone scolding. “You need to shop sometime.”
“All right,” she said, and gave a sharp sigh. She hated leaving work undone. “Give me a moment.” Felicitas hurried back to the slaves’ quarters. She washed her hands, despite their having been in soapy water for the past hour, changed into a longer tunic, and refastened her red belt, fussing with it till the fabric laid smooth. She removed the kerchief from her head, picked up her hairbrush, and looked in the tiny metal mirror. Her skin was the same bronze as the mirror. The color of a shield, Neos had once told her. Or a knife, she’d thought. Or fine wood, he’d added, admiration in his voice. Or rusty nails, she’d thought. Or a cooking pot, he’d suggested, a stupid grin on his face. She’d smiled and shoved him.
She looked again. Her face seemed invisible, erased by the bronze of the mirror, as if her dark hair and white teeth were floating. Floating eyes. One of them drifting again, like it wanted to escape. She hated her left eye. The last time she complained to Neos about it, he kissed her eyelid and told her he loved it. She told him it never wandered when they were together, and so he didn’t know what he was talking about. He laughed and said he loved it either way.
She brushed her hair and took a deep breath, then retied the kerchief and fastened a patch over the uncooperative eye—the only thing she hated more than the eye itself. As a child, Apphia had made her wear a patch over her strong eye, so the wayward one would strengthen. But when she was fifteen, she took it off and never wore it again. Until three nights ago, on the couch of her master, Marius. And every night since. She felt panic closing her throat, so she inhaled, long and slow, then metered out a breath through puckered lips. Better. She adjusted her kerchief, added a matching shawl, slipped on her sandals, grabbed a shopping basket from the kitchen, and met the women outside.
Apphia stared at the patch. “Wrong eye,” she said.
Felicitas didn’t look at her. “Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t?” said Apphia.
Felicitas waved her hand, again refusing to look at her.
Apphia stared at her for a moment and exchanged a look with Monica. She took Felicitas’s arm and Monica’s with her other arm, and they set off down the hill, past the temple, toward the market, Apphia and Monica chatting about the funeral, about Saturnalia, about what they needed at the market, Felicitas paying no attention.
Two springs ago, Marius had seen her spinning wool with another slave-girl and taken no notice. But last week, he’d seen them in the courtyard garden as they danced the syrtos, singing, imagining their wedding day, unaware he lurked in the peristyle, watching, like a hunter spying game. “A shame to marry so young,” he’d said with a hungry smile, paying no attention to her dance partner. She’d gained curves and flesh since he’d seen her last, but his attention still surprised her.
That night he’d made her dance for him in his quarters. Not a wedding dance. Something she wasn’t proud of, something she’d seen older girls do once, their faces serious, then laughing. Something lewd. As a young girl, she’d wondered how it would feel to dance like that for a man, his eyes on her. Now she knew; it felt sickening. He’d made her cover the drifting eye with a patch—“Beautiful and ugly,” he’d said, laughing—and made her promise never to be in public without it. And then he’d been all over her, groping and pressing, smothering her with his massive frame and hard pot belly, his rancid breath suffocating. When she was twelve, there’d been a wealthy visitor to the domus who used her every night for a dreaded month, but she always knew he’d leave. This was different; she saw no end to it. She wished she could wash her hands again. Who was she that she drew such horrible men? Neos loved her, she reminded herself. Neos loved her.
“Felicitas?” Apphia was almost shouting.
“Sorry,” said Felicitas, her stomach in knots, her head throbbing. “What . . . what did you say?”
Apphia shook her head. “I asked what you need.”
Felicitas looked around, anxious, as if waking from a nightmare, unsure how to answer.
“From the market,” said Apphia. “What you need from the market.” They were already at the commercial agora, on the flats, west of the city wall. The square was alive with open-air stalls and the pulsing cacophony of traders hawking wares. Streams of people flowed between stalls, and swirling aromas of spices, grilled meats, fried barley bread, aging fish, and salted olives wafted in their nostrils.
Felicitas hadn’t noticed their journey down the hill at all. “Produce and meat,” she said, still flustered. “And fabric.”
“What’s wrong?” said Apphia, her tone shifting to parental concern.
“Nothing,” said Felicitas, stuffing down worry and confusion, commanding her face to relax. Apphia stared at her again. Finally, she turned to enter the market, and Felicitas felt relieved to escape her gaze.
They walked through the market, passing between vendors selling eggs, hard cheese from sheep’s milk, fresh goat cheese, blood sausage, and stinking cuts of pork, beef, and mutton suspended from wooden posts, which also propped up awnings and tents overhead. They stopped to order meat for their households, then carried on through the market, the smells of ground spices—cumin, coriander, pepper, saffron, cinnamon, and fennel seed—hanging in the narrow alleys between stalls. They passed vendors selling dried lentils and chickpeas, and arrived at those with fresh produce. Apphia and Monica stopped to examine broad beans in a wicker basket, while Felicitas spied a tub of shiny purple carrots resembling male members. She shuddered, then refocused on a basket of cabbage, each orb a skull with leafy green hair. The pudgy, unshaven proprietor finished with a customer and turned to the women. A smile of recognition broke across his face. “Ladies. How nice to see you.”
“Demetrios,” said Apphia, smiling back.
“Sorry to hear of your loss,” he said, his face appropriately serious.
Apphia nodded.
“But I hear you’re a freedwoman.”
“Not yet,” she said, tugging at the hair on her unshaven head. “Soon.”
“Congratulations.” The vendor cast an admiring glance at Felicitas. “And who is this lovely young woman?”
“You’ve met Felicitas,” said Apphia.
“Felicitas,” he said, recognition dawning. “The eye patch. My apologies.”
Felicitas nodded and smiled, blushed, then looked at the ground, wishing she were somewhere else.
He turned to Apphia. “I should introduce my son.” He gestured to a skinny teen with immaculate hair, who was cutting stalks of cardoon in a corner of the stall. “A handsome lad, freeborn. One day he’ll own the business.” The boy snuck an embarrassed glance at Felicitas, then continued his work in silence.
Before the vendor could make the introduction, Apphia said, “I’m afraid she’s spoken for. A young man in our household.”
“A slave?”
Apphia nodded.
“Surely his prospects aren’t as good as my boy’s.”
“Well, no. But what can you say to love?”
Felicitas squirmed. She turned sideways, oblique to the stall, as if to run away. The tremor in her stomach returned and grew. She knew Neos was back from the mountains. In June, when he’d come for supplies, she’d made an excuse to visit Pater’s villa. She told her mistress that Apphia had a new spindle that could help her work—a half-truth; Apphia’d had it for months, and she’d already taught Felicitas to use it. She had dinner with Neos in the slaves’ dining hall. They walked in the gardens and the fields where they grew up, and he finally mentioned marriage. For at least a year, she’d longed for that moment. But now she was avoiding him. Fluttering joy had become tortured shame, a problem with no solution.
Apphia noticed her discomfort and said, “I’m sorry, dear. Talking like you aren’t here.” Felicitas stuttered a produce order, and the women continued through the market, browsing trinkets and baubles fit for Saturnalia gifts while heading for the fabric stalls. Apphia and Monica stopped to admire some purple cloth. Across the stall, Felicitas browsed fine fabrics in red, orange, and yellow, trying to submerge her twisted feelings in a task. She stopped at a sheet of thin tangerine cloth, stroking it with her fingers, then motioned to the merchant. “Three sheets of this, please.”
Apphia and Monica came over as the merchant began removing the fabric from his display and rolling it for sale. “Silk?” said Apphia, with a note of surprise.
Felicitas blushed and said nothing. She smoothed her tunic with her hands.
“What are your plans for it?” said Apphia.
Still pink in the face, Felicitas said, “Master of the house told me to buy it.” She purposed not to say more, focusing her attention on the transaction with the merchant.
Apphia exchanged another glance with Monica.
After the purchase, they strolled on, watching people in the market. A young mother passed with her baby strapped to her back, the child gurgling and bubbling as she gnawed on her own fist. “Look at this little ray of sunshine!” said Monica. The woman smiled and stopped. Apphia and Monica chatted with her, fawning over the child, while Felicitas stood and watched, a pace removed, adjusting her eye patch.
As they parted with the young mother, Apphia looked at Monica. “Baby news?”
“Afraid not,” said Monica. “When Philemon’s home, we . . . we work on it,” she said, offering a tired smile. “But still nothing.” She looked deflated. “To be honest, I’ve given up.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Apphia. “We’ll keep praying.”
Monica nodded, but Felicitas knew she was just being agreeable.
They continued to stroll, and another baby caught Monica’s eye, this one a little boy. Again, the mother stopped to indulge them while Felicitas stood and watched. Over her shoulder, Apphia said, “Fela, he looks like Neos. When he was a baby.”
Felicitas forced a smile.
“A little Neos,” Apphia said to the child, her voice a tender singsong. Monica thanked the mother, and the three restarted their walk through the market. Apphia linked arms with Felicitas and said, “Cute, no? Bet one of yours will look just like him.”
Felicitas looked away, color draining from her face.
“What is wrong, dear?”
“Nothing,” said Felicitas, looking at the ground.
“Come now. Every time we mention Neos, you look like you want to run. Did you argue?”
“No,” said Felicitas. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“Not exactly . . .”
“What, then?”
Felicitas stared into the distance, finally yielding—it would come out soon enough. “Marius has taken me,” she said, “to his couch.”
Apphia and Monica stopped walking and turned to face her, jaws slack.
“His first night back,” she said. “And every night since.” Her own jaw tightened. “He’s taking me to Ephesus. After Saturnalia. As his concubine.” She felt hard inside.
“Oh, Fela,” said Apphia.
The two older women wrapped arms around her, but she couldn’t absorb the comfort. Her good eye lost focus, and she felt the covered eye drift toward her nose under the patch.
You have created some great characters!