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 goes to Colossae to attend the ninth-day feast, hosted by the Fellowship of the Crossroads Temple in honor of his deceased father, Pater. Onesimus is a member of the Fellowship and keeps their record of dues received. Before the feast, as he waits to make an offering to Artemis at the temple, Onesimus encounters Philemon, who treats him with contempt. In the temple, Onesimus prays for the recovery of Pater’s missing will.
Philemon and Marius entered the feasting hall, already crowded with members of the temple fellowship. “You made quite a scene back there,” said Marius, still grinning.
“The slave made the scene,” said Philemon, rankled by the incident.
In the middle of the room, three large couches stood in a u-shape—a triclinium. Freeborn men in togas reclined three to a couch and drank mixed wine. A string of long tables with benches surrounded the triclinium near the perimeter of the room, at which sat some thirty men in tunics drinking with relish—freedmen and slaves, segregated by table. A hearth in the corner pumped out heat. The hall pulsed with conversation and bursts of laughter. Marius’s lictors stood against the wall while Philemon and Marius assumed two spots on the triclinium, reclining side-by-side, and a slave placed two goblets of wine on the low table before them.
Soon after, Onesimus entered the hall, bleeding from his knee. Philemon watched him find his seat at one of the slave tables. Onesimus was the only slave from their household who belonged to the fellowship. Another sign of sickening privilege, thought Philemon. Pater had spoiled the boy and left him to fix it.
Just then, the Magister called the room to attention. He was a fat freedman in his fifties with fierce gray bristles budding from his ears and nose. His eyebrows whisked into gray horns like an aging owl. He proposed toasts—to Marius, the patron of the feast; to Pater, their fallen member; to Artemis; to the lares; and to the emperor. Soon after, slaves emerged from the kitchen carrying platters stacked with rare meat, cubed and steaming, and baskets of wheat loaves, all of which they placed on the tables. Philemon’s stomach complained, anticipating food.
Marius shoveled a pile of bloody meat onto his pewter plate. “How’s your wife?”
“She’s well,” said Philemon, wary, his mind straining to understand what lay behind the question.
“Still no children?”
Philemon nodded. Always probing for weakness, he thought.
“How can she be well, then?”
Philemon fixed his gaze on a nick in the table. “There’s more to a woman than producing an heir.”
“There certainly is!” Marius cupped his hand in front of his chest, as if clutching a breast, and cast his eyes around the triclinium, canvassing for approval. Several men obliged with nervous laughter. “But surely you’re concerned. You’ve just become paterfamilias.”
“Of course,” said Philemon, his tone understated.
“What will you do if she remains barren?”
“I don’t know,” said Philemon, continuing to stare at the table, as if doing so might end the conversation. He loved Monica dearly, so he’d never divorce her, and he couldn’t imagine taking a concubine.
“I’ll tell you what you’ll do. You’ll adopt one of my sons. I’ll have a legion of them before long. It would be my honor to donate one to your cause.”
“Or would it be your honor to add my estate to your family’s property?”
Marius threw back his head in booming laughter. When he’d calmed himself, he said, “Speaking of family property, I’ve had the gardens renovated at the villa.”
“How nice,” said Philemon, uninterested. He watched Marius mash a rubbery meat-cube between his brutal jaws. Philemon was tired of his company. They’d spent two hours before the feast at the baths, two hours of Marius’s almost constant boasting: of his new residence in Ephesus, of his retinue of lictors, of his expanding wealth and property, and, as usual, of his father’s funding of the baths from his personal fortune. What he’d left unsaid was that he and his father had squeezed their fortune from the Phrygian people by farming taxes for the Romans, inspiring hatred and fear throughout the region. Marius remained the wealthiest man in Colossae and the largest landowner, despite now residing mostly in the capital of the province, Ephesus.
At the baths, Marius had quoted Virgil repeatedly, just to irritate him. Ah, to be a poet, thought Philemon. But not Virgil. Ovid had lived the life, spinning his masterful web of words in seclusion on the shores of the Pontus Euxinus. Exiled, yes. But for the right reason: for the sake of his love poetry. In my vacant breast, love reigns. It struck Philemon that Jesus might have liked Ovid. Well, perhaps too bawdy, but maybe certain passages. Philemon had loved Ovid since that first boyhood reading from the Metamorphoses. There was something independent about his poetry. Something free. Like Ovid didn’t care what people thought. No kowtowing to authority, no binding attachments, no responsibilities to others. Whereas Marius’s champion, Virgil, seemed to have no voice of his own, bound by tradition, defensive, justifying Roman culture, toady to the emperor. It figured that Pater also praised Virgil, though he doubted his father ever read much of anything. He just liked the fighting, the war. Yes, exile to Tomis wouldn’t be half bad. Maybe he wouldn’t want to be entirely alone. Monica would come, Apphia perhaps, but who else did he need? Away from the pressures of the family line, the family business, managing an estate and the disobedient slaves that came with it.
“I’m giving a tour of the new gardens for the council members in the morning.” Marius commanded the triclinium, his voice loud. “Then hosting lunch. You must join us.” Others nodded their agreement.
Philemon considered for a moment, and then said, “Ah. I appreciate the invitation, but I’m afraid I cannot.”
“Our chef has discovered the most delicious recipe for suckling pig. You must try it. And the political discussion will be excellent.”
Philemon sipped his wine. “It sounds most enjoyable,” he said, lying, “but I have another engagement.”
“And what could engage you on a Sunday morning?” said Marius.
Philemon paused and took another sip of wine, debating inwardly what to say. “I’m also hosting a meeting tomorrow.”
“Who could possibly attend? Everyone will be with me.”
Philemon’s cheeks flushed, and his armpits dampened. “It’s a meeting of the Christians.”
Marius looked up from his plate and faced Philemon, staring at him. “And why would you host that?” The triclinium fell silent, the feasters straining to hear over the surrounding chatter.
Philemon paused again, staring into his wine. There was no going back. As good a time as any, he thought. He drained his goblet. “I’ve become one myself.”
Reclining feasters turned and looked at Philemon, eyebrows raised in disbelief. Marius stared at him in silence, and then his face settled into an easy smile. “You’re joking.”
“No,” said Philemon, his cheeks growing hot. He regretted telling the truth.
Marius’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of distaste. “When did this happen?”
“Several months ago,” said Philemon.
“And what possessed you?”
The entire triclinium listened intently.
“Well,” said Philemon, hesitating. “I met an extraordinary man in Ephesus. Named Paul.”
“Paul,” said Marius. “Paul. Why does that name sound familiar? Is he from Tarsus?”
“Yes,” said Philemon. “You know him?”
“Short man? Says he’s a Jew?”
“He is Jewish,” said Philemon, defensive.
“Well, there seems to be some question about that,” said Marius. “In any case, yes, I know of him. In fact, I just had him put in prison.” A wry smile returned to his face.
“Prison!” said Philemon, his mind reeling. “On what grounds?”
“He and his little friends were disturbing the peace on a festival day. Insulting Artemis in front of her temple. Breaking statues of the goddess. They also refuse to sacrifice to the emperor. They’ve been charged with treason and sacrilege. I’ve probably done him a favor, putting him in prison. The Ephesians would have torn him apart.”
Philemon fell silent, shocked and perplexed. When the father of Marius’s high-society wife, Porcella, had died, Marius had been appointed quaestor of all Asia, allowing him to continue his tax extortions on a grander scale, but imprisoning people was the job of the governor. “How have you put him in prison?”
“So surprised,” said Marius, wearing a look of disgust. “I’ve been appointed governor.”
Philemon stared at him, uncomprehending. Governor? It made better sense of the lictors—Philemon had thought only governors were entitled to the thuggish personal bodyguards, but when Marius showed up with six of his own, Philemon had assumed either he’d hired them to stroke his inflated self-image or simply that Rome had changed the rules to entitle quaestors to them, too. “But what of Governor Silanus?”
Marius rolled his eyes. “Silanus is dead.”
Philemon continued his blank stare, dumb.
Marius sighed. “Are you aware we have a new emperor?”
Those dining around them laughed, and Philemon blushed. “Yes,” he said, “of course. The boy. Nero.”
“An improvement on Claudius, I dare say,” said Marius, scornful. He reached for another piece of bread. “According to one senator, Claudius’s final words were, ‘I think I’ve shit myself.’” Once again, laughter spread around the triclinium, but Philemon remained deadpan. “It seems Agrippina, Nero’s mother, had Silanus poisoned. They say she used the same poison on her husband, Claudius. You have to admire the woman’s vision. Now she whispers in the ear of the son of a god.” Men reclining nearby nodded their approval, though some looked uneasy.
Philemon shuddered. The story left him feeling dirty. And he was still worried by the report about Paul. He’d thought Paul was a citizen, which should have prevented prison before trial. “When is his trial?”
Marius wrenched free a bite of bread from the loaf in his paw and waved his other hand at Philemon. He seemed done with the topic. “So,” said Marius, mouth full of bread, “will you still worship with us?”
Philemon felt his armpits freshly wet. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, defensive again.
“Well, in my experience, your kind are rather . . .” Marius paused and waved his hand in a circular motion. “Rather anti-social. Refusing to join the festivals. Refusing to worship traditional gods . . . the emperor,” said Marius. “Like Paul.” His face spread again into a smile.
“I see no reason to be extreme,” said Philemon, clawing back some credibility.
“That’s consolation,” said Marius. “At least some of you are capable of reason.”
When the first course drew to a close, the magister placed a box of smoking incense on each table, along with a shallow wooden dish containing solitary pieces of meat and bread—offerings for the gods. Feasters poured wine into the dishes. The magister then called the room to attention once more, made further toasts, and launched into administrative announcements.
Philemon joined the toasts and felt the effect of the wine. The magister droned on about new officers, arcane points of the fellowship charter, and fines imposed on delinquents. Philemon realized how tired he was. Marius had worn him thin. He noticed Onesimus working his way around the hall with the fellowship coffer and scroll of accounts, collecting dues from those who owed. He reached the opposite side of the triclinium. Philemon studied the boy as he scanned the papyrus register. Strands of silver hair threaded through the slave’s loose curls, odd for such a young man. Philemon noticed how slight he was. Weak. Vulnerable, he thought.
When Onesimus arrived in front of Philemon, he fumbled with the scroll, scanning for his master’s name. Philemon looked away and waved his hand in irritation. “I’m paid up, boy. Move along.” Onesimus blushed and hurried to the next table.
After the magister’s deadening speech, others stood and offered further tributes. Four toasts in, Philemon lost his patience, stood up, and called the feast to attention. “Now,” he said loudly, “I wish to thank you for your kindness to my family, tonight and these past days. My father would be honored by your feasting in his name, and he was certainly honored by the funeral and burial you provided. You are men who hold fast to duty.” A self-congratulatory murmur passed through the crowd. “I hope you will forgive me for retiring early, but the weight of grief has settled on me. Before I depart, may I propose one more toast: to the patron of the feast and the health of all gathered.” Philemon turned to Marius. “‘If we wished to count your exploits and also declare your age, your deeds would outnumber your years.’” He turned again and faced the room. “‘For you, most valiant of heroes, we offer the thanks of our people, and yours is the health that we drink.’” He nodded to Marius and drained his goblet.
The crowd cheered his toast, raised their cups, and drank. Philemon set his empty goblet on the table and gathered himself to depart.
“After toasting from Ovid, you owe me at least to stay through the sweets,” said Marius. “And we’ve barely started the good wine.”
“I’m afraid the past few days have caught up with me,” said Philemon. “Good night, gentlemen.”
With that, Philemon turned and strode toward the exit. Behind him, he heard Marius raise his voice: “You see, this is how it starts. Soon he won’t feast with us at all.”
As Philemon neared the doorway, he again noticed Onesimus across the room, removing the straps of the coffer from his shoulders and setting the box on the floor. Their eyes met, and Onesimus looked away. Philemon passed through the doorway, crossed the bloodied pavement crawling with ants, and started across the road to his domus. At the gate, he heard a burst of laughter from the feasting hall and looked back. He saw Onesimus emerge from the hall and begin walking in his direction. Philemon quickened his stride, passed through the gate, and disappeared inside.