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
On the journey back from Hierapolis, Philemon strikes Onesimus. After parting from Philemon, Onesimus encounters a crucified slave, a fugitivus, killed for attempting to escape his enslavement. Onesimus considers fleeing but can’t bring himself to do it.
Four days later, the sun shone, business in Colossae ceased, and visitors flooded the city from the surrounding countryside for the festival of Saturnalia. Philemon had released most of his slaves for a day of celebration. Onesimus and Neos followed the massive parade that began mid-morning along the colonnade, zigging through the northern gate and twisting up the streets to the temple of Zeus at the top of the city, where the religious agora teemed with revelers. Freeborn, freed, and slaves intermingled. Bronze tubas and cornua blared, half-clad dancers whirled and gyrated, and incense perfumed the air. People clustered in corners, on their haunches, eyes trained on dice, the wealthy gambling for coins, slaves and children rolling for nuts. Onesimus wore an old tunic and cloak—he refused to wear the baptismal clothes—but many men put off normal garb in favor of women’s stolae and shawls, waist-length wigs, and colorful Greek syntheses. Women dressed as men, most in tunics and robes, but the audacious among them donned the toga like a prostitute. And everyone wore the pileus—the conical wool hat of the just-freed slave, the symbol of freedom.
By the time the two shepherds reached the top of the city, the ten pigs at the head of the parade stood on the pavement outside the temple, draped with bands of wool. Nearby priests recited prayers as slaves poured wine on the pigs’ heads. The slaves then struck the animals with hammers and ripped open their throats with knives the length of a forearm, offerings to Saturn, god of the earth, friend of the underworld. Ten oxen followed the pigs. One slave gripped the horns of each animal and wrenched its head toward the ground while a second struck a single axe-blow to the neck, splitting gigantic heads from bodies, geysers of blood erupting in all directions. Slaves flayed and carved the dead animals, roasting them on braziers outside the temple.
Onesimus and Neos took seats together at a rough table packed with country slaves, some from their villa. Cross-dressing nobles and members of the civic council served them roasted meat, wheat bread, and strong wine. Drunk jeering slaves sat at similar tables that spread across the agora and leaked into adjoining streets, while the jubilant cry, “Io Saturnalia!” echoed and repeated across the plaza.
Onesimus and Neos finished the meal and stepped into the streams of people flowing between tables, moving toward the upper entrance to the theater. Onesimus felt light-headed from the wine. He removed his pileus to scratch his forehead, examining it in his hand. In years past, he’d been eager to wear the liberty cap, but today it was a false promise. He thought again of the funeral and the freedom that hadn’t come, of the baptism and Philemon’s blow on the journey from Hierapolis. The memory of his failed flight three days before also taunted him, condemning him for his lack of courage. The euphoric crowds oppressed him, and despite the meal they’d eaten, he felt a hollow ache in his stomach, a creeping despair.
Ahead, he noticed Philemon serving a table of house slaves, joking and laughing, his round face framed by a woman’s wig. He looked up and caught Onesimus staring; his smile vanished. Onesimus cast down his eyes and steered Neos on a more circuitous route to the theater. Saturnalia could be perilous. It was a time for reversal: slaves lived like the free, and masters took up the yoke of bondage. But only for a few fleeting hours, and there were limits. As a child, he’d seen more than one slave beaten for a word too freely spoken or a prank that crossed the line. Onesimus opened his mouth wide to stretch his jaw, rubbing the still-sore spot where his brother had struck him, then took more wine from his skin.
They entered the theater, and Onesimus glanced at the playbill. The first event was listed as a “surprise,” to be followed by two plays by a Syrian troupe. Players from the east were rare. Usually they came from Ephesus, sometimes even Rome, but almost never from the east. The two slaves stood on the upper portico, scanning for a seat. A faint smell of vomit floated on the breeze. “There,” said Neos, pointing to a section in the mid-level stone benches—the media cavea.
Onesimus surveyed the seats closest to the performance—the ima cavea. Apart from Saturnalia, if a troupe was performing, he typically shirked his duties and snuck to the theater. On those occasions, as a slave he was confined to the portico, the highest and most distant section, where it was difficult to hear but easy to hide. During Saturnalia, slaves could sit anywhere, including the ima cavea. But this time they were too late for the good seats: drunk country slaves packed them out, hip-to-hip. Probably been there for hours, thought Onesimus. “Okay,” he conceded. “The bumpkins already have the ima.” They settled into their seats, waiting for the performance to begin. To pass time, they watched the slaves in the lower seats spill wine on each other.
The dirt-floor orchestra in front of the stage resembled a natural scene. Heavy boulders had been rolled from the river, sapling trees and bushes planted, and a pit dug in the middle, filled with water as an artificial pond. The dirt from the pit was piled nearby and packed into a hillock. Onesimus continued to study the set, and he noticed a four-cubit wooden wall dividing the orchestra from the cavea. He nudged Neos. “What do you think the wall is for?”
“Well, I hadn’t . . . didn’t notice it,” said Neos. “Gladiators?”
Onesimus shrugged, absently fingering the silver charm on his necklace, flipping it inward, then outward, then inward again, wondering about the “surprise” referenced in the playbill.
The theater gradually filled. Six lictors entered from a ground-level tunnel to the right, each carrying the fasces. A procession followed, including Marius, sponsor of the show, wearing his usual garb—a gleaming toga and purple-striped tunic, announcing his equestrian status. As he entered, half the crowd cheered while the other half catcalled. The procession passed through a gate in the wooden wall and ascended some steps to an elevated box where other dignitaries sat. Onesimus eyed their seats with envy; some privileges even Saturnalia didn’t touch.
Two more men entered through the tunnel and marched toward the box while musicians played a fanfare. The first man wore a leather tunic festooned with wool and carried a club. He seemed to represent a sheep. The second man was taller than the first by a head, and leaner, with broad shoulders. He wore a dark leather tunic and matching knee-high boots. His helmet covered his entire head, including his face, except slots for eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth. Metal attachments like antlers poked from each side of the helmet.
“A buck?” said Onesimus.
Neos shrugged.
The man with the helmet carried a bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, and a dagger on his belt. Onesimus counted five arrows in the quiver. The muscles of his oiled thighs creased with each step toward the box.
They looked strong enough and had weapons, thought Onesimus, but not much armor. And the costumes were strange. He wasn’t convinced they were gladiators, but what else could they be? The men stood in front of the box and saluted the dignitaries, one of whom rose from his seat carrying a bowl. He dipped his fingers in the bowl and flicked them toward the two men repeatedly. The white wool on the shorter man’s tunic showed crimson flecks. “Sprinkling blood,” Onesimus said, now curious. The crowd murmured, and the two shepherds leaned forward in their seats.
The shorter man with the club climbed the hillock at the center of the orchestra, while the taller man leapt up the steps to the stage. He moved to the center where a marble statue of Saturn stood, brought in for the occasion. The man removed a loose coil of wool from around the god’s feet—a symbol of servitude—and held it up for the crowd, who roared in reply. At that moment, a pack of gray wolves bounded from a tunnel on the left side of the orchestra. “A hunt!” said Onesimus.
His palms began to sweat. He scanned the pack, half expecting the alpha he’d encountered on the mountain, but then realized his folly: she was surely uncatchable. The beasts looked thin, like they’d had no food in days. Onesimus could see their ribcages, even through winter fur. He counted twelve animals, but by the time he’d finished, two lay bleeding in the dirt, whimpering, arrows caught in their necks. Good with the bow, thought Onesimus, thrilling inside.
Over the next half-hour, the shepherds watched the club-man kill two wolves while the bowman killed seven and yanked one creature’s hip out of joint. The hunt finished with the bowman rescuing his comrade from the pond, where two wolves had pinned him and flayed his forearms while trying to drag him to shore. After dispatching the remaining wolves and pulling the club-man from the pond, the bowman hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him before the dignitaries. The archer’s only injury was a puncture wound to his leg where a wolf had bitten through his boot upper. Attendants entered the orchestra and hurried the club-man out through a ground-level tunnel. Onesimus stood with the cheering crowd as the archer bowed and exited through the same tunnel, favoring his wounded leg.
After attendants cleared the wolves and mopped up the bloody stage, the plays began. Onesimus had seen the second play two seasons before—The Girl with the Shaven Head, a romp by Menander—but this time he could hardly enjoy it because of the lingering atmosphere of the first play. Neither he nor Neos had heard of it—A King and Two Slaves—a morality tale about a king who forgives his slave a huge debt. The slave then has a fellow slave thrown in prison for failing to repay him a trifling debt. In the final scene, the king confronts the first slave—played by a tall, broad-shouldered man with a limp—and has him take the place of the second slave in prison. The chorus moaned and gyrated, hands on the sides of their heads, guttural tones rumbling like sounds from a maimed animal, while the imprisoned slave gripped his jail bars, face covered by a mask twisted in torment, wailing and thrusting his body back and forth in grief. The king’s final words clung to Onesimus: “Should you not have shown mercy, as I showed mercy to you?” The king’s voice had echoed like thunder, as if Zeus himself spoke from his temple.
The actors quit the stage and returned for bows and applause after the second play, but Onesimus sat silent, still pondering the first one. It didn’t make sense. He saw the king’s point: the slave had not followed his merciful example. And perhaps the slave had been harsh with his fellow. But had the king done right in the first place? Should he have forgiven the huge debt? Where was the justice in it? The point seemed to be that the slave got what he deserved because he mistreated his fellow. But must we forgive if we’re forgiven? Onesimus couldn’t help feeling the real crime was the slave’s failure to pay the big debt. Irritated, he pulled out the flask from under his robe and drank.
Onesimus watched the actor who’d played the imprisoned slave limp from the stage. “Is that the bowman?” he said, gesturing toward the actor.
“The first slave?” Neos stood up for a better look.
Onesimus nodded.
“Don’t know,” said Neos.
“He’s limping,” said Onesimus, pointing again.
Neos shrugged, then rose from his seat. “I’m meeting Felicitas,” he said. “See you? At the feast?” Onesimus nodded again, and Neos departed.
The theater emptied, but Onesimus remained in his seat, ruminating on the first play, still irritated. When most of the crowd had dispersed, he drifted down to the orchestra and into a side tunnel exiting the theater. In the middle of the tunnel, a passage opened to his left, toward the stage, and a gate that would have blocked the passage stood open. Onesimus could hear laughter and music coming from down the passage. It could only be the players. Maybe he could meet them, he thought, or better yet, demand an explanation of the first play. He stepped through the gate and started down the hall, surprised at his own boldness, the laughter and music growing as he went.
He rounded a corner, and the passage opened into a low-ceilinged room, full of the actors. One played pipes. Some danced and sang. Others sat on benches or tables, talking and laughing. A platter piled with barley loaves and goat cheese and salted prunes sat alongside wine flagons on a table in the middle, while small plates and goblets were scattered about the room like shrubs and flowers in a cheerful garden. Masks and costumes hung on wooden racks or rested on benches. Oil lamps flickered against the walls, aiding the shafts of waning daylight that streamed golden through an opening to the stage at the top of a staircase.
At the sight of the players, both his irritation and his boldness vanished. He wondered what he was doing. The music petered out as the players turned and stared at their guest. Scanning the room, Onesimus picked out the bowman. He sat on a bench while another player changed the dressing on his leg wound. His mask lay next to him on the bench—the first slave’s mask, just as Onesimus had guessed—and his shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a ponytail. A tattoo on the man’s forehead read, “FVG.” Onesimus locked eyes with him, taking in the meaning of the tattoo. How had a runaway ended up an actor?
The bowman seemed to understand his look. He smiled, held up his goblet, and said, “Come to celebrate with us?”
Onesimus blushed and said, “Oh, no. But thank you. There’s somewhere else . . . I need to go.” He turned and began quickly down the passage again, his face still warm with embarrassment. After rounding the bend, the laughter and music resumed behind him. He exited the tunnel and passed from the citadel through the northern gate. The gates stayed open all night during Saturnalia, so he’d have no trouble returning for the feast. He wandered south, gazing up at the rows of ionic columns that lined the road east of the citadel, still turning the first play over in his mind. He passed only a few people and was happy for the moment of solitude, just to drift and think.
At the trunk road, he turned right and soon arrived at the familiar track leading to the villa in one direction and to the southern gate in the other. He paused for a moment, peering down the road, through the dusk, toward Laodicea, picking at a scab on his hand. He could go. Right now. A patch of muted white caught his eye as a snow-colored owl lifted from a nearby tree and swooped low over the adjacent field. Onesimus held his breath. The bird’s glide seemed impossible; it hardly beat its wings, slipping through the air, effortless, silent. Suddenly, it dove to the ground, then relaunched with two tremendous beats, prey wriggling in its claws. Onesimus shivered, rubbed his hands together, then started up the road toward the southern gate.
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