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
Marius, Philemon’s childhood friend, has become governor of Asia, the Roman province in which the cities of Colossae and Ephesus are located. Marius has taken Felicitas as his concubine and plans to move her to Ephesus permanently. After Neos and Onesimus attend a hunt and two plays at the start of Saturnalia, Neos proposes marriage to Felicitas, but she doesn’t accept because of her imminent move. Neos doesn’t know Felicitas has become Marius’s concubine.
Onesimus entered the citadel and made his way back up the hill, weaving between revelers still filling the streets. As he approached the domus of Marius, he saw a steady trickle of people entering—Philemon’s slaves intermingled with Marius’s villa slaves, who took the rare chance to enter through the grand front doors instead of the slaves’ entrance. The two households had hosted each other for Saturnalia feasts as long as Onesimus could remember, alternating each year. The slaves preferred the years they were guests, when they could fully embrace Saturnalian privilege, avoiding all service.
Onesimus spotted Neos trudging toward the domus, head down. He caught up and barged into him, trying to make him laugh. Neos looked up but didn’t smile.
“What’s wrong?” said Onesimus.
“Marius is . . . Fela’s going to Ephesus. For good.” Neos’s lower lip trembled. “I asked her, I . . . I proposed. She said . . .” He shook his head.
Onesimus sighed and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He was sympathetic, but he thought it was probably for the best. Bitter medicine. “Let’s get drunk,” he said, elbowing Neos, again trying to jar loose the sadness.
They passed through double doors and an eight-cubit archway into a gaping vestibule. Heat radiated through the floor from the hypocaust. On the right wall stood a lararium, a household shrine to the lares, with towering statues of Zeus and Artemis to either side. Against the left wall stood larger-than-life counterparts of Aphrodite and Ares, her mate. Aphrodite wore only sandals and cupped one of her breasts in her hand, offering it to the visitors. Ares wore a plumed helmet and nothing else. He leaned against an oval shield, as if coping with the weight of his outsized genitals. Tallow candles lit each statue, filling the room with rank hints of animal slaughter.
From the arched threshold into the atrium hung a golden birdcage. Inside, a ragged magpie perched on a swing. Feathers that should have been white were stained gray and brown, and its black feathers were dull and patchy. The bird’s neck feathers clumped together like short greasy hair after a night of sleep. As visitors entered the atrium, the bird hissed and squawked: “Farewell! Farewell!”
The shepherds crossed the atrium into an extravagant dining hall. Slaves in the corner played atmospheric music on pipes, two cithara, and a tympanum. Empty couches were arranged in a large triclinium in the middle of the room, surrounded by two u-shaped layers of dining tables and benches, half-filled with slaves already drinking and laughing. Onesimus steered Neos toward two spots at a first-layer table, facing toward the couches. The warm floor had made them sweat, so they stripped off their cloaks and sat down. Raucous villa slaves rounded out the table. Onesimus filled two goblets with wine from a flagon and took a deep draft. Delicious. Sweet. White grapes, strong, definitely imported. Not Falernian. Maybe Alban? They’d drink like freeborns tonight.
He handed the second goblet to Neos, who sipped obediently and then set it down. Onesimus pushed the goblet back toward him, disapproving. “Try again.”
Neos complied, this time drinking more deeply. He put the goblet down, half-empty, and shuddered.
Onesimus chuckled. “Better!” He unhooked his wineskin from its strap, uncorked it, and drank the remaining mouthful. “Here, hold this,” he said, passing the empty skin to Neos. Below the table, Onesimus carefully drained the flagon into the skin. When he’d finished, Neos looked at him, his face worried. “What? It’s good wine. And it’s Saturnalia!” After corking and refastening the skin, Onesimus took another draft from his goblet, and called out, “Io Saturnalia!” Other slaves joined in, and the cry echoed around the room.
Just then, Onesimus spotted Marius’s short, bulky freedman, Lupus, collecting an empty flagon from a nearby table. The straps of fingerless gloves coiled around his thick forearms like leather adders twisting their way up hardwood branches. The rumor among the slaves was that Lupus had iron plates sewn into the knuckles of the gloves, like a boxer’s cestus, and that he’d killed men with them. Oily hair from the back of his head reached up and over his pate, combed there to mask his baldness. Emboldened by the drink, Onesimus shouted to him, “Slave! More wine!”
Lupus returned a look of disdain, narrowing his eyes as he collected the empty flagon from their table. He made a fist with his other hand, and his glove groaned under the pressure. “Watch yourself, worm,” he said. Onesimus grunted, suppressing a laugh. Other slaves at their table snickered. Lupus glared at him and tightened his fist, then turned and headed for the wine cellar. Onesimus felt high. He nudged Neos’s goblet again and scolded him with his eyes till he took another drink.
The musicians set aside their instruments and took up cornua, trumpeting as Marius entered the dining hall. He wore a pileus and a scarlet robe instead of a toga, though the purple-striped tunic underneath still announced his status. His squat wife, Porcella, stumbled a few paces behind, smashed drunk, pileus askew, while their three young sons came next, the oldest aping his mother’s disordered movement. Porcella heard the boys sniggering and called over her shoulder, “Shut up!” Philemon and Monica entered behind the boys, walking side-by-side—Philemon still in drag and Monica in a man’s tunic with a sky-blue robe, both wearing the pileus. Onesimus followed his brother’s progress with his eyes, and his cheerful feeling vanished.
When the entering party reached the front of the room, a ceiling panel descended on a hidden rope and pulley system. The crowd murmured with wonder. The panel stopped its descent two cubits from the floor between the couches, a low legless table. On the table, Onesimus saw platters of gustatio—pre-dinner dishes of sausages, plums, olives, and what looked like thrushes in pastry—but, strangely, he smelled no food. A drunk slave called out, “Bread from heaven!” which won a round of laughter and fresh calls of “Io Saturnalia!”
The music stopped. Marius cleared his throat and called out, “Attention!” When the room quieted, he said, “It is good to be together for Saturnalia!” A cheer went up from the guests, loudest from the slaves. After the room had quieted once more, he looked at Philemon and said, “May we honor the god as we dine. For, as Virgil says, ‘The gods ordain the laws of hospitality.’”
Philemon rolled his eyes.
Marius continued: “We will serve the gustatio, but out of respect for our large party, please refrain from eating until everyone has been served. While you wait, may I recommend the wine. Aged fifteen years. From the slopes of Mount Albus!”
“I knew it!” whispered Onesimus, looking at Neos. “Alban!” Onesimus nodded to his friend, prompting another drink.
Philemon, Monica, and several house slaves picked up platters and began circulating through the hall. Marius lifted a plate of thrushes. He passed it to a slave, who began the real work of serving, and then settled onto a couch in front of Onesimus and Neos. Porcella flopped suggestively onto the same couch, in front of her husband, head almost level with his. He closed his eyes and winced, as if he’d smelled something bad. “Show some modesty, woman,” he said, and shooed her to the opposite end of the couch. She sat upright, near his feet, looking dazed, unable to focus.
When Marius saw everyone had been served, he clapped his hands and said, “You may eat!”
The slaves at his table dug in, but Onesimus noticed Marius wasn’t eating; instead, the host surveyed the room with a grin. Onesimus bit into a thrush. It tasted like river mud. He held the bite in his mouth, unsure what to do, and looked around at the other guests, who began spitting their mouthfuls onto the floor. Onesimus and Neos did the same as an angry murmur overtook the room. Marius’s youngest son began to cry.
Marius called out, “Is clay not to your taste, friends?” He cackled and shouted, “Io Saturnalia!”
As the groaning and laughter subsided, servants wheeled Corinthian bronze donkeys into the hall, which finally filled with the smell of food. The donkeys bore panniers with multiple pockets, each stuffed with a different delight: real olives—both black and white—real sausages, real plums, and blood-red pomegranate seeds. The back of each donkey balanced a platter with small roasted rodents—dormice—dipped in honey and rolled in poppy seeds. A contingent of Marius’s slaves took over serving from Philemon and Monica. Philemon reclined on the couch next to Marius, in front of Onesimus, and Monica settled onto the same couch, reclining in front of him, taking the position Porcella had tried with Marius. Philemon made space and gave her shoulder a squeeze. Porcella watched their exchange, her mouth slack, then scowled at Marius, who was too absorbed in a honeyed dormouse to notice.
Philemon looked at Marius thoughtfully, chewing an olive. He swallowed and said, “You make a poor Roman, Marius.” The comment captured Onesimus’s attention; he listened in, sipping from his goblet.
Marius scoffed. “This should be good.”
“Such a sad display of service. Handing a platter to a servant? Hardly the spirit of the festival.”
Marius rolled his eyes, his third dormouse suspended over his plate between sticky fingers. “Saturnalia’s taken too far. Give a slave a hand, and he’ll take your arm. They’re best kept in their place. I’ll serve them a meal and tip my hat to tradition,” he said, gesturing tritely to the pileus on his head, “but I’ll not labor over it. Labor is slaves’ work—every day of the year.” He bit the head off the mouse and ground its tiny skull between his molars. “And anyway,” he said, exposing the food in his mouth, “You made a round with the clay gustatio, but now look at you. Reclining at table, served by slaves. I’m no less Roman than you.”
Onesimus suppressed a snicker at Marius’s comment. Philemon blushed, and Onesimus felt a surge of satisfaction; how pleasing to see his brother squirm. He felt warm and slow from the wine. He looked over at Neos, who was staring into his lap, dazed, the food on his plate untouched. Onesimus cajoled him into another drink.
“I served slaves in the agora for hours,” said Philemon. “At least I made a turn around the room.”
“Well, you look ridiculous,” said Marius, pointing to Philemon’s wig.
Onesimus giggled, but Philemon shot him a look, instantly quenching his mirth.
“No self-respecting Roman should dress like a woman,” said Marius.
Philemon said nothing.
Marius’s house slaves began to clear empty hors d’oeuvre platters. A spindly male slave with thick curly hair stood in front of his master, holding a wine flagon. Marius extended his hands and nodded. The boy poured wine over his master’s hands, which Marius rubbed together vigorously, washing off the poppy seeds and honey. Marius nodded again, and the boy stopped pouring. “Kneel,” he said, and the boy did so, trembling, after which Marius wiped his hands dry on the slave’s hair. “Off you go, then.” The boy struggled to stand up on spidery legs and bumped the suspended table with his bottom, sending two dishes crashing off the other side and onto the floor. Marius backhanded the stumbling slave on the ear. “You’ve made more work for yourself, halfwit.” He turned to Philemon and said, “Unless you’re firm, they’ll get away from you.”
The slave finally stood up and went around to the other side of the table to clean up the mess. Marius’s eldest spat on him and repeated his father’s insult: “Halfwit.” Onesimus felt grateful not to be serving.
Four slaves entered carrying a huge platter, atop which sat a roasted boar wearing a pileus. Pastry piglets crowded the boar’s teats, and two baskets woven from palm-leaves hung from its fangs, each containing dried Egyptian dates. Additional platters followed—roasted goose, hare, and fish in peppered gravy. A slave carved the meats with a curved knife, each stroke in time with the music, which had become rhythmic on cue. Other slaves carried food around the hall.
Porcella attacked the meat on her plate and promptly broke wind, the sound rumbling across the front of the room like an approaching storm, even over the thrum of music and merriment.
“Pull yourself together, woman,” said Marius. “You’re the lady of a noble house.”
“Oh,” she said too loudly, continuing with a drunken slur, “as if you’ve never done it!”
Onesimus again suppressed a giggle while Marius’s sons belly laughed.
“No need to be ashamed,” said Porcella. “None of us was born rock-solid. Even Jupiter can’t forbid it! And the doctors tell us not to keep the wind inside. Vapors attack the brain, flood through the body.”
“Well, I can see they’ve attacked your brain,” said Marius.
“This is serious!” said Porcella, still slurring. “Some have died from holding it in.”
Marius snorted and rolled his eyes.
Porcella guzzled her wine and called for more.
After the meats came dessert: small round cakes, pastry stuffed with raisins and nuts, quinces, chickpeas in honey, and sweet cherries. The music quieted, and Marius stood to speak the traditional prayer: “Health to Augustus, father of the fatherland!” Onesimus raised his goblet and drank with the rest of the crowd. “And now, a special treat, my Saturnalia gift to you,” said Marius. “Several of my young slaves have recently shown a talent for the cordax.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Behold!”
Three women entered the hall wearing masks curled into seductive smiles, and the music retook the surging, rhythmic quality it had during the meat carving. They wore loose, thin, tangerine skirts, fastened at the waist with a leather belt, draped to their ankles, and nothing to cover their chest and back except necklaces of silver disks, each the size of a thumb pad, suspended over and between their naked breasts. The dancers raised their arms to the sides of their bodies, elbows and wrists bent, and began to flow and sway with the music, stepping and lifting in time. Jingling necklaces collided with swinging breasts, adding to the music.
Onesimus glanced at Neos, whose mouth hung open.
The music began to build. The women stepped forward and back, side to side, mirroring each other, their hips rotating in sensual orbit, faster and faster in rhythm with the music. The tympanum grew louder, the pipes frenetic, and the women began to whirl and spin, arms and breasts cast outward by centrifugal force. As the music reached a crescendo, two of the dancers stopped spinning and got down on one knee to either side of the third, who spun faster and faster in the middle, hands now on her hips. The men in the hall whooped and whistled, fingers in their mouths, like a pack of frenzied dogs.
As the music began to walk back its energy, the woman in the middle slowed her spin, finally stopping, standing in place, gyrating her hips and moving them lower and lower toward the floor, until, as the music petered out, she was squatting, her backside quivering mere finger-widths from the floor.
When the music stopped, the dancers stood up, and the room erupted with applause and lewd shouts. Across the table, Onesimus could see the purple robes of Marius’s three sons bulging in the crotch. He laughed out loud, and turned to share the spectacle with Neos, but his friend was still fixed on the central dancer, his jaw slack.
The two other dancers hurried from the hall. Marius beckoned to a slave, who covered the remaining dancer’s torso in a piece of tangerine fabric matching her skirt and then removed the dancer’s mask. It was Felicitas. She cast an anxious look at Neos, and her face flushed scarlet. Onesimus watched his friend’s eyes widen and the color drain from his cheeks.
The slave who’d covered Felicitas led her to Marius’s couch, where he pulled her into position, reclining in front of him, her back to his chest. “Well done, my dear,” he said. “And now you deserve something sweet.” He plucked a cherry from his dessert plate, removed the stem, and placed the fruit between his middle and index fingers. “Open,” he said. She reluctantly opened her mouth, and he put his fingers and the cherry inside, probing. A strand of saliva dripped onto her chin as he withdrew his fingers, and she gagged, projecting the cherry out of her mouth and onto the floor. Marius threw back his head and laughed, sending his pileus tumbling.
Porcella stood up from the foot of the couch and hurled her metal goblet at her husband’s head. It connected.
Marius grunted and snarled, “Stupid woman!”
“You shameful piece of garbage!” she shouted back. “Control yourself!”
“And why may I not serve my slave dessert on Saturnalia?” said Marius, regaining his authoritative calm. “A slave who’s danced so admirably?”
“If it weren’t for me, you’d be nothing but a pig farmer from the provinces. This is your thanks? Dallying with a motherless prostitute?”
Marius glanced at his guests. “I think we can all see you’ve had too much to drink, my little piglet.” He signaled to Lupus. The freedman stood up with two of his heavies and escorted Porcella out of the dining hall while she kicked and bit her ushers.
“Friends,” said Marius, “please forgive my wife’s outburst, and continue to enjoy yourselves.” He readjusted Felicitas in front of him, pulling her closer.
Onesimus looked at Neos again. His eyes had glazed, and his bloodless face shaded green as beads of sweat formed on his forehead.