Sneak peek: Onesimus – A Slave’s Tale in the Roman Empire

“Onesimus!”

The voice echoed through the window. A window with no glass or covering. The sound died quickly in the tiny room.

He sat on a wooden bench, head in hands. He was ignoring his name, though he knew that the owner of the voice would find him soon enough.

 “Onesimus!” Closer now, and sounding more than a little irritated. He still didn’t move.

Soon, footsteps sounded in the short hallway. The canvas flap over the doorway snapped open.

“O-ne-simus!”

Onesimus dropped his hands and looked up. The young man had his hands on hips, face red with frustration. On a more imposing figure, it might be intimidating. On Giton, it was just amusing. Onesimus let out a huff. Half amusement; half irritation.

“What are you doing here in our room? The domine sent me to fetch you thirty minutes ago. I have looked everywhere—even the latrines!”

Onesimus considered that Giton’s large nose looked even more ridiculous when it was red with anger. They were almost the same age, but Onesimus thought of Giton as a child. No skills, no depth of thought, no education. Their only similarity was that they had the same master and the same status. The latter irked Onesimus.

“Well, if I hadbeen in the latrine and you’d come in, you’d have gone out with a black eye.”

Giton tightened his jaw. “I don’t know why you are so rude. It’ll be you that gets beaten if you don’t get up to the villa. The master needs you immediately.” He turned with great drama and stomped out. His voice came back down the hall: “Tell him your delay was not my fault—or I will!”

Onesimus still sat. He gazed up at the small window. The sky was clear and blue. Giton’s sandals scuffed in the dirt as he made his way out of the slave compound. It’s an insult to send that cretin to “fetch” me. He’s no match for my worth.

He stood up. No matter. He and Turia had a plan. A good one. It would take a while. But it would solve all his problems.

Crossing to a small table, he splashed his face with water from a clay bowl, using a nearby rag to dry off. Taking a deep breath, he left the small cell—one among six in the hutment.

He blinked in the sunshine as he made his way between the four short slave buildings made of stone, wattle, and wood. Ahead was a gurgling stream spanned by a stone and wood footbridge. The path led up the hill and to his master’s villa.

He smiled at the sound of the mill’s wheel creaking in the distance. It made him recall last night with Turia. An iron hammer was striking metal somewhere off to his right. Probably the smith at the stables. Behind him, beyond a stand of trees, women were working the wheat fields at the back of the estate. An occasional laugh floated up the little valley.

He passed through Italian gardens on the slope—a feature that gave his master great pride. The domine had lived here for many decades, but he had grown up in Italia. He spoke of it a lot. Onesimus would love to visit Italia—especially Rome! That’s where everything important happened.

But that was not where his plan led.

Reaching the top, Onesimus passed before the entrance to the covered patio which looked out over the gardens and beyond, in the distance, to the green and brown slopes of Mount Cadmus.

“Onesimus!”

He spun at the sound of Turia’s voice, who had just come out of the patio entrance. She bounced down the steps, holding a basket of folded clothes against her hip. She kissed him on the cheek.

“Turia!” Onesimus hissed. He glanced left and right.

She laughed. It was a laugh that Onesimus found beautiful and free, though others might have thought it dismissive. Her voice had that effect on him on the day they met. Almost a year ago, when the master had purchased her in Ephesus.

“No one is around. It is mid-morning and everyone is at work, and the family is in their quarters. You should be at work, too. What are you doing up here?”

“Got tired of counting bolts of leather and decided to take a stroll.” He smiled at her frown. “Actually, Giton came screaming for me. The master has an errand for me.”

She tossed her head, the bundle of her luxurious brown hair shaking slightly. She tilted her head and fixed him with a stern look.

“Maybe he is going to reprimand you for missing the meeting last night.” She raised her eyebrows.

Her large, white eyes and dark green-brown pupils made him care even less about meetings or Giton or anything. She was so alive and exotic. Someone had told him that her mother had come from the Far East—perhaps beyond the Indus River.

Onesimus shook his head. “The master doesn’t require attendance.”

“True, but I would like you to be there. A chance to be together, after all. And it wouldn’t hurt to give lip service to the master’s interests. Might put you in a better standing.”

“Well, first, I don’t believe in all that foreign philosophy. I follow the same gods as always. Besides, I don’t want to hobnob with other slaves. There are freedmen less competent and intelligent than I am!”

She smiled and placed a delicate hand on his arm. “I know. You should be the vilici of the household.”

He smiled. She saw his worth. “Well, someday, maybe I’ll have my own vilici! And we’ll be far from here.”

She searched his eyes for a moment, then dropped her gaze. “Speaking of our plan…I don’t like to keep the money in my room. Claudia is a suspicious one.”

“Claudia is a mouse.”

“I don’t care. It’s dangerous. Find a better place.”

He sighed. She was so adamant sometimes. “I can’t keep it in my room. Giton goes through my stuff all the time.”

“If we are discovered, it won’t matter whether it is by Giton or Claudia. Find somewhere else, okay?”

“Fine, fine. If it’ll make you quit worrying.”

“It will. Thank you.” She laughed again. With a swish of her tunic, she shifted the basket to the other hip.

“Meet me at the mill again tonight?”

She leaned in and whispered, her lips barely touching his ear. “We’ll see.”

With that, she was gone, looking back with a playful glance before she turned the corner of the villa.

Onesimus basked in the afterglow of her presence. He had never known anyone like Turia. A lover. A partner. Sure, he wasn’t that old. But she was the only thing that made living at the villa worthwhile. And their plan would lead to the fulfillment of all he hoped for.

He shook himself back to reality. The non-house servants were not supposed to enter the villa through the patio, but through the slave’s entrance on the side near the front. But he was in a hurry, so he strode across the terrace and through the entrance framed by two marble columns. Still feeling a bit light on his feet because of his encounter with Turia, he detoured through the kitchen and grabbed a handful of olives from a bowl, eliciting a nasty hiss from a cook. He smiled at her over his shoulder as he passed into the peristyle. The arch at the far end led into Philemon’s tablinum.

The peristyle was one of Onesimus’ favorite parts of the villa. It was a typical feature of Roman villas, but the master had filled it with so many grasses, plants, flowers, and small trees that one could forget it was part of a home. The open roof made being inside feel like freedom. Only the portico with its stone columns lining the four sides gave it away as a building.

He went down the right-hand side. It would be a serious breach to pass by the private rooms which lined the opposite way. This side only held dining rooms—the oecus for small gatherings and the triclinium for banquets. As he walked, he savored the garlic-flavored flesh of the olives, tossing the pits into the flower and tree beds.

He drew near to the entrance of the tablinum. Philippus, the master’s vilici, stepped out as he arrived.

“Ah, Onesimus, did Tempestus bring a mighty storm between here and there? Or perhaps barbarians from Germanica have attacked anew? Those would be good excuses for your tardiness.”

He sounded stern, but Onesimus knew that Philippus was fond of him.

“Giton took his time in finding me, vilici.”

“And why are you coming through the peristyle again?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and spoke through the archway into the tablinum.

“Domine, Onesimus is here.”

“Send him in!” came the commanding voice. Philippus stepped aside, and Onesimus entered.

He was in the tablinum more often than the peristyle, meeting with Philemon about business. Like the peristyle, it demonstrated his master’s elegant, rich style: oak and cedar walls, carved moldings at the ceiling, and marble columns at the entrances and down the middle of the room. Italian pavers on the floor, much of them obscured by large vases filled with greenery. Candles on iron stands were all lit, lending an air of sacredness to the room. A massive wooden desk, made of imported oak and local terebinth, sat in the middle of the space. The master sat behind it, writing. He did not look up. Onesimus stood before the desk at attention.

Quintus Philemon Scaptius was a minor nobleman who oversaw a successful trading business. Many slaves would be proud to be a member of such a household. Not Onesimus. Many slaves would bubble over with sycophant servitude. Not Onesimus. By Roman standards, Philemon’s villa was small, and located in a small town.

Onesimus looked to his right, through another archway into the atrium. The statue in the middle of the square pool was dripping water, making a pleasant and soothing background. The statute was made of beautiful marble in the likeness of Daphne. Onesimus knew that it was expensive; he also knew that Philemon was not a worshipper of that goddess, though he used to worship all the gods that mattered.

He turned his attention back to Philemon. Surrounded by parchments, candlesticks, a bowl of almond-stuffed olives, and a dish of ink, he was still writing. Onesimus squinted, but he could not read the words from this distance. After a few moments, still writing, Philemon spoke without looking up.

“Take this letter to Archippus, then go into town and pick up a pouch from Hymas. When you return, give it to Philippus. Make sure it gets into the treasury tonight.”

The last words caused Onesimus a moment of panic. Does he suspect? He quickly realized the emphasis was on “tonight.” Sometimes, if he was late returning from errands, Philemon told him to avoid waking Philippus and keep the money with him, to turn in the next day.

Philemon finished the letter with a flourish, laid the stilus down, and looked up. His deep-set blue eyes always intimidated Onesimus a little. And that irritated him.

Philemon rolled and sealed the letter and handed it to Onesimus.

“Make sure you give the letter to Archippus himself, not his vilici.”

Onesimus bowed deferentially. “Yes, domine. Anything else?”

“No. You may go.” He retrieved a scroll from a pile to the side and began reading, Onesimus already forgotten.

Onesimus took the letter and left—this time through the slave door located at the side the atrium.

Why was he to give the letter directly to Archippus? He always interacted with the vilici. Onesimus didn’t like him—he was like an older and more crotchety Giton—trustworthy, faithful, and deferential—just what a master would want. Why bypass him? Something unusual was going on. He hoped it didn’t concern him.

Oh, well. At least he’d be in the city soon—where he had more freedom to do as he wished.