Epistole Alpha

To Giarri

I hope you are well. Thank you for your letter and for your faithful assistance all these many years. It encourages me in this damp, dark place.

I am happy to hear you are making progress on my collection of Paulus’ letters. If you find any others, send me copies, and I will decide if they belong. And please keep trying to find a copy of the one to the Laocideans.

As for your question about including the letter that he wrote on my behalf—well, it is important to me, of course! My life would not have been the same without it. But I am not sure whether it is useful beyond that.

Which leads me to your next question about telling my story—I am not sure I want to tell it, Giarri. One thing I have learned in my long and unlikely journey is this: freedom comes from focusing beyond oneself.

Still, your argument is compelling, especially if the focus is on the work he did and how I was led to believe. So I will begin sending you my recollections in my next letter.

Finally, to your last question—no, I am afraid I will not survive this. The Roman officials are not happy with any of us. I suspect it is my time. But since the wheels of Roman bureaucracy turn slowly, I have many months, at least.

I must end this letter now. My writing ability is not what it used to be. Tychicus visited last week, and we recalled the memory of so many who are now dead.

Say hello to the whole household for me—especially Bacchus and little Terentia.

1. INUTILIS

“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 Gi- ton 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 had been 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.