Read this free excerpt from the historical fiction novel, Onesimus, by Markus McDowell, about a slave in the first century Roman Empire.
Onesimus entered the forum and went directly to the shop of Hymas, a dealer in leather goods and a steady customer for Philemon’s Italian leather. At the moment, he was dealing with a customer, so Onesimus went across the way to wait, leaning against one of the marble columns that lined all four sides of the grass rectangle in the middle of the forum. It was crowded, though not as much as on market day.
He looked around. There was a crowd around a collection of the public buildings where citizens found services, judges, and the proconsul’s office. Onesimus glanced down at the podium, located at one end of the rectangle. No one stood on or around it, which meant there were no trials or public business to be discussed or announcements to be made. Not unusual for late afternoon.
Onesimus looked back at the shop just as Hymas finished with his customer. He beckoned, and Onesimus strode to the counter.
“Greetings, domine, from Philemon.”
Hymas reached under the counter and pulled out a small pouch.
“Send my greetings to your master as well, and thank him for supplying that special order last week. Here is the payment. Also—” he went to the other side of the stall and retrieved a scroll from a small desk, “—give him this order.”
Onesimus took the pouch and the scroll, both neatly tied with a strip of leather. “Yes, domine.”
Two women had come up behind Onesimus while they were talking, and Hymas dismissed him with another wave and turned his attention them. Hymas was laconic and all business. He was never rude, though, and Onesimus liked him because he didn’t treat him with disdain like some of the other shopkeepers.
Now for some activities and fun of his own. He scanned the square and saw with dismay that many of the small food stands had already closed their shutters for the day. Still, one of his favorite places was always open late: a popina at one corner of the square, run by a freedman named Novius, who was kind to slaves. He offered wine, hot food, and simple snacks. He often met other slaves there, though it served freedpeople, too, of course.
He checked his money pouch and headed over. As he entered, Novius gave him a wave and pointed to a table, where he saw Statius, a slave of Veturius, a town magistrate. He made his way over and sat down.
“Statius, how’s the day for you?”
He raised his head to show sleepy eyes. “Onesimus. Busy. The master had me running all over the square and half of the city today. Preparations for Robigalia are making me old before my time. And we just finished Parilia! There are too many festivals in the month of Aprilis.” He lifted his cup and took a slow sip.
A female slave appeared and Onesimus ordered a cup of watered wine and a bowl of stuffed dates. “There are a lot. Robigalia is next week.”
“Five days. Aren’t you preparing for it?”
“Not really. Philemon follows that Syrian sect, remember? He recognizes the festivals, but we don’t really celebrate like we used to.”
“What does the family do on festival days?”
“Oh, they attend the public ceremonies, they just don’t hold household sacrifices or ceremonies. And they didn’t run in the Lupercalia last year. You’d almost think them atheists. We do get Saturnalia, though, thank the gods.”
“It’s true that some of these foreign religions are strange. Have you heard about what the Isis women do?!”
Onesimus grinned. “Yeah—now maybe that would be a religion worth examining!” They both laughed, and turned to talk about other doings of the slaves and masters of Colossae.
*
Much later, Onesimus realized it must be close to dusk. He excused himself, dropped a few coins on the table, and left. Shadows stretched across the forum. No time for dice or a romp with Nanilia at the brothel. He swore and hurried across the square and up the street.
Thirty minutes later, he stole through the gateway at the back of the compound, sweating in the chilly night. This way was longer than going through the front gate, but it also ensured that no one from the villa would see him. Still, he had to get the pouch to Philippus.
It was dark now. He wanted to see Turia, too, but if he waited too late, she would be asleep with the rest of the female servants in her hutment. He hurried down the path to the servants’ quarters. He heard the creaking of the mill house to his left. The character of the sound told him that the gears were disengaged—which meant it was even later than he thought.
He neared Turia’s hutment and crept underneath her window. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he whispered.
“Turia.”
He waited a few moments. Then, a little louder: “Turia!”
A head appeared in the window.
“Shhh! I’ll be right out.”
Onesimus backtracked and waited below the pungent branches of a large spreading oak. A shadowy form emerged from the darkness. They embraced without a word, then she pulled away and looked into his face.
“What are you doing here so late?”
“I had to go into town to pick on an errand. I stayed longer than I intended.”
“As usual. You’re stupid to waste your time and risk punishment.” She paused and tilted her head. “Money?”
“Yes, money,” he replied. “Is that all you think about?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No. What I think about is you and I getting our freedom.”
“I know, I know. Me, too.” Onesimus gazed at her. She was so beautiful. “We could get married now, you know. We could ask. I’ll bet Philemon would say yes. ‘Married slaves means more slaves,’ as the saying goes.”
“We have discussed that. We’re not getting married until we are free. Married slaves are worth much more, which gives us less chance of being granted the right to buy our freedom.”
Onesimus sighed. “It’s just taking so long. And I don’t really like taking money from Philemon.”
“What?! You, of all people, having a sudden attack of loyalty? What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” said Turia. “We have no other option. We could never earn enough for the redemption price. It isn’t fair. But no one will miss a little here and there. We aren’t hurting anyone. We get married after.”
He looked up toward the villa up the hill.
“Onesimus—this was your idea. I just worked out the details. You want this as bad as I do.”
He sighed. “Yes, I do. I don’t know. I’m just impatient, I guess. But you’re right.
“Yes, of course I am. So, how much today?”
“Not a lot.” He pulled out the pouch and she snatched it from him and worked open the drawstring. “So how much?” she asked again.
“Ten silver drachmas.”
“Let’s take one this time.”
”I wish Hymas used smaller denominations.” She took a single coin out and handed the pouch back. He pulled it tight and tucked it away.
“Okay.” He smiled at her again. “As much as I want to stay with you, I had better get this to Philippus. He will be frustrated with me as it is. Meet at the mill after second watch?”
She shook her head. “No, my dear. Claudia is getting suspicious.”
“So? She’s too much of a mouse to say anything.”
“No,” She said. “Maybe in a few days.”
He grunted in frustration. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
She gave him a quick kiss on the lips and disappeared into the shadows.
She was the only person who had ever cared for him. He had never known his parents. Raised in the slave market, he was hired out periodically until Philemon bought him six years ago, at the age of thirteen. His life here was certainly better than it had been in the slave market. Yet he knew, in his bones, that he was destined for something more. But he had to have his freedom first. Slaves did not amount to anything, even if they were as educated as he was (thanks to the slave master back in Moesian). Educated slaves brought higher prices.
He crossed the footbridge, trudged up the hill, and stopped near the top. He saw no lit lamps or candles, nor could he hear any voices. Neither family nor slaves were on the patio. He turned left onto the walkway that led to the side of the house and Philippus’ little shack.
The quarters of Philippus were nothing extravagant, but wonderful for a slave. Larger and better insulated than the slave quarters, it had its own fireplace, a wooden door, and actual windows with wooden shutters.
He knocked, and soon the door creaked open to reveal the head of Philippus. Beyond, Onesimus could see his wife, Phryne, sitting at a table. A door behind her showed darkness, but Onesimus could make out two small figures, eyes peering into the room, unmoving.
“Sorry to disturb you, Philippus. I have a pouch of money for the treasury from Hymas. He held it out.
“I expected you back over two hours ago.”
“Yes, I, uh, got caught up in town talking to a slave of Hymas, and then—”
“There’s always an excuse.”
Onesimus was taken aback. Philippus often criticized him, but like a grandfather clucking over a mischievous but lovable grandchild. This was sharp and abrupt.
“Why so stern, Philippus?”
Philippus sighed and softened a bit. “Onesimus, I know your heart. But a slave must be responsible and punctual, or he may find himself demoted. Or punished. Or sold. And I do not need to tell you that most masters are not as kind or forgiving as Philemon. But even he has limits.”
Onesimus had heard this before, though not this harshly. He had done as he was told, what was the problem?
“The money is here, Philippus, as required. It couldn’t be needed before tomorrow. It’s not even an inconvenience.”
“You miss the point.” Philippus sighed and looked firmly into his eyes. “Your job is to do the tasks as the master assigns—not to dally around like a freedperson. Moreover, your actions are an inconvenience to me. It’s late and I have a family. I don’t suppose that crossed your mind.”
Anger grew in Onesimus. As if Philippus’ life was inconvenient! What an overcompensated dullard! He has a lovely little place up on the hill—right beside the villa, no less!—not in a bug-infested hollow with the rest of the slaves!
But Onesimus knew that being repentant would get him farther than saying what he thought. “I’m sorry, Philippus. The truth is, the market was crowded, and I took a wrong turn coming back. I didn’t want to tell you because I felt stupid.”
Philippus sighed. Onesimus could barely see his eyes, so he could not read the emotions in them.
Finally, he spoke. “Very well, Onesimus. I know you mean no harm. But take more care. Please.”
Onesimus was relieved. “I will. See you on the morrow!”
He turned and stepped off the small stone porch.
“Onesimus.”
He stopped and looked back. “Yes?”
“The master wants to see you right after breakfast tomorrow. First thing. Don’t be late.”
Onesimus heart sank. Something in the tone of Philippus’ voice told him it was not another errand. “About—what?”
“I don’t know. He was irritated tonight on account of your delay.”
Onesimus felt a moment of panic. Was it possible Philemon had discovered the missing money? They had been taking so little! And he always altered the account books kept in the shed to hide it. It can’t be that.
But he wished they had not taken the single silver coin this time.
Onesimus is a gripping historical novel that brings to life the transformative journey of Onesimus, a runaway slave in the Roman Empire. Seamlessly blending historical accuracy with rich storytelling, McDowell explores themes of freedom, faith, and redemption.
Follow Onesimus as he navigates the complexities of early Christian communities, encounters the apostle Paul, and grapples with his own identity and purpose. This compelling narrative not only illuminates a lesser-known biblical figure but also offers timeless reflections on justice, human dignity, and spiritual transformation.
Available from select retailers in paperback and eBook. Audiobook coming in 2024.
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