CHAPTER 75

Mansuetus took to the task with a level of enthusiasm I had not anticipated. His own studies suffered because he spent so much time with Paul and his companions. When he was with them, my son took notes, much as he did when I taught him, on wax tablets. He would bring his notes home, read them to me, smooth over the wax, and get ready for the next day. He somehow talked me into buying stacks of parchment sheets for Luke’s final manuscript even though papyrus would have been much cheaper.

I saw in his eyes the spark of idealism that had fueled my younger years. For me, it had been about restoring the Republic. For Mansuetus, it was this new movement called the Way, with its talk of a different kind of Kingdom. I hurt for my son, knowing that his dreams, like mine, would one day shipwreck on the hard, jagged rocks of Roman reality.

After two months of making notes and rewriting drafts on papyrus, Luke was finally ready to fill the parchment with the stories of Jesus and of Paul. Mansuetus couldn’t wait for me to read it.

They were in the final stages of the project when Mansuetus came home one night clearly distressed. He said hardly a word and kept his eyes on his food. Flavia and I exchanged concerned glances.

“What is bothering you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

It was the response of a son who had been trained in Stoicism but could never hide his true feelings.

“I’m your father. You can talk to me.”

Mansuetus pushed his food around on his plate without speaking. It pained me to see him so reluctant to share something obviously weighing on his heart. It occurred to me that I might be losing his affections to Paul.

“Paul sent Onesimus home today,” Mansuetus eventually said.

“Onesimus the slave?”

“Yes. Paul called him a brother, but he still sent him back.”

“Back where?”

“Back to Philemon of Colossae,” Mansuetus said. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“He had to send him back,” I said. “The man belongs to Philemon. Paul’s in enough trouble as it is.”

“How can one man own another?” Mansuetus asked.

The blunt question caught me a little off guard. What kind of ideas was Paul planting in my son’s head? We treated our slaves with great respect, paid them a fair wage, and eventually set many of them free. But until they earned their freedom, they belonged to us.

“Fate determines who is born free and who is a servant,” I said. “Our job is to play either role well.”

“That’s not what Paul says. He says in his religion everyone is equal. There is no Jew or Greek or male or female. No slave or free, either.”

I noticed Flavia suppressing a smile. She had been trying to tell me that our son was becoming his father, that he had an answer for everything. But on this issue, he shared his mother’s views. Flavia’s first love had died trying to earn his freedom. For that reason, and a thousand others, she hated the whole notion that one man could own another. She was always pushing me to set more of our slaves free.

Mansuetus looked at me with his big brown eyes to see how I would react. Flavia gave me a subtle twist of the head.

“He says all that, yet still he sends Onesimus home?” I asked.

“Hold on,” Mansuetus said. He left the dining room and brought back one of his wax tablets. “Can I read you part of what Paul wrote to Philemon?”

I shrugged. What could it hurt?

“He starts by telling Philemon how much he thanks God for him and for his faith in Jesus. Then he says this: ‘Although in Christ I could be bold and order you to do what you ought to do, yet I prefer to appeal to you on the basis of love. It is as none other than Paul —an old man and now also a prisoner of Christ Jesus —that I appeal to you for my son Onesimus, who became my son while I was in chains. I am sending him —who is my very heart —back to you. Perhaps the reason he was separated from you for a little while was so that you might have him back forever —no longer as a slave, but better than a slave, as a dear brother. So if you consider me a partner, welcome him as you would welcome me.’”

Mansuetus flipped over one piece of wood and continued reading from the next. “‘If he has done you any wrong or owes you anything, charge it to me. Confident of your obedience, I write to you, knowing that you will do even more than I ask.’”

He finished and waited for me to respond. But Flavia jumped in first. “I think I’m beginning to like this man,” she said.

We reclined there for a long while that night, discussing the way we treated our servants even as they cleared our plates and performed the household chores. I agreed that we had an obligation to treat them fairly and help them earn their freedom. If they did, their children would also be born free.

But my radical son was not satisfied. “Paul treated Onesimus as a brother,” Mansuetus argued. “Why should it only be Romans who have rights?”

I reminded myself that I had been the same way at his age. As his instructor, I had spent the last two years teaching him to ask questions and challenge traditional wisdom. I wanted Rome to change, but I wanted it to go back to the days of the Republic. Mansuetus wanted something new and totally different.

I had done my best to teach my son the value of a human soul. Perhaps I had taught him too well.