Maximus did not have the chance to call for Antony. The desperate call for assistance came that very night from Biebe, requesting help with the overly agitated former Roman General.

When Sophia opened the door to their guests, Juba felt a sudden urge to protect her from what was ahead. He slid between Sophia and Antony and blocked her from sight.

“I am not … violent, my friend. Sophia?” Antony stretched his neck to see her around Juba. “We thank you for your hospitality, my lady.”

Within moments Claudia and Sophia were fussing over the baby, as women are wont to do, and the men stood alone in the foyer. Antony, his eyes wild with fear and displaced anger … Juba, his concerns leaning toward overreaction … and Maximus, who simply corralled them all into the den. Antony had little to say, his embarrassment clear and his host desperate to relieve him of that discomfort.

“Antony, do not concern yourself,” Maximus poured wine. “What has happened is not of your making. I fear … it is mine.”

“And how so,” Antony sipped and nodded pleasure at the fine quality of the wine. “Am I not capable? Am I not able?”

Juba quietly interrupted. “Perhaps, it has little to do with what you are, my friend, but more to do with who you are. At this point in time … who are you, Antony?”

Antony opened his mouth but no words came. The men watched him as casually as possible and he grinned. “I repeat, I am not violent. Even at this point in time. I fear, I am … ashamed. Why has this happened to me?”

Juba settled in the chair, hoping for a long exploration that might assist the troubled man, but to his surprise, Maximus spoke. “We have time to discover all, brother. For now, you are my guest. You will rest and you will take comfort here at my home. I see that Claudia is well?”

“She is,” Antony smiled. “She is indeed, although overly concerned I fear. This is a man’s problem. A problem for but one man to manage.” His eyes shifted from Juba to Maximus and his smile widened. “Let us talk of other things. How is the harvest?”

And thus it went. For several days the men spoke of everything outside of the large concern that consumed them all. The women cooked and laughed and carefully watched, awaiting any sign that they should remove themselves from the company of the men, but none came.

Antony slept soundly, finding restful, easy slumber every night in Claudia’s arms and he soon pondered that perhaps all that was needed was a change of scenery. Of course, he knew well that that was not so; that the demons would return and perhaps sooner than he wished.

Day after day, he worked the fields with Maximus and Juba. They talked and cajoled, compared their memories, toiled and sweat side by side.

Straightening with a grunt, Antony rolled his shoulders and looked to Juba. “You are good at this.”

“I was a farmer, and I was a slave. I have worked hard since my arrival as well. It serves me.”

“I was never a slave,” Antony bent to the grapes, plucking dead leaves and tenderly fingering the budding orbs. “But I have always found most satisfaction in working hard.”

“And now?” Maximus said, standing not far away and listening.

“And now? Now I am sedentary. I spend my days watching monitors and never taking action.”

“Ah, then you do your job of security and protection well,” Juba sighed.

“Perhaps. Or, perhaps I do no job at all. It was my hopes to work with Thorne. His company finds action far more frequently than overseeing a comfortable holiday resort.”

“Yes, you are correct,” Maximus ran an arm across his brow. “Thorne and O’Leary are a most active organization. I worked many years at their side.”

“And why would you leave?” Now Antony was still, staring with disbelief at the former gladiator who casually shrugged like a born product of these times.

“I was tired, brother. Bone tired and in need of settling. I am and always have been a farmer. It is the food of my being. This soil. These grapes.” His hand swept toward the lovely house. “That family. I am nourished. What nourishes you, Antony?”

“Action.”

“Then why do you not pursue the work you describe with Mr. Thorne?” Juba asked, his seeming concentration on the vines but his mind solely focused on the conversation.

“That is simple. Claudia.”

Maximus made no such pretense at work. He lowered to sit on the ground and the men joined him. “Tell me of your connection with your woman.”

Antony leaned back on outstretched arms, his eyes squinting against the high sun and he sighed. “She is a good woman. A strong woman. But … I fear a woman who would not be pleased if I worked with Thorne. To do that work, one must be away for months. This, I am used to, as you my brother Maximus are too.”

“What does Claudia bring to you, Antony?” Maximus’ question was pointed and meant to rattle.

“I say, these are things I chose not to share.”

“Outside of your bed, Antony … what does she bring?”

The sounds of insects intensified and Antony let his mind slide to that bed, to the words he had shared with Claudia and the touch he would be bereft without. He thought of Atia, of Cleopatra. He thought of the many slaves and farmer’s daughters across the Empire who had satisfied him physically, whether willingly or not. And he thought of his own heart, beating sure and strong and all the stronger when near to Claudia. “She brings me a peace. A comfort … but …”

“I fear she is only a part of what you need, my friend,” Juba sighed.

“She is more than satisfactory,” hissed Antony defensively.

Maximus spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. “Why have you not taken her as wife?” 

“I desire such. But … the time has never been quite … right. And now again, it is not quiet right … or I would not be here, a fearful child remembering a frivolous death.”

Juba and Maximus looked to each other and held their breath.

“Is that how you believe it? To be frivolous?” Juba gasped, fearing that Antony’s pain ran far deeper than he had thought.  

“At times, yes. Were I dead … as I was meant to be … I would not have historians’ comments to deal with, would not have time to reevaluate my actions and decisions … I would never have known that Cleopatra had deceived me ... would not have had the need to care one way or another. The death was honorable in the midst of dishonor.

“But, my brothers … I face things you do not. I was real, not a fiction. I suffered the experiences in life and now the view of history regarding me. Me. I am judged daily.”

“But … you must understand that it is not you they judge. Should you view another version of your life … and there are many … it will be again different.”

“Exactly,” Antony hissed and threw his hands in the air. “I am but a mere interpretation of whichever generation finds my story intriguing. But it is not these things alone that tear at me. It is … it is …”

“You have not found your footing,” Juba said clearly. “Who are you, Antony?”

Irritation ragged inside his heart and he stood, paced and glared down at the men. “I am a man! I am a General! Favored of Julius Caesar! I am Tribune of Rome! I am a –”

“No,” said Maximus, his low voice quieting the anger snapping in Antony’s heart. “You are no longer a general, my brother. No longer favored of your Caesar. No longer Tribune of Rome. Only one description from your own lips is true. You are a man. As we are men.”

Antony looked lost. Confusion rattled his mind and he strode away several yards; yards that became a mile that became two. He sat alone and watched the sun set on the steamy horizon and he wondered. If he was a man and nothing more … what does a man and nothing more … do?

He searched his memories for guideposts. Yes he woke alone and was driven by the anger of what appeared to be Titus Pullo’s betrayal. Yes he faced insurmountable difficulties but he was a Roman General. What else could he do? It was not the first time he had faced a strange country and learned a strange language, nor the first time he had acclimated to strange cultures or even stranger attitudes. He had spanned the Roman Empire and managed well, why should he have not done the same when following Pullo?

But there were words Juba spoke that ate at his stubborn resolve. He had not found his footing. He had not. And for the first time since waking in the pits of the filthy prison cells of the deteriorating Roman Coliseum and determined to punish Pullo as a traitor … he began to wonder if the foothold he was trying desperately to survive by … was wrong.

“Do you pray to the gods? What do they say to you?”

Antony turned to see Juba, sitting still and silent not five feet away. Had the man been there the entire time? Watched over him? Stood ready to protect him?

“The gods?” Antony sighed. “There were times I did so in private. Ceremonial times I did so in public. But they have said nothing to me, Juba. The gods have never spoken to me, my friend.”

“But they have. And,” Juba stood and turned to leave, looking over his shoulder just once. “They continue to speak to you through your good woman.”

Antony watched him walk away in the dying light.