The evening meal was pleasant and peaceful. Antony seemed subdued in ways
that concerned Juba, but he could not determine how to ease those concerns. Was he perhaps attempting to assist where he was fully incapable of such assistance? Had he begun to walk a trail far too thorny and dangerous for the likes of him; a mere hunter turned slave turned visitor in a strange time and land?

The house was silent, all asleep in their separate rooms when Juba lay staring at the ceiling. He had surely started something he could not finish and it would all be for nothing. His heart ached. Antony was a pleasant sort, an entertaining man with deep pain that perhaps no one could reach.

Frustration gave way to the ache of failure and Juba rose, dressed and walked out of the house. He sat on the steps of the front porch and watched the night world of Maximus’ vineyard. The land was magic, sparked with mystical qualities that made Juba sense a belonging. It was perfect. Far more accommodating than his large warehouse deep in the bustle of London.

But there were similarities. He had made his empty space alive with activity and production. Several skilled men learned from him and helped craft beautiful furniture that sold for high prices around the world. The problems lie outside his domain. When Juba left the warehouse at night he was broken, lost, sad. It is the reason he had built an apartment high in the rafters of the warehouse, a private place within the energy of what he had created. But there was a downfall to this solution. Juba had become a recluse, had lived alone and silent, day and night within the walls of his limited universe. It was the reason he chose to move outside of it and see some of the world as it had become in this time. He had released his sales representative and chosen to take the trip to America himself … stretch his boundaries … learn what he could learn … and sell his quality hand-made furniture along the way. It had been successful on a number of levels.

And it had sprouted a number of ugly realities he had been ignoring.

Like Antony, Juba had no one to help acclimate him into his new reality. A man of courage is but courageous when he knows his enemy. Juba was unaware that he had an enemy, much less that it dwelled deep within himself. Like Antony, his primary focus was to survive, to thrive, to live.

As a star soared a brilliant aching streak then died in the dark heavens, Juba suddenly realized that it was not the gods plan to have him find his dear friend, Maximus … it was the gods intention that he find a kindred soul who could assist with his struggle. Contrary to what Juba had labored over for the past several weeks … it was Antony who was to help him … and not he who was to assist Antony. “Ahhhh,” he sighed quietly. “Now I see.”

“What is it you see, brother?”

Juba turned to Antony standing over him, handing down a chilled bottle of beer and smiling his affable grin. He joined Juba on the step and together they sipped the smooth brew.

“It is late, you are not asleep?” Juba asked.

“It seems I have tired my woman,” Antony said with a grin that quickly dropped. “But not myself … again.”

Juba nodded and waited, knowing he had much to learn and wishing to find the way for them both.

Antony sighed. “Juba, you must have lost much when you were abruptly shifted to this world.”

“No, my friend. I had lost everything long before that moment. Lost it all when I was stolen from my village in Africa and taken into slavery.”

“Tell me about … your village, about the life you lost.”

Juba sipped again and set the bottle aside. He rolled his neck and began, a sad smile on his lips as he spoke. “I was a hunter. My village was small but situated in a perfect valley, lush with game and growth, a tender river that flowed through it. We were but fifty, perhaps sixty, no more.

“I would hunt. The women would gather berries and roots, collect wood for the fires, water from the river. It was peaceful … most times.”

“There were wars?” Antony was watching Juba’s profile.

He chuckled. “Wars? Men such as yourself and Maximus would not call them wars but there were battles. At times another, less fortunate village would attempt to take our land and we would fight. We would all fight. Old and young, men and women and children and we had always been victorious in protecting what was ours.”

“Tell me about your family.”

Tears gathered in Juba’s eyes but his voice was strong and clear, melodious in his deep timbre and soulful in its meaning. “My wife … my wife was a beautiful woman. Plump. A joyful lover and happy in her labors. She was kind and well loved among the villagers. I was blessed by the gods to have won her.” He sighed softly. “My daughters were pretty, playful … happy children. I have missed them every moment since I was taken.”

Antony was silent for several moments. The night creatures too had quieted and he pondered these things. Finally clearing his throat, he spoke. “You see, Juba … I envy you those memories. I find that I have no memories of what occurred in my life before the damned beginning of my show. Nothing. I have struggled to recall my mother, siblings, friendships … but cannot. I have done historical research to locate the facts of such things but what I read does not feel like a part of me. It is a strange and frustrating thing … to look for a memory that is not there. Could it be that something had gone amiss in my transfer to this world?”

Juba’s brows knotted. “This is most interesting.”

“Yes,” Antony nodded. “I have spoken long with Biebe and Maximus and the others. It is assumed that the memories they hold dear, memories that had occurred before their actual films, were very likely created by the actor who performed them in the movie. A method of defining the fictitious character that helped the actor perform the part with … believability.”

“It seems to be reasonable,” Juba mused. “Perhaps the actor who created you did not employ such practices in his craft? Perhaps he was focused on the events of the determined … script? Or, it is possible he used personal memories to develop the qualities he wished to portray?”

Antony scowled. “This is most irritating, to face the fact that I am but the product of a lowly actor’s inventiveness.”

Juba nodded, although he did not share the sentiment. “There is another element at play here, brother. Among us, you are in the minority. You are one of only a very select few who come from true historic characters.”

“Yes, I have wondered about that greatly. Myself, Jeffrey Wigand, Roberts, Nash. It is a select few. But I am even more an anomaly, Juba … as I am the product of an actor other than Crowe … as you are.”

“The gods are remarkable in their complexity,” whispered Juba.

Antony snorted. “Remarkable in their sense of humor as well.”

It should have been a startling moment … that very moment when a tall, yellow-haired man, one both Juba and Antony recognized as one of the far northern tribes, perhaps even Germanian … simply appeared before them. He was dressed as most in this time, jeans and a black tee shirt, but his face was as pale as the face of the moon. He smiled and looked around then squared his shoulders and gazed at the two men. “I am looking for Marc Antony.”

“And who are you?” Antony said casually, wondering at the mystical powers of the world all around him, and curious as to why he did not feel a sense of threat from the large man.

“Anotny? My, my, have I got a thousand questions for you, my friend.”

“I choose my friends carefully. Your name?”

“Is unimportant … but as I respect you, I’ll be happy to introduce myself. I am Eric Northman … and I have been charged with a task. I am to deliver something to you.”

“I know no Eric Northman.”

Eric’s eye twinkled. “Do you recall at the Inn? When the lovely Daisy was attacked?”

Antony’s eyes widened. He had studied the security monitor tapes carefully and did in fact recall this yellow haired man. Northman and another had saved Daisy from the killer. Antony stood and reached out a hand. Eric, after a brief hesitation, gripped Antony’s wrist and they nodded an equality, a strange ancient recognition. “What is it you bring?”

The moment the small item was placed into Antony’s palm, Eric Northman simply vanished.

“The gods are remarkable in their complexity,” repeated Juba with a sigh and Antony chuckled.

He sat again and together they examined the tiny statuette.

Juba touched it with his fingertip. “I have seen her before.”

“Yes, I am sure you have. Minerva. This lady is the goddess of wisdom …”

“And,” Juba added,” she is also the goddess of healing in war. How did this come to belong to you?”

“That is most strange, Juba. I recall having it before I was banished to Egypt. Over those years of debauchery, I had passed this talisman into the hands of a very loyal man, a soldier, a friend of Pullo as well. Lucius Vorenus.” He looked up into Juba’s eyes and held the statuette for them both to see. “When I woke in this world, it was among my only possessions.”

“Ahh,” Juba sighed and took the tiny stone Minerva into his own fingers. “This Lucius Vorenus must have placed it on you at your moment of death.”

Antony nodded. “And I, like a fool, have several times attempted to misplace and lose the thing. I purposely left it at the old basement office in the Inn when we moved the security headquarters.”

“The gods are remarkable in their sense of humor,” Juba said with a wide grin. “And … it appears that Minerva will not forsake you. Do you recall how to sacrifice and pray to her?”

Antony’s eyes went blank. “I fear … I fear, Juba … that I never knew.”

Together they watched the slow coming of the sun, the sky paling and the whips of mist blanketing the valleys of the vineyard.

“Perhaps,” Antony said quietly. “Perhaps it is time for me to return to Vermont.”