I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“I can pay you far more than the Pharaoh. Triple, perhaps. Name your price.”

Beneath the golden mask, Nathan’s lips curled into a hidden smirk.

This—this was precisely the outcome he had hoped for.

And it was only just beginning.

“I demand a high price,” Nathan said, his voice low and unwavering, like a blade pressing against a throat. “But what use is gold to a man laid out in a grave?”

Caesar’s brows drew together in a frown. “What are you implying, mercenary?”

Nathan’s eyes, sharp and dark like storm-tossed waves, locked with Caesar’s. There was no fear in them—only cold certainty. “If I accept your offer… if I let Pompey live and turn my back on what I was ordered to do, the Pharaoh will see it for what it is—treachery. Mercy shown to his enemy is betrayal in his eyes. I would become a marked man. The sands of the Amun Ra Empire would offer me no sanctuary. I’d be hunted, relentlessly. Assassins in the night. Poisoned wine. A dagger in the ribs. Not only by Ptolemy’s men, but by mercenaries like myself—hunters paid better than I ever was, sent to erase the shame of my betrayal.”

A tense silence followed his words. Caesar, Marcus Antonius, and even Octavius felt the weight of the possibility settle around them like dust from a crumbling pillar. None of them could deny it. In the ruthless world of empires and shifting loyalties, Nathan’s warning was all too real.

“Then what do you want?” Octavius snapped, his voice laced with irritation, his pride stung. He clearly took offense that a man of Nathan’s low station dared speak with such authority in the presence of emperors and generals.

Nathan met his glare without blinking. “I could ask you the same.”

Before Octavius could react, Nathan took a slow step forward, the shadows of the torchlight playing against the hardened lines of his face. “If I take Pompey’s head now,” he said, his tone calm and measured, “and present it to Ptolemy, I would be paid handsomely. My reputation would remain intact. The Pharaoh would be pleased. I would return home a hero, not a fugitive.”

He turned his gaze on Caesar now, locking eyes with the great general. “Simple. Clean. Efficient. Far less complicated than living the rest of my days on the run. Don’t you agree?”

Octavius’s temper flared. “You insolent cur! You’re a mere sellsword! How dare you speak so directly to Caesar?”

He lunged forward, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword, but Caesar raised a hand, silencing him with a single gesture.

To everyone’s surprise, Caesar chuckled. His eyes glinted with something between amusement and curiosity. “Bold,” he murmured, “and logical. I like that.”

He took a step toward Nathan, clasping his hands behind his back, the folds of his imperial robes rustling faintly. “Then allow me to present an alternative—one that spares you the Pharaoh’s wrath and rewards your boldness.”

Octavius and Marcus Antonius exchanged bewildered glances, but Caesar paid them no mind.

“Leave the Amun Ra Empire behind,” Caesar said. “Serve under my banner instead. I will grant you protection, purpose, and far more than coin. You’ll be part of history.”

“Emperor?!” Octavius gasped, the word falling from his lips as if it had burned his tongue. Even Marcus Antonius seemed taken aback, eyes wide in disbelief.

“This is my will,” Caesar said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of command that could move legions.

Octavius, flustered and red-faced, tried again. “But… my Emperor! He’s a mercenary! A sword for hire with no honor, no loyalty! He’ll turn on us the moment someone offers him more!”

“And what loyalty should I have to men who call me scum?” Nathan’s tone was icy, though he made no move, no threat. “You mistake hired skill for a lack of conviction.”

From his knees, bound and bruised, Pompey scoffed. “He is a traitor. He served me once, then sold his blade to the Pharaoh. Now he’ll sell it again to you. You feed a viper, Caesar.”

Nathan’s eyes flicked to Pompey, but there was no anger, no bitterness—only that same unnerving calm. He didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Instead of replying with another sharp remark, Nathan fell into silence. He stood with arms folded, his expression unreadable, waiting—not with desperation, but with a predator’s patience—for Caesar’s answer.

He had studied the man. Julius Caesar was not someone easily swayed by pride or wounded by insults. Nathan knew the general-turned-emperor had not conquered Gaul and outmaneuvered Rome’s senate by being timid or vain. No, Caesar was not shallow… and certainly not afraid of hiring a dangerous man.

And Nathan was right.

Caesar’s lips curled into a knowing smile, the gleam in his eyes not one of amusement, but strategy. “No,” he said smoothly, his voice echoing like silk over steel. “He does have loyalty—but toward money.”

He turned to face Octavius and Marcus Antonius, his confidence unshaken. “And I trust men loyal to gold more than I trust men who wrap themselves in the illusion of honor. Because gold,” Caesar continued, walking slowly toward Nathan, “does not lie. It does not change its face. If you offer enough of it—more than anyone else can afford—you have secured their loyalty as firmly as a collar on a hound. Simpler. Cleaner. Predictable.”

The sound of his footsteps echoed softly through the stone hall as he closed the distance between them.

“I can only agree,” said another voice—soft, sultry, but tinged with curiosity.

Cleopatra had stepped forward now, her graceful movements fluid like water flowing around obstacles. The sheer elegance of her robes shimmered in the torchlight, and her deep green eyes scanned Nathan with deliberate interest, like a queen sizing up a piece of art—or a weapon.

“He’s quite interesting,” she said, her gaze lingering longer than expected. “I thought my brother had no eye for true talent, but this one… he stands clearly above the rest. He kidnapped Pompey from the center of his army and brought him here without a scratch. That’s no ordinary feat.”

Nathan gave a small shrug, barely acknowledging the compliment. “His army wasn’t that impressive.”

His words hung in the air with calm indifference, as if he were commenting on the weather.

Pompey, still on his knees with his hands bound and his pride shattered, turned his gaze toward Nathan with icy disdain. But he said nothing. Because he couldn’t deny the truth—he had been taken, alone and humiliated, and Nathan had made it look effortless.

Cleopatra’s lips parted ever so slightly as her curiosity deepened. Until now, she had observed in silence, her eyes flicking back and forth like a cat watching the tension between predator and prey. But now, as Nathan spoke so casually of toppling a general’s forces, she felt something stir—something beyond intrigue. This man wasn’t just bold. He was dangerous… and dangerously competent.

“So,” Caesar said, his voice regaining its commanding tone. “What do you say, Septimius?”

He took another step closer, this time extending his hand with the weight of an empire behind it.

“Join my side. Come with me to Rome. I’ll pay you a sum the Pharaoh himself could never match.”

Come with me to Rome.

Those words struck a chord in Nathan’s mind like the clang of a temple bell.

Exactly what he had been looking for.

For weeks now, he had puzzled over how to gain access to the Roman capital—how to move freely among its elite, gather intelligence, and seek the ones he had come for. Slipping into Rome like a ghost and reaching the Empire’s inner circle should have been a near-impossible task.

And yet here it was—offered to him by Julius Caesar himself. Not just access, but favor. Influence. Proximity to the very heart of Roman power.

Ameriah and Auria. First, he would find them. They were the key.

Then… the truth.

The truth about the Hero of the Second Summoning.

Nathan lifted his head, his white hair catching the flickering firelight like a phantom’s crown. His gaze met Caesar’s without fear or hesitation.

“I accept,” he said simply, nodding once.