I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“Was that truly necessary?”

The question echoed softly in the marbled corridor, spoken in a tone that hovered between curiosity and reproach. The sharp scent of oil lamps and the distant murmur of senators dispersing from the hall still lingered in the air, heavy with the residue of judgment passed.

The session had ended. Pompey’s fate was sealed by Caesar’s firm hand, his verdict final. With dignity veiling cold pragmatism, Caesar exited the Senate hall flanked by his fellow Emperor, Crassus. A few paces behind them walked Nathan—silent, composed, yet ever observant. A shadow at their heels.

Octavius, ever the strategist, had lingered briefly behind to deliver a calculated post-session address—an elegant performance of rhetoric and loyalty. But Nathan had seen it for what it was: a masterful piece of gaslighting, designed to shape the narrative and justify Caesar’s ruthlessness in the public eye. Octavius had always excelled at these subtle manipulations.

Now, as they entered the portico that led toward the private quarters, Caesar cast a sidelong glance at his companion.

“Did you have other thoughts, Crassus?” Caesar’s voice was casual, but the undertone was unmistakable: he expected honesty, yet would forgive none.

Crassus let out a soft breath, rubbing the ring on his forefinger. “I wonder,” he said cryptically, though his tight-lipped expression betrayed a twinge of discomfort. Despite all, Pompey had been a cornerstone of their shared past—ally, rival, brother-in-arms.

“I share your sorrow,” Caesar replied, his tone softening as he placed a reassuring hand on Crassus’s shoulder. “But we extended every offer of clemency. He had every opportunity to recant, to return to us. He chose pride over penance. Death came by his own stubbornness, not our hands.”

Crassus gave a faint nod, eyes flickering toward the young man trailing them.

“And now this one accompanies you?” His lips curled in a half-smile, laced with amusement. “Is it true, then? The whispers about Nathan being your third strong hand? After Marcus Antonius and young Octavius?”

A grin tugged at Caesar’s mouth. “You should have seen him in Alexandria,” he said, nostalgia painting his words. “Even Cleopatra couldn’t hide her envy when I kept him close. The boy possesses remarkable potential. Should he choose to remain loyal—truly loyal—then I will ensure that all of Rome’s bounty is within his reach.”

Though spoken as praise, Nathan recognized the veiled warning. Caesar’s generosity was bound by obedience. A subtle reminder of what could be gained—or lost.

Crassus hummed in thought, now studying Nathan with a keener eye. It was rare—almost unheard of—for Caesar to speak of anyone so reverently. Only Marcus Antonius and Octavius had received such praise before. The boy must have been special indeed.

“Come, Crassus,” Caesar said, gesturing forward as they entered the domus’ grand triclinium. “Let us not allow the fall of an old companion to mar our spirits. We still serve the Republic. We still serve Rome.”

The room they entered was opulent yet severe, befitting two Emperors of Rome. Long couches adorned with crimson and gold fabrics lined the space, and in the center, an array of dishes awaited them—roasted peacocks, honeyed dormice, platters of oysters, bowls of olives soaked in wine, and delicate pastries shaped like laurel leaves. At either side of the table stood two empty seats, already prepared. Around the room, silent servants with iron slave collars bowed low, awaiting instruction.

But before they could seat themselves, the heavy door creaked open again.

An unexpected guest entered.

Licinia.

Her arrival seemed almost theatrical. The young woman swept into the hall like a goddess descended from a fresco—graceful, radiant, and entirely aware of the stir she caused. Her white Roman stola clung to her frame in a way that was carefully scandalous, revealing just enough skin to draw attention without betraying dignity. Her dark brown hair had been braided into an elaborate crown atop her head, glinting with gold-threaded ribbons, and her skin gleamed with perfumed oil, casting a faint sheen in the lamplight.

Crassus blinked in surprise, a curious smile forming on his face. “Daughter…” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and resignation. He was no fool. He knew what she sought—and more importantly, who.

Caesar stepped forward, his smile widening. “Just when I thought Rome itself could not offer me another wonder,” he said, taking Licinia’s hand and kissing it lightly.

Licinia giggled, a musical sound practiced to perfection. “Oh, my Emperor,” she said demurely. “I do hope I’m not intruding. I came to dine with you—if you and my dear father would have me.”

“Not at all,” Caesar replied, his eyes glinting with approval. “Are we, Crassus?”

Crassus chuckled, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “Never. I could never be disturbed by my daughter’s company.”

Licinia’s gaze swept over Nathan briefly as she entered, her attention flickering toward him with fleeting interest. There was something sharp in his eyes, something unreadable—but whatever curiosity she might have held vanished just as quickly. He wasn’t the man she had come for.

“I have personally overseen the preparation of Rome’s finest dishes tonight, my Emperor,” she said with a silken smile, her voice thick with practiced charm. “Allow me to bring it to you myself.”

Caesar’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he reclined slightly into his cushioned seat beside Crassus. “Then I await you with baited breath, lovely Licinia.”

She dipped into a graceful bow, her figure slipping away through a side passage like a specter of perfume and purpose.

Nathan’s eyes lingered on her retreating form. He watched her until the door eased shut behind her. There was something far too polished in her performance—too rehearsed. But he said nothing.

In a quieter corridor removed from the main hall’s chatter, Licinia walked briskly until she found what she was looking for. A servant stood near the preparation table, carefully balancing a grand, golden platter—roast meat glistening under layers of honeyed glaze and fragrant spices. The centerpiece of the evening’s meal.

“You may leave,” she said softly.

The servant, trained never to question, bowed and vanished without a word.

Alone now, Licinia moved swiftly. Her eyes darted once, twice, thrice around the hallway—confirming her isolation. Then, from the folds of her stola, she retrieved a delicate glass vial—its surface etched with strange runes, its contents a pale, almost luminous liquid.

The old woman’s words whispered through her mind.

“Just a drop, my dear… and his heart will be yours. Mind, body, soul. Even Caesar himself would fall at your feet.”

Licinia smirked. Foolish old men and their politics. Caesar is mine now. Rome will follow.

She uncorked the vial with a quiet pop and tilted it over the roasted meat, her hand steady. The liquid flowed in thin, glistening trails, soaking into the flesh. She made sure to coat every part—each tender fold and crevice—before flinging the vial into the nearby brazier. The fire hissed, devouring the evidence.

“With this… you will finally belong to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation.

“Who will belong to you?”

The sudden voice slashed through the silence like a dagger.

Licinia’s entire body jolted, her breath catching in her throat as she spun around. The platter slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the marble floor with a metallic clang. Pieces of meat scattered, some rolling to the edge of the corridor while others remained precariously perched on the platter.

She looked down at the ruined meal in horror, then slowly raised her eyes.

Standing before her, calm as a statue, was Nathan.

His crimson gaze was fixed on her—not accusing, not amused, but quietly disappointed.

“You!” she hissed. “What did you do?!”

Nathan tilted his head, a faint smirk curling his lips. “I didn’t do anything. You dropped it.”

“How dare

you speak to me like that?” she snapped, her cheeks flushing crimson. “You’re nothing but a mongrel tagging along after Caesar’s heels. I am Licinia Crassa, daughter of Marcus Licinius Crassus!” She knelt down, her hands trembling as she tried to salvage what was left of the dish. By some fortune—or divine irony—the largest piece of the roasted chicken remained untouched, still balanced on the platter.

As she reached for it, Nathan stepped forward, crouched beside her, and casually plucked a knife from the floor. With fluid motion, he sliced into the meat, raised a piece to his lips, and ate it.

Licinia froze.

“What are you doing?!”

He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. Then shook his head.

“As I thought. It doesn’t work.”

Her stomach knotted. “W–what doesn’t work…?” she asked, trying to sound indignant, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Had he figured it out?

How?

She had been so careful…

Nathan’s voice dropped to a cold whisper. “Your little love potion. Whatever you smeared all over this poor chicken. It’s useless.”

Licinia’s expression contorted between shock and fury. “You insolent—!”

She rose to her feet, her hand arcing through the air toward his cheek.

But Nathan caught it. Effortlessly. His grip was firm, unyielding, and his gaze bore into hers like ice through glass.

Her breath hitched. The bravado crumbled.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten.

He merely held her there, as if weighing her soul.

“If you don’t believe me…” he said, voice low and deliberate, “taste it yourself.”

With swift motion, he lifted another piece of meat from the platter, its juices still dripping from the blade of his knife. Before Licinia could react, he brought it to her mouth and pressed it past her lips.

Her eyes went wide. “Mmmf—!”

“Swallow,” Nathan said firmly.

Faced with no other choice, she did.

He withdrew the knife cleanly, tossing it aside with casual disdain.

“I told you,” he said, stepping back, “it doesn’t work. It won’t ever work. Not on him.”

Licinia stood frozen, the taste of her own desperation still on her tongue. Her hands clenched into trembling fists, her body burning with humiliation.

Never—never—had she been treated like this.

A servant. A low-born. A stranger! Daring to humiliate her, the daughter of Crassus!

Licinia stood trembling, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails bit into the soft flesh of her palms. Her pride was in tatters, scattered like the meat across the marble floor. And yet, Nathan—that man—walked away without so much as a second glance, his expression calm, indifferent, as though she were nothing more than an annoying insect he’d swatted aside.

Her breath was shallow. Her eyes burned with unshed tears—not of sorrow, but of rage. The audacity! The humiliation! The sheer, impossible arrogance!

I’ll make him pay… I swear it…

But then, something changed.

She blinked once.

Then again.

Her gaze, fixed with venom upon Nathan’s retreating figure, began to waver. The corridor seemed to ripple slightly around the edges. Her knees trembled as a sudden wave of heat surged up her spine, crawling over her skin like molten silk. Her breath caught in her throat, chest rising and falling too quickly.

“E… Eh…?”

She reached out, instinctively grabbing the edge of the nearby table to steady herself. Her vision blurred. The air suddenly felt heavy—suffocating, laced with something sweet and cloying. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she nearly stumbled, catching herself with trembling arms.

A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.

Her entire body was growing warm—too warm. Not from embarrassment. Not from anger. But from something… invasive. Something chemical.

Her eyes slowly dropped to the platter still resting on the floor. The piece of chicken she had just been forced to taste stared back at her like a smug omen.

Her lips parted slightly as horror dawned across her face.

The vial.

The aphrodisiac.

She had eaten it.

A strangled gasp escaped her throat.

“No…” she whispered.

Even though he said it doesn’t work!

So why?

But her body betrayed her. A flush bloomed across her cheeks and collarbone, spreading like wildfire. Her breath came faster, her skin tingling in a way that felt unfamiliar—unwelcome. Her thighs pressed instinctively together as a low, hot pulse throbbed deep in her belly.

“No… no… NOOOOOOOO!!!”

Her cry of despair echoed through the empty corridor like a wounded animal’s scream.