I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Fulvius’s voice cut through the vast chamber like the crack of a whip.

“Under Caesar’s rule, you abused your power. He granted you privileges—yet you sold your souls for them.”

His words echoed beneath the soaring arches of the Senatorial Assembly Hall, housed within the Theatre of Pompey. The marble columns, towering like ancient judges themselves, reflected the trembling light of torches and the wavering breaths of the condemned.

Before him, dozens of senators—once proud allies of Julius Caesar—knelt in ragged lines, their robes stained with dust and sweat. Their foreheads pressed against the icy stone floor, as if begging the earth itself for mercy.

Their judgments were carried out in groups.One batch brought in, weighed, and condemned—then escorted out for their fate.Another batch brought in next, like cattle to slaughter.

Fulvius spared none whose loyalty to Caesar had been born from greed—none who had cast aside virtue for gold, for rank, for the intoxicating illusion of Caesar’s favor.

Now every one of those men stared into the abyss.

Even during Caesar’s reign, Fulvius had terrified them. He was old, yes—white-haired, with lines carved deep into his face—but he possessed a ruthless experience honed by years of political storms. The only shield they had ever had against him was Caesar’s immense shadow. And now… that shadow had vanished.

Crassus himself had granted Fulvius the authority to pass judgment—absolute and unchallenged—on every senator implicated in corruption. And the amphitheater of senators seated high above the arena confirmed each of his decisions, swayed by his smooth, surgical rhetoric.

Fulvius did not speak to inform. He spoke to wound, to expose, to strip bare the souls of the guilty before the eyes of Rome.

Every word he uttered was finely sharpened to incite disgust in the observing senators. It was a performance of psychological warfare, and the condemned knew it. They knew that anything they said—any defense, any plea, any desperate justification—would be twisted and used against them by Fulvius’s venomous eloquence.

And so they remained silent. Their last shred of dignity was obedience.

When Fulvius demanded answers, they answered honestly—because lies would only shorten their already fleeting hope of survival.Yet honesty had proven little more than a slow execution.

Out of the hundred men judged before them, more than ninety had been sentenced to death. No delays. No rites. They were taken straight from judgment to execution, the sentence carried out before their knees could stop shaking.

Only the few who had served Caesar out of fear rather than ambition had been spared. Those “fortunate” men lost everything—wealth, titles, property—and were exiled beyond Rome’s borders. A harsh mercy, but one that at least left them breathing.

Now Fulvius raised his voice again, cold and without hesitation.

“Because of your shameless devotion to that vile man, you have dragged Rome’s honor through filth. You bathed in the blood of the poor—and reveled in it. Today, that ends.” His eyes were merciless. “Death is the only answer for men like you.”

A collective shudder rippled through the kneeling ranks.

“W…Wait—!””Please, mercy! Mercy!””Caesar forced us! We had no choice!”

Their cries were thin, pitiful things.

“Take them out,” Fulvius commanded.

Roman soldiers advanced without emotion, seizing the trembling senators by the arms and hauling them toward the exit. Their screams faded down the stone corridor, swallowed by the vastness of the hall.

When the chamber finally fell silent, Fulvius turned to the gathered senators above, bowing slightly.

“My thanks for your patience,” he said, his voice smooth once again. “But the cleansing of Rome is far from over. To rebuild this Republic without corruption, we must still root out the remaining vermin.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and gave a small, crisp nod.

“We will resume the judgments this afternoon. For now, take your well-earned rest.”

With that, Fulvius swept his crimson cloak behind him and strode out of the hall, leaving the air heavy with fear, justice, and the faint scent of death.

As Fulvius stepped out of the judgment hall, the heavy doors closing behind him with a dull thud, the corridor welcomed him with a cooler, quieter air. His expression remained composed—calm, almost serene—despite the weight of executions hanging on his shoulders. The long marble passage stretched ahead, lit by evenly spaced braziers whose flames cast wavering gold across the polished floor.

It was there that he noticed Crassus.

The statesman stood a few meters away, speaking softly with an elderly figure garbed in ceremonial white. The old Pope of the Athena Church—once a spiritual pillar of Rome, later exploited by Caesar—leaned heavily on a carved staff. His age was evident in the stoop of his back and the tremor in his hands, the exhaustion clinging to him after days of torment.

Caesar had kept him alive not out of mercy, but strategy—reserving him as a religious puppet once he seized absolute power. They had found the poor man chained in the depths beneath Caesar’s private estate, half-starved, half-conscious, but alive. Now, though fatigued and pale, he had returned as swiftly as he could, compelled by duty and shame alike.

“You still haven’t found that vile man?” the Pope asked, his voice raspy with age and strain.

“Not yet,” Crassus replied patiently. “But you should be resting—for your health, and for Rome’s. We will need your guidance in the days to come. I’ll assign guards to ensure your safety.”

The Pope exhaled, a small sigh of gratitude. “I appreciate that, Crassus. And… I must apologize.” His wrinkled hands clenched around his staff. “I granted Caesar more trust than you. I truly, foolishly believed he sought Rome’s well-being.”

Crassus smiled gently, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “That’s behind us now. Caesar and his corruption are gone. Rome can rise again—stronger, cleaner, united.”

The Pope nodded, relief softening his worn features. But his gaze shifted when he saw Fulvius approaching, his face tightening with something more complex—guilt, shame, and an old, heavy regret.

“Fulvius…” he murmured, voice strained.

The name alone carried years of memory.

How many times had Fulvius warned him?

How many times had he insisted that Caesar’s ambition was poison, that his charm masked ruthlessness, that he cared not for Rome but only for himself?

And how many times had the Pope dismissed him… believing Fulvius’s harsh words were born from envy, not truth?

“As Crassus said,” Fulvius spoke before the Pope could stumble through an apology, his tone steady and almost gentle, “let us leave the past where it belongs.”

He paused, eyes meeting the old man’s with a calm but firm understanding.”And walk forward.”

The Pope bowed his head, visibly moved. “Indeed. I have made many grave mistakes. As the messenger of Athena and a pillar of Rome, I acted blindly. It will not happen again.”

Fulvius inclined his head. “As long as you have learned to trust wisely.”

“I have,” the Pope said with quiet conviction. “And I shall rest now, as you advised.”

He offered both men a final nod, then slowly made his way down the corridor, his footsteps echoing softly until he disappeared around the corner.

When the Pope’s footsteps finally faded into silence, Fulvius turned fully toward Crassus, the calmness on his face giving way to a more serious expression.

“He is still not found?” Fulvius asked quietly, though his tone carried weight.

Crassus exhaled and shook his head. “No. Not a trace.”

Fulvius’s jaw tightened. “The same goes for that boy. He planned every thread of this grand upheaval, yet on the very day the Republic begins anew, he chooses not to appear.”

Crassus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It seems he was gravely injured… in that confrontation with one of the Guardian Wolves.”

Fulvius chuckled under his breath, though there was admiration in it. “He truly fought it. Sometimes I wonder if the boy is remarkable… or absolutely mad.”

“Certainly a mix of both,” Crassus muttered with a faint, helpless smile. “But still—he spoke endlessly about bringing Caesar down. He seemed obsessed with it. I’m surprised he didn’t make his presence known now that it’s finally been achieved.”

“Yes… but regardless,” Fulvius said, his tone sharpening again, “we must find him, Crassus. Absolutely. Rome cannot move forward without understanding what he intends.”

Crassus nodded. His hesitation was visible before he finally voiced what was gnawing at him.

“And… what of Pompey?”

The question hung between them like a heavy fog.

Pompey had surrendered himself. Even though he had distanced himself from Caesar, his alliance with Cleopatra and his plans to march on Rome could not be ignored. He would stand trial—and Fulvius would sit among the judges.

“He will face judgment like any other man,” Fulvius said sternly, folding his hands behind his back. “But since his sins were born as reactions to Caesar’s treachery… he will not be executed.”

Crassus released a slow breath of relief.

“But,” Fulvius continued, his voice firm as iron, “he no longer has a place in Rome.”

Crassus nodded. “That is fair. And… for the best.”

Fulvius’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “That is your problem, Crassus—you are too lenient with your friends.”

Crassus gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Should I be wary of you, then, Fulvius?”

The old man laughed—a low, rasping sound. “Do you truly think I desire the throne?”

“Perhaps,” Crassus said honestly.

Fulvius’s laugh grew richer, even mocking. “Perhaps I did, once. I could scarcely stomach seeing three clowns occupying Rome’s highest seats.” His voice turned biting as he named them. “Caesar, Pompey, and… you.”

Crassus blinked, caught somewhere between offense and confusion.

“But,” Fulvius continued, and his tone softened—for him, at least—”things change. And you… you have finally matured, thankfully. Besides, I am far too old to chase crowns.”

There was a glimmer in his eyes as he smiled.

“More importantly,” Fulvius said, his voice lowering, “that boy made something very clear to me.”

Crassus’s heartbeat quickened.

“He said that you… will be the one to hold the Throne of Rome.”

Crassus immediately understood who he meant—Septimius. Nathan.

Why him?

Was it because Crassus was softer?

Because he owed the young man that much?

Because Nathan wanted a leader he could influence?

Or was it something else entirely?

No answer came.

Fulvius simply gave him a knowing look.

Crassus inhaled. “Let’s hope he returns soon, then—”

“My emperor!”

A soldier sprinted down the corridor, breathless, beaming with excitement.

“My emperor! Lord Septimius is back!”