I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The Theatre of Pompey stood as the very heart of Roman political power, a monumental structure of stone and legacy where the will of the Republic was shaped and, at times, broken. Within it lay the Great Senatorial Hall—an immense amphitheater of tiered marble seats and towering columns—where the most consequential debates, judgments, and decisions of Rome were conducted beneath vaulted ceilings heavy with history.

On this day, not a single seat lay empty.

Every bench, every tier, every elevated platform was occupied by senators of influence and ambition, their white togas edged with purple marking rank and authority. The hall felt heavier than usual, thick with anticipation and restrained unease, as though the walls themselves sensed the gravity of what was about to unfold.

Once, this chamber had been dominated by men loyal to Julius Caesar—his allies, his supporters, his beneficiaries. But today was different.

Today, every man present had been carefully selected.

Crassus and Fulvius had ensured that only those whose loyalty lay with Rome itself—rather than with any single man—were allowed entry. Those who had once followed Caesar out of fear, coercion, or self-preservation now sat in silence, reassured that his shadow no longer loomed so close… or so they hoped.

The reason for the unprecedented attendance was simple.

No one in Rome would dare miss the judgment of Julius Caesar.

Low voices rippled through the chamber, conversations overlapping into a restless murmur that echoed beneath the stone arches.

“Are we truly certain Caesar has been captured?”

“I find it difficult to believe,” another replied skeptically. “He has slipped through worse nets than this.”

“You doubt Crassus and Fulvius?” a third senator scoffed quietly. “They would not dare make such a claim without certainty.”

“Still, it feels unreal. Caesar brought low… it borders on fantasy.”

“I heard Lord Septimius himself will appear today.”

“Septimius?” a voice perked up with barely concealed excitement. “Then perhaps this is truly the end.”

“Oh? Have you finally fallen for him?” another teased.

“Don’t be absurd,” came the sharp retort. “He is the Savior of Rome. I saw him myself—fighting that monstrous wolf, standing between us and death. Without him, many of us would not be breathing today.”

The murmurs continued to swell—until, suddenly, they stopped.

The great doors of the hall opened.

Silence fell like a blade.

Cleopatra entered first.

The effect was immediate and absolute.

Every eye turned toward her as though drawn by an invisible force. The Queen and Pharaoh of Alexandria moved with effortless grace, her presence commanding the room without a single word. She wore regal attire that blended Roman formality with Egyptian opulence, gold catching the light as she walked, her dark gaze sharp and calculating.

The senators had heard the stories—whispers of her beauty, her intelligence, her dangerous charm—but none of them had been prepared for the reality.

Beauty, when spoken of, was an inadequate word.

One by one, senators found themselves enthralled, their practiced composure faltering. Even seasoned statesmen, men who had faced war and betrayal, felt their breath hitch as she passed.

Crassus stepped forward at last, his voice cutting through the spell.

“I see that everyone has gathered,” he said, speaking clearly, deliberately.

The chamber grew utterly still.

Crassus, Fulvius, Servilia, the Pope, Cleopatra, and Apollodorus now stood upon the raised stage, framed by marble pillars and surrounded on all sides by the assembled Senate. The amphitheater seemed to close in on itself, as if the Republic itself were watching.

“As you are all aware,” Crassus continued, “today marks the judgment of Julius Caesar.”

A ripple passed through the crowd—not loud enough to be called a murmur, but present nonetheless. Fear, relief, anticipation—all mingled together. Many present had once been neutral, or worse, coerced into Caesar’s orbit through threats and intimidation. Now, at last, there was hope that his grip on Rome would finally be severed.

“So…” Crassus paused, his gaze shifting instinctively toward the entrance. “We wait.”

Fulvius leaned closer, his brow furrowed. “He did say he would arrive the moment the trial begins, did he not?”

Crassus nodded faintly.

Apollodorus chuckled softly, a knowing smile playing upon his lips. “Then I suppose he chose the hour himself.”

The remark earned him a sharp glare from Fulvius, who clearly did not appreciate the implication.

“Well,” Fulvius said stiffly, turning back to the assembly, “assuming Septimius truly has Julius Caesar in his custody, you are all aware of the charges laid against him. The man who plotted in secret—who dared dream of destroying Amun Ra, of crowning himself Emperor and bending Rome to his will.”

Servilia let out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. “Are you truly competing over a man half your age, Fulvius?” she said dryly.

Fulvius scowled, muttering something under his breath as the senators watched closely.

At that very moment, the massive doors of the hall burst open.

Every head turned as one.

The man—or rather, the men—whom everyone had been waiting for finally entered.

First came Nathan, still cloaked in the identity of Septimius. He walked with measured steps, one hand firmly gripping a heavy iron chain. The sound of metal scraping against stone echoed through the hall, each clink resounding like a death knell.

At the other end of the chain was Julius Caesar.

His wrists were bound tightly, the iron biting into his skin. His once-pristine garments were torn, dirtied, and stained—no longer the robes of a ruler, but those of a defeated man dragged before judgment. His face bore the marks of exhaustion and humiliation, his hair disheveled, his posture forced low by both fatigue and restraint.

“I see that I am… a bit late,” Nathan said calmly, his voice carrying effortlessly across the vast chamber.

There was no apology in his tone.

As they advanced into the center of the hall, Nathan gave the chain a sharp tug downward.

“Look at this, Caesar,” he remarked coolly. “It seems you’re as popular as ever.”

The sudden pull forced Caesar down to his knees. He hit the marble floor with a dull thud, a grunt of pain escaping him as his glare snapped upward—burning, venomous, fixed squarely on Nathan.

That was all it took.

The moment Caesar was fully visible, the Senate erupted.

Curses, insults, and shouts of hatred rained down upon him from every side. Senators who had once praised his name now hurled accusations and scorn with open fury. Words like tyrant, traitor, and monster echoed relentlessly, drowning the hall in contempt.

Nathan ignored them all.

He crouched down slowly, bringing himself level with Caesar, their faces only inches apart. His eyes locked onto Caesar’s with cold, almost amused curiosity.

“Well,” Nathan murmured, “would you look at that. Seems you’re quite loved, Caesar.”

Caesar said nothing—he merely glared back, his jaw clenched, his breathing heavy.

“Now that all your allies have vanished,” Nathan continued calmly, “now that fear no longer binds them… this is how Rome truly sees you. Quite enlightening, isn’t it?”

Caesar finally spat, his voice thick with rage. “You are a traitorous piece of shit, Septimius.”

Nathan smiled faintly, unbothered.

“Call me whatever you like,” he replied. “Today is a special day for you, after all. Just… not the one you dreamed of.” His smile sharpened. “Certainly not the day you crown yourself Emperor of Rome—and Amun Ra as well. That was your dearest wish, wasn’t it?”

Caesar’s expression twisted into something ugly—raw hatred, humiliation, and despair all bleeding together. Of all his enemies, this man standing before him was the one he loathed beyond measure.

Nathan straightened at last, stepping aside and releasing the chain.

Fulvius approached next, followed closely by Crassus.

Caesar groaned at the sight of them—especially Fulvius, whose barely concealed satisfaction was written all over his face.

“Do you have anything you wish to say, Caesar?” Fulvius asked, his tone mockingly polite.

“Burn in hell,” Caesar snarled, coughing as blood spilled from his lips and splattered onto the marble floor.

“You earned every bit of this,” Crassus said coldly, his voice steady but laced with bitterness.

Caesar’s defiance faltered, if only for a moment. “Crassus… please,” he said hoarsely. “Spare me.”

Crassus stared down at him. “After everything I did for you? After standing at your side?” His voice hardened. “You tried to have me killed, didn’t you?”

Caesar let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You were always a naive idiot, Crassus. Always.”

“Perhaps,” Crassus replied calmly. “But I am not the one kneeling here—stripped of honor, title, and everything else.”

Caesar scoffed, turning his head away.

Fulvius stepped forward once more. “Since you have nothing further to say,” he declared, “we will begin the judgment immediately.”

He moved aside and nodded to Crassus.

Crassus inhaled slowly, then turned to face the Senate.

“We will now begin the judgment of Julius Caesar,” he announced.

As the proceedings commenced—accusations read aloud, testimonies spoken, and verdicts debated—Nathan quietly stepped back toward the edge of the hall.

He had no interest in listening.

The outcome was already written.

Rome had made its choice long before Caesar was dragged through those doors, and nothing said within these walls would change how it ended.