I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 602: The Fall of Julius Caesar

The judgment of Julius Caesar dragged on, the grand hall thick with overlapping voices and self-important speeches. Senators, nobles, and envoys argued endlessly, each trying to sound wiser than the last. Words echoed off marble pillars, blending into a constant murmur that felt more ceremonial than meaningful.

Nathan stood at the very back of the stage, arms relaxed at his sides, posture calm, almost indifferent. His gaze drifted over the assembled figures with quiet scrutiny. He listened just enough to understand the direction of the discussion, but his mind was elsewhere.

”Septimius.”

The voice cut through the noise with familiarity.

Apollodorus stepped beside him, his sandals barely making a sound against the polished floor. He stood straight, hands folded behind his back.

”Apollodorus, that was your name,” Nathan said without turning to face him. His eyes remained on the assembly ahead. ”Tell me—how are things in Amun Ra these days?”

Apollodorus raised an eyebrow slightly. ”Are you truly interested?” he asked, a faint note of skepticism in his tone. ”You don’t look particularly invested in our affairs.”

Nathan let out a quiet breath, something close to a humorless chuckle. ”I need the Amun Ra Empire to remain strong and reliable,” he replied calmly. ”So yes, I would say I’m interested.”

The advisor studied him for a moment before answering. ”We are not prepared,” Apollodorus said carefully, choosing his words with precision. ”Nor do we have any desire to enter yet another war, Septimius.”

”Not yet,” Nathan agreed. ”And certainly not right now.”

Apollodorus forced a thin smile onto his lips, though it did little to hide his unease. He turned fully toward Nathan this time, lowering his voice so their conversation wouldn’t carry.

”Then tell me,” he asked, ”what exactly does a war against the Light Empire bring us? What do we gain from it?”

Nathan finally turned his head, his pale eyes settling on Apollodorus with quiet intensity.

”That’s a fair question,” he said slowly. ”But before I answer, I hope you remember something.”

Apollodorus stiffened.

”I was the one who killed Ptolemy,” Nathan continued, his voice steady, almost casual. ”The one who stood against a Goddess—Sekhmet herself—and forced her back. She was summoned to kill you all. To kill Cleopatra and every scheme you had built.”

Apollodorus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. For a moment, he had no response. He didn’t need one. Nathan was stating facts, not boasting.

He was right.

Without Nathan, Cleopatra would not be sitting upon the throne of Amun Ra.

”We will never forget that,” Apollodorus said at last, his voice quieter now. ”But gratitude alone does not justify marching into a losing war. Especially one where we risk losing everything we’ve only just recovered.”

Nathan studied him for a moment before asking, ”Are you truly that afraid of the Light Empire?”

He glanced sideways, sharp enough to notice the hesitation flicker across Apollodorus’s expression.

”I know enough to respect them,” Apollodorus replied after a pause. ”Enough to never underestimate them. I have heard of the Divine Knights, of the Light Empire’s reach... and of the Light Gods themselves.”

His gaze hardened as he met Nathan’s eyes. ”That alone is reason for caution.”

Nathan nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips—not mocking, but thoughtful.

”So you did your homework,” he said. ”After hearing what I wanted, no less. Cleopatra is fortunate to have someone as diligent—and loyal—as you.”

”As the Queen’s advisor, it is my duty,” Apollodorus replied. ”And what I learned only reinforced one conclusion.” He paused, then said firmly, ”Challenging the Light Empire is not a wise course of action.”

”And why not, Apollodorus?” Nathan asked calmly.

Apollodorus let out a slow breath, clearly restraining his frustration. ”You truly ask that?” he replied. ”The Light Empire is not an ordinary empire. It was founded by the Light Gods themselves more than a thousand years ago, with a single purpose—to eradicate Tenebria and wipe out the entire Demon race from existence.”

Nathan didn’t even blink.

”Nothing you’ve said is new to me,” he replied flatly.

Apollodorus stared at him, searching for hesitation, fear—anything. Finding none, his expression hardened. ”Then I must ask you this,” he said slowly. ”Are you truly prepared to face them?”

Nathan turned his head toward him.

For a brief moment, the noise of the hall seemed to fade. His eyes shimmered, dark gold igniting within them like embers buried beneath ice—cold, merciless, and terrifyingly calm.

”I know exactly what I am doing,” Nathan said. ”The Divine Knights failed to kill me. And the Light Gods,” His lips curved faintly. ”They didn’t either.”

Apollodorus’s eyes widened as he stared at him. ”Y...You’ve met one of them?”

”I killed one,” Nathan replied.

It was true. The Light God had been weak, barely worthy of the title—but a god nonetheless.

Apollodorus felt a chill crawl down his spine.

”Just understand this,” Nathan continued, his voice smooth but edged with quiet menace. ”I am not a fool, Apollodorus.”

With that, he turned his gaze forward once more, as if the conversation—and the revelation—meant nothing at all.

At that moment, the judgment came to its conclusion.

Silence fell over the hall as Fulvius stepped forward, his voice ringing out with formal authority.

”Therefore,” he declared, ”Julius Caesar, by the decree of the Goddess Minerva, you are condemned to a sentence of eternal imprisonment for your crimes. Treason. War crimes. Murder—multiple counts. Betrayal of Rome—”

”Enough,” Caesar growled, his voice hoarse with rage and humiliation. ”Cut it off, Fulvius. I can’t bear to hear your voice any longer.”

Fulvius stopped speaking.

Slowly, he walked toward Caesar, who remained kneeling on the cold stone floor, shackles biting into his wrists.

”I warned you,” Fulvius said quietly. ”Twenty years ago. Do you remember what I told you?”

”Go to hell,” Caesar spat.

”I told you your ambition would be your undoing,” Fulvius continued, his tone unwavering. ”And now—look at you.”

Caesar said nothing.

Fulvius stared at him for a moment longer, then turned and walked away without another word.

Crassus was next.

He stopped briefly before Caesar, his expression unreadable. ”Goodbye, old friend,” he said softly.

Then he left.

The Pope didn’t even spare Caesar a glance. He simply turned and departed with the others, his silence heavier than any condemnation.

Finally, Servilia approached.

When Caesar saw her, a crooked smirk slowly returned to his lips, defiant even now.

”Well,” he said mockingly, ”what is it, Servilia? Is it your turn to speak to me?” His eyes dragged over her shamelessly. ”Or perhaps you remember our good old days? Maybe if you put in a good word for me... we could spend one last night together, and I could show you—”

Slap!!

The sound cracked through the hall like a whip.

Every senator turned.

Caesar’s head snapped to the side, the red imprint of Servilia’s hand already blooming across his cheek, bright and unmistakable.

For a moment, the hall was utterly silent.

Servilia smiled.

A calm, satisfied smile—one that made Caesar’s blood boil far more than the slap itself.

Without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving him kneeling in chains, surrounded by witnesses and stripped of the last shred of dignity he believed he still possessed.

”That was quite a slap,” Apollodorus muttered, wincing despite himself. The sharp crack still echoed in his ears, and for a fleeting moment, he almost felt the sting on his own cheek.

”A deserved one,” Nathan replied without hesitation.

His gaze shifted then, settling on Cleopatra, who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange, her expression unreadable. Nathan studied her for a brief moment before speaking.

”Do you have any final words for your former ally, Cleopatra?” he asked calmly.

Cleopatra turned.

She walked toward Caesar with measured, unhurried steps, her posture straight, her chin held high. When she stopped before him, she looked down at the once-great Roman general now kneeling in chains.

”Let me see,” she said thoughtfully.

Her eyes traced him from head to toe, lingering just long enough for contempt to bloom across her face. Then, a small sneer curled her lips.

”How utterly pathetic you look, Caesar.”

Caesar’s teeth ground together as he glared up at her, his eyes burning with murderous fury.

Cleopatra met his glare with something far worse—disgust.

”I am deeply ashamed,” she continued coldly, ”that even for a single moment, I ever thought of you as one of the great men of history. That I dared place you in the same breath as my ancestor.”

She didn’t need to say the name.

Alexander the Great.

The comparison—now denied—cut deeper than any blade ever could.

Without another glance, Cleopatra turned and walked away.

The words had been simple, almost casual. Yet they shattered something inside Caesar far more thoroughly than the verdict itself.

Apollodorus hurried after her, casting one last look over his shoulder before disappearing beyond the hall.

Nathan remained.

He watched in silence as Roman soldiers stepped forward, fastening heavy chains around Caesar’s arms and shoulders, preparing to drag him away to the prison where he would spend the rest of his life—forgotten, disgraced, and alone.

Then Nathan moved.

He stepped forward, raising a hand just slightly.

The soldiers halted at once.

Nathan stood before Caesar, his gaze fixed on him, cold and unwavering.

”I warned you,” Nathan said quietly. ”I told you what would happen.”

Caesar said nothing. His head remained lowered, jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth threatened to crack.

”You chose not to listen,” Nathan continued. ”You underestimated me.”

For a moment longer, Nathan stared at him, as if searching for any trace of the man Caesar once was.

There was none.

Having finished, Nathan turned away.

He didn’t add another word.

And as he left the hall, Caesar was finally dragged away in chains—his fall complete, his fate sealed, and his name reduced to nothing more than a cautionary tale.