I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

369 Nathan bursts in!

”Are you threatening me?” Caesar asked, his voice a low growl beneath the smile. ”I suggest you think very carefully about your next words.”

Ptolemy tried to meet his gaze, but his bravado crumbled beneath the weight of Caesar’s presence. The Roman general didn’t need to raise his voice to project authority. His aura alone bent the room to his will.

Wordless and seething, Ptolemy turned on his heel and stormed out of the hall, his footsteps echoing through the marble corridor like the retreat of a defeated child.

After young Ptolemy exited the chamber with an air of manufactured confidence, his footsteps echoing across the marble floor, his regent—Pothinus—followed shortly behind. But unlike the boy, Pothinus did not carry the same feigned ease. As he passed Cleopatra, he cast her a glance—a sharp, scrutinizing stare cloaked beneath a veil of courtly indifference. But Cleopatra saw through it; the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched at his side, the calculated pace of his stride. It betrayed the anxiety he was trying desperately to conceal.

He had every reason to be nervous.

It was Pothinus who had orchestrated Cleopatra’s exile, who had manipulated the young Ptolemy into turning against his sister. A decision that had momentarily secured his power—yes—but had now placed him directly in the path of the lioness he had wronged. And he knew Cleopatra—knew that her grace was never without calculation. She was not the type to forgive easily. If she ever reclaimed power, even the smallest measure of it, he was keenly aware that the first neck she would tighten a noose around would be his.

But there was nothing he could do now—not here, not before Caesar. Speaking out would only make things worse, and staying any longer would serve no purpose. The tides were already shifting.

All he could do now was hope. Hope that Cleopatra’s famed charms would falter against the Roman general. Hope that Caesar would remain unmoved, unimpressed, and ultimately uninterested.

But it was already too late.

Even in silence, Cleopatra had already begun to weave her web. Her beauty was striking, yes—but more dangerous was her voice, her presence, her gaze that carried both command and seduction. Pothinus saw the signs. Caesar’s eyes had lingered a little too long. The general’s smirk had been a little too intrigued.

Cleopatra had begun her conquest, and this time, it was not with armies or fleets—it was with words and wit and allure.

Pothinus departed, his robe brushing the floor like a snake slithering away from a lioness.

The doors closed with a solemn thud.

Once they were alone, Cleopatra broke the silence with a tone that danced between casual and cunning.

”Forgive my brother,” she said smoothly, her eyes not meeting Caesar’s just yet. She took her time, her fingers caressing the rim of a gilded wine cup. ”He is still a child, not only in body, but also in mind. To him, ruling an empire is no more than a game of toy soldiers. I do not hold him entirely responsible. I blame those whispering in his ear... those who care more for their own pockets than the fate of Egypt.”

Caesar leaned back, regarding her with amused interest. His voice carried a warm chuckle as he replied, ”Indeed. Even with advisors, I find it difficult to believe a child like him could bear the burden of a realm as vast as the Amun-Ra Empire.”

Cleopatra smiled—an elegant, poised smile that did not quite reach her calculating eyes.

”An excellent observation,” she said. ”But the answer is self-evident: of course he cannot. His advisors are a parade of sycophants and gluttons, thinking only of their own status. They lack both vision and loyalty. None of them hold the Empire close to heart—not like I do. For I carry not just royal blood... but the blood of conquerors. Of greatness. The blood of Alexander the Great himself.”

At that name, Caesar’s amusement gave way to something else—something more reverent. His gaze sharpened, eyes alight with interest. Alexander—the model of Caesar’s aspirations, the shadow he chased across every battlefield, the ghost he measured his own victories against.

”Alexander...” Caesar murmured, almost to himself. ”He was a man of vision. Of brilliance, and strength. I see none of those qualities in the boy Pharaoh who bears his title now.”

Cleopatra let out a soft scoff, her lips curling into a knowing smile. She raised her cup and took a slow, deliberate sip of wine. The crimson liquid stained her lips like blood.

Then, Caesar stepped closer.

Cleopatra didn’t flinch. She simply met his gaze, her chin tilted ever so slightly, her expression unreadable.

”But I see fragments of that same brilliance in your eyes,” Caesar said softly, almost admiringly. ”You have his fire.”

Cleopatra leaned in just slightly, her voice a sensual whisper carried by the scent of exotic perfume and crushed berries.

”Then your choice,” she said, her breath brushing against his cheek, ”should be as clear as day.”

Caesar smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting with intrigue.

But before he could respond— BA-DOOOOM!

A deafening explosion shattered the moment. The western wall of the chamber was blown open with violent force. A thunderous shockwave shook the palace to its foundation as stone and debris erupted into the air like a volcano’s wrath. Rubble cascaded into the room, dust choking the candlelight, screams ringing out from the corridors beyond.

Guards scrambled, weapons drawn. Cleopatra instinctively shielded her eyes from the blast of wind and dust, her wine cup crashing to the marble floor.

And Caesar—eyes narrowed, battle-honed instincts kicking in—reached for his sword.

Marcus Antonius and Octavius reacted instantly, their hands moving in perfect synchronicity as they reached for the hilts of their swords. The explosion had not only torn through the palace wall but had also shattered any illusion of security. The air was thick with dust and tension, every soldier in the room poised on a knife’s edge.

A presence—dark, oppressive, and unmistakably dangerous—had entered.

As the dust began to settle, and fragments of stone clattered across the polished floor, a single figure stepped into view.

He was not a towering man, but he radiated an aura that demanded attention. Power exuded from his very posture. Each measured step he took echoed like a war drum in the stunned silence. His body, clad in light armor of foreign design, moved with the ease of a seasoned warrior. The armor, though minimal, hugged the contours of a lean but clearly defined frame—a body shaped by years of combat, not vanity.

What drew every gaze, however, was the mask.

A gleaming golden mask, styled like that of an ancient Pharaoh, obscured the entirety of his face save for his eyes—cold, crimson, and merciless. They scanned the room like twin blades, sharp and unyielding, daring anyone to challenge him.

In his right hand, he held a rope.

Bound at the end of that rope, slumped and half-dragged across the floor, was a man. His face was hidden beneath a ragged cloth sack, but his battered posture and slow steps betrayed exhaustion, maybe even defeat.

Octavius stepped forward, his voice hard as iron. ”Who are you, to dare violate sacred Roman presence with such arrogance?”

The stranger tilted his head slightly, unmoved by the threat in the young man’s tone.

Before he could respond, another voice broke through the tension—this one tinged with surprise and alarm.

”S… Septimius! It’s Lucius Septimius!”

The voice belonged to Apollodorus, Cleopatra’s loyal ally, who had up until now remained respectfully silent in the background. At the sight of the masked intruder, however, he moved swiftly to place himself between Cleopatra and the unknown threat, his hand hovering protectively over the hilt of his dagger.

Lucius Septimius. The name carried weight, even among hardened soldiers.

”A mercenary of Ptolemy,” Marcus muttered, his eyes narrowing with distaste. ”One of the dogs the boy-king let off his leash.”

But Cleopatra’s attention wasn’t on Septimius. Her gaze was fixed on the bound man he held. A knot of instinct and intuition twisted within her. She did not need the cloth to be removed to know who it was. The way he stood—even in defeat—spoke of someone once proud, once feared.

Caesar’s voice was calm but firm, measured in tone, yet edged with suspicion. ”What is your purpose here?”

The man in the mask—Nathan—met Caesar’s eyes briefly before pulling the rope forward with a sharp tug. The prisoner stumbled and fell to his knees before him. With a flourish, Nathan removed the sack covering his face.

A gasp swept through the chamber.

”Pompey...” Caesar’s voice cracked for the briefest of moments, his composure faltering as he beheld the once-mighty general. The room shifted with collective disbelief. Marcus’s jaw clenched. Octavius’s eyes widened. Even Cleopatra drew in a sharp breath.

Lucius Septimius—no, Nathan—remained still, his blade now drawn and gleaming in the torchlight. He pressed it casually but deliberately against Pompey’s neck. A thin red line appeared, a warning stroke, not yet a wound.

”Ptolemy ordered me to bring you his head,” Nathan said, his tone utterly calm, almost conversational. ”He thought it would make a fitting gift for you, Emperor. He paid handsomely for it.” Nathan’s voice was muffled slightly beneath the mask, but every syllable dripped with dark amusement. ”Shall I deliver his head to you now?”

His question hung in the air like the edge of a guillotine.

Caesar stared at him, then at Pompey—bloodied, bruised, but alive. A man who once ruled the Senate, now reduced to a captive. Rage and pity warred behind Caesar’s eyes. Not for what Pompey had done—his betrayal still festered like a wound—but for how low he had been brought. Not by Romans, but by foreigners. By children playing at kings.

”No,” Caesar said at last, the word cutting through the tension like a blade. ”That was a foolish command from the Pharaoh. Pompey may have turned his back on Rome, but he is still a son of the Republic. A Hero of the Roman Empire.”

His voice grew firmer.

”The right to judge him belongs to Rome alone. No one else.”

It wasn’t merely sentiment—it was a matter of pride, of image. To accept Pompey’s death at the hands of an Egyptian mercenary would be to cheapen everything Rome stood for. Justice must be Roman. Execution must be Roman. If Caesar was to rise to power, he would not do it on a foreigner’s sword.

Nathan shrugged slightly, his blade still resting against Pompey’s neck. ”I don’t mind. But if I disobey Pharaoh’s orders, I don’t get paid. And I do like getting paid.”

A single bead of blood trickled down Pompey’s neck.

Caesar gave a dry laugh, his expression shifting to something more calculated. ”Money, is it? Then let us talk business.”

He stepped forward, his voice laced with confidence.

”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.