I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“I accept.”

Nathan’s voice rang out clear and unwavering, cutting through the heavy silence that had settled over the chamber like a suffocating shroud. At his words, Julius Caesar’s lips curved into a pleased, almost regal smile—one of triumph, of inevitability. It was not the grin of a man who had won a game, but the smirk of a conqueror who had known the outcome from the beginning.

Yet not all shared in Caesar’s satisfaction.

Standing behind him, Marcus Antoinus and Octavius exchanged cold glances, their expressions a mixture of distaste and restrained fury. The decision clearly didn’t sit well with them, their pride bruised by the unexpected twist. To see Nathan, an outsider, take control of the situation and offer terms that Caesar accepted—it was a blow to their egos neither of them could fully mask.

Nathan gave a curt nod, his white hair shimmering in the torchlight, before releasing his grip on the fallen general. He shoved Pompey forward, forcing him to stumble toward Caesar like a piece being pushed into checkmate on a war-torn board.

Caesar stepped forward, his cloak billowing with his movement, and came to stand directly above his former rival. He gazed down at Pompey, not with gloating, but with something far more dangerous—nostalgia.

“We could have accomplished great things together, Pompey,” Caesar said softly, his tone laced with genuine regret, yet undercut by disappointment. “We could have changed the world.”

Pompey, bruised but still proud, lifted his head and met Caesar’s eyes with contempt. “Accomplished what? You mean becoming one of your loyal dogs?” he sneered, his voice hoarse but defiant as his gaze darted toward Marcus and Octavius. “No, Julius. I’d sooner die than lick your boots like those two lapdogs.”

Octavius stiffened, while Marcus Antoinus clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing into slits of seething hatred. Yet neither spoke. Perhaps they feared Caesar’s disapproval, or perhaps they simply knew Pompey was beneath retaliation now.

But Caesar didn’t flinch. Instead, he gave a soft chuckle, low and almost fond, as if he were remembering better days. “You’ve always been a stubborn bastard,” he said. “That’s why I respected you. We were comrades once, remember? Brothers in ambition. That’s why I won’t kill you. And I won’t let those fools in Rome take your head either.”

He leaned down slightly, eyes gleaming. “You will rot in a prison cell, Pompey. Forgotten. Useless. Powerless. And as you wither away, you’ll watch me rise. Watch as I seize Rome and reshape the world in my image—like Alexander before me. That is your punishment.”

Pompey spat blood and laughed—a dry, bitter sound that echoed through the hall like the rattle of bones. “Still dreaming of being Alexander, are you?” he said with a cruel smirk. “You think yourself a god among men, but you’re nothing more than a man with a sword and an oversized ego.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch. Then, with calm certainty, he added, “Your time will come, Caesar. You’ll meet someone who sees through your illusions. Someone who won’t kneel, won’t flatter you, won’t fear you. And when that day comes, you’ll understand—you’re not the messiah you imagine yourself to be. Just another tyrant destined to fall.”

For the first time, Caesar’s smile faltered. It was barely perceptible, but it was there—the tightening of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, the stiffening of his shoulders. Pompey’s words struck home not because they were baseless, but because they came from someone who had known him intimately. A man who had fought beside him, laughed with him, dreamed with him. And because they touched upon Caesar’s greatest vulnerability—his pride.

Pompey knew him too well.

He had seen Caesar’s insatiable hunger for glory, his relentless ambition, his yearning to surpass all who had come before. Caesar didn’t just want to rule—he wanted to be remembered as the greatest. To carve his name into the bones of history.

And for someone like him, being told he was ordinary… was a wound deeper than any blade.

Still, Caesar remained composed. He straightened, the flicker of anger buried beneath layers of iron will. He turned to his men with the same composed authority as always.

“Take him away,” Caesar commanded coolly, not sparing another glance at the man who had once been his equal.

His soldiers moved at once, a pair of them stepping forward without hesitation. They seized Pompey by the arms, dragging him away with rough efficiency. The fallen general didn’t resist. His dignity was already stripped, and he walked with a limp pride—chin held high, as though to remind them he was still Pompey the Great, even if stripped of title and power.

With that business concluded, Caesar turned on his heel, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like spilled wine. His sharp eyes settled on Cleopatra, who stood with the elegance and confidence of a woman who knew the power she wielded—both political and otherwise.

“I will speak with the Pharaoh out of respect and formality,” Caesar said, his tone lighter now. “But you should leave. We’ll meet again outside the walls of Alexandria.”

Cleopatra’s eyes shimmered with amusement. She offered him a coy smile, one that had entranced monarchs and shattered alliances.

“As you wish, Caesar,” she said, her voice velvet. “But do not make me wait too long. Patience has never been one of my virtues.”

Caesar chuckled, allowing himself a smile before he turned to Nathan.

“As for you,” he said, “stay close to Cleopatra’s party. Defend them if anything happens. I’ll join later. And don’t worry—I’m a man of my word. You’ll be well compensated.”

Nathan nodded silently, though a flicker of irritation crossed his expression. He didn’t enjoy the idea of trailing behind Cleopatra like a glorified guard. His real objective was Rome—the heart of the Empire, the seat of power. Everything else was just a detour. But for now, he had no choice but to play the long game.

Patience.

With Caesar’s orders clear, Cleopatra gave a small nod and turned to leave the chamber. Her entourage followed, though not without casting venomous glances at Nathan as he fell in step behind them. Their hatred burned silently, a quiet fury that hung in the air like smoke after a fire.

“Stop it already,” Apollodorus said with an exasperated sigh, breaking the tension. He was ever the pragmatic one, eyes sharp and voice weary.

“Stop it? He killed our comrades!” one of the younger soldiers hissed, his voice filled with pain and bitterness. “And now we’re supposed to just pretend nothing happened?”

Apollodorus turned his head slowly, his expression hardening.

“We’re at war. Death is part of it. He’s a mercenary, and mercenaries follow gold and orders—not loyalty or sentiment. You’d do well to remember that.”

The others fell silent, unable to argue. As much as they loathed Nathan, Apollodorus spoke the truth. None of them had been innocent in this war; blood stained everyone’s hands.

But their silence did nothing to cool the hostility. They continued to throw cold, venomous stares in Nathan’s direction, muttering under their breath. The air around him grew thick with tension.

Nathan, for his part, didn’t react. He didn’t need to. Their hatred was a breeze brushing past stone. He walked ahead of them with calm indifference, his silver-white hair swaying with each step, his mind already miles away from this place.

Eventually, Cleopatra broke the silence, drifting toward his side like a shadow cloaked in perfume and royalty.

“Did my brother pay you so poorly that you switched sides without hesitation?” she asked, her voice honeyed with curiosity but sharpened by intellect. Her eyes studied him, calculating.

She wasn’t easily fooled. She sensed the deeper game behind Nathan’s actions.

Nathan responded without looking at her. “You know your brother better than I do.”

A subtle shift passed through her expression—interest, perhaps even intrigue.

Apollodorus, ever the loyal protector, interjected sharply. “You speak in the presence of a Queen, mercenary. Show some respect.”

Nathan turned his gaze on him—cold, piercing, dismissive. A single phrase slipped from his lips:

“Not yet Queen.”

The air chilled.

Apollodorus stiffened, his mouth opening to reply—but no words came. There was nothing he could say to that. The truth in Nathan’s words echoed louder than any threat.

Cleopatra, on the other hand, found herself even more captivated. There was an arrogance in Nathan, yes—but it wasn’t empty bravado. He radiated confidence, the kind forged in battle and sharpened by ambition. He stood close to her without trembling, without the desperate need to impress or please.