I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Nathan stepped forward, his boots tapping lightly on the polished stone floor as he approached Fulvius.

Fulvius lounged in his intricately carved wooden chair, a symbol of Roman authority and old nobility, his posture exuding both confidence and wariness. His piercing gaze swept over Nathan from head to toe, measuring him not just as a man, but as a threat—or perhaps, a pawn.

“My daughter,” Fulvius began, his voice calm but tinged with incredulity, “the same daughter who barely acknowledges my presence and rarely asks me for anything… has, for the first time, made a request.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly before flicking toward the corner of the room where Fulvia stood with arms crossed. She leaned back against the cool marble wall, visibly disinterested in the conversation—or rather, in her father. Her expression was unreadable, aloof as ever, and yet there was something softer in the tilt of her lips, something unspoken.

“She asked me,” Fulvius continued, “to speak with you. To listen to you.”

Nathan followed the older man’s gaze to Fulvia, then met Fulvius’s cold eyes again.

“Maybe you should listen to her more often,” he said flatly.

A low chuckle rumbled from Fulvius’s throat—dry, almost amused—but it faded quickly, replaced by a chilling stillness. His smile vanished, his expression hardening as if iron had replaced the flesh beneath his face.

“Now tell me,” he said, voice turning to ice, “what does one of Julius Caesar’s dogs want with me?”

His tone was venomous, the word “dogs” spat like a curse. The tension in the room thickened. Fulvius’s disdain for Caesar was no secret, and it bled into every syllable. Nathan didn’t flinch, though he felt the sharpness behind the words.

Fulvius knew who he was. Fulvia must’ve told him, if only to justify the uninvited guest now sitting in his home. And Nathan—Septimius—was not a name easily ignored.

He was infamous. The man who struck down Ptolemy, the former Pharaoh of Egypt.

But more importantly, he was known to serve directly under Julius Caesar—Rome’s most polarizing figure, both revered and reviled.

To Fulvius, a man who viewed Caesar as nothing short of a tyrant and a grave threat to the Republic, Nathan was an enemy by association. And worse, a traitor—because Septimius had once fought under Pompey. Betrayal of any kind left a bitter taste in Fulvius’s mouth. He and Pompey may not have been friends, but Fulvius still held to the code of Roman honor: loyalty above all.

Nathan ignored the insult. “First of all,” he said calmly, “I want to speak with you in private.”

Fulvius arched a brow, then turned his head toward his daughter.

“Leave us,” he said.

Fulvia’s brows knitted together, her lips parting as if to protest. She didn’t want to leave—her instincts made that clear. But Nathan quickly raised a hand before she could move.

“Not her,” he said, his voice firm. “She stays.”

Both Fulvius and Fulvia stared at him, momentarily caught off guard.

Fulvius’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I thought you said you wanted to speak in private, boy.”

“I did,” Nathan replied, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. “And I’m saying it again. I want to speak with you in private.”

Fulvius’s brows furrowed. He followed Nathan’s eyes to a barely perceptible shadow high in the rafters. There was someone there—silent, still, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. A hidden guard. A spy. One of Fulvius’s men, no doubt loyal and deadly.

The realization sparked a glimmer of respect in Fulvius’s eyes, quickly hidden beneath a chuckle. “You have very, very good eyes,” he muttered. “He’s one of my most trusted men. Loyal to the death.”

Nathan simply repeated, “Private.”

Fulvius held his gaze for a long moment, then waved a hand.

“Fine. Leave us.”

There was no sound. No footsteps. No whisper of movement. But the shadow in the rafters vanished as if it had never been there.

Now it was just the three of them.

Fulvius leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. “Well then, Septimius… What do you want?”

“I want to speak plainly,” Nathan said. “What are your thoughts on Caesar?”

Fulvius snorted, a sound of bitter amusement.

“So Caesar sent you here to probe me? To dig into my loyalties like some spy in a toga?”

“No,” Nathan said. “I came here on my own. Alone. Caesar doesn’t even know I’ve left the Senate castle.”

That answer made Fulvius pause.

Fulvia, still silent by the wall, stepped forward slightly. “He jumped out of the window of my room,” she said, her voice tinged with amusement. “He flew with me across the night sky to get here, Father.”

Fulvius blinked. For a moment, his composure cracked.

He looked at his daughter, and in the golden lamp-light, he saw it—a genuine smile playing on her lips. Soft. Unforced. A rare glimpse of warmth on a face usually so guarded. Had he ever seen her smile like that before?

Perhaps once, long ago. Or maybe… never.

It unsettled him.

And it made him listen and speak.

Fulvius leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming thoughtfully against the polished wood as the name Julius Caesar rolled off his tongue like a bitter taste.

“Caesar…” he began, his voice a low rumble laced with disdain. “A mere foot soldier, just a decade ago. Just another body among thousands, taking orders on blood-soaked fields from true Roman generals. Nothing more than a nameless cog in Rome’s war machine.”

His gaze darkened, and his tone sharpened.

“But he had two things: a silver tongue and a handsome face. That man could talk his way out of anything. He wormed his way into the good graces of his superiors—men who should’ve known better. He flattered them, entertained them, made them laugh, and while they basked in his charm, he was already weaving a web.”

Fulvius paused, his voice rising with disgust.

“He let others sing of his deeds in battle, embroidered tales of glory he never earned. He let those songs carry his name all the way to the Senate, while he sat back and played the role of modest hero. And then—then, the moment he saw the door open—he walked straight into politics. That,” Fulvius said, spitting the word like poison, “was the turning point. That’s when everything began to rot.”

His knuckles whitened as he clenched the armrest.

“Pompey and Crassus… foolish, arrogant men. They thought they could control him. They offered him a hand, and he took their whole arms. Manipulated them into forming the First Triumvirate, and with that—boom—three emperors in all but name. Caesar got what he wanted: power without accountability. And yet… it still wasn’t enough for him.”

Nathan sat in silence, watching Fulvius seethe.

“He turned against Pompey—his supposed ally. Poisoned the minds of the Senate’s most influential voices, turning them against a man who once carried Rome on his shoulders. Forced Pompey to flee the city, to take his fight abroad. And now look where we are.”

Fulvius leaned forward, his voice low but burning with fury.

“He forced a civil war upon Rome. Don’t you find it suspicious, how swiftly his army mobilized for Alexandria? As if they were already prepared for it? As if… he had planned it all along?”

Nathan’s eyes narrowed slightly, listening intently.

“Cleopatra’s emergence, Ptolemy’s instability… Caesar likely foresaw all of it. He wanted control over Alexandria, over Amun Ra’s wealth, grain, and strategic value. He’s not just conquering land. He’s playing chess on a board where the rest of us are still trying to figure out the rules. The man is cunning. Deceptive. Ruthless. He is—” Fulvius’s lip curled in contempt “—the lowest form of scum.”

He stopped, exhaling deeply. For a moment, the room fell into stillness.

And yet… beneath the vitriol, Nathan could detect something else—admiration. Twisted and bitter, yes. But admiration nonetheless. Fulvius hated the man. Feared what he could do. But he respected Caesar’s intellect, however much it sickened him to admit it.

Nathan met his gaze calmly. “But he didn’t get full control of Alexandria,” he said.

Fulvius snorted.

“You’re talking about Cleopatra? That girl might be clever, sure, but she’s no match for Rome. The city will fall, and with it, her so-called sovereignty.”

“That is,” Nathan said slowly, “if Caesar secures his grip over Rome—if he seizes full control of the Empire as its Dictator… and strips the Senate of all power.”

The words struck like thunder.

Both Fulvius and Fulvia turned to look at him, startled. There was something in the way Nathan spoke—not just the content of his words, but the manner in which he said them. Calm. Confident. As if he weren’t speculating, but stating a fact. As if he knew.

A silence settled between them, heavy and charged.

Fulvius studied him, eyes narrowing. “What do you want exactly, Lucius Septimius?” he asked at last. There was no mockery in his tone now. Only quiet seriousness.

This man—this Septimius—was a puzzle. Every report Fulvius had ever read or heard about him painted a different picture. Some called him Caesar’s blade. Others, a mercenary loyal only to gold. He had fought under Pompey once, yet ended up serving Ptolemy, then betrayed him too. None of it added up.

If all he wanted was wealth and favor, he should have stayed beside Ptolemy. Or let Caesar seduce him with titles and land. But he hadn’t. He had turned everything upside down—and now, here he was.

Fulvius couldn’t see the game. And that unsettled him.

Nathan’s answer came like a blade drawn in silence.

“I want Caesar’s downfall.”

There was no hesitation. No fear. The words, if overheard, could have cost him his life a hundred times over. To say them here, in the heart of Rome’s influence, in the presence of a Roman patrician, was nothing short of madness.

“S…Septimius?”

Fulvia’s voice cracked as she spoke, her usually composed demeanor slipping into disbelief. Her eyes widened, her brows drawing together in a rare expression of vulnerability. She had known—felt—that Nathan wasn’t like other men. That he walked differently, spoke differently, thought differently.

But this…?

This wasn’t just unusual. This was madness. Treason. Suicide.

He wasn’t driven by greed. Not even by ambition. No, there was something else behind those pale eyes—a conviction so sharp it could cut iron. He looked utterly calm, terrifyingly calm, as if he’d already accepted the danger, the price, the blood that would inevitably follow.

He wasn’t playing a game.

He meant every word.

“So… you joined Caesar…” Fulvia began, her voice faltering.

“To take him down,” Nathan finished her father’s sentence, not even looking at her.

Fulvius’s body stiffened as he leaned forward, the low creak of his chair echoing through the chamber like the groan of an old beast waking. His eyes, aged by experience and shadowed by years of political treachery, narrowed with cautious interest.

“How can I believe you?” he asked, his tone no longer dismissive, but measured. He had been burned by false promises before—by Caesar himself—and now mistrust was etched into his soul.

Nathan didn’t try to convince him with pleasantries or pleading.

“That’s up to you,” he replied flatly. “Believe me, or don’t. But I came here—risked everything—to speak to you, because I know what Caesar took from you. I know how much you hate him.”

“It’s not hatred,” Fulvius corrected, voice rising slightly. “It’s duty. The man is a threat to Rome. To everything the Republic stands for. If he wins, Rome falls—not in flames, but into the hands of a tyrant. I fight not out of spite, but out of love for my country. Rome must remain a democracy.”

Nathan gave a small nod. “Call it whatever you like. The result is the same. I sought you out because you’re not just any noble. You are the head of a powerful family. Your voice still carries weight in the Senate. If we truly want Caesar to fall, we need to act together. We share the same goal.”

Fulvius scoffed, rising from his seat and pacing slowly, the hem of his toga brushing the tiled floor like a whisper. He looked down at the flickering oil lamp on the table, as if hoping the flame might offer clarity.

“Taking down Caesar…” he said slowly, “is a fool’s dream. The people adore him. They call him the savior of Rome. The Senate fears him. The legions worship him like a god.”

He looked up, weary. “No matter how righteous our cause, we are outnumbered, outmatched, outvoiced.”

Nathan turned on his heel, ready to leave. His cloak swayed behind him like a curtain falling after a disappointing act.

“If you think it’s impossible, so be it,” he said without bitterness. “Just watch me from the shadows, Fulvius. I’ll be the one standing when Caesar falls.”

He stepped toward the doors.

“I expected more from Fulvia’s father.”

That struck a nerve. Fulvius’s hand shot out.

“Wait.”

Nathan stopped.

Fulvius stepped forward, shoulders squared. He was no longer lounging, no longer brooding—he was a Roman standing in his full height, eyes burning with memory and defiance.

“I will consider helping you,” he said gravely. “But if I am to lend my influence—my name—you will need to prove that this is more than talk. Words are cheap. Actions win wars.”

Nathan turned back, meeting his eyes.

“Actions?”

Fulvius nodded slowly. “I want one of Caesar’s hands severed.”

Nathan tilted his head, eyes sharpening. “His ’hands’?”

“Octavius and Marcus Antonius,” Fulvius clarified. “The former—Octavius—is the architect behind Caesar’s political ascent. His speeches, reforms, manipulations of the Senate—they are all Octavius’s doing. The latter, Marcus Antonius, has sculpted Caesar into a living myth. Among the legions, he is seen as a warrior-king, invincible, divinely chosen. Remove one of them, and you don’t just wound Caesar. You cripple him.”

Fulvia, who had been silent through most of the exchange, stepped forward in alarm.

“W-wait, Father?!”

Her voice cracked under the weight of panic.

She looked between the two men—her father, cold and resolute, and Nathan, calm as stone. She shook her head.

“You’re talking about assassinating Octavius or Marcus Antonius? That’s suicide. They are untouchable. They walk with Caesar’s guard, they have the loyalty of entire factions! Killing one of them would plunge Rome into chaos!”

Fulvius did not look at her.

But Nathan did.

His eyes, unwavering, met hers.

“Fine,” he said simply.

Fulvia’s breath caught.

He turned back to Fulvius and allowed himself the smallest of smiles. Not arrogant, but dangerous.

“I’ll bring you the head of one of them.”

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

And then Fulvius nodded once.

“Do that,” he said, “and I’ll give you the full weight of my name, my house, and my influence. And together… we will strike down Caesar.”