I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The next morning, Nathan awoke with a lingering weariness weighing down his limbs—a reminder of the intense night he had shared with Medea. Though his body was still sore, there was a strange sense of calm that lingered in the stillness of his room. The linens clung to his bare skin, warmed by the Roman sun peeking through the curtains.

He reached to the other side of the bed out of habit, but his hand met only cool, empty sheets.

Medea was gone.

Of course, she would be. For all her passion and fire, she was also perceptive—far more than most gave her credit for. She understood the gravity of their situation without a single word needing to be exchanged. With Marcus Antoinus now lying dead by Medea’s hand, the political landscape had shifted violently. Power left a vacuum, and vacuums never remained unfilled for long. It was inevitable that suspicion and scrutiny would now fall more heavily upon Nathan than ever before.

He could not afford recklessness. Not now.

Rising slowly, he made his way to the adjoining chamber and took a long, cleansing bath. The warm water embraced his body like a balm, easing his tense muscles and clearing the fog from his thoughts. When he emerged, he was fully dressed, composed, and cloaked in the persona he wore as deftly as a soldier wore his armor.

The Senate Castle was already alive with movement, voices echoing through marble halls, servants bustling past with scrolls and wine, guards standing rigid at their posts. The grand structure, with its imposing columns and sun-drenched corridors, remained a stage for the eternal theatre of ambition and betrayal.

And yet… Marcus Antoinus had not yet “returned.”

To the Senate and its sycophants, he was still on his glorious expedition, leading his men in pursuit of the barbaric forces who had slaughtered over a hundred Roman soldiers. A tragic and noble cause.

None knew that he and those men now fed the soil with their blood.

Nathan’s lips curled slightly into a cold, thoughtful smirk.

“I should remain close to Caesar until the discovery is made,” he mused silently. That would grant him both opportunity and protection, if only temporary. With that, he turned on his heel and began heading toward Caesar’s quarters—assuming, of course, the great man was in residence this early in the morning.

But as he walked through one of the inner courtyards, his footsteps faltered.

He had stumbled upon a private scene—a moment of sharp emotion and barely concealed pain.

“I… I believe in Caesar, Mother!”

The voice was unmistakably Brutus’s. Passionate. Wounded.

“I know him better than you, son,” came the sharp reply, laced with equal parts bitterness and resignation. “When the time comes and he seizes absolute power, he will cast you aside, just as he cast me aside.”

The words struck the air like a whip. They came from Servilia.

Brutus stood before her, visibly shaken, his brows furrowed in disbelief. The boy—no, the man—who had revered Caesar almost like a deity, now stood on the edge of doubt, peering into an abyss he had never dared to imagine.

To Brutus, Caesar had been more than a political patron—he had been like a second father. The affection was real. Caesar had embraced Brutus as one of his own, taken him under his wing, taught him the art of politics, of statecraft, of power.

And yet Servilia—his mother—now spoke with the voice of a prophetess warning of a coming storm.

It wasn’t just jealousy, Nathan realized. Servilia was a woman of great intelligence and political acumen. The distance she had begun to place between herself and Caesar wasn’t born merely from hurt pride or romantic rejection—though that had played a part.

It had been the turning point.

The day Caesar returned to Rome and chose to lie with that blonde foreigner—the Hero woman, Johanna—instead of her… something in Servilia had broken. The betrayal had been both personal and symbolic. It had opened her eyes to the reality of Caesar’s ambitions and her own expendability.

“Julius Caesar only cares about one thing, Brutus—his throne,” she said, her voice like iron wrapped in silk. “Power. That is all that drives him now.”

“H-How can you say that, Mother?!” Brutus’s voice cracked with emotion. His eyes were wide with disbelief, or perhaps fear—fear that she might be right.

Because if she was, everything he had built within himself—his loyalty, his respect, his identity as Caesar’s protégé—would begin to crumble.

Servilia took a slow breath. Her next words were gentle, almost pitying.

“Octavius… he is the only one Caesar truly sees as a son. You must see that.”

There it was. The truth Nathan had suspected but rarely heard spoken aloud.

Servilia had once believed she could matter to Caesar. As a woman, as a partner, as a mother of the man Caesar might one day name his heir. But over time, the truth had emerged. Marcus Antoinus… Octavius… and Caesar’s daughter—they were the only ones he truly cared for.

Everyone else was a piece on the board.

Including her. Including Brutus.

Servilia’s eyes shimmered, but her voice remained steady. “He will throw us away the moment we become inconvenient. And I won’t let you be blindsided like I was.”

“I… I don’t believe you…”

Brutus’s voice trembled, barely above a whisper, as he shook his head in denial. The anguish on his face was unmistakable—like a child struggling to reconcile the monstrous truth behind someone he once idolized. His mother’s words cut deep, yet he clung desperately to the illusion she had just shattered.

“Brutus!” Servilia stepped forward and seized his shoulder, her fingers digging in as if trying to pull him back from a precipice.

But he wrenched himself free.

“You may not trust him anymore, but I… I will believe in the Emperor, Mother!” Brutus shouted, his voice echoing down the stone corridor like a cry of war and heartbreak intertwined. He turned on his heel and stormed away, his cape trailing behind him like the remnants of a dying loyalty.

Servilia stood frozen for a moment, reaching out toward her son with a trembling hand—only to let it fall slowly, uselessly, to her side. Her lips quivered as she bit down hard, stifling the sob rising in her throat. She staggered to the nearest bench carved from cool white stone and sat heavily, burying her face in her hands.

She wept—not for herself, but for her son.

Tears streamed down her cheeks in silent rivers, hot with grief, cold with helplessness. Her shoulders trembled beneath the weight of her failure. She had once been Caesar’s closest confidante, his secret lover, the whisper behind his throne. But all of that had crumbled into dust.

She didn’t care about her wounded pride. That had long since died.

All she had left to protect was Brutus… and now, she feared she’d already lost him too—to the same man who had once made her feel invincible.

Just then, as if fate itself wished to mock her pain, she felt the stone shift beside her under the weight of someone taking a seat.

She stiffened.

Quickly, she wiped her tears with a silken sleeve and turned, prepared to face a servant or perhaps one of her house guards.

But instead, she met the face of a man she despised—Septimius.

At least, that’s what she called him. In her eyes, he was nothing more than Caesar’s hound. A mercenary masquerading behind coin and rank, who served power before principle. Her expression turned to ice.

She stood abruptly, her posture noble and fierce despite the tears she had just shed.

But before she could leave, a hand gripped her arm.

Strong. Firm. Unyielding.

Her eyes flared in shock and outrage as she stared down at the offending hand—then up at the man who dared touch her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, her voice low and venomous.

Nathan met her gaze with unsettling calm.

“Sit down,” he said simply.

Her nostrils flared. “You—a mere mercenary—dare to lay a hand on me? I am Servilia of the Junii, an aristocrat of one of Rome’s oldest and most revered families. Do you have a death wish?”

She tried to pull away, but his grip did not falter.

His fingers remained closed around her arm like a vice—not out of malice, but purpose.

“Sit. Down,” Nathan said again, this time softer, but laced with authority that momentarily startled her.

He had spoken her name. Her name.

Not “madam,” not “lady,” not “noblewoman.”

Servilia.

The familiarity jolted her, and in that stunned pause, Nathan guided her gently but insistently back onto the bench beside him.

She obeyed—not because he commanded her—but because curiosity now sparked beneath her fury.

“You’re drawing too much attention,” he murmured.

Her eyes flicked instinctively around the courtyard. Sure enough, there were watchers. Caesar’s shadows. Silent, cloaked, and well-trained. They wouldn’t be able to hear anything from this distance, but their presence was unmistakable. Birds in a gilded cage.

Her frown deepened. So he didn’t want to be seen with her? Then what was this about?

“Did Caesar send you to comfort me?” she spat, her voice lined with mockery. “How generous. I never thought the great Julius Caesar would resort to using his lackeys to console the women he throws away.”

There was no fear in her tone. Only loathing and contempt. She was one of the rare few in Rome who could insult Caesar so brazenly and walk away untouched. Her name was a shield stronger than any armor.

Nathan remained unmoved.

“This is the second time I’ve seen you cry,” he said.

Her breath caught.

She remembered.

The first time had been that humiliating day—when Caesar returned from Alexandria campaign and, instead of seeking her embrace, had gone straight to bed with that foreigner… the so-called Hero, Johanna. Nathan had walked past her then, quiet and observant, catching her in a rare moment of vulnerability.

Her shame. Her heartbreak. Her powerlessness.

The memory made her recoil, and her gaze turned cold as steel.

“What are you trying to do? Mock me?” she demanded, barely holding back the surge of emotion in her chest. “Is this how Caesar rewards loyalty now? By sending his lapdog to twist the knife?”

She had once thought Caesar was a man worth everything. Worth her love, her influence, her pride.

But now, sitting beside this strange, unreadable mercenary with eyes too old for his youth, she realized something terrifying.

She had come to hate Caesar.

Nathan didn’t flinch at her sharp retort. He’d grown used to hostility—particularly from those wounded by power’s cruel games. Her words meant little to him. Her pain, however… that was something else entirely.

He met her glare with quiet composure and spoke, voice low and steady.”What were you hoping to accomplish by telling Brutus all that?”

Servilia narrowed her eyes, her lips twitching with suppressed emotion. But Nathan continued before she could answer.

“Even if you manage to break through to him—even if he trusts you completely—do you think Caesar will simply let him go?” He leaned forward slightly. “Do you really believe the man who clawed his way to near-absolute power will sit back and smile while you and your son walk away from his grasp?”

Servilia’s face darkened, her jaw clenched. “Then we’ll flee,” she said bitterly. “When the time comes, we’ll disappear.”

The words spilled from her like a blade drawn too fast—sharp, desperate.

Nathan studied her, letting the silence settle between them. She misunderstood him.

To Servilia, his questions sounded like surrender—like a veiled suggestion that she kneel to Caesar, accept her cage, and serve like the others. But that wasn’t his meaning. He was weighing her resolve.

Her words, however rash, revealed something deeper.

She was willing to leave it all behind—her ancestral estate, the wealth and honor of the Junii family, the centuries of noble blood that ran through her veins. All of it.

To protect her son.

And that, Nathan knew, required immense courage.

He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. “Fleeing?” he echoed, his voice quieter now. “You truly think Caesar will let you flee?”

Servilia’s brows furrowed.

“You are too important, Servilia,” Nathan said. “You’re the head of one of the last old Roman bloodlines untouched by scandal. Your family has influence that even the Senate fears to cross. Crassus’s house may have held more wealth, but politically? No house—not even Fulvia’s—carries the same legacy as yours.”

His voice turned grim. “Caesar will never let such an asset vanish into the wind.”

She blinked, her breath hitching—but Nathan wasn’t done.

“If you try to run, he won’t chase you.” Nathan’s eyes sharpened. “He’ll take Brutus. Use him as leverage. Keep him close to his side… and force your loyalty through him.”

The words struck harder than a whip.

Servilia shot to her feet, her face flushing with rage. “You—!” she spat, raising her hand to slap him, trembling with fury.

But Nathan caught her wrist mid-air.

Not harshly—just enough to stop her.

Their eyes met—hers wide and wild, his calm and steady.

She was shaking. Not from anger, but from fear. From grief. From the horrible truth that had just been laid bare before her. Nathan saw it now—past the veil of nobility, beyond the proud shoulders and venomous tongue. Behind those green eyes was a mother terrified of losing the only thing that still mattered to her.

Brutus.

Nathan’s grip softened. He looked down at her—at her tears threatening to fall again.

She was so proud. So strong.

But now… she looked defeated.

He released her hand gently, then reached up with surprising tenderness and brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping away the first tear before it could fall too far.

He was weak to the tears of a mother as expected.

His movements were subtle, shielded from view by the careful tilt of his body. The shadows of the courtyard, the fluttering cloaks of Caesar’s spies lingering nearby, all served as his cover.

Servilia froze.

His touch wasn’t lecherous. Nor mocking. It held no triumph, no intent to belittle.

It was simply… human.

“What are you doing…?” she whispered, barely audible, stunned into stillness.

Nathan’s expression didn’t change.

“Don’t waste your tears on Caesar, Servilia,”