I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The crowd’s cheering still echoed faintly in the background when Caesar leaned back in his seat, his lips curving into a wry smile.

“The round was animated enough,” he remarked, his voice carrying that familiar note of superiority, “but far too easy for Spartacus, as one might expect. What I did not anticipate, however, was the other slaves choosing to fight together.”

Across from him, the Pope inclined his head with a calm, measured expression. “Is it so surprising? To them, Spartacus has become more than a gladiator. They look at him as a model—a symbol of defiance, the man who once dared to challenge the might of Rome.”

“Model?” Octavius scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain as his lip curled. “Do not make me laugh Lord Pope. You call him a model, when he was crushed utterly by Emperor Crassus himself? Some model of failure.”

Crassus, seated with a rigid dignity, folded his arms but did not flinch at the sneer. His voice was grave, edged with something that might have been pride. “Defeat or not, Spartacus fought with a valor unmatched. It is a shame he did not swear his strength to Rome instead of rebelling against it.”

Caesar’s head snapped toward him, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You speak almost with admiration,” he said, voice low but laced with warning. “Do not forget yourself, Crassus. Spartacus was an enemy of Rome.”

Crassus met Caesar’s glare without shrinking back, his reply calm yet deliberate, each word measured. “I merely say that a man of such strength would have been better used in service of the Republic. Especially now—when Marcus Antonius is absent, and the uncertainty of his return grows heavier by the day. Having another to rely on would not weaken us, but strengthen us.”

The words struck like a veiled jab, and Caesar knew it. His jaw tightened before he masked it with a slow, practiced smile. “You need not concern yourself. Septimius is more than enough to shoulder that burden. You saw him in action, did you not?”

Crassus gave a short laugh, soft but cutting, a chuckle heavy with meaning. “I did. Yes…” His eyes gleamed with a quiet amusement that unsettled more than an open threat might have.

Caesar frowned. He had expected bitterness, some flash of envy at having Septimius stand firmly on his side. Instead, Crassus radiated calm, as though he had already accounted for it—already made his own arrangements.

A chill pricked at Caesar’s thoughts. Was this man hiding something more? Could he have even schemed behind Marcus Antonius’s death? The suspicion slithered like a serpent through his mind.

His frown deepened until he felt the light touch of Johanna’s hand on his arm. The warmth of her palm drew his attention back, and when he turned to look at her, she was smiling softly. He forced his expression to smooth, his lips curving again in a display of composure.

“Enough of this,” Caesar said, rising from his seat with fluid authority. “The next round promises to be more intriguing. Many of the gladiators have already died—what remains will be all the more entertaining.”

Crassus rose as well, his daughter Licinia standing immediately at his side. She cast a fleeting glance toward Nathan, her eyes betraying a hesitation, almost a yearning to speak. But she kept her silence. Her father’s warning echoed in her mind: Caesar was dangerous, and keeping distance was the only safety.

They had come today only to maintain appearances. To stay away entirely would have been even more perilous. Caesar was not a man to be deceived easily; absence might have provoked him, even an immediate strike against Crassus and his family. Proximity, however, created an illusion of normalcy, a chance to buy time.

As they prepared to depart, Johanna’s clear, steady voice cut through the air. She stepped toward Crassus, her posture graceful, her smile professional yet warm.

“We have not had the honor to speak properly,” she said, extending her hand toward him. “I am Johanna, teacher of the Heroes of Rome.”

Crassus’s gaze dropped to her outstretched hand. He did not move. For a heartbeat, silence lingered uncomfortably.

Caesar’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though his tone carried a faint condescension. “It is a custom from their world, Crassus. A gesture of greeting and respect.”

But Crassus’s eyes ignored her hand and instead studied the odd glint of her spectacles. “And those objects upon your eyes? What are they?” he asked bluntly.

Unfazed, Johanna adjusted them slightly with her finger, her smile never faltering. “An object,” she explained smoothly. “A machine that enhances my vision, allowing me to see with greater clarity.”

Crassus gave a single curt nod, expression unreadable, before turning away without another word. Licinia followed close behind him, her steps quick and silent.

Caesar’s gaze tracked Crassus’s retreating back, his eyes as cold and sharp as steel.

The Pope, who until now had only skimmed the surface of the power dynamics around him, finally looked deeply—truly looked—at Caesar and Crassus. In that instant, he understood. The air between the two men was not merely tense; it was sharpened like a blade, brittle and dangerous, a rivalry smoldering beneath carefully chosen words. How blind he had been, deluding himself that things remained stable, that Rome’s most formidable men were working in harmony.

A shiver of unease traced his spine. Matters were far worse than he had allowed himself to believe. He thought of the Key, the artifact and secret that weighed heavily on his conscience. He needed to speak to Caesar about it, to test the waters, to gauge his intentions. But not yet—not while suspicion ran so openly in their glares. First, he would go to Crassus. Hear his side. Learn how he truly stood in this silent war.

With that resolution, the Pope quietly excused himself, slipping away into the shadows of the stone corridors.

Meanwhile, Nathan, who had been silently watching the entire exchange from his place against the wall, his arms crossed and posture deceptively casual, allowed himself the faintest curl of a smile. His eyes gleamed, sharp and calculating.

Everything was unfolding exactly as he wished.

The seeds of discord had been sown. The distrust was blossoming. Tonight, all that preparation would bear fruit.

But before the night’s true work began, there was one task left unfinished. He needed to speak to Spartacus.

°°°°°

That same night, the dominion where the captured gladiators were kept lay heavy in silence, broken only by the occasional torch crackling in the corridors and the echo of marching boots from the guards. Among them was one cell set apart from the rest—a single, grim chamber reserved for the man whose name alone still sent ripples of defiance through the empire.

Spartacus.

Since his capture at the hands of Crassus after the failed rebellion, he had been paraded as both a cautionary tale and an amusement, a beast forced to fight in the arena for Rome’s pleasure. Though his reputation made him dangerous, his legend kept him valuable, and so he was afforded a few meaningless privileges—an extra ration of bread, perhaps cleaner straw on which to rest. Yet he was still shackled, still beaten, still a prisoner under Rome’s iron heel.

Not that Spartacus cared for their cruelty. His spirit was scarred, yes, but not broken.

That evening, he lay on the cold stone floor, his broad chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, his face unreadable beneath the dim torchlight that seeped through the iron bars. His silence was broken only when the sound of footsteps approached, accompanied by a familiar voice.

“Food.”

His gaze shifted. At the door stood a young woman with soft features, a tray balanced carefully in her hands. The guard unlocked the cell and allowed her inside.

Curia.

She was a slave like him, yet unlike him, she still carried a certain brightness in her eyes, as though the weight of chains had not yet extinguished her heart. She stepped inside cautiously, glancing over her shoulder before setting the plate down before him.

“I saw your fight today,” she said softly, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “You were magnificent, Spartacus. I was so relieved nothing happened to you.”

Spartacus picked up a piece of bread, tearing it absently with rough fingers. He did not look at her. “Go,” he said bluntly, his voice rough, his tone dismissive.

Since his imprisonment, Curia had visited him often, always with the same shy smile, always with words of admiration and quiet devotion. She lingered where others would have fled. She loved him, he knew it, but he refused to return it. He would not let himself.

Every time she came, he pushed her away. Not because he felt nothing—but because he felt too much. Because the memory of all he had lost, of all who had died for his cause, weighed on him like a chain heavier than iron. To care again was to risk shattering all over once more.

But Curia’s spirit was resilient. She did not flinch at his coldness. She only smiled, as if she could see through his words to the fear that lurked behind them.

“Always so distant,” she teased gently, though her voice trembled faintly. She looked behind her once more, making sure the guard was not watching too closely. Then, with sudden courage, she leaned down, pressing her lips to his.

Spartacus stiffened, his eyes widening at the unexpected warmth. Before he could react, she pulled away, her face flushed scarlet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she whispered hurriedly, and without another word, she slipped from the cell, leaving the scent of her hair and the ghost of her lips lingering in the air.

Spartacus sat there in the dim silence, his hand rising unconsciously to touch his mouth. His expression was complicated—hardened by grief, yet softened by something he could not quite suppress.

“Looks like you’re not completely alone after all.”

Spartacus flinched and spun around so quickly his chain rattled against the stone. Nathan was there, lounging against the cold wall in the half-light, one boot hooked on the ledge as if he’d always belonged to the shadows. The torchlight cut across his face in hard planes; his smile was small and unreadable.

“You…” Spartacus began, voice raw from too many nights of shouting in the arena and the hard dust of the yard.

“I told you I had something to speak with you,” Nathan said, stepping forward with casual confidence. His boots made no sound on the straw-strewn floor.

Spartacus’s gaze flicked to the open gate and then back to Nathan, frowning. The guard had not yet closed it; the yawning gap seemed oddly deliberate, like a held breath. Why would they leave a cell ajar at this hour?

“I don’t have much time, so I’ll be blunt,” Nathan continued, voice trimming away pleasantries. “I can give you the opportunity to kill Octavius. The real question is—will you?”

The words landed like a thrown spear. Spartacus’s mouth tightened. “I can’t kill him. No matter how much I wish it.”

“Because the slave-seal on your back answers to him?” Nathan asked, his tone almost conversational.

Spartacus nodded once. The memory of that brand—hot iron, the cruel shape scorched into his skin—was a map of everything he had lost. It was more than ownership; it was a barrier, a chain wrapped beneath muscle and bone.

Nathan’s eyes cooled. “I’ll take care of that seal. For now—listen.” He pointed up at a narrow gap in the ceiling where moonlight leaked through a single grating. The shaft of light seemed impossibly small, a slit to the sky. “When the time comes, I will send a signal. I’ll burn that statue of Caesar—set it aflame so you can see the smoke through that gap. Once you see it, you and the other gladiators get out. Reclaim your freedom. Walk straight to the Senate Castle. I’ll hand Octavius to you on a silver plate.”

Spartacus’s jaw worked. “You want me to set Rome into panic?” he demanded, incredulous and wary.

Nathan smiled and nodded, as if agreeing to a simple and inevitable thing. “Yes.”

“How many will be sacrificed for that?” Spartacus asked, the question heavy and immediate. He had seen too many die for the dream of freedom—men he had led, who’d fallen because he chose to believe in something larger than themselves. The price of revolt was not cheap.

Nathan tipped his head like someone considering the damage of an oak if felled. “Didn’t you want revenge?” he asked softly. The word was a lure, and he spoke it with the patience of a man who had already counted the cost and decided it acceptable.

“Then bring Octavius to me,” Spartacus said, voice hardening. “I can do it alone. I won’t drag other gladiators into blood if I can help it.” The memory of bodies on the sand rose up—companions who had trusted him, young faces turned to stone. He would not be the architect of another massacre.

“So you refuse?” Nathan’s tone was not angry; it held instead a faint, disappointed cadence—an expression that made clear he had hoped for something else. Spartacus saw it and felt the old itch of responsibility press against his ribs.

Spartacus nodded again. He would not be the spark that burned brothers and strangers alike for the glory of one man’s vengeance.

Nathan’s sigh was quiet and theatrical. He straightened, the motion smooth and deliberate. “Alright. I will still give the signal when the time comes. If you change your mind, if your heart steels itself—you’ll have a breach to escape through. The choice will be yours.” He paused, one hand hovering as if to emphasize the finality of the deal. “It will be up to you whether to leave or to stay.”

Spartacus watched him, anger and something like curiosity churning together. “Are you really trying to attack Rome alone?” he asked, incredulous now at the scale of the ambition.

Nathan’s smile sharpened, faint but hard. “I won’t be completely alone, but yes.” He glanced at Spartacus with an intensity that made the prisoner feel briefly exposed. “My ambitions don’t include dying in a cell.” Then, without more, he turned and melted into the dark corridor, taking his secrets with him as silently as he had arrived.