I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

A full hour had slipped by since the negotiations had begun—an hour thick with measured words, veiled threats, and carefully masked ambitions. The grand chamber that hosted the talks between the Amun Ra Empire and the Roman Empire still seemed to hum faintly with lingering tension, as though the walls themselves remembered every argument laid bare within them.

On one side stood Queen Cleopatra, radiant yet inscrutable, accompanied by her ever-watchful advisor Apollodorus. On the other were the towering political forces of Rome—Crassus, Servilia, the Pope, and at the forefront of the debate, Fulvius, Rome’s silver-tongued negotiator.

Truth be told, for most of that hour, the discussion had been a duel of words between only two men: Apollodorus and Fulvius.

They were masters of their respective crafts—men who knew how to bend meaning without breaking it, how to dress demands as concessions and concessions as generosity. Each sentence had been carefully weighed, each pause calculated. Promises were offered without ever being fully given, and threats were hinted at with smiles polite enough to disarm the unprepared.

Neither man yielded ground easily.

And that alone made the talks remarkable.

When the final terms were spoken and the last formal pleasantries exchanged, the representatives rose from their seats almost in unison. The echo of chairs scraping softly against polished stone marked the end of the first—and arguably easiest—part of the day.

What awaited them next was far heavier.

The judgment of Julius Caesar.

As they exited the chamber and proceeded through the long, marble corridors of the palace, Fulvius fell into step beside Apollodorus, studying him with open curiosity rather than concealed scrutiny.

“You are quite the talker, Apollodorus,” Fulvius said at last, his tone carrying both amusement and sincerity.

Apollodorus let out a soft chuckle. “That should be my line, Lord Fulvius. It is rare for me to find myself actually sweating during a negotiation.”

Fulvius raised a brow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Then perhaps I should correct myself—that should have been my line. I have decades of experience, countless negotiations behind me, discussions with men far older and supposedly wiser than you.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “Yet you are the only one in my entire life who has ever managed to hold his ground so thoroughly.”

Apollodorus inclined his head slightly, accepting the praise without arrogance. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Still, I believe both our parties emerged victorious. That is the mark of a successful alliance.”

Fulvius exhaled through his nose, the smile fading just a little. “And that, young man, is precisely the problem.”

He slowed his pace, forcing Apollodorus to match him.

“I am used to negotiations where Rome walks away appearing generous while gaining more than she gives. This time…” He shrugged. “A perfect balance. Fifty-fifty.” His lips curved wryly. “A failure, by my standards.”

Apollodorus considered him for a moment before answering. “If it reassures you in any way, I count the talks as a failure as well.”

Fulvius laughed outright at that, casting him an approving glance. “I was thinking the exact same thing. Still, credit where it is due—Queen Cleopatra chose well. You are the perfect man to stand at her side.”

“That is high praise,” Apollodorus replied, a genuine smile breaking through his composed demeanor.

Fulvius studied him more closely now, curiosity plainly written across his face. “Tell me, where are you from? You don’t quite strike me as a native of Amun Ra.”

“My mother hails from the Achaean Continent—Sparta,” Apollodorus answered calmly. “My father was born in Amun Ra.”

Fulvius let out a short chuckle. “From the distant Spartan Kingdom?” He shook his head lightly. “Then you clearly inherited everything from your father.”

Apollodorus smiled, though it was faint and somewhat awkward.

He knew better than anyone how little truth there was in that statement.

There was nothing Spartan within him—no fire, no raw martial spirit, no iron discipline born of that harsh land. Whatever he was, it had been shaped elsewhere.

Sensing the direction of the conversation and choosing not to dwell on it, Apollodorus smoothly shifted the topic.

“Speaking of absences,” he said, glancing around the corridor, “where is Septimius?”

“Who knows where he is,” Fulvius replied with a light shrug, though his eyes remained sharp. “Septimius has always been… unpredictable.” His tone suggested long experience rather than casual observation. “I trust you have had the opportunity to meet him. In that case, perhaps you can tell us more about the kind of man he truly is.”

He paused briefly, then added, almost as an afterthought—but with the precision of a blade aimed deliberately—

“After all, he did quite a lot to help Queen Cleopatra reclaim her throne.”

The remark was definitely a jab.

Apollodorus did not miss it.

“Unpredictable and uncontrollable,” he agreed calmly, inclining his head. “I would even go so far as to say dangerously so.” He exhaled softly, his gaze distant for a moment. “That man… is the most impressive individual I have ever encountered in every conceivable way. He does precisely what he wishes—and somehow, he always succeeds.”

Then Apollodorus’ eyes returned to Fulvius, sharp.

“I believe you of all people should understand that better than anyone,” he continued evenly. “Considering that Caesar’s downfall—and the fact that Rome is now free from his tyranny—is due largely to him.”

The counterstrike landed flawlessly.

For a brief moment, silence followed—then Crassus let out a low chuckle, clearly entertained.

He rarely saw Fulvius truly unsettled. Rarer still was seeing him irritated by someone so young. First Nathan, and now Apollodorus—another young man pressing precisely the wrong nerves with infuriating accuracy.

Fulvius stared at Apollodorus for a heartbeat longer before letting out a laugh of his own, though it carried a sharp edge.

“Indeed,” he conceded. “Quite uncontrollable, to say the least.” He shook his head slightly. “Let us simply hope he keeps his word—and truly brings Caesar with him as promised.”

“He will,” Servilia interjected smoothly, her lips curving into a polite smile as she turned toward Fulvius. “You needn’t worry about that.”

Yet her smile did not reach her eyes.

Fulvius scoffed softly. “You seem remarkably confident for someone speaking of Septimius.”

Cleopatra, who until now had paid little attention to the petty verbal skirmish between her advisor and Fulvius, turned her gaze toward Servilia with sudden interest.

She caught the subtle undertone immediately.

So that was it.

Servilia was one of Nathan’s women.

The realization sparked a flicker of intrigue within Cleopatra’s eyes. Nathan was not a man she imagined accepting companions lightly—certainly not at random.

“Servilia, is it?” Cleopatra asked, her voice calm but probing.

“Yes,” Servilia answered with a small nod, her expression composed, her smile perfectly measured.

Cleopatra studied her more closely now, seeing her not merely as a Roman leader, but as something far more interesting.

One of Nathan’s women… and a figure of power within Rome itself.

The thought nearly made her laugh.

Was Servilia chosen simply because she had already held influence—or had Nathan placed her deliberately, weaving his presence into the very heart of Roman authority?

Either way, the conclusion was unavoidable.

Whether by intention or chance, Nathan chose his women extraordinarily well.

He was, in that regard at least, undeniably fortunate.

Cleopatra folded her hands lightly before her, her interest no longer concealed.

“So,” she said smoothly, “what do you think of him?” Her gaze never left Servilia. “I have known him only briefly—far less than you, in fact. I would very much like to hear your opinion.”

Hearing that Nathan had known her for longer than Cleopatra had brought a quiet satisfaction to Servilia. It was not pride—nor arrogance—but the simple comfort of truth. She had walked beside him longer, seen more of him, understood him beyond rumors and titles.

And that mattered.

“A truly wonderful man,” Servilia said at last, her voice steady yet carrying unmistakable sincerity. “I have never met anyone like him.” She paused briefly, her gaze lowering as if recalling distant memories. “I once believed—foolishly—that Julius Caesar belonged to that rare category of men destined to be carved forever into history. One of those towering figures whose names echo through the ages.”

Her eyes lifted again, sharper now.

“But Septimius exists beyond that measure. He belongs to a higher world altogether.” A faint smile touched her lips. “He is… special.”

Cleopatra listened with interest, then nodded slowly, a knowing smile gracing her features.

“To compare Caesar to him is a sin in itself,” the Queen replied. “I have seen countless men throughout my life—kings, generals, conquerors, and schemers alike. Yet Nathan is… different.” Her eyes gleamed with something rare: conviction. “He will reach a realm of fame and power equal if not more to that of my ancestor—Alexander the Great.”

The words fell like thunder.

Crassus stiffened, Fulvius’ amusement vanished, and even those who had mastered the art of concealing their reactions could not entirely suppress their surprise.

There was no soul alive who did not know the name Alexander the Great—the conqueror who, centuries earlier, had crushed the Achaean Continent, subjugated Rome, Amun Ra, and lands far beyond the reach of imagination.

For Cleopatra to invoke that name so openly—and to place Nathan beside it—was no idle flattery.

It was a declaration.

A statement of belief heavy with implication.

None of them doubted that Cleopatra understood the weight of her words. And that made them all the more unsettling.

After that, conversation dwindled into thoughtful silence. The remainder of the walk passed swiftly, footsteps echoing against marble floors as the towering doors of the Senatorial Hall came into view.