I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The parade of Caesar through the heart of Rome felt endless, a slow-moving tide of pageantry and power. The imperial streets, lined with jubilant citizens, echoed with cries of adoration and the rhythmic beat of drums. Colorful banners rippled in the hot summer breeze, golden standards catching the noonday sun like divine symbols.

Caesar’s majestic carriage crawled through the city, gilded and adorned with laurels of victory. Pulled by white stallions, it glimmered with polished bronze fittings. At his side rode Marcus Antonius and Octavius, basking in the roar of the masses. The Dictator smiled like a god among men, waving with calm majesty as flowers rained from balconies above.

Yet to Nathan, it was all unbearably slow. The air was heavy with heat, the sun blazing mercilessly from a sky without clouds. The cheers of the crowd, once thunderous, had dulled into an oppressive drone in his ears. Sweat clung to his brow, and even the golden grandeur lost its luster under the weight of exhaustion. He glanced behind him and let out a slow breath.

But if he was growing weary, then the ones truly suffering were behind them—Pompey and Arsinoe. Shackled by fate and paraded as spoils of war, they were the silent centerpiece of Caesar’s triumph.

Pompey, still bearing the tattered dignity of his lineage, walked with stiff defiance. Beside him, Arsinoe, her delicate figure draped in a tattered tunic, was forced to walk barefoot along the sun-scorched cobblestones. Her once-regal appearance had faded beneath the layers of dust and despair. Her face, once proud and fierce, now looked pale and near collapse.

The combination of hunger, shame, fatigue, and the cruel sun beating upon her shoulders was too much. Her steps faltered.

And then, she stumbled—her vision narrowing into a haze of gold and white—ready to fall into the crowd of sneering Roman citizens. But before she could hit the ground, a pair of steady hands caught her.

Nathan.

He grabbed her shoulders firmly but gently, steadying her as her body sagged against him. Her lips parted in a dazed whisper.

“S…Septimius…”

Without saying a word, Nathan uncorked a small water flask and pressed it to her lips. She hesitated, then gulped greedily, the cool water easing the fire in her throat.

“T…thank you…” she whispered weakly.

Nathan looked ahead, nodding toward the end of the parade route.

“It’s over,” he murmured. “We’ve arrived.”

Arsinoe lifted her gaze and saw it—the towering marble columns of the Senate Palace rising ahead like the gate to a different world. The parade had reached its final destination.

With renewed resolve, she straightened her back, brushing off Nathan’s hand with the last shred of dignity she could summon. She nodded once, silently.

The procession halted in the grand plaza. Caesar descended from his carriage with practiced grace, his crimson cloak trailing behind him. Octavius and Marcus Antonius followed in lockstep, their armor glinting beneath the high sun.

Awaiting them at the steps of the Senate was a small assembly of Rome’s most powerful men—draped in rich togas, adorned with golden fibulae. At their center stood a tall man in his forties, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome, with neatly trimmed dark brown hair and a smile that did not reach his eyes.

As Caesar approached, the man stepped forward, arms wide in apparent affection.

“My friend, Julius!” he declared, voice rich with practiced warmth.

Caesar smiled broadly, the kind of smile reserved for public spectacles. He embraced the man without hesitation.

“Crassus,” Caesar replied smoothly.

From the sidelines, Nathan studied the interaction with sharp eyes. So this was him—Marcus Licinius Crassus, the third head and Emperor of Rome’s triumvirate. The wealthiest man in the Empire. The man Caesar had secretly asked him to kill.

“Interesting,” Nathan thought. “So this is the man who holds more gold than any Roman alive… and yet Caesar wants him gone.”

Crassus laughed with theatrical joy. “Another grand victory to your name, Julius. At this rate, there won’t be enough scrolls in the Empire to recount all your feats.”

Caesar chuckled, placing a hand on Crassus’ shoulder. “Oh, my dear Crassus. While I conquer with legions, it is you who truly built this empire—with your wealth, your shrewd dealings. Rome flourishes under your shadow.”

Their laughter rang in the air like old friends reunited after war—but Nathan saw the truth beneath the mask. Their smiles were masks, their compliments daggers sheathed in velvet.

He could see it in their eyes—cold calculation, unspoken rivalry, silent promises of betrayal.

He wondered how they could smile at each other even though they clearly hated each other’s guts.

“Father! Welcome back home!”

A sweet, youthful voice rang out over the marble courtyard. From among the crowd emerged a striking girl with an air of refinement far beyond her years. Her golden curls, tied elegantly at the back, shimmered like sunlight in motion, and her clear blue eyes sparkled with delight and pride. She moved gracefully, the hem of her embroidered dress brushing lightly against the polished stone. Though she appeared only fifteen, she carried herself with the practiced poise of a Roman noblewoman—a child molded by aristocracy.

Caesar’s stern visage softened the moment he heard the voice. He turned, a rare warmth lighting his features. “Julia, my daughter.”

He stepped forward and enveloped her in a strong embrace. Julia, caught in the safety of her father’s arms, returned the hug with youthful devotion. The crowd of Roman nobles and officers watched in silent deference. Even a conqueror could still be a father.

As the embrace broke, Julia’s eyes fluttered toward the nearby figures—Octavius, tall and composed, with a calculating glint in his eye, and Marcus Antonius, rugged and charismatic. A soft blush colored her cheeks as she turned her face away, modesty returning her gaze to the ground. There was a gentle innocence to her, but also an unmistakable curiosity.

And then—her eyes landed on someone else.

A man who didn’t belong.

Standing slightly apart from the rest was a figure who drew the eye with quiet intensity. His hair, snow-white and windswept, contrasted sharply with the sea of Roman dark curls. His crimson eyes were sharp, intelligent—and unsettling. A dangerous beauty surrounded him like a cold mist, drawing Julia’s gaze as though some part of her sensed something deeper.

Before she could ask about him, a soft ripple of movement to her left interrupted the moment.

Another girl approached, a few years older than Julia, her bearing equally noble but laced with something more—mature, deliberate, and undeniably alluring. Her wavy dark brown hair was styled with practiced effortlessness, cascading over her shoulders. Her light brown eyes gleamed with confidence and charm.

This was Licinia, daughter of Marcus Crassus, and the gleam in her eye wasn’t familial affection. It was ambition. And perhaps something else.

“I congratulate you once again, my Emperor,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, each word laced with honey. A smile played on her lips—neither shy nor innocent. It was the kind of smile that had power, that knew it had power.

Caesar smirked as he stepped toward her. “You have grown in my absence, Licinia,” he murmured, leaning forward to press a light kiss to her cheeks.

Licinia blushed, lowering her gaze demurely, but the smile remained.

Nathan, watching from the sidelines, flicked his gaze toward Crassus, observing the subtle shift in his expression. The man was smiling—pleasantly, even proudly—but Nathan had learned to read the cracks beneath such facades. Despite everything, despite Caesar’s mounting dominance and the unspoken loathing between the two, Brutus did not seem eager for his demise. Rather, he seemed to believe an alliance could still be salvaged—perhaps through the union of Caesar and his daughter, Julia.

Nathan frowned slightly. Strange… for a man marked for betrayal to still hope for peace through marriage.

Suddenly, Crassus spoke with booming cheer. “We should celebrate this grand return inside, Caesar. The others await you—and more importantly, the emissaries from the Amun-Ra Empire are here. They’ve been waiting most eagerly for your arrival.”

“The Heroes of the Amun-Ra Empire, you say?” Caesar chuckled with a spark of interest. “Then let’s not keep our guests waiting.”

He turned to one of his guards with a flick of the hand. “Take the prisoners away.”

The command was cold and final.

Pompey and Arsinoe, who had remained silent under the gaze of Rome’s elite, were seized by the guards. The chains clinked against the stone as they were led away, stripped of their dignity but not of their presence. As Pompey passed by Crassus, their eyes met—an unspoken conversation flashing between them in that instant.

Nathan caught it. It was brief, yet brimming with meaning. There was a flicker of sympathy in Crassus’s gaze, something mournful. Pompey, in contrast, wore a small, knowing smile—as if saying, Watch your back. You think you’re different, but your turn is coming.

Nathan could almost feel the prophecy in that glance.

He fell into step behind Caesar’s entourage as they ascended the marble steps into the Senate Palace—but only briefly. The towering corridors, with their grand columns and frescoes depicting the glory of Rome, beckoned exploration. Once inside, Nathan quietly peeled away from the group, slipping into one of the shadowed side halls.

He had no interest in political niceties or forced banquets.

He had his own mission.

Ameriah… Auria… where are you?

Nathan moved deeper into the heart of the Senate Palace, his footsteps echoing lightly on the polished marble floor. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of him, lined with ornate pillars and draped with crimson banners embroidered with golden eagles. The scent of incense floated faintly in the air, mingling with the aroma of roasted meat, wine, perfume—and sweat.

But what truly caught his attention wasn’t the architecture.

It was the people.

There were so many of them.

Every few steps led to yet another open chamber, more extravagant than the last. These rooms were alive with a chaos of indulgence, laughter, and hedonism. Roman nobles lounged on cushioned divans, their rich tunics undone in the heat, while slaves bustled around them, refilling goblets of wine and placing trays of glistening fruit at their feet.

In one chamber, a group of patrician women, their cheeks flushed from heat and wine, sat in a steaming sauna, gossiping and giggling as they ladled hot water over smooth stones, filling the air with steam.

Another room hosted a group of older men in togas—senators, perhaps—gathered around a table scattered with maps and dice, debating loudly while simultaneously groping at the courtesans on their laps. Laughter and slurred Latin intermixed like a drunken symphony.

And then—others.

Rooms where velvet curtains swayed with every movement. Where bodies tangled in the throes of carnal pleasure. Where the sound of moaning women reached even the main hallway. Orgy chambers, pleasure dens… all hiding behind thin veils of satin that did little to obscure the raw reality.

Nathan paused, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took it all in.

This… this is the seat of Rome’s power? he thought. This is no palace of governance. It’s a gilded brothel masquerading as a Senate.

The heart of the Republic beat not with law and discipline, but with lust and excess.

He walked on, pushing aside the revulsion, his expression unreadable. The more he saw, the more he realized how deep Rome’s rot had spread beneath its polished marble and imperial banners.

But just as he was about to turn into another corridor, a sharp voice rang out from one of the larger rooms up ahead:

“Let her go immediately!”

The voice—female, powerful, and filled with fury—cut through the haze of laughter and moaning like a blade.

Curious, he stepped closer, his strides silent and measured. He reached the doorway and paused, leaning slightly forward to peek inside.

The room was lavish, decorated with golden columns and silk drapes that fluttered in the breeze of an open balcony. Sunlight poured in, illuminating the scene within.

At the center stood a tall, striking woman who instantly drew the eye.

Her hair was a cascade of pale gold, tied into elegant braids that draped over her shoulders like threads of sunlight. Her eyes, a piercing sky-blue, burned with defiance and outrage. She wore a regal tunic of foreign make, trimmed with gold and embroidered with beautiful patterns that spoke of distant lands.

She was not Roman.

And that was obvious at a glance.

She was Elin Berg, one of the Heroes summoned by the Amun-Ra Empire.

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