I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 440: Caesar’s doubts

A few days had passed since Nathan had eliminated Logan.

In the time since, he had deliberately adopted a more subdued, calculated approach—choosing to act with caution rather than impulse. The chaos of his first arrival in Rome still lingered at the back of his mind like a warning. He had moved too quickly, too recklessly, and nearly compromised everything. Now, he couldn’t afford that luxury. Not when the stakes were this high.

Caesar’s trust—tenuous as it was—had to be preserved. One misstep, one hint of betrayal, and Nathan knew precisely how the mighty ruler would respond. It wouldn’t be exile. It wouldn’t be imprisonment. No, Julius Caesar would have him killed without a second thought. The man wasn’t known for mercy.

Nathan understood this too well. If Caesar caught even a whisper of his true intentions—of the schemes Nathan was weaving in the shadows—then it would be over.

So, for now, he chose to play the loyal soldier. The perfect mercenary. The useful tool.

That didn’t mean Nathan had stopped planning. On the contrary, he had already inquired—quietly—about a possible way to eliminate Crassus, the ever-ambitious and dangerous Roman general. But Caesar’s attention was currently fixated elsewhere. Something far more important was looming on the horizon.

The Gladiator Tournament.

It wasn’t just a display of Roman might and entertainment for the masses. This was a sacred event—one that would draw the attention of the gods themselves. Athena, in all her divine grace, was set to descend from Olympus and observe it in person. Her presence would sanctify the games and elevate Rome in the eyes of mortals and immortals alike.

And yet, as the city prepared for spectacle and glory, an ill omen began to cast a shadow over the festivities.

Trouble had come.

It began in Caesar’s private chamber, a quiet room heavy with the scent of scrolls and burning oil. The late afternoon sun filtered through the narrow window slits, casting long golden stripes across the floor.

Seated upon a modest yet regal chair was Caesar himself, draped in his crimson cloak, eyes sharp and calculating. Before him stood two of his most trusted men: Marcus Antoinus—his ever-loyal warhound—and the younger, but sharp-witted Octavius.

“How many?” Caesar’s voice was calm, yet laced with irritation.

Marcus stepped forward, his armor faintly clinking as he moved. His face was grave, jaw set like stone.

“A hundred, give or take. A full contingent. Wiped out on the main road—southbound. They were returning from a scouting expedition.”

Caesar narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly, fingers clasped beneath his chin.

“Who would dare strike Roman soldiers so close to the capital?” Octavius interjected, his tone sharp with disbelief. His youthful features twisted into a frown. “This isn’t a skirmish in Gaul. This is Rome’s doorstep.”

“Rome has no shortage of enemies,” Caesar replied coolly, tapping his fingers against his knee. “But you’re right. This close to the city? Either they’re mad… or dangerously bold.”

“Or both,” Marcus muttered.

Caesar’s mind raced. A hundred trained soldiers did not fall easily. This wasn’t the work of petty thieves or desperate deserters. Whoever was behind this had either overwhelming numbers—or terrifying strength.

And the timing… was far too convenient.

The tournament was drawing near. Pilgrims, nobility, merchants, and gods themselves would soon flood the city. This massacre wasn’t just an insult—it was a threat. A disruption.

He couldn’t afford that.

Not now.

Not with Rome under the gaze of Olympus.

And what he had planned.

“Do you believe it was bandits?” Octavius asked, his brows furrowed. “It seems… far-fetched.”

Caesar scoffed quietly. “No. This wasn’t a random ambush for coin or armor. It was a message. Or a test.”

A tense silence settled over the room.

Caesar broke it.

“I want them gone. Every last one of them,” he said at last, voice cold and sharp. “Marcus, take as many men as you require. Find them. Wipe them from the map. Leave one survivor if you must—but only to spread word that attacking Rome is a death sentence.”

Marcus gave a curt nod, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “It will be done, Imperator.”

But Octavius, ever the voice of caution, raised a hand.

“Is it wise to send Marcus away? He is your shield. He should remain in Rome. By your side.”

Caesar offered a rare smile. “Don’t concern yourself with my safety, dear Octavius. Septimius is still here, and he’s done a fine job these last few days. Besides, Marcus is best suited for swift vengeance.”

When the name Septimius was uttered within the stone-walled chamber, the atmosphere thickened. As if on cue, both Marcus Antoinus and Octavius instinctively tensed—like hunting dogs catching the scent of a rival. Their faces soured, brows tightening in distaste, lips pressed into grim lines. It wasn’t subtle. And Caesar noticed it immediately.

He leaned back in his ornate chair, the carved arms shaped like eagle wings catching a glimmer of torchlight. A low chuckle escaped him—dry, amused.

“You both wear your hearts too openly,” Caesar said with a smirk, not bothering to mask the irony in his tone. “You don’t trust him, do you?”

He hadn’t directed the question to either of them specifically, and yet Octavius, ever the first to speak on matters of principle, stepped forward with fire in his voice.

“Of course I don’t,” Octavius said coldly, his green eyes narrowing. “He betrayed Pompey. He’s nothing more than a sword for hire—a mercenary with no honor.”

Caesar merely waved a hand, as if brushing aside a gnat.

“And I told you that,” he said, “is exactly why I do trust him.”

Octavius stiffened, visibly biting back his words. Caesar stood, the deep red folds of his tunic swaying with regal weight as he descended the small dais toward them.

“With Pompey in chains,” Caesar continued, “Septimius could have slit his throat for glory. Or handed him over to curry favor with me. But what did he do? He bargained. Even with a great man like Pompey reduced to a hostage, he negotiated. He is… predictable. A man like that is bound by gold. Offer him enough and he will obey.”

Octavius clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles paled. He didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t have to. The disgust was written clearly across his face.

Caesar stopped before them and laid a hand on each of their shoulders—Octavius’s right, Marcus’s left—firm, almost paternal.

“Don’t let this trouble your hearts,” Caesar said gently. “You two are lions—my lions. My strength, my fangs. Septimius? He is a dog. A loyal one, yes, but a dog all the same. One I keep close to guard the threshold. That’s all he’ll ever be. Do you understand?”

Octavius inhaled slowly, then gave a sharp nod. “Understood.”

Beside him, Marcus Antoinus gave a grin, pleased by the analogy. He puffed his chest slightly and nodded as well. “Understood, Caesar.”

Caesar turned to Marcus. “Then, Marcus Antoinus, see to the matter I mentioned. Handle it swiftly—we have much to prepare for the tournament.”

“I will, my Emperor.” Marcus bowed his head with theatrical flair, the polished bronze clasp on his cloak gleaming as he turned on his heel and strode from the chamber.

Octavius followed him without a word, his steps measured, calculated.

As they reached the arched exit and passed into the dim corridor, Octavius finally spoke.

“Be careful,” he said bluntly. “Use your head for once. Don’t go charging in like a beast starved of blood.”

Marcus arched a brow, visibly amused. “Well, well, Octavius. Since when do you worry about me? This must be a first.”

Octavius’s eyes, as cold and sharp as steel drawn from the forge, flicked sideways.

“I’m not worried. It’s called advice.” His tone was clipped, impatient. “You may be an oaf, but even you must know Caesar relies on you. When he claims full dominion over Rome, he will need a face to rally the legions. That face… is yours.”

Marcus said nothing for a moment. He only raised an eyebrow, his grin slowly fading.

“And you’re likely to marry his daughter,” Octavius added. “Don’t be a fool and throw away that future—standing not only beside Caesar, but as part of his blood.”

There was a flicker in Marcus’s eyes. Perhaps acknowledgment. Perhaps irritation.

He scoffed. “You sound like you’re in love with him.”

Octavius halted and turned sharply. His glare was the kind that could freeze fire.

Marcus laughed again, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. I get it. No need for that stare.”

Then, with a huff, Marcus’s expression darkened. “And don’t lecture me about combat. No one in Rome can best me in a fight. Not in a brawl, not in a duel, not in war.”

Octavius didn’t blink. He simply asked, “What about Septimius?”

Marcus stopped mid-step, the echo of his boots halting in the corridor. His entire posture shifted—tense, rigid, dangerous.

“What did you say?” he asked, voice low, taut with fury.

Octavius held his ground. His gaze was firm, unflinching.

“I said,” he repeated calmly, “what about Septimius? Can you beat him?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t mockery. It was a genuine question, cold and calculating. Marcus knew it.

A silence fell between them.

Then Marcus snorted, forcing a scoff through clenched teeth. “That’s a damn foolish question.”

He spun back toward the corridor, his voice gruff and irritated. “I can kill that dog whenever I want.”

But this time, there was no laughter in his voice.

Marcus Antoinus walked briskly down the corridor, the sharp echo of his boots reverberating off the stone walls like the drumbeat of his unsettled thoughts. His jaw was tight, and a faint frown tugged at the corners of his mouth as a single name continued to gnaw at his mind—Septimius.

Could he beat him?

What a ridiculous question. An insult, even.

Of course I could… Marcus thought, a little too quickly.

And yet, the question lingered like a splinter beneath the skin. The more he tried to dismiss it, the deeper it seemed to burrow.

He scowled, grinding his teeth as the memory came back—vivid, unwelcome.

At Alexandria, the moment he chased after Pothinus and then when he killed Ptolemy.

Septimius had moved with uncanny speed.

“Tch,” Marcus grunted under his breath, his hand flexing unconsciously as if reliving the moment. “Yeah… he’s fast. I’ll give him that.”

But then, he straightened his back and rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the creeping doubt.

“So what if he’s quick? I’m stronger. I’ve trained my whole life for the battlefield. If I go all out… he’s dead meat,” Marcus muttered, half to himself, half as if trying to convince someone else was listening. Maybe even to drown out the small, nagging voice of uncertainty within.

Still, the weight of Octavius’s question refused to lift. Why had he asked that? And in that tone?

Marcus’s frown deepened. Octavius wasn’t the type to throw words around lightly. He was calculated, always looking three steps ahead—cold, methodical, and far too smart for his own good. If he’d brought up Septimius, it wasn’t to provoke. It wasn’t idle talk.

Was he testing me? Warning me? Marcus wondered.

And then there was the broader issue: weren’t they supposed to be allies? Septimius had sworn fealty to Caesar. They all served the same banner now… didn’t they?

But something about that didn’t sit right.

The idea that Octavius, of all people, might see Septimius as a threat—enough to question Marcus’s ability to deal with him—twisted in his gut. Octavius wasn’t a warrior, not like Marcus. But he was a strategist. If he was wary of Septimius…

Marcus Antoinus slowed his pace, his hand absently drifting to the hilt of the gladius at his side.