I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 442: Marcus Antoinus’s departure…

In front of the mighty gates of Rome, a thunderous commotion echoed through the stone-paved streets. The golden sun of late morning shone down upon a sea of people gathered in anticipation, their voices blending into a deafening roar of excitement and admiration.

All eyes were fixed upon the figure at the heart of it all—the valiant and beloved general of Rome, Marcus Antoinus.

Mounted upon a majestic black steed whose mane glistened like obsidian in the sunlight, Marcus Antoinus sat tall and proud, clad in the full ceremonial armor of a Roman general. His chestplate gleamed like polished bronze, intricately etched with the eagle of Rome, while the crimson cloak that billowed from his shoulders danced with the breeze like a banner of war. The plumes of his helmet, dyed imperial red, trembled with each movement of the stallion beneath him.

Today, he was departing on yet another expedition—this time to crush the barbarian tribes threatening Rome’s northern borders. For the general, it was merely another campaign, another duty to fulfill for the glory of the Republic. But for the people, every departure of Marcus Antoinus was an occasion of awe and pride, a living legend in motion.

Hundreds of soldiers—his loyal legionaries—stood behind him, their formation precise, their armor and shields catching the sunlight like stars dotting a sea of steel.

“Marcus Antoinus!”

“Destroy them!”

“Bring us victory, noble general!”

“We love you!”

“Hail Caesar! Hail Marcus Antoinus!”

The chants rang out in unison, rising like a prayer to the heavens. Marcus raised his hand with a confident, easy grace and flashed his famous smile—a grin both charming and commanding. He basked in the adoration, his sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd as if savoring the power and affection that flowed toward him like a tide.

Yet, amidst the fanfare, another wave of commotion began to ripple from the edge of the gathering. Murmurs of surprise spread like wildfire as a girl approached the front line, parting the crowd effortlessly as if the people themselves yielded to her presence.

She was a vision in white and gold—her Roman tunic fashioned from the finest silk imported from the East, shimmering with threads of sunlight. Jewels adorned her neck and wrists, though her natural beauty outshone them all. Her long curly blond hair flowed freely down her back, and her bearing was both regal and serene.

She was Julia—the only daughter of Caesar.

Her very presence commanded attention, yet her delicate steps toward the general were graceful, almost hesitant. The crowd instinctively quieted, respectful and curious.

At once, Marcus Antoinus dismounted. He removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm, revealing tousled blond hair and a handsome face lined with strength and experience. His smile softened as he approached her.

“Julia,” he said gently, “you shouldn’t be here. It might not be safe.”

A faint blush colored her cheeks, but she held his gaze with a quiet confidence. “I don’t believe there’s any danger in Rome, especially not when I stand beside its greatest general,” she replied, her voice soft as silk.

Marcus chuckled at her words, clearly pleased. “Of course. With me, you’re safe.”

Then, without a word, Julia reached toward a silver plate held carefully by one of her servants. Upon it lay an object that immediately caught Marcus’s attention—a dagger. But not just any dagger.

It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship: a sleek black blade with swirling engravings that seemed almost alive under the sunlight. Its hilt was wrapped in deep red leather, and a ruby glittered in its pommel like a drop of frozen blood.

“A gift,” Julia said, picking it up and presenting it to him with both hands. “For good fortune on your campaign.”

Marcus took it reverently, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest of moments. His eyes remained fixed on the weapon, admiration shining in them.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

Julia smiled, but there was a flicker of something more—something unspoken—behind her serene expression.

Because the truth was, the gift wasn’t hers.

The night before, Fulvia had visited Julia in secret. The once-fiancée of Marcus Antoinus, Fulvia had been engaged to him before the engagement was abruptly dissolved due to political strife between her family and Caesar himself. Though the bond had broken, Fulvia had come to Julia not with hatred, but with a quiet, sorrowful request.

She had given Julia the dagger and asked her to deliver it to Marcus, as a gesture of goodwill. A farewell. A silent memory.

And she made Julia promise not to reveal her name.

Julia had agreed. Not out of fear, but out of guilt.

She was the reason Marcus had broken off the engagement.

Marcus, now Caesar’s favored general, could no longer afford to be tied to the Fulvia family, known for its disdain of Caesar’s rule. When the opportunity arose to sever the bond and align with Caesar’s house instead, he had done so swiftly.

Julia, daughter of Caesar, had become his new future.

Her father had already told her Marcus would be her husband. Since then, she had done everything in her power to step into that role—graceful, supportive, and desirable in every way. And though she felt a twinge of guilt toward Fulvia, it would be a lie to say she wasn’t relieved. Or that she wasn’t quietly pleased.

Marcus was strong, kind, and admired by all. A hero of Rome. And he was going to be hers.

So when she handed him the dagger, and saw the spark of appreciation in his eyes, she smiled with genuine satisfaction.

Fulvia may have given the gift.

But Julia was the one who placed it into his hands.

And at that moment, in front of all of Rome, it was her name that lingered in the hearts of those who saw them together.

“This is beautiful… I’ve never seen a dagger like this in my life,” Marcus Antoinus murmured, a glint of curiosity lighting his eyes as he turned the blade between his fingers. The black metal shimmered under the Roman sun, catching the light with an almost unnatural luster. The curved runes etched into its surface whispered of foreign lands and forgotten artistry—exquisite, exotic, and most certainly not of Roman origin.

Had he known the truth behind the dagger’s origin—that it once belonged to none other than Septimius, the man he despised more than any creature alive—he would have hurled it into the sewers of Rome without hesitation, letting the filth consume it.

But ignorance was a strange mercy.

“I’m happy you like it,” Julia said, her voice light, filled with gentle warmth. Her eyes sparkled with sincerity, her lips curving into a radiant smile that could soften the heart of a tyrant. In that moment, she wasn’t the daughter of Caesar, nor the political bride promised to a general. She was simply a young woman, glowing with the joy of being noticed by the man she admired.

And Marcus Antoinus—he smiled back, but his true thoughts were concealed behind his chiseled expression.

She was beautiful. Far too beautiful.

A noble flower carefully cultivated within the imperial palace, untouched by the dirt of the world. Youthful, elegant, and painfully innocent.

And it was that very innocence that stirred something far darker in Marcus.

He would break her.

He didn’t love her. Not truly. But her purity, her shy glances, the way she looked at him as though he were a god carved from marble—that was a treasure he longed to defile.

Not yet.

He would be patient.

Once the Gladiator Tournament concluded and his return from the campaign sealed another victory under his name, then—then—he would take what had been promised to him. Her virginity. Her devotion. Her illusions of love.

And she would smile through her tears, thanking the man who ruined her.

But for now, he played the dutiful general.

“With this…” Marcus said, slipping the dagger smoothly into the sheath at his waist, “I am certain I shall return in triumph. The gods themselves would envy this blade.”

Julia’s smile widened with pride. Her eyes, wide and bright, shimmered as she stepped closer—just a little—and pressed a soft kiss against his cheek.

“I… I wish you good fortune,” she whispered, cheeks now painted with a lovely shade of red. “May the goddess Minerva guide your hand.”

The kiss lingered no longer than a breath, yet it sent a ripple of heat through Marcus’s cheek.

Julia quickly turned, clearly overwhelmed by her own boldness, and ran off with hurried steps, her guards and handmaidens rushing to follow. Her heart thudded in her chest like a war drum.

Marcus touched his cheek idly, lips curved into a wolfish smirk. No blush touched his face—only satisfaction. Slowly, he mounted his steed once more, sliding his helmet over his head as the sun bathed his armor in a golden hue.

With a single raised fist, he gave the order.

“March!”

The legion surged forward, and Rome erupted into cheers once more.

The general didn’t glance back even once—but he made sure they all saw him leave, the hero of the Republic, riding off to glory.

Hours passed.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world in amber and crimson hues. As dusk fell, Marcus and his men arrived at a scorched region—charred earth, broken weapons, and traces of blood marked the ground where Roman soldiers had once stood.

A massacre.

“We’ll camp here,” Marcus declared, his voice steady.

His officers obeyed, barking orders. Tents were raised swiftly, fires lit, and watch rotations assigned. As the darkness thickened, the soldiers gathered around the flames, laughing, drinking, sharpening their blades and sharing tales of home and battle.

Marcus sat alone by a fire, his helmet resting on a rock nearby. He held the black dagger again, letting its weight rest in his palm.

Even now, it was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

The balance was perfect, its craftsmanship alien to anything forged within the Empire. It was elegant, yet deadly—like a serpent wrapped in velvet.

Certainly not Roman.

Where had Julia found such a weapon?

The question teased the back of his mind, but he brushed it away. It didn’t matter. A gift was a gift. And this one… it pleased him.

Unseen by any mortal soul, high above in the night sky, veiled in shadows, a figure hovered in the darkened heavens.

A woman.

Her black gown, sheer and flowing, fluttered like the wings of a raven in the windless sky. Her long hair, as dark as raven’s feathers, flowed around her like liquid shadows.

And her eyes…

One emerald. One crimson.

A hypnotic gaze that shimmered like stars lost in the void.

She watched from afar, suspended above the earth as if gravity dared not claim her. Her focus was singular—locked on the small flicker of firelight at the edge of a Roman encampment.

On him.

On Marcus Antoinus.

“As you wish, Nate.”