I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 469: New Gladiator: Septimius Enters! (2)

“LUCIUS SEPTIMIUS!!!”

The herald’s voice thundered across the Colosseum, and in that instant the entire arena seemed to shake with the roar of the crowd. The cheers swelled, rising like a wave, louder than anything that had echoed through those ancient walls in recent memory.

Not even Spartacus, whose name still lingered in whispered legends among the common people, had received such a deafening welcome.

Nathan—hidden beneath the guise of Septimius—paused for a moment as he stepped into the blinding sunlight at the heart of the arena. The noise washed over him, a sea of voices chanting, crying, demanding his glory.

He felt it pressing against his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. Inwardly, he was taken aback.

I wasn’t aware I had become so famous…

Perhaps he ought to thank Caesar. The man had ensured that the tale of Alexandria’s conquest spread far and wide, gilded in exaggeration and carefully tailored to elevate Rome’s prestige. Nathan’s role, his decisive strike against the Pharaoh Ptolemy, had been polished into legend. In taverns, markets, and palaces alike, the story was retold: a mercenary with no name, no noble blood, no title, had slain a king. That single act had carried his name across continents, raising him from obscurity into the annals of history.

Now, as he stood on the sand-stained floor of the Colosseum, he realized he had been transformed into something else entirely—a symbol, a legend, perhaps even a myth.

The gladiators surrounding him turned their gazes toward him, their expressions painted with disbelief. To them, Nathan had seemed unimpressive at first glance. He lacked the towering bulk of a seasoned fighter, his frame lean rather than hulking, his height respectable but not overwhelming. They had dismissed him as another fragile lamb thrown to the slaughter.

But now that the name Septimius rang through their ears, jaws slackened, and the air among them grew thick with unease. They were not staring at a weakling any longer. They were staring at a man who had already carved his place into history with blood and fire.

A mercenary reborn into legend at the siege of Alexandria. A phantom who felled kings.

Even the nobility in the grandstands could not hide their reactions.

In the gilded balcony, Julia shot to her feet, her sudden movement startling even her father and the senators seated nearby. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she forgot all etiquette, her composure shattered.

“Se…Septimius…?!” she gasped, the word escaping before she could restrain herself.

Her wide eyes locked on him, scanning every line of his figure beneath the helmet. No matter the disguise, she knew. It was him.

Concern painted her face, an emotion raw and unhidden. Her lips parted, a whisper barely carried by the wind:

“Why…?”

Why was he here? Why had he thrown himself into this pit of death, beneath the gaze of thousands?

Beside her, Servilia, Fulvia, and Licinia shared her shock, though each wore it differently. Servilia’s eyes narrowed in disbelief, Fulvia’s lips trembled in thought, and Licinia’s knuckles whitened as she clutched the edge of her seat.

Fulvia darted a glance toward her father, searching for any sign of explanation. Strangely, he appeared calm, even expectant—as though this revelation had always been woven into the tapestry of his plans. A suspicion bloomed in Fulvia’s mind: Was this part of a larger scheme to topple Caesar?

On the sands below, Nathan ignored their stares. He ignored the swelling cheers, the murmurs of recognition, the collective weight of history pressing upon him. He ignored, too, the piercing gazes of the gods themselves.

He could feel their eyes upon him—ancient, calculating, eternal. Athena’s cool, measured stare. Ishtar’s covetous glimmer, her retinue whispering amongst themselves. Others whose divine presence prickled along his skin. Yet Nathan did not falter.

He only prayed that Aphrodite’s disguise remained flawless. If Athena had not already unraveled his true identity, it was a sign the enchantment was holding—for now.

Above, the gods spoke amongst themselves.

“Who is that man?” Dionysus asked, curiosity laced in his voice as he leaned lazily against his hand, wine-dark eyes following Nathan’s every step.

“I’ve heard whispers,” Hermes replied, his sharp gaze narrowing as he studied Nathan’s posture, his aura. “They say he is the one who struck down the Pharaoh of Isis’s Empire. A mercenary, they called him… but there’s something more.” His lips pressed thin. Something about the man troubled him, though he could not yet name it.

“Is he strong?” Pandora’s youthful voice broke the silence, tinged with eager anticipation.

Dionysus smirked faintly, his expression unreadable. “We shall see soon enough.”

Athena remained silent, her blue eyes fixed on Nathan alone.

“Now everyone! I will give the start of the last group battle royale!!”

The Roman soldier’s cry rang across the arena, his voice carrying over the thunderous noise of the crowd. At once, the atmosphere shifted.

Every gladiator stiffened, gripping their weapons tightly as the words sank in. Shields lifted, blades gleamed under the harsh sunlight, and eyes darted restlessly from face to face. The sand itself seemed to vibrate under the weight of anticipation.

A collective tension hung in the air like the taut string of a bow.

Nathan, however, remained utterly composed. His gladius rested casually in his hand, its point low, his stance deceptively relaxed. His stillness contrasted so sharply with the others’ nervous movements that it was almost unsettling.

The soldier raised his hand high.

“Three… two… one—!!”

A great bell tolled, its metallic cry echoing like the voice of fate.

“START!!!”

A deafening roar erupted as the gladiators shouted in unison, their voices clashing with the ringing bell. It was not a cheer but a cry of battle—a raw, animalistic sound that surged with the courage and desperation of men about to risk everything.

The ground shook beneath the charge of dozens. Weapons clashed, dust rose, and the crowd’s cries blended with the thunder of combat.

And yet, amidst the chaos, Nathan alone did not move.

He stood rooted, unshaken, his eyes cool as the storm swirled around him. His calmness was not ignorance—it was contempt.

Around him, a dozen gladiators quickly converged, circling like starving wolves around a lion. Their gazes burned with hunger—not merely for blood, but for fame.

Septimius.

The name alone was bait. If they could strike him down, their own names would ascend into the heavens. Caesar would hear of them. Athena might notice them. And perhaps, by some foolish hope, even Pandora would turn her gaze and choose one of them as a “perfect husband.”

Nathan almost pitied them. Almost.

He read their thoughts as easily as words on parchment. Men desperate for recognition, grasping at the shadows of gods and emperors. It disgusted him.

So this is what gladiators have become?

His mind wandered back, unbidden, to the days of the Trojan War.

There, every soldier—Trojan or Greek—fought with purpose. They bled not for spectacle, but for their homes, their honor, their kings, their gods. Even though Nathan had cared little for the Greeks, dismissing most of them as arrogant trash—Achilles and his Myrmidons being the only exception—they had at least carried themselves as true warriors.

And the Trojans… ah, the Trojans. Outnumbered, outmatched, yet unyielding. They had fought with ferocity, with love for their families, with a courage that deserved remembrance.

To compare these men—these hollow fighters seeking nothing but a woman’s glance or Caesar’s approval—to the Trojans was an insult.

He scoffed inwardly. A woman who doesn’t care for them, who would crush them without hesitation if they displeased her. And they throw away their lives for that?

And the thought of men clamoring for divine recognition—like sycophants waving for attention—was worse.

Even in the Trojan War, though countless gods had watched, few mortals stooped to beg for their gaze. None, save Paris… and Paris was a disgrace unworthy of remembrance.

Nathan let the word slip aloud, his voice cutting through the din like a blade:

“Disappointing.”

The insult carried across the arena, reaching every ear.

The reaction was immediate. Faces twisted in rage, pride wounded beyond reason.

“Your head is mine!”

“You’re dead, Septimius!”

“DIE!!!”

They surged toward him, swords flashing, a storm of steel collapsing on his position. The sand burst upward as their blades struck, the dust choking the air. The crowd leaned forward, straining to see, convinced Nathan had been buried under the onslaught.

But when the haze cleared—he was gone.

A ripple of confusion swept through the gladiators. Before they could even react, a figure reappeared a few paces away. Nathan stood there, gladius raised, his movements as fluid and deliberate as a man conducting a symphony.

His blade fell in a single arc.

The world seemed to shudder.

BA-DOOOOM!!!

The earth split under the force, an explosion erupting from the very center of where he had stood. Dust and sand exploded outward in a storm, and a shockwave hurled gladiators like rag dolls. Bodies slammed against the stone walls of the Colosseum; others were launched into the front rows of the crowd, who screamed and scattered as men crashed into their midst.

When the dust began to settle, groans and cries of agony filled the air.

On the balcony, Crassus blinked furiously, his voice stammering:

“W-what just happened…?!”

He hadn’t seen it. Not even a flicker of movement.

But in the divine gallery above, sharper eyes had pierced the veil. All the Gods had seen it.

“He did that… with a simple swing of his sword?” Dionysus asked, leaning forward, his lips curling into an intrigued smile.