I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 555: Before the Final! Movements in Rome’s shadows!

Evening draped the city in a burnt-gold wash, and Rome — the heart of the Empire — swelled like a living thing preparing to roar. Markets and side streets that had been clogged since dawn only grew tighter as the hours slipped toward dusk. Lamps flickered to life along the forum; the scent of roasting meat and sweat and oil hung in the air; voices rose and fell in a tide of eager, feverish conversation. Tonight was the night everyone had come to see: the final of the gladiator games, the clash between Septimius and Spartacus. Word had passed like wildfire. By the time the sun sank low, the city had been claimed by a countless, humming mass of people — citizens, servants, merchants, and nobles — all pressed shoulder to shoulder, all electric with expectation.

Among that throng, rows of soldiers stood like dark punctuation marks. To the casual eye they were simply there to keep order — to make sure the multitude did not spill into the path of the procession or into the arena itself. But the careful observer would have noticed small details: their armour bore a subtle seal, their stances were too rigid, their glances too purposeful. These were not common garrison troops. These were Caesar’s own: men who answered not to Rome in the abstract but to Julius Caesar in the flesh.

Their faces were carved in stern, unreadable lines. They had been chosen, the city knew, for reasons that had nothing to do with crowd control. Ever since Caesar’s return, detachments of soldiers whose loyalty ran only to the state had been dispatched to outlying provinces and distant garrisons. What remained in the capital was no accident: the majority of the soldiers left behind were those who had pledged themselves to one man — and one man alone.

From the shadows of grand estates and behind the pillars of the senators’ homes, others moved like predators. At first glance they might have been servants making a late round, or slaves shifting heavy jars. But their eyes skimmed the windows and doorways with the certainty of those who had been given an order and a target. They watched the houses of men who had opposed Caesar — men whose names had been spoken in bitter whispers in the Forum, who had dared resist the consul’s rising power.

When the final began, when the trumpet blared and the signal was given, the plan would unfold.

Disguised as common assassins, a wave of strike teams would surge from within the crowd. They would batter at the gates, burst through the thresholds, and in a controlled, merciless sweep, kill the families gathered in those villas. The chaos would be the cover. As the populace panicked and fled toward the arena in a tide of terror, the same pockets of men would be ready inside the amphitheatre to isolate and seize the senators themselves. The deaths of innocents were not collateral to Caesar — they were instruments. The consul had aided in the planning; he had insisted the slaughter look convincing, ordered that some citizens be sacrificed so that the operation would appear to be a chaotic, popular rampage rather than a calculated purge. Suspicion must be swallowed by spectacle.

“It must be here — Fulvius’s estate,” one whisper finally admitted, the words chewed like rationed bread.

“Hmm,” said another, watching the iron-studded gate through dim eyes. “There’ll be barely a dozen guards. Old Fulvius and his daughter —easy work.”

Nearby, two men in the consul’s livery strolled along the street as if on patrol. Their cuirasses gleamed dully in the dying light. To anyone who passed, they might have seemed merely attentive, dutiful. In truth, their steps were measured, their ears attuned for the faintest detail. They were gathering information: guard rotations, the number of lamps still lit, the place where the young woman’s window was likely to be unbarred. Every scrap of knowledge mattered; every small observation counted toward the merciless arithmetic of the hit.

“It’s just an old man and his daughter,” one of the soldiers said, the words a scoff that tried for bravado and landed instead as careless cruelty. “No trouble at all.”

The other answered with a dark, leering chuckle. “The daughter — Lady Fulvia? We’d be fools to waste her. Keep her for ourselves, play with her for the night. Taste a Roman princess.” The sentence was a toast to barbarity, laced with the entitlement that came from too many victories.

Before the obscene words could vanish into the street, something colder closed around their mouths. Hands — swift, iron-strong — clamped over their faces and pulled them back into the shadow of an alcove. A scuffle, a low curse, a gurgle of surprised breath, and then a sudden, unnerving silence. Footsteps retreated; a cloak flapped; two figures slunk away as if they had never been. Similar scenes unfurled like secret acts across the city — men who had assumed themselves wolves being snapped into silence by hands that were firmer than their own.

How had it been done, so cleanly, so invisibly? For minutes that felt like an hour, the streets kept their secret. Passersby saw only brief shadows and wondered, and the crowd’s focus remained fixed on the arena, on the drama to come.

Then, as if conjured from the deepest seam of the plan, two men stepped out into the lane wearing the same crested armor as Caesar’s household troops. But their bearing was wrong; their movements had an unfamiliar ease to them. They did not look exactly like the soldiers who had been posted earlier….

°°°°

Beneath the swollen shadow of the amphitheatre, behind its stone ribs where the city’s roar could only reach as a distant, hungry vibration, the gladiator dominion smelled of blood, sweat, and stale fear. The slaves who lived and trained there moved like animals that had learned the shape of their cages; their eyes flicked toward the sand out of habit rather than hope. Spartacus had already been led away — to the arena, to the ring, to whatever fate the day had carved for him — and the others, shackled by chains of circumstance and duty, could only remain. They could not follow him out into the light where men fought for coin and glory. They could not stand by his side. All they could do was wait, and watch, and wish.

Every throat in that ramshackle compound carried the same quiet, raw wish: win. Not for profit, not for spectacle, but for the chance to save one small, fragile thing. Curia lay on a narrow pallet in the dimmest corner of the infirmary, her breath shallow and uneven. The skin along her face and arms was torn in angry red lines where Octavius’s rage had found flesh; bruises swelled like small, dark moons. Her bleeding had been stanchioned, her bones were intact as far as anyone could tell, but she was still half-drowned in unconsciousness.

“Keep her alive,” Octavius had ordered, voice oily with control, “and nothing more.” It was a command not of mercy but of calculation: enough care to keep her as a bargaining chip, not enough to save her from the longer-term damage of neglect.

The others’ anger was a low-burning coal. They raged inwardly and cursed quietly, but anger was a dangerous thing to wear in public inside Octavius’s walls. They had tried to stand up once before, to oppose him, and the memory of that failure sat like a fresh wound — a lesson in the futility of open resistance. So their fury turned to glances: hard, fixed, enraged, but silent. They could bite back only in the private places where their chains clicked and they spoke in whispers.

“Wake up!” came a cruel bark from across the compound. A whip cracked with a sound like a small thunderclap.

A man hit the dusty ground, the world spinning as the lash’s sting took his breath. He tried to get up, dazed, fingers scrabbling at the earth.

“Arxos, come on,” hissed another gladiator, hauling him to his feet with a grunt of effort.

One of Octavius’s soldiers — flint-eyed, cruel-lipped — let a smug smile crawl across his face as he looked over the gathered fighters. “What’re you all staring at?” he mocked, voice bright with entitlement. “You want to die? Lord Octavius has given us leave to kill any slave who gets out of line.” He swaggered as if the threat were a joke, as if the weight of his sword made his words the law.

The gladiators turned their faces away like scolded dogs and shuffled off. They kept their silence; their survival required it. Then — a thin, sudden sound: the rush of air, the whisper of something moving with intent.

Heads snapped back around.

A soldier staggered, clutched at his throat, and toppled to the ground. Blood seeped into the dust where he fell. For a breathless moment there was confusion: a curse, a choked plea that never finished. Then the sound came again — the soft, metallic whoosh of blades or blades’ shadow — and one by one, men in the Roman livery began to collapse. They fell with small, stunned noises: bodies folding like broken marionettes, arms flailing or lying slack. No one had time to shout; no one had time to brace. The air filled with the wet, final hush that follows sudden violence.

“Be ready!” a veteran gladiator shouted, eyes wide, voice sharpened by fear.

In an instant, the gladiators formed a defensive ring, bodies close, shields up where they could. Spears were seized. They expected the compound to erupt — the hidden enemy to leap forth and tear them apart. But the darkness remained calm. No one came charging; no cloaked assailants burst from the doorways.

Instead a single figure moved into the pale wash of a lamp and landed with the soft, precise grace of someone who never misstepped.

White hair spilled over his shoulders like a pale flame. His eyes were the color of dried blood — an impossible, vivid crimson that caught the dim light and held it. He wore death in the stillness of his posture and a quiet amusement at the corner of his mouth. For all the world he did not seem a man made for the ordinary cruelties of Rome; he looked like a blade that had been honed in moonlight.

Recognition rippled through the ring like a current. That white haired mercernary coming from Alexandria…who name was in the lips of every romans.

“You…” Someone breathed, the syllable a mixture of fear and hope.

His head tilted. The crimson in his gaze flicked from face to face, measuring, cataloguing. For a moment he did not rush to explain or to demand; he smiled instead — slow, small, and oddly disarming.

“I may have work for you,” he said narrowing his eyes. “Depending on if you have the strength and will to raise once more, one last time.”