I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“You,” she called out, her voice soft but commanding.

Nathan stirred, slightly tilting his head.

“Let’s speak,” she said, not asking, but declaring.

Nathan’s gaze shifted toward Cleopatra as she called out to him just before he could step into the tent.

If it had been up to him, he would have avoided this meeting altogether. Cleopatra was far too perceptive for his liking—sharp-minded, quick-witted, and possessed an uncanny ability to pierce through deception with just a few well-placed questions. If she asked the right things and he fumbled his answers, the carefully constructed mask he wore—both literal and metaphorical—would unravel in an instant.

Yet, despite his unease, Nathan had no choice but to obey. She had summoned him, and to refuse would raise more suspicion than he could afford.

With a measured breath, he stepped into the tent.

What greeted him was not a simple interior meant for transient soldiers or wandering diplomats. No—this was a miniature palace cloaked in canvas. Silken drapes hung from magically reinforced beams, their golden threads catching the ambient torchlight and casting warm glows across the space. The scent of jasmine and rare incense filled the air, mingling with the aroma of polished sandalwood. Despite the impermanence of their encampment, Cleopatra’s entourage had constructed a space worthy of royalty—and perhaps, Nathan mused, it was a message. A symbol of dignity and defiance, should Caesar himself come to visit.

And at the heart of this ornate marvel, seated like a living goddess upon a throne of carved ebony and pearl, was Cleopatra.

Nathan approached, each footfall muffled by the lush rugs beneath him. He halted a respectful distance away, hands behind his back, and waited silently for her to speak.

Her eyes—fierce, intelligent, and unreadable—swept over him from head to toe. A moment of silence lingered, heavy with expectation.

“Remove your mask,” she commanded at last, her tone imperious but calm, like someone used to being obeyed.

Nathan hesitated.

Not out of fear, but calculation.

There was little point in resisting now. If Apollodorus, Cleopatra’s trusted companion, had even half the wit his loyalty implied, then he had already pieced together who Nathan truly was. After all, he had been the one to smuggle him ashore by boat.

Besides, Cleopatra and her court already knew he had killed several of their companions. And yet they did nothing. Not because they couldn’t—but because they wouldn’t. He was under Caesar’s protection now, a dangerous man to cross. More than that, he might very well become an invaluable piece on the board in the looming battle against Ptolemy’s forces.

Without a word, Nathan reached up and pulled off his mask.

Cleopatra’s eyes widened slightly, and her lips parted—just enough to betray her surprise.

He was beautiful.

Strikingly so.

The kind of beauty that carried an edge—like a blade honed to perfection. His slicked-back white hair framed his sharp features with a kind of effortless elegance, while his crimson eyes glowed with quiet intensity. His face was calm, unyielding, but not without intrigue—like a statue carved by a master, too flawless to be human.

He looked young. No older than nineteen, perhaps twenty—just like her.

And that startled her more than she expected.

Cleopatra rose slowly, her silken garments whispering against the floor, golden jewelry catching the light with every movement. She studied him with renewed interest, as though reevaluating everything she thought she knew.

“Lucius Septimius,” she said at last, her voice low and thoughtful. “A year ago, your name meant nothing. But now… now you are whispered in the same breath as Rome’s finest. During Pompey’s ill-fated war, it was your blade that earned him his only victory—by slaying the enemy general in single combat. An act of valor. Or perhaps, of calculated madness.”

Nathan remained still, unreadable.

He knew nothing of this tale she recounted. Another life. Another legend, perhaps tied to the identity he had assumed. To speak would be to risk exposing a crack in the façade. So he said nothing—only listened, letting her draw her own conclusions.

“Pompey gave you a name,” Cleopatra said, her voice a low murmur as she stepped down from the dais, every movement controlled, precise, like a panther circling its prey. “Yet you chose to stand beside my idiotic brother instead. Was Pompey’s coin not enough for you? Is that why you betrayed him? Were you… disappointed?”

She stopped just a few paces away from Nathan, her golden gaze fixed on his face, trying to read the truth behind his impassive expression.

Nathan met her eyes without flinching, his posture calm but firm.

“I chose the winning horse,” he said, his tone even, almost casual. “I owed Pompey nothing. No loyalty. No friendship. I saw the writing on the wall—he would lose, and Caesar would rise. That’s why I allied myself with the Pharaoh.”

A flicker of disdain passed across Cleopatra’s face, quickly masked behind a sardonic smile.

“And yet, even that was the wrong choice,” she said, her words sharp as thorns. “You must know by now how hopelessly foolish my brother is—and how even more foolish are the old men whispering behind his throne. Their greed will consume them. Their arrogance will destroy whatever remains of this fragile kingdom.”

Nathan arched a brow, a faint, mocking curve tugging at the corner of his lips.

“And yet… here I stand,” he replied coolly. “Unscathed.”

The meaning wasn’t lost on her. He was subtly reminding her that his true loyalty lay not with her brother, nor even with Pompey—but with power itself. And in the end, he had chosen Caesar. At the right moment. Just before the tides turned.

Cleopatra’s lips curled slightly in amusement.

So that’s why he hadn’t delivered Pompey’s head, despite being ordered to. He’d kept the man alive—for a time, at least. Perhaps to bargain. Perhaps to wait and see who would emerge victorious. It hadn’t been about mercy. Nor about gold.

There was something deeper behind his decisions. Cleopatra could feel it.

This man was not driven solely by coin or survival.

He was hiding something.

And that intrigued her.

“So tell me,” she said, her voice soft, silky, but her eyes sharp with curiosity. “If Caesar came to you tomorrow and asked you to kill my brother… would you do it?”

Nathan leaned forward ever so slightly, just enough for the firelight to dance in his crimson eyes. His smirk returned—colder this time, edged with dangerous honesty.

“If the pay was high enough,” he said, his voice like a blade slipping from its sheath, “I’d kill you, too.”

The tent fell silent for a moment, the air heavy with unspoken tension.

Cleopatra didn’t look away. Her golden eyes deepened in color, glowing like twin suns behind storm clouds. She studied him intently—not with anger, but fascination.

He wasn’t bluffing.

He wasn’t trying to intimidate her.

He meant every word.

“You’re not the Septimius I’ve heard tales about,” she said at last, almost wistfully. “You’re not the man Apollodorus described when he first mentioned you. I imagined someone… simpler. Someone easier to use. But you… You’re far more dangerous. And far more valuable. What a shame that someone like you wasted his talents serving my brother’s court.”

She let out a sigh, not of resignation, but contemplation.

Nathan’s expression remained unreadable. “Did you call me here just to flatter me, or waste my time?”

“I don’t waste words unless there’s something to gain,” Cleopatra replied smoothly, her gaze never leaving his. “I called you here because I want something.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you want?”

Cleopatra’s lips curved into a slow, enigmatic smile. A dangerous smile.

“I want you to take my side,” she said. “Not Caesar’s.”

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