I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The torches flickered against the stone walls of the Colosseum as darkness settled over Rome like a heavy cloak. Their orange flames cast dancing shadows across the ancient architecture, creating an almost mystical atmosphere that seemed to pulse with anticipation. The air was thick with the scent of burning oil, roasted meat from vendors, and the unmistakable metallic tang that always lingered in the arena—a reminder of the blood that had been spilled on these sands countless times before.

The Second Round of the gladiator tournament was about to commence, and the energy crackling through the massive structure was almost tangible.

The Gathering Storm

Even before the sun had fully set, spectators had begun flooding through the great archways. Now, as the last rays of daylight disappeared behind the seven hills of Rome, the Colosseum had transformed into a sea of humanity. The stone seats, which had seemed vast during the first round, now groaned under the weight of an even larger crowd.

More than fifteen thousand Roman citizens packed themselves into every available space, their voices creating a low, constant rumble that reverberated off the curved walls. Merchants, senators, common laborers, and visiting dignitaries from distant kingdoms all found themselves shoulder to shoulder, united in their hunger for spectacle. Women perched precariously on their husbands' laps or leaned against lovers, while children squeezed between adults, their eyes wide with excitement and terror.

The vendors weaved through the crowds like skilled dancers, their voices cutting through the din as they hawked wine, bread, and dried fruits. "Fresh dates from Amun Ra!" one called out. "Wine from the finest vineyards!" shouted another. The clink of coins and the rustle of fabric created a symphony of commerce and anticipation.

In the torchlit corridors beneath the arena, slaves hurried back and forth, making final preparations. The sound of their sandals echoed off the stone walls as they carried weapons, adjusted mechanisms, and whispered prayers to gods both Roman and foreign. The very foundations of the great amphitheater seemed to pulse with life.

The Royal Box

High above the masses, in the marble-adorned VIP balcony draped with rich purple silk, the atmosphere was markedly different—charged with a tension that had little to do with the impending games.

Emperor Julius Caesar sat rigid in his ornate chair, his knuckles white as they gripped the armrests. The laurel crown upon his head seemed heavier tonight, and the purple stripe on his toga appeared almost black in the flickering torchlight. His jaw was set in a hard line, and anyone who knew him well could see the storm brewing behind his dark eyes.

Beside him, Emperor Marcus Licinius Crassus maintained his usual composed demeanor, though the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed his inner turmoil. His rings caught the light as he occasionally drummed his fingers against the marble balustrade—a habit he'd developed in recent days. The wealthiest man in Rome wore his anxiety like an expensive cloak, visible only to those who knew how to look.

The absence of familiar faces was palpable. Where Marcus Junius Brutus typically sat, offering his measured commentary and occasional jest, there was only empty space. The young senator remained locked away in one of Caesar's private quarters—a prisoner of his adoptive father Caesar's rage against Servilia's potential betrayal.

Speaking of Servilia she was not attending today and Caesar knew right away why...

Earlier that evening, in a different part of the city...

Servilia had stood before her bronze mirror, her reflection showing a woman torn between desire and dignity. Her slave girl, Lydia, had laid out her finest stola—the deep blue one that brought out her eyes and that she knew Caesar admired.

"Will you not attend the games tonight, Domina?" Lydia had asked softly, fastening the golden fibulae at Servilia's shoulders.

Servilia's reflection stared back at her, and for a moment, she almost wavered. She wanted desperately to see Nathan fight, to witness his strength and skill. But the thought of sitting beside Caesar, of pretending civility while her son remained imprisoned, made her stomach turn to lead.

"No," she had said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I will not give him the satisfaction of my presence. Let him wonder why I'm absent. Let him feel the emptiness where I should be."

She had dismissed Lydia and spent the evening pacing her chambers, listening to the distant roar of the crowd, imagining Nathan in the arena while she remained trapped by her own pride and fury.

Back in the VIP box, Licinia Crassa sat like a statue carved from pale marble, her beauty intact but somehow diminished by the hollow look in her eyes. The daughter of Crassus wore a gown of deep crimson silk that should have complemented her complexion, but instead seemed to drain the life from her features.

The antidote Nathan had given her had worked exactly as promised. The artificial love that had consumed her thoughts and driven her to desperate acts had evaporated like morning mist. Yet in its absence, she discovered something far worse—a void that seemed to expand with each passing hour.

She watched Fulvia from the corner of her eye, noting the other woman's radiant smile and the satisfied glow that seemed to emanate from her very pores. It was obvious what had transpired between Fulvia and Nathan that afternoon. The knowledge sat in Licinia's stomach like a stone, cold and heavy.

How pathetic I've become, she thought, her manicured nails digging into her palms. The wealthiest princess in the Empire, reduced to jealousy over a gladiator.

But even as she tried to dismiss these feelings as remnants of the love potion, she knew the truth. What she felt now—this aching emptiness, this inexplicable draw toward Nathan—was entirely her own. The potion had helped but she really fell for the man called Septimius.

The crowd's roar grew louder, and Licinia forced herself to focus on the arena below, though her thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on a certain white-haired warrior who had somehow claimed a piece of her soul.

On the other hand another Princess was doing fairly good.

Julia Caesar sat forward in her chair, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white. At fifteen, she possessed a beauty that was just beginning to reach its full bloom—her father's strong features softened by her mother's delicate bone structure. Tonight, however, worry had etched fine lines around her eyes.

She glanced sideways at her father, noting the rigid set of his jaw and the way his fingers drummed against his chair. Caesar had been like this for days—distant, cold, prone to sudden bursts of anger that left servants cowering and senators walking on eggshells.

Should I ask him? The question had been torturing her all day. Should I beg him to withdraw Septimius from the tournament?

But even as the thought formed, she dismissed it. Her father's mood was too volatile, too dangerous. The wrong word, the wrong tone, and his fury might turn on her. She had seen what happened to those who crossed Julius Caesar, and she had no desire to join their ranks.

Still, the fear gnawed at her. Septimius was strong, skilled, magnificent in combat—but her father had promised that this second round would be even more deadly than the first. What if she lost him before she ever had the chance to truly know him?

She was Caesar's daughter, supposedly one of the most powerful women in Rome, yet she felt utterly helpless to protect the one person who had captured her heart.

But there was also the fact that she didn't want to hurt Nathan by withdrawing him from the tournament. He seemed eager for the tournament...

"Does he want to conquer Pandora as well?"

When she thought that, she felt a pang of sadness in her heart...

As the crowd's anticipation reached a fever pitch, the tensions in the royal box continued to simmer beneath the surface. Caesar's paranoia had grown like a cancer over the past few days. Every glance from Crassus seemed loaded with hidden meaning, every casual comment a potential threat.

The Emperor found himself studying his old ally with new eyes, searching for signs of betrayal in every gesture. When Crassus adjusted his toga, was he signaling to someone in the crowd? When he called for wine, was it code for some prearranged plan?

Meanwhile, Crassus was beginning to sense the shift in Caesar's demeanor. The man who had once been his closest friend and ally now watched him like a hawk studying a mouse. The weight of that scrutiny was becoming harder to ignore, and it filled him with a creeping unease that he couldn't quite name.

Fulvia, blissfully unaware of the undercurrents around her, simply basked in the afterglow of her afternoon with Nathan. Her satisfaction was so complete, so obvious, that it only served to deepen Licinia's misery and sharpen the edge of the tension that crackled through the royal box like lightning before a storm.

The thunder of cheers suddenly erupted from the crowd, rolling across the arena like a storm. At first, one might think the audience had already grown excited for the second round of the tournament to begin—but no. The shouts and applause weren't for the competitors at all. They were for the divine radiance that had just appeared in the heavens.

High above, descending with effortless grace, floated the figure of the Goddess Athena. Her mere presence was enough to electrify the crowd, every mortal below craning their necks in awe and reverence. She was the very image of divinity—her silhouette sharp and noble, her bearing so regal it silenced hearts, and her beauty so pristine it seemed beyond human comprehension. She did not simply float in the sky; she reigned over it.

Some among the spectators had whispered doubts earlier in the day, uncertain whether Athena would grace the second round with her presence. After all, it was not unusual for the gods to watch only when it pleased them. Yet, just as she had in the first round, she had returned. And she was not alone. Pandora was with her, radiant and enigmatic, alongside the ever-reveling Dionysus and the swift-footed Hermes.

The four of them took their places upon floating thrones woven of divine light and clouds, suspended high above the coliseum. From their vantage point, they gazed down at the mortal stage as though overseeing a grand play written for their amusement.

And yet—something was different about Athena this time. Those who dared to study her closely, those brave or foolish enough to risk a direct glance at the goddess of wisdom, would notice it. Her expression, normally veiled behind an impenetrable mask of calm detachment, betrayed something unusual. A spark of anticipation. A quiet eagerness.

It was strange even to her, but Athena could not deny it—she was genuinely curious. Curious to see Septimius fight again. Curious to see what new depths of strength, strategy, and spirit he would reveal in the battles to come. She had surprised herself by looking forward to it actually.

Beside her sat Pandora, and if Athena was curious, then Pandora was utterly enraptured. The morning conversation she had shared with Nathan still lingered in her thoughts like a vivid fragrance, impossible to shake. From that moment onward, she had lost interest in every other man, every other possibility. Nathan had seized her attention entirely, holding it in a way no mortal—or god—ever had before. She had come today for no other reason than to watch him, to witness what only he could show as he had promised her.

Of course, Athena, Pandora, Dionysus, and Hermes were not the only gods present. Many more crowded the skies, invisible to mortal eyes, their divine forms cloaked in secrecy. Among them were Ishtar and Sif, the goddess of love and the goddess of fidelity—two unlikely companions whose conversations often clashed like fire and ice.

"I cannot wait to see Septimius again!" Ishtar exclaimed, her cheeks flushed pink with excitement. Her pink eyes sparkled with mischief, her lips parting in an almost girlish eagerness.

Sif, seated with her usual composure, raised an elegant brow. Her fingers idly combed through strands of her shining golden hair as she observed her excitable companion. "Ishtar," she said in her calm, steady tone, "you are drooling."

Ishtar gave a delighted laugh, unabashed. "Can't be helped! You know, I've heard whispers—Athena herself has taken an interest in him. To the point of tolerating Pandora's claims on him! They've even been spotted together in Olympus!"

Sif's eyes widened slightly, her composure cracking for just a moment. "R… really?"

"Yes! Don't underestimate my spies," Ishtar replied proudly, puffing her chest with smug satisfaction.

Sif blinked at her, dumbfounded. "Why, in the name of all realms, would you place spies in Olympus? That is another pantheon's domain. Are you picking a fight?"

Ishtar smirked slyly, resting her chin on her hand. "Why else? For gossip, of course. Imagine missing the scandals of Olympus—especially when it comes to that perfect Athena! I refuse to be ignorant when such delicious secrets are circulating."

Sif let out a weary sigh, shaking her head. "You are hopeless, Ishtar. Truly hopeless. That is why you will never know what it is to find true love."

Ishtar barked a laugh so sharp it could cut. "True love? Don't make me laugh, Sif. Look at yourself. You're married to that muscle-bound brute Thor. When was the last time he even looked at you with affection? When was the last time he touched you as a man should touch his wife? Tell me, when was the last time he bedded you? Fifty thousand years ago? Around the time you birthed your last child, perhaps? You might as well be called a virgin again now."

Sif's cheeks burned crimson, her composure finally cracking into raw shame and fury. "Ishtar!!" she snapped, her voice trembling.

But the damage was already done. Ishtar's grin widened, sharp and unrepentant, because she knew she had struck true. Sif could not deny it. Not even to herself.