I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 449: Caesar’s shock

Two days had passed since Marcus Antoinus had departed on what was supposed to be a brief and straightforward expedition—an undertaking that, by all prior estimations, should not have taken more than a couple of hours. The target of the mission had not been located in a distant land or a far-flung province of the Empire. No, it was just outside the heart of Rome itself, near the forested region where a brutal ambush had taken the lives of several Roman soldiers days earlier. That was the location Marcus had set out to investigate, to root out the unknown assailants and restore Roman honor with swift and decisive force.

And yet… he had not returned.

Not a word. Not a messenger. Not even a whisper in the wind.

The silence was deafening.

It was beginning to unsettle many, but none more so than Gaius Julius Caesar himself.

Within the formidable stone walls of the Senate Castle, tucked away in the privacy of his personal quarters, Caesar sat behind his ornate mahogany desk—an imposing slab carved with the visages of Roman deities and the imperial eagle, its talons grasping thunderbolts. The room was dimly lit by oil lamps flickering against the rich crimson tapestries that lined the walls, casting wavering shadows like ghosts of long-dead senators.

Caesar’s fingers were laced together, his chin resting atop them as his piercing eyes locked on the soldiers standing before him—men he had dispatched to retrace Marcus Antoinus’s path, to find clues, to bring back answers.

But they had returned with none.

Nothing. Not even a broken weapon, a discarded banner, or the metallic scent of spilled blood.

It was as though Marcus and his entire contingent had been swallowed by the earth itself.

Caesar’s brow furrowed, his stern expression masking the quiet dread building beneath his composed exterior. Logic told him that the absence of bodies meant there might still be hope. But was that truly a comfort? Or merely another torment in disguise?

“I want more men sent,” Caesar said at last, his voice calm but ice-edged. “This time, extend your search further. Much further. If Marcus found a trail and followed it beyond the original location, we must account for that possibility.”

The soldiers, all clad in polished lorica segmentata armor that gleamed under the lamplight, bowed slightly, their fists placed over their hearts in salute.

“Yes, my Emperor,” they answered in disciplined unison before turning on their heels and marching out of the room.

As the heavy oak doors shut behind them with a final thud, Caesar let out a quiet breath and leaned back, lifting one hand to his temple and pressing his fingers against it. The headache was not physical—it was the weight of uncertainty, of a hundred unanswered questions.

He was not alone.

Leaning casually against one of the marble pillars near the wall stood Nathan, arms folded across his chest. His white hair caught the lamplight, and though his expression remained impassive, there was a trace of amusement dancing behind his eyes, the faintest ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

To Nathan, this was fascinating.

Marcus Antoinus clearly held a place of great importance to Caesar. Never before had Nathan seen the mighty Emperor of Rome so visibly perturbed. It was as if a piece of the great puzzle had gone missing, and Caesar, the ever-calculating tactician, was unable to function without it.

“He may have followed the trail further than anticipated,” came a voice from across the room.

It was Octavius. The young man stood near the window, his sharp blue eyes fixed on Caesar, though Nathan couldn’t tell whether his words were born from genuine optimism… or merely a desperate attempt to soothe the Emperor’s fraying nerves.

Nathan tilted his head slightly. Was that hope in Octavius’s voice… or fear?

Caesar rose slowly from his chair, the weight of the Roman world pressing against his shoulders. He approached the window beside Octavius, gazing out into the moonlit city. The Tiber flowed silently in the distance, a silver serpent winding through the Empire’s heart.

“Tomorrow marks the opening day of the Tournament,” Caesar muttered, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “The Goddess Athena will descend to grace us with her presence. And in time, the other Gods may follow. All eyes will be upon Rome… yet my strongest General is not by my side.”

“Do you think something’s happened to him?” Octavius asked.

Caesar didn’t respond immediately. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. When he did speak, it was sharp and controlled, like a blade honed for precision.

“Don’t insult me, Octavius,” he said. “And don’t insult yourself either. You and I both know Marcus isn’t the sort of man to vanish on a whim. He’s many things—stubborn, prideful, even reckless at times—but he is not careless. He knows what today means.”

Octavius nodded solemnly. “I agree. Marcus would never miss the opening day of his own accord. Not unless something serious happened.”

Caesar’s voice lowered, almost a growl. “Then we proceed without him.”

Octavius blinked. “Without him?”

“We don’t have the luxury of waiting,” Caesar said. “The legions must see unity. Stability. If Marcus cannot lead them today, then we find someone who can. They need to follow me now more than ever.”

“I’ll handle it,” Octavius replied quickly, straightening with resolve. “I’ll find someone capable.”

“Good,” Caesar said, giving a brisk nod. Then he turned his gaze to Nathan, who had been silent until now, lingering in the background like a shadow.

But before Caesar could speak, the chamber doors burst open.

A Roman soldier stumbled inside, breathless and as pale as death. His armor clinked loosely as he collapsed to one knee, trembling as though the weight of what he carried was too much for his body to bear.

“Speak,” Caesar demanded, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

The soldier’s voice came out ragged, barely a whisper. “T–The…General… at the gates…”

His words faded into heavy, gasping breaths, his face contorted with something beyond fear—horror.

Without waiting for another word, Caesar strode past him, his red cloak sweeping behind him like a banner of blood. Octavius followed in his wake, his footsteps quick and urgent.

Nathan lingered behind, a subtle smirk playing on his lips before he, too, turned and followed.

Outside, Rome stirred with chaos.

A crowd had gathered near the main gates—the same gates through which Caesar had entered triumphantly just days ago, hailed as the Conqueror of the North. But now, the mood was far different. Joy had been replaced with revulsion, awe with dread.

Gasps rippled through the throng. Mothers clutched their children close. Soldiers gripped their spears tighter. All eyes were fixed upward, toward something that now desecrated the city walls.

“Make way! The Emperor approaches!” came the commanding voice of a centurion.

The crowd parted quickly as Caesar and Octavius pushed to the front. Caesar’s eyes immediately followed the line of horrified gazes upward—and then he stopped.

His breath caught.

High above, at the top of the city wall, something hung—something that had once been a man.

What remained of the body had been crucified grotesquely. Arms were fractured at unnatural angles, the skin peeled away in strips, tendons exposed and glistening in the morning light. Blood dripped steadily from the dismembered form, forming a crimson puddle at the foot of the stone wall.

The torso had been ripped open, the lower half of the body cut off just above the waist. Coils of intestine spilled from the gaping cavity, dangling like grotesque vines. The head—if one could call it that—was a mass of torn flesh. The eyes had been gouged out, the tongue torn from the mouth, the skin of the face lacerated beyond recognition.

And yet…

The armor. The gleaming breastplate, dulled now with blood and dirt. The ornate pauldron bearing the crest of the Imperial Eagle.

There was no mistaking it.

A whisper traveled through the crowd, disbelief clashing with horror.

“H–Hey… isn’t that General Marcus Antoinus’s armor?”

“No… no, it can’t be… He was sent to deal with bandits! That’s nonsense!”

“That’s not Marcus. It can’t be…”

People began denying the truth, clinging to the thin veil of hope that the cruel vision above them was a mistake. That the man who’d led them into countless battles, who had stood tall beside the Emperor, couldn’t have ended up like this.

But Caesar and Octavius both knew better.

There was no denying it—not with that armor.

It was Marcus Antoinus.

Octavius turned his gaze away, unable to stomach the sight any longer. He had never liked Marcus. Their rivalry had been bitter, filled with pointed jabs and hidden contempt. But nothing—nothing—could justify what had been done to the man.

No soldier, no enemy, no beast deserved this kind of death.

Such cruelty defied reason. It was more than a killing—it was a message.

A statement.

He turned to look at Caesar, whose face had hardened into something unreadable. There was no visible emotion—no grief, no anger, only cold, silent fury etched into every line of his face.

And that silence spoke louder than any words.

Without uttering a single word, Caesar turned on his heel and walked away, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a shadow of blood. His stride was swift, decisive, yet heavy with the weight of something far more dangerous than sorrow—wrath buried beneath a mask of silence.

Octavius followed close behind, his face grim, his gaze avoiding the horror that loomed above the gates. Neither man exchanged a word. None was needed. The silence between them was thick, oppressive, and saturated with unspoken understanding.

And yet—one figure remained behind.

Nathan stood still, unmoving amidst the hushed murmurs and fading footsteps, his eyes never once leaving the mutilated form crucified against the cold Roman stone. The crowd around him had begun to disperse, the spectacle too disturbing for even the morbidly curious to linger.

But Nathan? He stared.

Not with horror. Not with sorrow. Not even with surprise.

He gazed up with the calm detachment of a connoisseur admiring a piece of exquisite art.

Every torn limb. Every flayed tendon. Every deliberate mark of agony etched into Marcus Antoinus’s corpse told a story—one written by a master of her craft.

Medea.

A whisper of her name brushed through his thoughts like silk soaked in venom.

As perfect as ever.

He almost wanted to applaud.

The meticulousness. The creativity. The sheer theatricality of it all. It wasn’t just a killing. No—this was a symphony of suffering, and Medea had conducted it with flawless precision.

A slight curve pulled at the corner of his lips, though he kept his expression schooled in calm.

Inwardly, he was reveling in the chaos.

Because for the first time since his arrival in Rome… Caesar’s composure had cracked.

The eternal smile, the calculated charm, the façade of the unshakable Emperor—it had faltered. Even if only for a moment, Nathan had seen it.

A flash of horror. A flicker of confusion. A frozen second of helplessness.

It was delicious.

He turned slowly, casting one last glance at the carnage above. The remains of Marcus swayed faintly in the breeze, blood still dripping in rhythmic intervals, like the ticking of a morbid clock.

“Now then…” Nathan mused silently, eyes narrowing as he began to walk, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

“What are you going to do, Caesar?”