I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The small boat rocked gently against the dark waters of the Nile as it pushed away from the harbor of Pelusium under cover of night. A soft breeze carried the scent of brine and distant desert, but Nathan barely noticed. His thoughts were focused, sharp, cold. The moonlight filtered through thin clouds above, casting silver light upon the deck where he stood, eyes scanning the horizon with practiced caution.

He had no time to waste.

His plan had been put into motion swiftly and without hesitation. The moment Pompey had fallen into his grasp, Nathan had purchased a vessel in haste, throwing coin and threat alike at the nearest dockhands until a crew was assembled—silent, loyal, or at the very least, bought enough to look the other way.

Alexandria awaited. And with Pompey bound and silenced, Nathan was bringing more than a prisoner to the capital—he was bringing leverage.

Pompey, stripped of his once-glorious armor, now wore the rags of a common traveler. Nathan had disguised him well—simple linen robes clung to his form, and his face was concealed beneath layers of cloth, wrapped loosely to mimic the look of a desert wanderer shielding himself from the sun. To the outside world, Nathan appeared to be nothing more than a grim mercenary escorting a subdued captive.

If Pompey had any pride left, it was suffocating beneath that disguise.

The former general had considered resistance—perhaps he still did. But he was no fool. They were deep in hostile lands, and his situation was precarious. To scream or draw attention would not only be foolish—it would be suicidal. Even without Nathan's chilling threat to slice out his tongue should he utter a single word, Pompey knew the truth: he had no allies here. Not anymore.

And strangely enough, his captor had not killed him. That alone kept him wary, if not hopeful.

Beneath the deck, hidden from the crew's eyes and from the starlit night, Pompey knelt on the wooden floor of a small, dimly lit chamber. His wrists were bound behind his back, the rough rope biting into his skin. Sweat beaded on his brow from the humid air, but his glare remained ice-cold.

He stared upward, defiant, unyielding.

Nathan loomed over him, clad in dark leather and wrapped in a worn cloak. A half-mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—eyes that studied Pompey with unreadable intensity. The dim flicker of the oil lamp danced across his figure, throwing shadows against the walls and making the narrow room feel smaller, tighter… more suffocating.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with," Pompey growled, his voice low but laced with venom. "Do you know who I am?"

Nathan tilted his head slightly, amused.

"Do you truly believe I'd go through the trouble of kidnapping someone without knowing exactly who they are?" he replied, voice cold, almost mocking.

Pompey's lips curled in disdain. "You've worked for me. Then you should know the influence I carry—the connections I can summon with a word. Whatever you think you're doing, you're walking into your own grave. Release me, and I'll forget your betrayal. Hell, I'll reward you—far more than whatever pitiful reason you have for this stunt."

Nathan said nothing. His eyes remained locked on the fallen Roman general, unreadable beneath the mask, but unflinching.

This wasn't how things were supposed to go for Pompey. Not now.

He had been so close. So damn close to turning everything around. An alliance with Cleopatra would have restored his power, rebalanced the scales, made Rome reconsider his place in history. But now… he was a prisoner, and every moment they drew closer to Alexandria felt like a death sentence drawing nearer.

He knew what the Pharaoh wanted.

He could imagine the smug grin on that boy-king's face, how he'd present Pompey's severed head to Julius Caesar like an obedient lapdog hoping for a pat on the head. A gift, wrapped in blood and treachery.

The irony stung. Betrayed not by his enemies… but by someone he once paid.

Yet still, he clung to hope. Nathan hadn't killed him. That meant something.

Or maybe, it meant the end would come slower than he feared.

Nathan stood in silence, his white hair catching the dim flicker of the torchlight. His gaze, sharp as a drawn blade, remained locked onto the man seated across from him. There was no emotion on his face—no anger, no curiosity—just an unnerving stillness that made even the shadows seem hesitant to move.

Pompey, bound by enchanted manacles that sapped his strength, shifted uncomfortably. Despite his disheveled state, the pride of a once-powerful Roman noble still clung to him like a second skin.

Breaking the silence, Pompey cleared his throat and spoke again, his voice hoarse but defiant.

"How much did the Pharaoh pay you? I can double it. Triple, if that's what you want."

Nathan didn't so much as blink. His voice, when it finally came, was cold and detached, like winter wind whispering through dead leaves.

"I'm the one asking the questions," he said flatly. "Answer them. That would be a good start."

Pompey raised an eyebrow, clearly unused to being ignored. Still, he relented with a slight shrug.

"Questions, then. Go ahead."

Nathan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Did the Roman Empire ever summon Heroes from other worlds?"

Pompey's reaction was immediate. He straightened in his seat, indignation flashing across his face.

"What? No! The Roman Empire would never resort to such blasphemy."

His tone was laced with offense, as if the mere suggestion was an insult to Roman dignity. He shook his head with disbelief, then spat on the ground.

"We are not some backwater kingdom relying on foreign gods or magic rituals. The might of Rome stands on its own. We don't need summoning spells or divine interventions."

Nathan observed him carefully. The outburst didn't faze him.

"Have they ever worked with Heroes?" Nathan pressed, leaning slightly closer. "Even if they didn't summon them—did they collaborate? Form alliances? Recently?"

Pompey looked away, frowning as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. His voice grew quieter, tinged with reluctant consideration.

"Recently? How would I know? I've been in exile for a year. Maybe things have changed. But in my time, Rome didn't crawl to Heroes for help."

There was a pause—brief, but pregnant with thought. Nathan didn't break the silence, giving Pompey time to think.

Then, something shifted in Pompey's expression. A wrinkle formed on his brow. His gaze drifted to the ground as if chasing a memory that had just resurfaced.

"...But," he muttered, brows drawing tighter.

Nathan leaned forward. "But what?"

Pompey hesitated for a moment, then spoke.

"I remember hearing whispers… back in the Senate. Names I didn't recognize. Talks of strange powers and foreign warriors. It wasn't official, not that I know of, but... there was talk. If you want more than that, you'll have to go to Rome. That's where the truth lies."

Nathan didn't move, but his eyes sharpened like a hawk zeroing in on prey."Who did you hear it from? Are you sure it wasn't about the Heroes of the Amun-Ra Empire?"

Pompey shook his head slowly.

"No… it wasn't about Amun-Ra. I remember because Crassus mentioned it. Not directly, but I overheard. They weren't talking about the Pharaoh's dogs. These Heroes... they spoke of freedom. Aid. And something else—"

He paused, squinting, struggling to recall the details.

"Something that happened twenty years ago," he finally said, uncertainly.

Nathan's breath hitched ever so slightly. Twenty years ago.

That wasn't just a random number. That was the exact timeframe when the second summoning had occurred. Coincidence? Perhaps. But in a world like this, coincidences were often just secrets waiting to be revealed.

For the first time in the conversation, a flicker of emotion passed through Nathan's usually unreadable eyes—interest. Hope, even.

This was the first solid lead he'd had in a long time.

And it pointed straight to Rome.

But how in the seven hells was he supposed to reach Rome—the beating heart of the Roman Empire?

Not just the city, but the Senate itself.

The Roman Senate, where the most powerful men in the Empire gathered—consuls, generals, patricians cloaked in togas dyed with imperial purple. It wasn't just a council hall. It was a fortress of politics, of iron wills and unshakable pride. Layers of bureaucracy, layers of security, and layers of arrogance protected it. No outsider simply walked into the Senate.

For someone like Nathan—an enemy of one empire, a mystery to another—it would be nothing short of madness to try.

And yet... what choice did he have?

Before he could sink deeper into that spiral of thoughts, Pompey's voice cut through the silence like a blade across cloth.

"I've answered your questions," Pompey said, his tone serious, stripped of all earlier sarcasm or negotiation. "Now answer mine. Are you planning to take my head to the Pharaoh?"

There was no fear in his eyes. Only grim acceptance.

"If that's the case," he added coldly, "do it quickly."

Nathan's gaze slowly returned to Pompey, his expression unreadable as always. For a moment, neither man spoke. The air between them was still and tense, like the final moment before a storm breaks.

Then Nathan responded, his voice calm but firm.

"No," he said simply. "I'll bring you alive."

Pompey blinked, visibly caught off guard.

Nathan turned toward the darkened exit of the chamber. Torchlight danced along the stone walls, casting long shadows behind him.

"We're going to Alexandria."