I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Alexandria—jewel of the Nile, crown of the desert, and capital of the mighty Amun Ra Empire—had fallen.

Its gates, once symbols of impenetrable glory, now lay shattered. Fires smoldered where libraries once stood. Smoke drifted across the horizon, mixing with the blood-scented breeze. The city that had once been called the "Beacon of Civilization" was now under the iron grip of foreign banners.

The ones responsible for this seismic shift in history were none other than Gaius Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. Together, with their legions and loyal forces, they had crushed all opposition, toppling the boy king, Ptolemy XIII—the so-called Pharaoh, a puppet draped in royal robes.

Ptolemy's death had not been enough to restore peace. No, the true cleansing began only after the castle's last defenses fell.

Upon seizing full control of the palace, Cleopatra acted swiftly, decisively, and without hesitation. Every noble who had stood beside Pothinus and Ptolemy, who had dared defy her rightful claim to the throne, was dragged before her and sentenced to death. There were no trials. No last-minute appeals. Their prior refusals to support her when she had offered mercy sealed their fates. Heads rolled in the palace courtyard, staining the marble steps with the blood of betrayal.

Cleopatra, as she stood bathed in torchlight, coldly watched their executions. Her expression was unreadable. She had no room for traitors in her kingdom—except, perhaps, herself.

For all the elegance and silk that adorned her body, Cleopatra was forged in war and hardened by survival. What she had fought for over countless sleepless nights, what she had gambled everything on—she had finally won. And now she would secure her reign by any means necessary. There would be no loose ends. No shadows in her court. Only loyalty—or silence.

Yet even as the castle bore the scars of conquest, the city beyond its walls erupted into celebration.

The people of Alexandria, tired of war, whispered with joy in the streets and wept openly in the markets. Their Queen—Cleopatra, said to be the living reincarnation of the goddess Isis herself—had taken her place upon the throne. They lit incense in her name. They danced, sang, and praised her return to power. Hope bloomed in the hearts of the oppressed.

But their joy came with an unspoken cost.

The red banners of Rome fluttered over every major avenue and square. Soldiers in crimson cloaks marched through their streets, bronze-armored and grim, patrolling with watchful eyes and unsheathed blades. The symbol of the eagle—Rome's proud emblem—perched atop every flagpole and gate. Though Cleopatra now wore the Pharaoh's crown, it was Rome's presence that loomed over Alexandria like an uninvited shadow.

It was a bitter truth, one Cleopatra herself acknowledged in silence. She did not speak of it aloud, nor did she let it reflect on her face. She smiled when expected, offered her gratitude to Caesar, and played the part of a victorious ruler. But deep in her heart, she resented the implication—that her reign was bought by the power of a foreign empire. That her throne was paid for in Roman gold and Roman blood.

Still, she owed Caesar. And for now, that debt kept her quiet.

Inside the newly reclaimed palace, Cleopatra reclined on her opulent throne, draped in golden silk, her dark kohl-lined eyes observing every motion in the grand hall. Around her, nobles, scholars, and generals who had remained loyal during her struggle discussed plans for rebuilding the city. They bowed deeply, offering counsel and flattery in equal measure.

To her left stood Caesar, ever the general even in times of peace, his hand resting idly on the pommel of his sword. His sharp eyes scanned the room as he conversed with his young heir and nephew, Octavius. The two men spoke in low, grave tones about the aftermath of the siege—losses incurred, reparations needed, and the delicate balance that must now be maintained between Egyptian pride and Roman influence.

Outside, Alexandria still bore the wounds of battle. Roman soldiers patrolled the streets with discipline, their boots thudding against stone roads slick with rain and ash. They offered aid where they could, restored order where needed, and hunted down the last remnants of resistance who had fled into the shadows.

Among those soldiers was Marcus Antonius—Rome's famed warrior, a man known as much for his fiery temper as for his battlefield prowess.

Yet today, there was no triumph in Marcus's stride.

His face was grim, his gaze dark with humiliation. Not because of defeat—Rome had won, after all—but because of the personal sting of being outmaneuvered, outshined, and outdone at every turn by a single man: Nathan.

A man Marcus hadn't even faced directly, yet whose name had overshadowed his deeds during the siege. The frustration gnawed at him like a parasite, festering into a barely restrained fury. He didn't speak of it, but the bitterness poured from him with every motion, every command, every strike he delivered upon the few rebels still resisting outside the city.

Nathan had humiliated him—indirectly, yes—but thoroughly.

And Marcus Antonius was not a man who forgot.

The air was heavy with ash and the lingering stench of burning wood as Marcus Antonius strode through the battered remnants of Alexandria's southern quarter. His boots crushed shattered pottery and stained parchment alike, indifferent to the debris of civilization. His sword, still slick with the blood of the last rebel he had slain, gleamed under the light filtering through the smoke-draped sky.

A flash of movement caught his eye—a shadow darting through the crooked remains of a door and vanishing into a narrow stone house. Without hesitation, Marcus advanced. With one powerful kick, the fragile wooden frame exploded inward, splinters scattering across the tiled floor.

He found his prey instantly. The rebel—a ragged, desperate man, barely more than a boy—turned with wide eyes, blade raised in vain.

The general didn't hesitate.

With one brutal swing, Marcus cleaved through the young man's chest, the blade biting through flesh and bone as if slicing through parchment. The rebel collapsed without a sound, blood gurgling from his lips as his life poured out onto the floor.

Marcus exhaled, his chest rising with a mixture of satisfaction and simmering rage. But then, just as he turned to leave, he froze.

He wasn't alone.

In the corner of the dimly lit house, huddled behind a broken pillar, a second figure stirred. His eyes narrowed as the figure stood slowly, hesitantly—revealing not a soldier, but a girl.

A woman.

Her appearance momentarily stole his breath.

She was young, yet carried herself with the silent grace of someone born into privilege and taught to survive. Her skin was sun-kissed and flawless, her hair a cascading wave of jet-black silk that framed her face in wild, regal strands. Her eyes—deep blue like the Nile at dusk—met his with fear, fury, and defiance all at once.

Marcus stared, his curiosity sharpening into something darker. It was rare to see such beauty among the rubble. And rarer still, to find a woman who dared to look at him without lowering her gaze.

She was not ordinary woman obviously/.

Arsinoe.

Princess of the Amun Ra Empire.

Sister to Cleopatra herself.

She had vanished from the palace during the siege, presumed either dead or hidden away. Now he knew the truth—she had been protected by loyalists, concealed in the homes of those too afraid to defy Caesar's wrath. But her luck had run dry.

And Marcus Antonius had found her but he wasn't aware of her identity.

He grinned—a hungry, vicious thing.

"Well, what have we here?" he purred, stepping closer. His voice was thick with mockery and desire, his gaze roaming freely. "A little gift left behind by the gods to lift my mood…"

He reached for her.

Without hesitation, Arsinoe slapped his hand away, her breath sharp and quick.

"Don't touch me," she hissed, her voice trembling but strong.

Marcus's expression twisted. No woman had ever denied him—not in Rome, not in Amun Ra, not anywhere. He was a general, a hero of conquests, worshipped by many, feared by more.

But Arsinoe was no courtesan. No foreign princess sent for treaty talks.

She was royalty in her own right. And she would not bow.

He snarled, seizing her by the arm with force. "You dare refuse me? Do you know who I am?"

"I said leave me!" she cried out, struggling against him, her fists pounding weakly against his chest.

He didn't listen. He never had.

With one hand, he yanked at the fabric of her tunic, tearing it away to expose her shoulder and the curve of her breast. Her eyes went wide with shock and terror. She gasped, her body trembling as she tried to break free.

Panic took over. She shoved him with all the strength in her body, twisting out of his grip. He stumbled back a step, stunned by her ferocity, and in that fleeting moment, Arsinoe bolted.

Clutching the remnants of her torn clothing to her chest, she fled into the street, barefoot and terrified, her dark hair flying behind her like a banner of defiance. She ran, her eyes scanning the crowd, searching—pleading—for help.

But the people of Alexandria only watched in silence.

Some recognized her—the lost princess, once paraded through the city in royal splendor. But now, her name meant nothing. She had been branded a traitor. A rival to Cleopatra. An exile.

And the man who pursued her—Marcus Antonius—was no ordinary soldier.

He was Caesar's chosen. A living symbol of Rome's wrath.

The citizens averted their gazes. They turned their faces away from the shame and injustice. Even those with empathy in their hearts said nothing. Did nothing. Their silence echoed louder than her cries.

Behind her, Marcus's laughter rolled through the street like thunder.

"Run all you like, little dove!" he bellowed, voice rising with cruel amusement. "But these streets belong to me! To Rome! You are nothing here!"

Arsinoe ran until her feet bled.

And Alexandria, her home, looked on in silence.

The chase had dragged on for longer than Marcus Antonius had expected. Even in torn clothing, barefoot, and panicked, Arsinoe ran like a creature possessed by the will to survive. But he was a seasoned warrior, and she was exhausted. The uneven stone streets, once glorious in Alexandria's prime, now broken and soiled from battle, slowed her steps. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her limbs faltering.

Then, with a single, practiced motion, Marcus lunged forward. His hand shot out—and seized her.

Fingers twisted tightly in her long, flowing hair.

"Hyaa!" Arsinoe cried out in pain, her body jerked violently backward as she stumbled to the ground, caught like prey in a snare.

Marcus grinned, panting slightly, his eyes burning with cruel triumph. He loomed over her like a shadow, the blood of battle still staining his hands. His voice, when he spoke, was cold and stripped of any pretense.

"You've run enough, little dove," he hissed, leaning in close, his breath hot and sour. "You better surrender now… or I'll fuck you right here, in front of everyone. And I promise you—there will be nothing merciful about it."

His words were a sword of dread driven into her spine.

Arsinoe froze.

All the strength in her limbs seemed to abandon her. The crowd around them had thinned, but some still watched—frozen, powerless, and unwilling to act. To them, this was not their fight. This was a battle of royals and Rome. They were peasants, merchants, slaves. Who would risk their neck for a fallen princess?

Her heart pounded against her ribs like a war drum. Her lips trembled, but no sound escaped.

"Good girl," Marcus whispered mockingly, a smirk cutting across his lips like a scar. He turned, still clutching her hair, intending to drag her back toward the barracks or some shadowed alley where no cries would be heard, and no eyes would dare to follow.

But then—

He stopped.

A sudden coldness washed over him. A stillness.

Marcus's smirk faltered.

Because standing just a few paces away, framed by the fractured light of the dusk-stricken city, was a figure he hadn't expected.

Clad in dark leathers marked with the faint insignia of Pharaon—but bearing none of its pride—stood Nathan.

Or rather, the man the Romans and others knew as Septimius.