I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 552: Caesar’s threat and Spartacus’s despair!

The semi-final had drawn to a close under a sky the color of old bronze. The roar of the crowd had thinned to an exhausted murmur, torches guttering along the outer ring as the arena emptied. Both contests had been brief and brutal in the same breath — Septimius and Spartacus had met their opponents and, with the ruthless efficiency of men who had practiced the art of killing until it felt like breathing, taken their victories without breaking much of a sweat. Their blades had sung and the challengers had fallen; by dusk the two finalists for tomorrow’s clash had been decided.

Yet the tournament itself, once a glittering means to an end, had already lost whatever nobility it might once have pretended to possess. Athena had made her choice — Nathan was to be Pandora’s partner — and Caesar’s concerns had long since narrowed to a single, perfectly timed operation. The final would be no more than theatre: a sundering of attention meant to leave Athena and Pandora exposed, and Nathan unprepared while he fought beneath the hot lights of the arena. Everything was in place. Everything was on schedule. In Caesar’s mind, the show would serve its purpose.

He sat alone in his private quarters, a room of dark wood and low light, the three Keys of Rome laid out on the table in front of him like small pieces of history made flesh. The metal glinted dully in the candlelight, each key catching the flame differently; Caesar toyed with them between thin, practiced fingers and allowed himself the smallest, almost private smile. Control, he thought, was a fine thing.

A soldier opened the door and stepped in. The man announced himself with the abrupt, clipped formality of those who have learned to swallow their fear.

“Hero Axel is here.”

“Let him enter,” Caesar said, not looking up, turning one key on the table with a lazy motion and leaning his weight back against the carved chair. His voice was smooth, the kind that could soothe or slice depending on the mood.

Axel came in, boots ringing on the floor, his jaw set and eyes hard. He moved like a man with an accusation to hurl and no patience left for small talk.

“What brings you here?” Caesar asked, offering the same courteous smile as always.

Axel’s face tightened. “That man — Septimius — he’s the one who killed Hugo.” The name came out like a verdict.

“Hugo?” Caesar’s brow lifted, having no idea who it was.

Anger darkened Axel’s features until the skin over his cheekbones seemed to bruise. “Another Hero. A classmate. Someone we swore to protect if we ever betrayed the Amun Ra Empire and joined you. He died — by the hand of someone who used to be at your side. Septimius. Do you know that it was he?”

Caesar folded his hands as if weighing facts in the balance. “I only learned recently, when Johanna told me what she saw.” There was a pause. The statement hung in the air like a promise that could be kept or broken.

Axel’s voice dropped low, laced with a different worry. “Professor Johanna — I haven’t seen her. I expected to find her near you.”

Caesar’s expression shifted. The candlelight carved sharper angles into his face. “Your classmates didn’t you?” He let the words sit. Then, as if offering a grotesque gift, he added, “She is dead. Septimius killed her and sent me her head. Would you like to see it?”

The color drained from Axel’s face. His whole frame sagged a fraction as if the words had the weight of iron. “W…what—” he started, voice gone thin.

“If you imagine your rank as a Hero will shield you from that bastard, you’re wrong,” Caesar said, voice colder now. “He doesn’t care about titles.”

“Then protect us!” Axel stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Are you going to let yourself be killed, Emperor? Are you just going to—”

Caesar cut him off with a look that could have frozen a river. There was no impatience in it; only the certainty of a man who had already charted the next three moves on his board.

“Septimius will die tomorrow,” he said calmly. “I have plans in motion.”

Relief, brief and fierce, flickered across Axel’s features — but before it could root itself, Caesar’s tone hardened again. “But tell me this: will you stand there and be useless? Because I have no place for useless Heroes in my ranks.”

The question landed like a gauntlet. Axel’s fists clenched until the tendons at his wrists stood out. “W…what do you want me to do? That monster — I can’t beat him.”

Caesar snorted, a short, disdainful sound that dismissed both plea and despair. “I don’t expect you to face him blade-to-blade. Tomorrow, you will be in the Senate Castle. You will watch over one of my prisoners: Brutus. Make certain he does not escape. Stop anyone who approaches him. You are to be his jailer and his guard. Do not fail.”

“B… Brutus?” Axel repeated, blinking as if unsure he’d heard correctly.

“Yes, Brutus,” Caesar said, his tone clipped, almost bored, but his eyes gleamed with calculation. “I need him alive until I have complete control over his house. The boy is Servilia’s son — which means Septimius will move to take him. He won’t come personally, of course. He’ll send others, the kind that slither through the cracks and think themselves unseen. Your task is simple: keep Brutus chained in that room and make sure no one gets near him.”

“I’ll do it,” Axel replied quickly, the words spilling out before the emperor could change his mind.

Caesar leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening. The air in the chamber seemed to cool by several degrees.

“You had better,” he said softly. “Because if you lose him…” He paused, his eyes narrowing to icy slits. “I will make sure you wish Septimius had been the one to kill you.”

Axel flinched at the venom behind those words, his shoulders tensing. But instead of bowing or cowering, he raised his chin and met Caesar’s stare with defiance flickering behind his eyes.

Caesar noticed — and smiled, faintly. “Good. You still have some spine left. You’ll need it.” Then, as if remembering something distasteful, his expression darkened again. “And if you happen to see those two little women who follow Septimius around… kill them. Both of them.”

Axel blinked once. “Who?”

“Freja and Elin,” Caesar said, almost spitting out the names. “They’ve been seen at his side. That’s reason enough.”

The name Freja twisted something deep inside Axel — a dark, old spark. His lips curved into a smirk, sharp and eager. “That would be a pleasure.”

He didn’t even need to be told twice. If he crossed paths with them — especially Freja — she would die by his hand without hesitation. As for Elin… perhaps he would spare her. Someone with an SSS-rank Healing Skill had their uses. A slave with value was better than a corpse.

°°°°°

That same night, beneath the thick silence of the lower districts, Spartacus returned to the dominion of slaves.

The night was cool, the air heavy with the mingled scent of iron, sweat, and smoke from the torches that burned low in the corridors. He had been healed, his wounds washed, his body prepared — though truth be told, he hadn’t sustained so much as a scratch during his match. Still, the healers insisted he rest. The final awaited him tomorrow. Against Septimius.

Yet as he stepped back into the slave compound, a faint unease stirred in his gut. The place was not as it should have been. The usual clamor of laughter, argument, and the dull clang of chains was replaced by murmurs — hushed, uncertain, like the sound of a funeral whispered through clenched teeth.

A crowd had gathered in the training yard, their faces half-lit by the flicker of torches. The gladiators — men of blood and scars — stood in a loose circle, whispering among themselves, some shaking their heads in disgust.

“Poor woman…”

“Who would do that to her?”

“She belonged to Spartacus, didn’t she?”

The words cut through the air like knives.

Spartacus’s breath hitched. For a moment he didn’t move, his heart thundering in his chest. Then, as if possessed, he surged forward, shoving men aside, pushing through the ring of onlookers with wild, desperate force.

No. No, it couldn’t be.

He refused to believe it.

Each body he shoved past blurred in his vision until at last the crowd gave way—and he froze.

In the center of the yard, tied to a wooden pole, was Curia.

Her body hung limp, barely upright, her arms bound above her head with coarse rope that had bitten into her skin. Strips of torn cloth clung to her half-naked form, soaked through with blood and grime. Red welts crisscrossed her back and sides — marks of a whip, vicious and deep. In some places the flesh had split. Something metallic — nails, perhaps — had been used on her. Her blood ran sluggishly down the pole, pooling on the hard dirt beneath her feet.

For a long, breathless moment Spartacus could not move. He simply stared, the world narrowing to that broken figure and the slow drip of blood. Then, with trembling steps, he approached, his throat dry, his jaw locked so tightly it hurt.

When he drew close enough, he saw the faint rise and fall of her chest. Alive. Barely.A shuddering breath escaped him — relief and rage tangled together. His fists clenched. His eyes burned.

And then — a low, cruel chuckle echoed across the courtyard.

Spartacus lifted his head sharply, rage flashing through his gaze. Above, on the upper balcony overlooking the training yard, a figure leaned casually on the railing, watching with amusement.

Octavius.

Of course.

It was his doing.

A man who would never let Spartacus or anyone close to him taste even a fragment of happiness.

Their eyes met — one filled with hate, the other with mocking satisfaction.

Spartacus’s hands clenched until pain flared like fire up his arms. He felt his nails gouging crescents into his palms; blood welled and ran in thin, hot rivulets down his wrists. His entire body trembled — a hard, animal tremor — as the sight of Curia, broken and bleeding, pressed on him like a weight. Every muscle screamed to move, to leap the short distance and rip Octavius from the balcony with his bare hands. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to tear the smug grin from his face and bathe his fingers in the traitor’s blood.

But he could not.

The slave seal coiled around him like an invisible iron band. It sucked at his strength and dulled his reflexes, a bitter, humming shadow beneath his skin; any rash motion risked the only life left in that courtyard. Curia hung there like a promise that would be broken the moment he disobeyed. If he lunged, she would be killed — executed as an example, or worse.

“You look dangerous when you’re angry, Spartacus,” Octavius purred from the balcony, the words smooth as oil and twice as poisonous. He leaned over the railing with theatrical languor, as though watching a beast pacing within a pen was the evening’s entertainment. The smirk on his face was slow and delighted, the kind of smile that savored cruelty.

Spartacus’s jaw worked. He swallowed the scream that rose in his throat and forced his hands to unclench, letting the blood drip to the dirt. The pain anchored him — a small, cruel mercy. He let it.

“Your precious woman’s life is in your hands now,” Octavius continued, voice light, each syllable chosen like a blade. “Tomorrow, you may use your full strength in the arena. I will not bind you there. Kill Septimius for me, Spartacus. Make the crowd roar. Make it clean.”

Spartacus’s eyes burned. He stared at Octavius, at the expression of leisure that had no hint of empathy. The words hit him — a bargain struck with a gladiator’s fate as coin. He felt disgust and a hot panic that fed the coals of his anger; he imagined the arena’s sand soaked with more than sweat, the crowd’s cheer a mask over the massacre awaiting him.

“If you fail…” Octavius let the thought hang, a hanging noose of possibility. “You already see what I can do to disobeyers. That slave will be finished. Worse than your wife. Perhaps you’d prefer to watch her be torn apart slowly, piece by piece, until you beg for death yourself.”

The threat slithered through the yard like a cold wind. Spartacus spat the name — the words bitter on his tongue. “Octavius,” he said, each syllable heavy with contempt.

Octavius chuckled at that, a short sound that was all triumph. “Use that anger against Septimius tomorrow,” he advised, almost kindly. Then he straightened, the amusement never leaving his face, and turned away. His cloak whispered as he left the balcony, and his silhouette receded into the shadows like a closing curtain.