I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me - Chapter 513: Third Round of the Gladiator Tournament
Chapter 513: Third Round of the Gladiator Tournament
The third round of the grand tournament was about to begin, and for the first time since its commencement, Nathan would not be among the combatants.
This did not trouble him in the slightest. He had already carved his name into the whispers of the crowd and into the wary glances of nobles and rulers alike. Whether he fought or not, his presence carried weight. Today, he would observe instead, from the lofty vantage of the VIP balcony alongside Caesar and the rest of the gathered dignitaries.
When Nathan arrived, he found most of them already seated in their gilded rows, murmuring among themselves with the polished courtesy of wolves clothed in silks. Yet one face made him pause at the threshold, his steps slowing almost imperceptibly.
Seated next to Caesar was a woman of striking poise, her blond hair gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through the high arches.
Johanna. The famed teacher of the Amun-Ra Class of Heroes.
She had set aside her usual attire and instead wore the garb of a Roman matron—an elegantly draped tunic that gave her the appearance of someone who belonged to this marble hall, as though the Empire itself had birthed her. The choice was not accidental. Caesar had placed her at his side, close enough to draw attention and provoke speculation. It was a calculated move, Nathan realized immediately. Caesar was not the kind of man to keep Johanna near simply because of her beauty or her skill in bed. No—this was a demonstration of influence, a subtle reminder to all present that he could draw even the teacher of Heroes into his orbit. But there also could be something else…
“Septimius,” Julia’s voice rang out cheerfully, breaking through his thoughts. Upon spotting him, she waved with the brightness of a woman unbothered by the undercurrents of tension that filled the chamber.
Nathan inclined his head politely. He did not take a seat immediately. Instead, he positioned himself near the front, leaning casually against the wall. But he chose his spot carefully—close to Crassus, who sat silently with his arms folded, rather than on the opposite side where Johanna and Caesar’s influence extended.
Crassus’s eyes flicked toward Nathan briefly, assessing him as one might study a blade, sharp and silent. He gave no greeting, no acknowledgement. The silence itself was telling. Between Caesar and Crassus hung a tension so thick it could have been cut with a sword. Both men masked it beneath faint, insincere smiles, but anyone with eyes could see it: two predators, circling, waiting for the other to slip.
The Pope was present as well, sitting more rigid than the rest, his expression carved in stern stone. He spoke little, but Nathan noticed the weight in his eyes—his gaze often shifting toward Caesar with suspicion that he tried, and failed, to disguise. Athena had not wasted time in speaking to him, clearly, but Nathan could tell the Pope had not yet reclaimed his key from Caesar. He lingered in watchfulness, biding his time, waiting for the right opening. He was right dealing with Caesar safely anyway.
Nathan allowed a faint smile to curve his lips at the scene. Things were going smoothly.
His attention then drifted toward the women who had gathered. He ignored Octavius entirely, as though the man were nothing but air.
Servilia, predictably, was absent. Her absence was almost a blessing; had she been present, she might have attempted to strangle Caesar with her own hands before the round even began.
Fulvia was there, though, lounging with an air of boredom, her sharp eyes moving lazily across the arena before she finally met Nathan’s gaze. At that, her lips curved in a smile—subtle, amused, as though she alone was in on some unspoken secret.
Beside her sat Licinia. Her reaction was far less composed. The instant she felt Nathan’s gaze upon her, her cheeks flared crimson, the blush spreading down her neck like wildfire. She lowered her eyes, then raised them again, stealing glances at him with all the nervous intensity of someone caught between desire and reverence.
Ever since she had “understood”—or perhaps convinced herself—that Nathan had been willing to defy Caesar himself for her sake, to claim her as his Queen, Licinia’s entire demeanor toward him had shifted. Now, each time her eyes lingered on him, they glowed with fervor. She was enamored, enthralled, and every stolen glance seemed to set her heart alight with heat.
Nathan let her look. He neither encouraged nor dismissed her, knowing full well that in this gathering, even the smallest gesture might ripple into storms.
Eventually, Caesar rose from his seat, the golden trim of his toga catching the sunlight like fire as he spread his arms wide to the crowd. His voice carried effortlessly through the amphitheater, resonant and commanding, the tone of a man born to bend others with words alone. As always, he was masterful—each syllable sharpened to inspire awe, to stir excitement, and to remind all present why he was both adored and feared.
Nathan listened in silence, but his gaze drifted elsewhere, past Caesar’s theatrics and toward the heavens above.
The sky was no longer merely blue. It shimmered faintly, a veil of light betraying the presence of beings who existed beyond mortal reach. Gods once more had gathered, descending in silent judgment to witness the third round. There seemed to be more of them than before, their figures half-concealed in the brilliance of the firmament, their eyes like burning stars fixed upon the battlefield below.
But Nathan’s attention settled quickly on two familiar figures among that divine assembly: Athena and Pandora.
He was not surprised to see them. He had expected their presence, even if logic dictated they had no further reason to be here. The matter of Pandora had already been decided—it was Nathan, and Nathan alone, who would bear the responsibility of her fate. Yet still, they came.
Pandora, perhaps, for reasons that words could not capture entirely. Even veiled, even hidden behind mystery, Nathan knew she was watching him. He felt the weight of her gaze, as undeniable as a hand upon his shoulder.
Athena, however, was easier to read. She would never leave Pandora unattended, not while so many forces circled like vultures. And perhaps, Nathan thought, there was something more—perhaps Athena herself wished to maintain the illusion that all was well, to see with her own eyes the games Caesar continued to play.
Nathan allowed himself only a fleeting glance at them before lowering his gaze back to the mortal stage.
Caesar’s speech concluded with a flourish, the applause of the crowd swelling like thunder. The sands of the arena, freshly raked and leveled, awaited the clash of the third round. At first glance, it appeared less elaborate than the previous trials—no shifting terrain, no grand constructs, no elaborate traps. But Nathan knew better than to judge by appearances. Hardship was rarely only what the eyes could see.
And then the gates opened.
Nathan’s eyes widened. From one side, fully armored Roman soldiers marched forth, shields gleaming, swords ready, their disciplined steps striking the ground in unison. They were no mere rabble; they were trained warriors, drilled in formation, their presence alone intimidating.
From the opposite gate emerged those Nathan knew—the gladiators. Spartacus was there, tall and unbowed, his presence magnetic as ever. Benjamin, encased in heavy armor with his face hidden beneath the helm. Isak as well, stepping out with a weapon in hand.
But Ethan was absent. Clearly, he had left the matter of Pandora entirely in Nathan’s hands.
Nathan’s gaze sharpened as he noticed the disparity. The gladiators carried no weapons. None—save for Isak.
“What kind of privilege is this?” Nathan thought, his eyes narrowing.
He doubted it was a coincidence. Johanna, seated beside Caesar, had likely intervened. But it was not out of tenderness between teacher and student. No, Johanna was shrewd. Her Heroes were valuable—too valuable to risk losing here in the sand like common slaves. She would safeguard them however she could, and if that meant tilting the scales, so be it.
Unfair. Brutally unfair. And yet the gladiators did not complain.
Instead, Nathan noticed something remarkable.
They gathered as one, standing behind Spartacus, no longer fractured as they had been in the first round’s chaotic free-for-all. The bitter animosities that had once divided them seemed to have faded. In the crucible of the second round, fighting side by side against wolves, they had forged a fragile but undeniable unity. And Spartacus—unquestionably—was their chosen leader. Only he had the strength, the charisma, and the defiance to bind them together.
Forty unarmed gladiators, facing forty trained Roman soldiers in full armor.
The contrast was stark, almost absurd. Only Isak bore a weapon, his privilege gleaming in the sunlight, while Benjamin’s armor and helmet concealed his form entirely, a living wall of steel. The rest were barehanded, but their resolve was palpable even from the balcony.
The air grew taut with silence as the Roman arbiter stepped forward. He raised his hand high, the crowd holding its breath. For one heartbeat, the world itself seemed to pause, balanced on the edge of violence.
Then his voice boomed, shattering the stillness.
“START!”
And the third round began.
