Chapter 450: Deal with Servilia

Servilia stood still, the morning light streaming through the marble columns of her estate casting long golden shadows at her feet. For a moment—perhaps longer than she dared admit—she couldn’t quite trust her own eyes. Or perhaps it was her mind that faltered, unable or unwilling to accept the reality unfolding before her.

A commotion had erupted just after dawn. The murmurs of slaves, the hasty footsteps of messengers, the hurried movements of soldiers—it was as if the very breath of Rome had caught in its throat. Servilia, a woman not easily swayed by idle rumor, knew something grave had happened.

Word spread quickly. A body—brutally lacerated and left to dangle from the walls of Rome like a grim warning—had been discovered. Blood had soaked the stone. Birds had already begun their grisly work. It wasn’t just the brutality that shocked the city, but the boldness. That someone had not only murdered so close to the heart of the Republic, but had the audacity to display the corpse

inside

Rome’s walls, where the eyes of senators, plebeians, and nobles alike could see it, sent a chill through even the most hardened souls.

But what truly unsettled Servilia were the whispers that followed.

The body, it was said, wore the armor of Marcus Antonius.

Marcus Antonius. The name struck her like a thunderclap.

The most formidable general of Rome. The right hand of Julius Caesar himself. A man whose presence on the battlefield inspired legions, and whose ambition was rivaled only by Octavius. His death, if true, would be nothing short of cataclysmic.

At first, she had dismissed it. Servilia was no stranger to political deception—Rome thrived on lies, after all—but then, with a sharp twist in her chest, she remembered what

he

had told her.

Septimius.

Two days ago, he had looked her in the eye and asked her to wait two days.

Two days. It had

been

two days.

Her breath caught. A creeping sense of dread pushed her forward.

Without hesitation, she called for her litter and made her way through the congested streets of Rome. Her status made things simple. As a matron of high standing, and once a close confidante of Caesar himself, she did not need to beg for access. She was permitted to see the body.

And what she saw stole the warmth from her limbs.

The corpse was barely human anymore. Its flesh was carved and brutalized, the features twisted by pain, death, and the merciless hands of its executioners. Yet... beneath the blood, the ruin, and the rot, there was something familiar. The curve of the jaw, the stance even in death, the ornate markings of his armor—she had seen it all before. Dozens of times, standing beside Caesar. Laughing in the Senate. Shouting on the battlefield.

It

was

Marcus Antonius.

Her stomach turned as she stepped back, the edges of her vision darkening. A queasy dizziness overtook her, the magnitude of the realization crashing over her like a wave.

Marcus Antonius was dead.

And in her heart, the truth settled like a shadow stretching long at dusk: the one responsible was none other than Septimius.

But if Septimius had been the one to eliminate Marcus Antonius, then he was not a friend of Caesar but a threat for him.

More than that—he might be capable of toppling Caesar himself.

That thought struck her.

Returning to her estate, Servilia moved like a ghost. The marble halls, once warm and familiar, now felt foreign. She barely registered the voices of her servants, the smell of roasted figs in the air, or the late summer breeze stirring the curtains.

She sat alone in the atrium—the same place where Septimius had appeared two days ago as though summoned by fate.

She waited.

Afternoon faded to dusk. Still, she remained. Hours passed in silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the chirping of crickets. But she didn’t care. Not about the time, not about the hunger gnawing at her belly, not even about the fear inching its way into her heart.

She waited for him.

For Septimius.

Because she needed to know. She

had

to know.

Was he truly the one who had brought down Marcus Antonius?

And if so... what did that mean for her?

Night had fallen over Rome, shrouding the city in a veil of silver moonlight and whispering shadows. The once-bustling streets had grown silent, save for the distant clatter of hooves and the occasional cry of a nightbird echoing between stone walls. Yet within Servilia’s estate, beneath the open sky of her marble atrium, one figure remained still, waiting with fading hope.

Servilia sat alone, her hands resting limply on her lap, her posture stiff with tension. The cool night air kissed her skin, but she barely noticed it. The flames in the bronze braziers flickered softly, casting trembling light over her sharp features. Her green eyes, once bright with anticipation, now carried the dull sheen of doubt.

He hadn’t come.

Maybe it wasn’t Marcus Antonius after all,

she thought, her gaze falling to the tiled floor.

Perhaps the rumors were mistaken, the resemblance merely a cruel trick of coincidence...

But deep down, a part of her rejected that thought. A voice inside reminded her of Nathan’s words:

"Wait two days."

Two days had passed.

And the body had worn

his

armor.

Still... what had she been hoping for? That Nathan would appear like some phantom out of myth and confirm the unthinkable? That the death of one of Rome’s greatest men had been orchestrated by a stranger she’d spoken to only once before?

Her lips parted in a sigh, the air escaping her lungs heavy with disillusionment.

Then—like a ghost woven from shadow and silence—a voice broke the stillness.

"How long have you been waiting here?"

She froze. Her heart skipped a beat, and her head snapped up in disbelief.

There he was.

Septimius.

Standing at the edge of the colonnade, half-lit by the orange glow of the torches. His expression unreadable. His presence like that of a storm held back by sheer force of will.

"You..." Servilia breathed, her voice cracking. "

Marcus Antonius...

"

A small, amused smile crept across Nathan’s lips as he began walking toward her, slow and deliberate.

"Did you like my gift for Caesar?" he asked, his tone eerily casual.

She stood abruptly, her legs stiff, hands trembling. So it was true. He

had

been behind it.

But why? What hatred burned so deeply within him that he would reduce Marcus Antonius—Rome’s golden son—to such a monstrous state? The disfigurement had been so brutal, so methodical... it hadn’t simply been a killing. It had been a message. A desecration.

Unbeknownst to Servilia, the one who had torn Marcus apart had not been Nathan, but Medea—whose cruelty knew no bounds when it came to protecting the man she loved. Marcus had dared to defy her beloved Nathan, and for that, he had been made an example.

Servilia’s voice came out hoarse, stunned. "

Why?

Why would you do that to him?"

Nathan stopped a few steps away, expression cooling. "Now that it’s done, I don’t believe you have any doubts left about where my allegiance lies."

He was calm. Too calm. It terrified her more than any scream.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, struggling to maintain composure.

"I want everything you know about Caesar," he said flatly, taking another step closer. "Everything that can help me bring him down."

Her breath caught.

"You... you’re really going to attempt it?" she whispered, incredulous. "You’re going to try and bring down

Julius Caesar

?"

"I would never lie about something like that," Nathan replied, unblinking.

There was no boast in his voice—only certainty. Cold, unwavering certainty. That was what shook her the most.

The silence between them thickened, broken only by the crackle of fire. Finally, Servilia exhaled slowly.

"Then I will tell you," she said. "I’ll tell you everything I know."

But just as her words settled into the air, Nathan’s gaze sharpened.

"Before that," he said, "I want to see the foreign princess you’re sheltering. And the other girl."

Servilia blinked. Her heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t mean...

"Ameriah of Tenebria... and Auria, the Duke’s daughter?"

She hadn’t even told him they were here. How did he know?

"I—I can’t," she said quickly. "If Caesar finds out you visited the estate, he’ll become suspicious. It’s too dangerous."

But Nathan merely looked amused. As though the notion of danger meant nothing to him.

"He won’t see me. I can hide myself. You just need to lead me to them."

Servilia hesitated. "Wouldn’t it be suspicious if I suddenly decided to visit them?"

Nathan shrugged. "It will be. But I don’t care."

There was no diplomacy in his words, no caution. Just raw intent.

He wanted to see them—not to interrogate, not to harm—but to

reassure

. To see with his own eyes that they were still alive, still whole... and to offer them a sliver of hope that this cage would not hold them forever.

"W...What?" Servilia took a step back, disturbed by his unwavering calm.

Nathan’s laughter echoed softly under the arches as he moved forward again, this time closing the distance between them in one stride.

She backed away instinctively—until the cold marble wall met her back.

He stopped inches before her, one hand rising to rest on the wall beside her face. With the other, he tilted her chin gently, forcing her to look up into his eyes.

"You’re wasted on Caesar," he murmured, voice low.

A shiver ran through her. "What are you...?"

"You don’t have to fear Julius Caesar," Nathan said. His voice dropped, deep and resonant, laced with something that pulsed in the air—a skill, subtle and persuasive. He used DEEP VOICE. "As long as I’m here, I won’t let him harm you. Or your son. I’ll protect you."

The words struck her like a wave. She trembled—not just from fear, but from the strange

certainty

that settled into her bones. Something about his voice compelled belief, as though it reached into her very soul and soothed the doubt.

But how? How could he speak of protecting her from Caesar—the most powerful man in the world—with such calm assurance?

Still, something in her heart... wavered.

Then he leaned in closer, his gaze now razor-sharp.

"But I need your full cooperation. Your trust. Surrender yourself to me, Servilia... and I will make your wish a reality."

Servilia gulped, her throat tightening as Nathan’s words echoed in her ears. There was something

unnervingly persuasive

in his voice—something that slipped past her reason and nestled quietly in her heart.

Why... do I feel safe?

His presence was overwhelming—like a force of nature that couldn’t be resisted. His eyes bore into her, not with malice or threat, but with absolute confidence. Confidence that swallowed her fears whole.

"I... F–Fine," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She lowered her gaze, cheeks flushed with confusion. "It’s a bit away from here."

Nathan gave the faintest nod, then without another word—without warning—he stepped forward and scooped her effortlessly into his arms.

"Ah!" she gasped, her eyes going wide.

Her arms reflexively wrapped around his neck, gripping tightly, heart thundering in her chest. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his pulse against her, the raw strength in his arms—it was too much, too sudden. Before she could even process the moment, they were

off

.

With a light push off the ground, Nathan soared into the air.

Servilia let out a startled cry as the wind rushed past her face. The city of Rome unfolded beneath them in a tapestry of moonlit rooftops, flickering torchlights, and sleeping stone. T

She had never flown before. Not like this. Not in the arms of a man who moved through the sky like a god among mortals.

"H–Here!" she stammered, pointing toward a modest villa hidden behind a line of cypress trees on the city’s eastern edge.

Nathan said nothing, but his crimson eyes followed her gesture, narrowing slightly. Without hesitation, he descended, gliding toward the earth with fluid grace.

They landed softly in a grove just beyond the estate walls. He set her down gently, and for a moment, she remained still—hands lingering on his shoulders longer than necessary as her legs tried to steady beneath her.

Servilia’s breath was shallow, her heart still racing. A part of her didn’t want to let go.

What is happening to me?

Nathan took a step back, his gaze fixed on the house she’d pointed to. It wasn’t grand, but its walls were tall and sturdy, guarded by a small private retinue—her loyal soldiers. The windows were dim. The prisoners—if they could still be called that—would be asleep.

"Go on," Nathan said. His voice dropped back to its calm, commanding cadence. "Occupy your guards. I’ll handle the rest."

Servilia nodded, still caught between awe and confusion.

She turned and began walking toward the entrance, her silk robe trailing over the grass, her fingers still tingling from the sensation of being held. Each step felt lighter than it should have—like she was walking in a dream.

Behind her, Nathan melted into the darkness without a sound.