Chapter 463: Caesar's weakness

Chapter 463: Caesar’s weakness

The roar of the crowd still lingered faintly in the Colosseum’s vast stone belly, like the distant echo of thunder retreating into the hills. Caesar had just finished his closing speech for the first day of the gladiatorial tournament, his deep, authoritative voice carrying across the arena until the very last word. Now, the assembled nobles, senators, and patricians were beginning to rise from their seats in a slow, almost ceremonial tide, their silks and togas brushing softly against the marble benches.

Nathan, standing, watched the departing figures with mild detachment.

Athena and the others watching Gods had left.

The applause had died away, replaced by a murmur of conversations and the faint clatter of sandals against stone steps. He had no intention of lingering. There was no benefit in following Caesar now—he knew the man well enough to predict the rest of his evening. Either the ruler would retreat to his private quarters to rest, or, more likely, he would indulge in wine and whatever women caught his eye tonight.

Nathan rose from his seat, prepared to slip away unnoticed into the dispersing crowd. But just as he turned, a soft, uncertain voice reached him.

“Uhm… Lord Septimius…”

He paused, glancing down to see Julia standing before him. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her delicate fingers fidgeting with the hem of her tunic. A faint blush dusted her cheeks, and her wide eyes darted nervously up to meet his gaze before flitting away again.

“I… I wanted to thank you,” she said quietly, almost stumbling over the words. “For what you did for me… and for what you said.”

Her voice trembled with a sincerity so rare among the carefully rehearsed flattery of Rome’s nobility. Nathan could see the innocence in her—she was young, untouched by the world’s cruelties, a maiden who still believed in the purity of words and gestures.

Julia had been surrounded all her life by the empire’s most dazzling figures—men like Marcus Antonius and Octavius, warriors and statesmen whose names stirred admiration across Rome. Once, she had thought herself smitten by them, convinced that what she felt was love. But now, standing before Nathan, she understood how shallow those feelings had been.

And how did she come to realize this?

Because of him.

Somewhere between his steady words and his quiet acts, Nathan had kindled something in her—a fragile, unguarded affection. An innocent crush, untouched by the games of politics or ambition.

Of course, she knew such feelings could never bear fruit. Their stations were worlds apart. Her father had already set his mind on Marcus Antonius as her future husband. The thought cast a shadow over her heart, but she bore it silently. Still… until the day came when her life was no longer her own, she could at least allow herself these stolen moments. Moments where she could stand in Nathan’s presence, hear his voice, and feel—if only faintly—what it might be like to choose for herself.

Nathan regarded her for a long moment. Fortunately, Caesar had already departed ahead of them and had not seen the way his daughter now looked at this man—nor heard the quiet tremor in her voice.

“You are welcome, Princess Julia,” Nathan said at last, his tone polite yet tinged with the faintest warmth.

Neither of them noticed the eyes upon them.

From a short distance away, Servilia’s gaze lingered on the pair. A strange sensation stirred within her—a thought or feeling she could not quite name—before she turned and left without a word.

Fulvia, on the other hand, watched with a knowing smile. She had expected this. Julia’s heart falling toward Nathan was no surprise; in fact, it seemed inevitable to her. Any woman, if left too long in his presence, was bound to feel the pull. And if Julia were ever to see the man behind the mask of Septimius—the true Nathan—Fulvia was certain she would fall completely. A soft chuckle escaped her lips before she, too, departed.

There was no jealousy in Fulvia’s amusement. She understood Nathan better than most. She knew he had many women, yet she also knew she was counted among them. That knowledge alone was enough to please her.

But not all who watched were so content.

Licinia’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as she observed Nathan speaking and smiling at another woman. The sight churned something hot and unwelcome inside her—irritation laced with something she refused to name. Jealousy.

She would never admit it aloud. She could barely admit it to herself. To acknowledge that Nathan’s attention toward someone else could bother her was embarrassing enough; to confess it would be unthinkable. She was proud—perhaps too proud. And in her pride, she resolved that if Nathan wanted her, he would have to come to her.

Unfortunately for her, Nathan was not the type of man to play by those rules. And so, the quiet, tangled web between them only tightened, each thread pulling a little more taut.

With a sharp, frustrated grumble, Licinia turned on her heel, her departure marked by the sharp rustle of her gown and the click of her sandals on the marble steps. Nathan caught the faintest flash of irritation in her eyes before she vanished into the dispersing crowd.

Julia, however, lingered a moment longer. She glanced up at him, her expression almost hesitant, though there was a trace of hope glimmering in her eyes.

“Will you be there tomorrow as well, Lord Septimius?” she asked softly, as if the question mattered more to her than she dared admit.

Nathan regarded her with a calm, unreadable gaze. “I don’t see any reason why I wouldn’t be here,” he replied evenly. “I am, after all, working for your father—the Emperor.”

Her lips curved into a small, relieved smile. “I see. That’s… good.”

Julia had never cared for gladiator tournaments—the blood, the dust, the savage spectacle of it all. But knowing Nathan would be there made the thought of enduring another day far more bearable, even, perhaps, pleasant.

She inclined her head in a polite farewell and began walking toward the exit, her steps light despite the heavy air of the Colosseum. Nathan watched her retreat for a moment before finally turning away himself.

That night, the streets of Rome were quiet, the faint glow of torchlight painting long shadows across the cobblestones. Nathan moved through the city like a phantom, his cloak blending into the darkness.

His destination was the Fulvii estate.

He had business to conclude—an exchange of promises kept for favors owed. As he slipped through the estate’s perimeter, avoiding the occasional patrol of household guards, the stillness was almost oppressive. The villa was alive only with the muted sounds of distant servants finishing their nightly tasks.

Timing his movement carefully, Nathan waited until the corridors were empty before entering Fulvius’s private working room. The air inside smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and spiced wine.

“Marcus Antonius is dead,” Nathan said without preamble, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Fulvius flinched, his hand pausing over the scroll he had been reading. Slowly, he turned, his face a mixture of surprise and irritation. “You shouldn’t creep up on me like that,” he muttered, exhaling sharply.

Nathan stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Fulvius. “You wanted him gone. He’s gone. Now you’re going to help me take down Caesar—properly.”

Fulvius leaned back in his chair, studying him carefully. Nathan’s tone left no room for doubt: this wasn’t a request.

“I assume you realize killing Caesar outright would be a mistake,” Nathan continued. “If he dies a martyr, Octavius will step into his place without hesitation. I need Rome as an ally, not an enemy. So Caesar will live—but I intend to strip everything from him. To make him wish he hadn’t.”

A slow, thin smile formed on Fulvius’s lips. “Yes… you’ve impressed me, Septimius. Few men could have eliminated Marcus Antonius. But you’re right—that alone won’t be enough.”

“Then tell me,” Nathan said. “What will be enough?”

Fulvius folded his hands on the desk. “Two names: the Pope of the Athena Church… and Marcus Licinius Crassus. Bring both of them against Caesar, and you have a chance. Only together can they challenge him in status.”

Nathan’s brow furrowed. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

“That,” Fulvius said with a wry smile, “is the difficult part. I know Caesar well enough to be certain—he will want absolute power one day. Whatever plans he has for the Pope and Crassus, they’re not in those men’s best interest. Convince them of that truth, by any means. And do it quickly.”

Nathan fell silent, his mind working through possibilities. Convincing Crassus might be possible—he could be tempted or threatened into action. But the Pope… Nathan knew almost nothing about him, save that he appeared friendly enough with Caesar. That could be a problem.

The only thing he knew was the Pope’s connection to Athena. He was helping her out finding the good specimen among the participants of the gladiators.

“It would be better still,” Fulvius added, “if you made the people believe it too. And if you manage it before the end of the gladiator tournament… well, the effect would be spectacular.” His smirk deepened.

Nathan’s thoughts began to align into something sharper, a plan forming in the shadows of his mind. It was dangerous—perhaps even reckless—but if he could pull it off…

Fulvius caught the glint in his eyes. “You seem to have an idea, Septimius.”

Nathan nodded once. “I do.”

“May I hear it?” Fulvius asked, curiosity piqued.

Nathan’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “I will take part… in the gladiator tournament.”