Chapter 508: Arsinoe's and Brutus's situations

Chapter 508: Arsinoe’s and Brutus’s situations

The night after Nathan’s conversation with Pandora, the city of Rome lay shrouded in a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional cry of a drunken reveler in the streets or the distant clang of metal as guards made their patrols. The moon was veiled by thin clouds, its pale light casting the city in a ghostly hue. It was the perfect night for shadows to move unnoticed.

Nathan slipped silently through the narrow alleyways, his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders, until he reached his true destination: a peculiar and heavily fortified prison hidden deep within the city.

This was no ordinary holding place. It was the very same prison that had once confined Pompey—an infamous place, guarded with almost obsessive care. But Nathan wasn’t here for Pompey obviously. His purpose lay deeper inside, behind doors that even Caesar himself had chosen to keep tightly locked.

Getting inside had been difficult enough. Nathan’s face was too well-known in Rome now—one wrong glance, one unlucky encounter with the wrong guard, and the whole city would know he was prowling where he didn’t belong. If Medea had been at his side, things would have been easier. Her mastery of sorcery could have lulled guards into silence or unraveled the locks with a flick of her fingers. She was a genius, a natural at bending magic to her will. But tonight, Nathan had no such luxury.

He relied instead on one of the very first abilities he had ever earned—his Stealth Skill. It was not a legendary skill, not ranked high like the devastating skills he had wielded on battlefields, but in moments like this, it was invaluable. Cloaking himself as much as possible, dampening the faint traces of his magic until he was nearly invisible to detection, Nathan crept deeper into the prison’s belly.

At last, he reached the corridor he had been searching for. Ahead of him stood two armed guards planted firmly before the heavy iron door that led to his target. They were alert, spears in hand, eyes sharp. Slipping past them unnoticed would be impossible.

So Nathan chose a distraction. Raising one hand ever so slightly, he pointed toward the far end of the corridor, where a torch burned lazily against the wall. With a tiny pulse of fire magic, he willed the flame to flare violently. In an instant, the fire leapt from its sconce, licking up the wall with a greedy hunger, spreading fast as smoke began to curl upward.

“What the—?! What’s happening?!” one of the guards shouted, stumbling back.

“The fire! Quickly, we have to put it out before it spreads!”

The two men rushed down the hall in a panic, leaving the doorway unguarded. Nathan wasted no time. He darted forward, pushed the door open, and slipped inside before the guards could return.

The prison chamber he entered was bleak beyond words. Damp stone walls oozed with moisture, and the air smelled of mold and rust. Compared to this, the cells where Ameriah and Auria had once been held seemed almost merciful. After all, those two had been treated as political captives—hostages of circumstance, still afforded the status of “guests.” But the one who lay here had been branded something else entirely: a trophy, a prisoner dragged into Rome by Caesar himself.

Arsinoe.

She lay curled upon what could hardly be called a bed, more a slab of wood with a ragged cloth thrown over it. Her thin frame trembled faintly in her sleep, her back turned toward the door. Her once-regal dark hair was matted and tangled, and her blue eyes, when they fluttered open at the touch on her shoulder, were dulled with exhaustion, robbed of the lively spark they once held.

Startled, she turned around, stiffening in alarm—until her gaze fell upon his face. Recognition dawned slowly, then all at once. Her lips trembled as though she wanted to speak, but no words came out. Her throat was too dry, her body too weak.

Without hesitation, Nathan pulled a small pouch of water from his cloak and held it out to her. Arsinoe’s shaking hands grasped it desperately, and she drank in great, hurried gulps until the water spilled from the corners of her mouth. She coughed violently, but still she drank, unwilling to waste a drop.

When at last she lowered the pouch, her eyes lifted back to him, shimmering with disbelief. “S…Septimius…” The name left her lips in a cracked, fragile whisper.

Words could not capture the raw relief shining in her expression. In this hellish cell, where every day must have felt like an eternity, the sight of a familiar face—someone she could trust—was more precious than freedom itself.

“I’m sorry,” Nathan said, lowering himself to one knee before her. “I should have come sooner.”

Arsinoe shook her head weakly, strands of hair falling across her face. “No… no, don’t say that. Just… just seeing you here now… It feels like a lifetime since the last time I saw you.”

Her words carried the weight of truth. The last time she had laid eyes on him had been during Caesar’s triumphal parade, when she was forced to walk in chains through the streets of Rome, paraded as the spoils of Alexandria’s defeat. A living symbol of conquest, humiliated before the eyes of thousands.

And now, here she was—broken, yet still alive.

Nathan’s first instinct upon seeing Arsinoe’s frail state was to take her by the hand and pull her out of that miserable dungeon. Every part of him rebelled against leaving her there another moment. But reason quickly prevailed. He couldn’t—not yet.

Helping Pompey escape had already been a gamble, one that Caesar’s sharp eyes might soon uncover. If Arsinoe were to vanish as well, suspicion would instantly converge upon one man: Septimius. Caesar knew of their connection. He knew that Nathan—his supposed Septimius—had ties to Cleopatra. And if Caesar allowed himself even a moment of clarity, the pieces would fall together. Nathan’s carefully woven facade would unravel, exposing his hand in every plot.

So no—Arsinoe would have to remain here for the time being. As much as it gnawed at his conscience, patience was his only weapon.

He crouched lower, his voice steady, carrying the quiet authority she needed to hear. “Soon,” Nathan said, his gaze locking with hers. “I will get you out of this cell.”

Her eyes widened, hope flickering within their tired depths. “B…But…” Her voice trembled, confusion etched into every syllable. If she truly knew what storms he was preparing to unleash in Rome, if she understood the scope of his plan, she might collapse in shock.

Nathan shook his head faintly, silencing her doubts. “It will be fine. I’ll get you out of here. I’ll take you back to Alexandria, back to your sister’s side. But until then—you must endure. Stay alive. Hold on to your will. That’s all I ask of you.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the dripping of water down the stone wall. Nathan watched her carefully, searching for cracks in her spirit, for signs that the dungeon had broken her. But he was relieved to see that, though weary and worn, she had not been crushed. Her spirit, though fragile, still endured. Arsinoe was not like so many others who wasted away in Caesar’s prisons. She was strong. She was Cleopatra’s sister, after all.

Tears welled in Arsinoe’s eyes, streaking down her pale cheeks as she nodded fervently. “Y…yes. Thank you, Septimius…” Her voice cracked, but there was conviction in it.

Nathan gave a single nod, his expression calm, but inside he felt something stir—a quiet respect for her resilience. She was stronger than she appeared. Stronger than most. It was exactly what he expected of Cleopatra’s blood.

Without another word, he rose to his feet. Lingering would only endanger them both. With the same silent skill that had carried him here, Nathan slipped from the chamber, moving swiftly and unseen through the prison until he emerged back into the night.

By the time he returned to the heart of Rome, dawn’s first light was still far from breaking. His destination was no longer Caesar’s private chambers but somewhere else in the Senate’s castle, where a different player awaited him.

He approached a room guarded by two Roman soldiers, their armor gleaming faintly under the torchlight. At the sight of him, both men stiffened and immediately inclined their heads.

“Lord Septimius.”

The title was spoken with respect—respect that Nathan had earned through blood and spectacle. His performance in the tournament, his victories, his legend had spread like wildfire. Even Caesar’s own men, loyal to the Emperor, now looked upon him with awe. To them, he was no longer just another warrior. He was a Roman legend, a living figure already being whispered into myth.

“I need to speak with him,” Nathan said curtly, his tone leaving no room for delay.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances. One of them hesitated before replying. “Lord Octavius gave us strict orders that—”

“I don’t care what Octavius said.” Nathan’s voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and sharp. He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “I serve directly under Caesar. If I say I need to question him, then I will. Do you intend to defy me?”

Both soldiers swallowed hard, their composure cracking. Very few men in Rome dared to speak so dismissively of Octavius, let alone in public. Those who could be counted on one hand, and Nathan stood among them. The sheer force of his words left them without argument.

“Yes, my lord,” they stammered quickly, and with nervous haste, they moved to unbar the door.

Nathan stepped inside. The heavy door closed behind him with a dull thud, sealing him in the chamber’s dim confines. The scent of sweat and iron lingered in the air, a reminder of captivity.

He didn’t have long to wait. The shuffle of footsteps echoed within, and a man hurried into the open space. His face was taut with expectation, eyes searching for salvation or ally—only for his expression to twist bitterly when he recognized Nathan.

Brutus.

Disappointment flashed across his features, sharp and undeniable.

“How are you doing, Brutus of the Junii House?” Nathan’s voice cut through the still air, calm yet edged like steel.

Brutus startled at the sound, his weary eyes narrowing as recognition set in. “You… you’re Septimius. What do you want? Did Caesar send you to release me?” His voice trembled with a flicker of desperate hope, like a drowning man clutching for driftwood.

Nathan’s lips curled into something colder than a smile. His reply was immediate, merciless. “Pathetic.”

The word struck harder than any blade. Brutus flinched visibly, his back stiffening, as though the disdain alone had pierced him.

“W…what?”

“You’ve been rotting in this place, abandoned, humiliated—and the first thought that crosses your mind is Caesar?” Nathan’s footsteps echoed deliberately against the stone floor as he began to approach, each step heavier than the last. His eyes burned into Brutus. “Isn’t there someone else you should be hoping to see first?”

Brutus froze. The implication was unmistakable.

Nathan’s gaze darkened, his voice gaining weight with each word. “Servilia has been weeping every hours since you were imprisoned. The strongest woman in Rome—broken. A hollow shadow of herself. Because her son, the one she sacrificed everything for, still kneels like a fool to the man who discarded her like a toy.”

Brutus’s face fell. His shoulders slumped, eyes lowering to the ground as shame crept into his expression.

“She endured for you. She fought for you. And in return, you betrayed her for Caesar—a man of nothing but ambition, a man who does not care whether you live or die.” Nathan’s words were venom, each syllable deliberate.

“No… no, that’s not true,” Brutus stammered, his voice cracking. “Mother… I love her!”

Nathan’s cold laugh was void of warmth. “Doesn’t look like it to me. She begged you, didn’t she? Pleaded with you to leave Caesar’s side. And what did you do? You rejected her.” His tone sharpened, scathing as a whip.

Brutus’s lips trembled, his complexion paling as the weight of his own actions pressed down upon him. Nathan could see the dawning horror in his eyes, the realization of just how cruelly he had treated the very woman who had given him everything.

Nathan’s words were merciless because he intended them to be. He thought of his own mother—of her love, of the way she had given all she had for him until her final breath. To see Brutus squander Servilia’s devotion, to spit upon such a mother’s sacrifice… it stirred a quiet fury within him.

Brutus lowered his head, trembling fists clenching at his sides, his expression shattered, guilt dragging him down like chains.

Nathan stepped closer, his voice dropping to a cutting whisper. “And are you even aware… that Caesar is planning to kill your mother?”

The words landed like thunder. Brutus’s head shot up, his eyes wide with horror. “What!”

“Utterly naive,” Nathan sneered. His disdain was a blade twisting deeper. He turned as though to leave, his cloak shifting behind him.

“W…wait! How is she?!” Brutus’s voice broke into a plea.

Nathan did not slow. He walked toward the door, his silence louder than any reply.

“Please…”

The word caught him. Nathan paused mid-step, the faintest hesitation betraying that he had heard. Slowly, he turned back.

Brutus was no longer the proud son of Rome’s elite. He was broken, crumpled on his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. His voice trembled with raw desperation. “I… I want to see her. My mother… I need to apologize. Please…” His eyes clung to Nathan’s, begging, hollowed by guilt and longing.

Nathan regarded him coldly for a long moment, then finally gave a clipped nod. “I will keep Servilia safe. Until then, keep your mouth shut and stay still. You will see her again.”

Brutus’s sobs filled the silence as Nathan turned and strode toward the door. His purpose here was finished. He had achieved what he came for: to shatter Brutus’s blind worship of Caesar, to cut away the chains of admiration before they could drag him into ruin. It was just in case Caesar tried to win over Brutus again to use him against Servilia. Now Brutus will know what was coming and wouldn’t fall for it.

And more than that—he had given Brutus something else. The chance, however slim, to atone.

Nathan had promised Servilia that he would keep her son safe. And unlike Brutus, Nathan never broke promises to mothers.