Chapter 518: The Night of the Three Emperors (3)

“Leave immediately, Emperor Caesar. I’ll buy you time,” Nathan said, his voice calm but firm, his blade already raised in readiness.

Caesar’s laughter rolled out like thunder in the atrium, deep and unshaken. “Just buy time. Let these dogs run if they want.” He turned without hesitation, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him as the Roman soldiers followed, shields clattering in unison.

That single command carried weight. It told Nathan more than words could. Caesar wanted Crassus and Pompey dead—his ambition demanded it—but he held back. He feared Medea. She had already slain Marcus Antonius, a warrior of renown, and Caesar could not risk losing Septimius, the young mercenary who had become his unexpected ace in this perilous game.

Nathan gave a brief nod, no further words needed. He pivoted sharply and met Medea head-on.

The clang of steel split the air as her blade—Marcus Antonius’s sword—met Nathan’s weapon, the fabled sword once wielded by Alexander the Great. Sparks erupted with every impact, their duel resounding like thunderclaps that rattled the marble columns.

BADOOOM!

Shockwaves pulsed outward, rattling the torches on the walls. Dust shook loose from the ceiling as though Rome itself trembled at the clash of two fates.

“Gnaeus! Come, we must go!” Crassus hissed, rushing to Pompey’s side. He threw the man’s arm over his shoulder, dragging him toward safety.

Even as he fled, Crassus could not resist one last look at the battlefield. His eyes narrowed, torn between awe and disbelief. What unfolded before him seemed less like war and more like theater—a spectacle worthy of Olympus itself.

Septimius… that man truly is a master of performance, Crassus thought bitterly, as if the stage of Rome had found its lead actor.

For several long minutes Nathan pressed Medea back, continuing the acting until Caesar’s carriage had left far enough back to the center of Rome to safety where no one could hear him.

Only then did he drop it.

On the next exchange, Nathan deliberately lowered his blade. Medea’s sword, mid-arc, flashed toward his neck. Her eyes widened in shock as she halted the strike at the last instant, the edge trembling a breath away from his throat.

Before she could question him, Nathan’s free arm snaked around her waist, pulling her body flush against his. In one swift motion he tore away her mask, revealing her face—pale and radiant in the torchlight, framed by strands of sweat-damp hair.

Then he kissed her.

Medea stiffened in surprise, her mismatched eyes—one blazing green, the other burning red—staring wide. But the shock melted almost instantly, hazed over with warmth and longing.

Nathan pressed closer, his chest meeting the soft swell of her breasts, his lips claiming hers with ruthless hunger.

“Mmmh…~~” Medea’s muffled moan escaped against his mouth.

His tongue teased her lips before plunging inside, tasting, exploring, devouring. The kiss was no mere touch; it was a battle of its own, fierce and consuming. Medea’s sword slipped from her fingers with a dull clang, her hands clutching desperately at Nathan’s tunic as though she might drown without holding on.

Heat coiled in her stomach, spreading like fire through her veins. Her thighs rubbed together, a futile attempt to quell the rising ache that threatened to undo her.

Nathan did not relent. He kissed her until her breath came ragged, until her knees buckled and her cold face crumbled beneath the tide of his assault.

At last, he pulled away.

A thin thread of moisture clung between their lips before breaking. Medea’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her cheeks flushed crimson, her eyes glazed with something between fury and desire.

“Haa… haa… ah…” She gasped, gulping down air as if she had forgotten how to breathe.

Nathan leaned close once more, his lips brushing hers with a softer touch this time, a whisper carried on the warmth of his breath.

“Good work.”

He sealed the words with another tender kiss, brief yet lingering, as though claiming not just her lips but her very soul.

°°°°°

Crassus had dragged Pompey as far as his strength allowed, half-carrying him until they reached the shaded grove near the estate. There, beneath the sprawling branches of a cypress tree, he lowered the wounded man against the rough bark. Pompey’s right arm was drenched in blood, the crimson soaking his toga until it looked as though he had been baptized in war. His breath came in ragged gasps, every exhale flecked with pain.

Then Nathan appeared. He stepped from the shadows with calm, deliberate strides, not a trace of urgency on his face.

“Y…YOU! TRAITOR!” Pompey spat, his voice hoarse but venomous. He tried to rise, muscles quivering as though he might fling himself upon Nathan despite the agony tearing through his body.

Nathan’s expression didn’t waver. His pale gaze was colder than iron.

“Calm yourself,” he said flatly. He raised his hand—and to their horror—tossed something forward. “Here is your arm.”

The severed limb landed before Pompey with a sickening thud, like a discarded toy casually returned to its owner.

Pompey’s face burned crimson with rage, his good hand curling into a fist. “You bastard!”

“Wait, Gnaeus,” Crassus urged, pressing Pompey back down before he could strain his battered body further. His own gaze fixed on Nathan, sharp and assessing. There was no confusion in his eyes, only calculation.

Nathan smirked faintly. “At least one of you can think. You seem smarter than him.”

Crassus exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. “I understand what you’re doing,” he admitted slowly, “but tell me—why return the Key? Caesar has them all now. With the three Keys together, he holds power over the Beasts of Rome.”

“Exactly. And the only way to stop him… is from inside. Now that he can open the chamber and unleash them, who do you think he’ll trust to stand at his side against creatures of such terrifying strength?”

The realization struck Crassus like lightning. His eyes widened, and even Pompey, groaning in pain, froze as understanding dawned.

But the bitterness remained. “You didn’t have to cut off my arm for that!” Pompey barked, voice breaking between anger and disbelief.

Nathan’s gaze slid past him, settling on the figure approaching from behind. Medea moved with slow, languid grace, her dark cloak flowing like spilled ink. Her mask was once again in place, but nothing could hide the subtle sway in her walk, the unmistakable aura of satisfaction clinging to her.

“Medea,” Nathan said, his voice softened only by a fraction. “Heal him.”

The sorceress turned her mismatched eyes—red and green—toward Pompey. For a heartbeat, affection glimmered in them when they rested on Nathan. But when they fell upon Pompey, the warmth curdled into loathing.

Still, she obeyed. Raising her pale hand, she extended her power. A crimson glow enveloped the severed limb, pulling it back toward the raw stump. Before their stunned eyes, flesh knit to flesh, sinew bound itself together, and veins reconnected as if woven by an unseen hand.

Pompey gasped as sensation returned, his reattached arm twitching, fingers flexing clumsily.

Crassus stared at the pair in disbelief, his mind racing. Who were these two? Allies? Enemies? Lovers? Something far more dangerous?

Before he could ask, voices rang out across the grove.

“Crassus!”

“Father!”

Four figures rushed forward from the path—a woman and three children. His family. His wife Tertulla threw herself into his embrace, her tears wetting his shoulder. His two young sons clung to his legs, no older than ten, sobbing with relief.

“Licinia…” Crassus breathed as his daughter approached, her steps faltering as her gaze locked on Nathan.

Her lips parted, trembling. “S…Septimius?!” she cried, inching closer. “What are you… what are you doing here?”

But her eyes shifted past him—and froze on Pompey. She recognized the man instantly, his features unmistakable even beneath blood and pallor. Yet she had seen him die. She had witnessed his beheading by Caesar’s order during the tournament entrance day.

Her face drained of color, her heart stuttering in her chest.

“N–no… impossible…” she whispered, backing up a step. Then, as panic overtook reason, she shrieked, “Kyaa! An evil spirit!!”

She flung herself against Nathan, clutching at him desperately as though he could shield her from the phantom in front of her.

The air shifted in an instant, turning bitterly cold, as though winter itself had crept into the grove. Medea’s gaze lingered on the sight of Licinia pressed against Nathan. Frost seemed to gather in the silence, an invisible chill that made the hairs on every neck rise.

“Licinia! What are you doing?!” Tertulla’s voice rang out, sharp with both shock and disapproval. Her eyes widened at the scandalous sight of her daughter—her Roman-bred, noble daughter—clinging to a strange man as if he were her protector.

Licinia’s face burned crimson, shame and confusion flooding her features. She quickly peeled herself away from Nathan, retreating a step with trembling hands. “I… I… it was just…” Her words faltered into silence.

Tertulla exhaled deeply, pinching the fabric of her dress in restrained frustration before turning her worried eyes to her husband. “What is happening here, husband? And—what in the gods’ names—is Pompey doing here alive?” Her voice broke on the last word, straining under disbelief.

Crassus ran a hand down his weary face, sighing with the weight of too many burdens. “It’s… complicated. But one thing is clear.” His gaze hardened as he looked at her. “Caesar wants us dead. Now, it is no longer suspicion—it is fact.”

Tertulla’s complexion drained of all color, her lips trembling as she clutched her children closer. The certainty in her husband’s voice was heavier than any rumor.

“You shouldn’t remain in this estate any longer,” Nathan cut in, his tone crisp, decisive. His presence loomed like a commander delivering orders on the battlefield. “Medea will escort you and Pompey to a safe house. Stay inside. Do not wander, do not draw attention. Wait until I am finished with Caesar.”

He turned on his heel, cloak whispering across the grass, as if that were the end of the discussion.

But Crassus’s voice called after him. “And after that?”

Nathan paused mid-step. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, his crimson eyes glinting with a cold intensity.

“After that,” he said evenly, “you will stand as the sole Emperor of Rome. And I…” A faint smile touched his lips, one devoid of warmth. “…I will be your only trustworthy ally.”

The words struck like a blade, their double edge unmistakable. The promise of power in the first half sent a spark of hope flickering in Crassus’s chest—but the weight of the latter half crushed it with dread. The tone was not merely a statement. It was a warning, a binding chain. Remember who raised you up. Remember the debt. Forget it, and the cost will be ruinous.

A shiver crawled down Crassus’s spine.

Nathan then turned his gaze toward Medea. She understood without words, her eyes gleaming as she stepped forward to take control of the group.

And with that, Nathan vanished, slipping into the shadows.

The night had been fruitful.