Chapter 428: Pompey’s judgnt
The soft, golden rays of dawn filtered through the high-arched windows of the Senate Castle, casting elongated patterns across the marble floor. Nathan slowly stirred awake in his allocated chamber, nestled deep within the heart of the political nerve center of Ro. The room was nothing short of opulent—draped in crimson and gold, adorned with masterfully carved columns, and filled with the scent of burning incense and polished cedar.
To any outsider, this was the stuff of dreams. A chamber within the very Senate Castle of Ro—a place where history breathed through its walls, where emperors walked and legends were shaped. It was the pinnacle of Roman luxury, reserved for the elite, the powerful, the chosen. And yet, here lay Septimius, soone the world still dismissed as a re rcenary, a ghost with no roots nor na in Ro’s noble bloodlines.
Despite his humble—or perhaps infamous—origins, Nathan had earned this place. His na was already seeping through the corridors of power, whispered from senator to soldier: The Killer of Ptolemy. And more disturbingly for so, he was now known as the rumored third Hidden Hand of Caesar, joining the ranks of Octavius and Marcus Antonius.
Not that any of it mattered to him.
He rose from the silken bed with little ceremony, stretching the stiffness from his limbs before making his way toward the adjoining bath chamber. The room was warm with steam, and crystal-clear water awaited him in a sunken marble tub, scented faintly with rose oil and myrrh, prepared by the servants already. Nathan bathed quickly, thodically, letting the heat wake his senses. He had work to do.
Once dried, he dressed in the attire of his current persona—Septimius, the loyal and anonymous servant of Caesar. He adjusted the folds of his robes with care, ensuring every piece of the disguise remained seamless. One crack in the illusion, and the web he had spun could unravel.
By the ti he stepped into the corridor, the castle had already begun to stir. Light footsteps echoed along the polished stone, servants shuffled past with breakfast platters, and distant voices murmured behind thick wooden doors.
Nathan moved with purpose, ascending toward the Emperor’s wing—an entire secluded section on the third floor of the circular castle, guarded day and night, off-limits to all but the most trusted. Caesar’s private quarters were a fortress within a fortress.
As he traversed the corridor lined with statues of Ro’s past conquerors, Nathan’s mind flickered back to yesterday’s events. There was sothing he needed to confirm—sothing that only Caesar himself could provide clarity on. And so, he pressed forward.
After several minutes navigating the twisting hallways, he arrived at the outer corridor of the Emperor’s domain. He checked a few rooms, each draped in imperial finery and echoing wealth, until he heard voices murmuring through a partially open door. Inside, Caesar was deep in conversation with none other than Octavius, the young lion of Ro and Caesar’s beloved heir.
Nathan paused at the threshold, debating whether to wait outside and let the conversation conclude. But Caesar had already spotted him.
“Ah, Septimius,” Caesar’s rich, commanding voice called out. “Don’t linger in the shadows. Enter—I was about to summon you.”
Nathan stepped inside, bowing his head slightly in respect. The marble beneath his boots felt colder now under the weight of the two most powerful n in Ro.
Octavius turned, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as they t Nathan’s. The young man offered no words—just a stare, cool and asured, before shifting his attention back to Caesar. His posture was straight, disciplined, every inch the soldier-statesman he was raised to be.
“Is there a task you would have carry out?” Nathan asked calmly.
Caesar chuckled lightly, rising from his seat. His toga fell elegantly around him, making him look more like a god than a man.
“I ntioned yesterday—it’s Pompey,” Caesar said, tone casual yet purposeful. “We’re heading to the Theatre of Pompey, where the Senate will deliver its judgnt. You were the one who captured him, were you not? It’s only fitting you bear witness to what justice Ro offers.”
Nathan inclined his head once more. “As you wish.”
Caesar motioned to his guards, then began walking toward the door. As Nathan moved to follow, he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder—firm, almost too familiar. He turned slightly to see Octavius pass him by, the gesture wordless but heavy with unspoken aning.
Claiming his place at Caesar’s side, Nathan mused.
He watched the young man walk with practiced grace, every inch the favored son of the Empire. Caesar truly had chosen well—Octavius, Marcus Antonius… and now perhaps him. All brilliant in their own right. All deadly.
And all loyal dogs.
As the echo of footsteps followed them down the spiral staircase of the Senate Castle, Caesar broke the silence with a casual question, his voice laced with easy curiosity.
“So, tell , Septimius—how do you find Ro?”
Nathan, cloaked in the persona of Septimius, kept his expression even as he responded, “It’s a grand city, magnificent in its own way. Quite different from Alexandria.”
Caesar smiled at that, the faintest glimr of amusent flickering in his eyes. “Ah, Alexandria. I’ve always heard it described as decadent, sensual, and rich with secrets. Ro, by contrast, stands tall—unyielding and eternal.”
Nathan offered only a nod in response. He knew better than to wax poetic under Caesar’s gaze.
“And I take it you enjoyed yourself yesterday?” Caesar continued, a knowing grin creeping into his voice. “You seed to have spent the entire day outside. Was there… anything in particular that caught your attention?”
There it was—the veiled inquiry. Caesar, as ever, probing without pressing. Nathan had expected it. It would’ve been unlike Caesar not to ask. After all, soone like him didn’t walk the streets of Ro unobserved.
“Not especially,” Nathan answered smoothly. “Just sightseeing. The city has many faces. I wanted to learn so of them.”
It was the perfect lie wrapped in enough truth to pass unnoticed. He had been careful, ticulous even. No one should’ve seen him eting with Fulvius—not if his counterasures worked.
Caesar gave a light chuckle, his expression unreadable. “Ah, the eyes of a curious foreigner,” he said simply, leaving the matter there.
Soon after, the pair exited the massive doors of the Senate Castle. A fine horse-drawn carriage awaited them, polished to gleam in the morning light and flanked by armored escorts. With practiced grace, Caesar climbed in, followed closely by Nathan. Octavius entered last, silent but ever watchful.
The journey through the heart of Ro was smooth and swift. Locals paused at the sight of the imperial convoy, bowing their heads or raising their fists in salute as they passed. The na Caesar still held the weight of gods here.
Eventually, the carriage slowed as they approached their destination: the Theatre of Pompey.
The structure lood ahead, an architectural marvel of its ti. Built with pale stone and towering columns, it stood like a shrine to ambition—Pompey’s ambition. Though not as vast as the Senate Castle, it exuded the sa majesty, perhaps more so for its ironic role in today’s events.
Nathan stepped down from the carriage and took in the grand entrance, his gaze lingering on the intricate friezes carved into the stone—Pompey’s victories immortalized in marble. And now, Nathan thought, he returns here not in triumph, but in chains.
They were guided through a path flanked by lush gardens—delicate flowers blooming around winding hedges and ticulously kept statues of Roman gods and heroes. The juxtaposition was striking: beauty in full bloom, leading toward a man’s political execution.
Soon, they entered the inner sanctum of the theatre: the Senate Hall. The space was circular in design, resembling an auditorium where every eye could focus upon the central stage. Ornate benches lined the periter, filled already with the robed figures of Ro’s most influential n. The air buzzed with tension and murmurs.
This was no ordinary gathering. This was Ro’s pulse gathered in one place.
Nathan’s eyes swept across the chamber. There, seated near the front, was Fulvius. Their gazes did not et for more than a fleeting second. Nothing passed between them—not a nod, not a glance of recognition. Just silence, as if they were strangers.
At the center of the hall stood Crassus, one of the triumvirate rulers. He greeted Caesar with a grin that bordered on indulgent.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Caesar,” Crassus said, stepping forward.
Caesar responded with his usual charm. “Then wait no longer.”
Crassus chuckled and guided Caesar toward the central platform—elevated and ringed with golden accents. As rulers of Ro, it was only fitting that Caesar and Crassus would stand at the heart of today’s proceedings.
Nathan and Octavius took positions a step behind, close enough to be seen, far enough to let the mont belong to the n history would rember.
A brief silence fell before Caesar raised a hand and spoke with authority.
“Bring him.”
At his command, two Roman soldiers erged from one of the side entrances. Between them shuffled a ragged figure—Pompey.
He looked nothing like the man whose statues still adorned public squares. His robes were torn, dirtied with days of captivity. His face bore fresh bruises, and his eyes—once sharp and commanding—were dulled, defeated. His hands and feet were shackled, tal biting into flesh.
The soldiers forced him to his knees in front of Caesar and Crassus.
A hush fell over the hall.
Caesar stepped forward, his voice echoing across the curved chamber. “We are gathered here today to pass judgnt on Pompey Magnus.”
He let the na hang for a mont. There was power in it still, if only as a ghost.
“He was once our brother,” Caesar continued. “A friend, a general, a leader who stood on the frontlines for the glory of Ro. He fought, bled, and won in the na of this empire.”
A flicker of pain—or perhaps guilt—passed across Caesar’s face, all fake. Then his voice turned cold.
“But in the end, he betrayed the very empire he claid to serve. For what? Glory? Power? A crown of his own?”
The words struck like daggers.
Suddenly, the Senate erupted. More than half the n rose from their seats, shouting, jeering, so slamming their fists on the railings in rage.
“Traitor!”
“Usurper!”
“Off with his head!”
Pompey remained on his knees, silent, unmoved, as if resigned to the fury washing over him. His head bowed—not from fear, but from exhaustion.
A tense silence had settled over the Senate chamber, heavy like an oncoming storm. All eyes were on the ragged figure kneeling before the might of Ro—Pompey Magnus, once hailed as the savior of the Republic, now shackled like a common criminal in the very hall that bore his na.
Crassus stepped forward, his expression unreadable, the calm voice of reason amid the roaring passions. His tone was deliberate, almost gentle.
“Do you have anything to say in your defense, Pompey?” he asked. “There is still ti. You could renounce your actions and seek forgiveness. Repentance is not weakness.”
Nathan watched carefully from his place beside Octavius. Sothing in Crassus’s voice felt genuine, as if he were extending a final olive branch to a fallen friend. Was it rcy, or political theater?
But Pompey, battered though he was, raised his head with pride unshaken. His eyes, though sunken and bloodshot, still burned with defiance.
“Cris?” he barked, his voice rising like a lion’s final roar. “You dare speak of cris?”
He struggled upright slightly, his chains clinking against the floor as he squared his shoulders, glaring down the very n who once toasted his victories.
“I have given my entire life to Ro! My blood, my youth, my soul! I have fought since I was a boy—marched, bled, and conquered in her na! And what do you worms know of sacrifice? You sit on your cushioned thrones, sipping wine while n like carved this empire from the bones of barbarians!”
The Senate rustled with unease, yet no one interrupted.
Pompey turned his gaze directly to Caesar, venom in his voice. “You—Julius Caesar. You play the philosopher-king while pulling the strings of every man in this room. And they—they’re too stupid or too scared to see it! You’ve turned lions into lapdogs!”
Caesar rely chuckled, a low, amused sound that echoed off the high marble walls. “Such a display, even from you, Pompey. But you insult the Senate. Every man here is free to make his own judgnt.”
“Free?” Pompey snapped, his eyes shifting to Nathan and Octavius. “Most of them already kneel at your feet. Like them.”
He spat the words with disdain, his glare piercing, and for a fleeting mont, Nathan saw the fire of the old Pompey—the general who once challenged empires—still alive in that broken body.
Crassus exhaled through his nose, his voice lower now. “Is that truly how you wish Ro to rember you?”
Pompey did not hesitate. “It changes nothing. My legacy is written. I saved Ro more tis than any of you! I strengthened its armies, brought its enemies to their knees! You may strip of my life, but my na will be rembered long after Caesar’s ambitions rot in the ground.”
He turned his head and looked Caesar dead in the eye.
“And that is sothing you can never erase.”
A subtle shift passed through Caesar’s posture. A flicker of sothing—irritation, perhaps—before it vanished behind his usual composed mask.
“I see,” Caesar said softly, shaking his head as though in disappointnt. “You have chosen pride over redemption. You have chosen to dig your grave with your own words.”
But Nathan saw the truth: Pompey had played into Caesar’s hands all along. There was never going to be rcy—only a staged trial with a preordained ending. Pompey had rely ensured the blade would fall faster.
“You heard him, my brothers!” Caesar raised his voice, his arms open as if appealing to the gods themselves. “He offers no repentance. What punishnt shall we bestow upon him?”
“Death!” one senator shouted.
“That traitorous dog must die!”
“Blood for betrayal!”
A chorus of voices rose in agreent—dozens, then hundreds. The hall thundered with rage and condemnation. So were Caesar’s loyalists, no doubt ordered to incite the crowd. Others had been swept up by the wave of oratory. Even those who were neutral now remained silent, unwilling—or unable—to stand against the montum of Caesar’s influence.
Nathan’s gaze swept across the chamber. In the far rows, Fulvius remained seated, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. He neither spoke nor raised his hand. Around him, a few others shared the sa silence, a pocket of stillness in a sea of fury.
They knew. They understood it was already over.
This wasn’t justice.
It was theatre.
And Pompey, proud and unbroken, had delivered his final act on Caesar’s stage.
Crassus looked genuinely pained now, but he offered no protest. The tide had turned too swiftly, too completely. Whatever sympathy he may have harbored was crushed beneath the weight of the Empire’s will.
“Then death shall be Pompey’s sentence,” Caesar declared, his voice calm and solemn. “Let his execution mark the first day of the upcoming Gladiatorial Tournant. Let Ro see with its own eyes the cost of betrayal.”
A rumble of assent followed. Nods. Cheers. Applause. The senators had spoken, and history would record it as unanimous.
Pompey didn’t flinch. He rely lowered his head again, not in sha, but in final acceptance.
His fate was sealed.
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