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“Where's the cave? I want to see a defeated enemy,” Hadrian said, and then he touched the horse.

“Caesar, there are still enemies roaming. Our legionnaires didn't catch everyone. It's not safe!” the Severus retorted.

“Nothing,” Hadrian looked back at the retinue, “I'm accompanied by experienced warriors. Here, for example, is our Rufus. He's brave enough to hit the pathetic Jews if they get caught on the road. Isn't that true, governor?”

“Of course, emperor!” Tineius Rufus, who did not expect Hadrian to address him, mingled.

“If you show your back to the Jews for three years, then it is necessary once to see the enemy face,” Hadrian added, his eyes flashing. “Especially after the defeat of the enemy, when nothing is in danger. Don't you think, dear Quintus?”

“I…” the governor began, but the exasperated emperor did not listen to him, he went forward and next to him attached legates Severus with Matenianus to show the way.

“I think you've fallen out of favor, Tineius,” remarked the passing Ceionius Commodus, who did not like the governor for his arrogance.

Once in Rome, the arrogant Rufus, who was transported in palanquin through the narrow streets of the city, ordered the slaves—high and strong Cappadocian, that they did not give way to anyone. And when they came to meet the stretcher with Commodus, they rudely pushed his slaves aside. Ceionius noticed how the curtain on the palanquin moved, the cold, arrogant face of the Syrian governor looked out from behind it.

Now this face was different; Rufus lost his self-confidence and turned into a pathetic subject from whom everyone turned their backs.

The cave where Hadrian entered, accompanied by legats, retinue, and guards was remarkably quiet. Screams and scolding, the wails of the vanquished, black smoke in the sky and the smell of burning, all of it remained there, behind the walls. Here it was cool, the damp walls were unevenly illuminated by burning torches, but it was light enough to cover the whole cave.

The Emperor noticed several corpses of Jews lying on the side. In the far half-dark corner, apart from all, lay another body. He came closer. A retinue crowded behind; in a small space under the low arches was heard the noisy breathing of people.

On the stones lay a decapitated man in a dirty, blood-stained tunic. He was of short stature, raised fabric exposed short hairy legs with bare feet. There were no shoes on the former prince of Israel. Perhaps, the thieves have already visited and brought out everything that has turned under his arm.

“This is Varkoheba, great Caesar,” said Julius Severus, his voice sounding blankly under the arches of the cave.

The wind blew from behind, shadows swirling from the flame of torches.

“Who goes there?” Hadrian asked, but there was no answer.

Pushing the crowd, a tall centurion from the Fifth Macedonian Legion stepped forward. He led behind him a frail, ragged old man with gray side curls and a disheveled beard. His hands were tied with a leather belt, which usually belted the tunic.

“Caesar, I have ordered to bring Akiva, a priest of the Jews. We've already talked about it,” Matenianus explained.

“Oh, yes, this rebel!”

The Emperor looked curiously at the face of a man exhausted by the long siege stained with mud and soot, and stingingly asked:

“What old man, your god, your Yahweh, has not helped you?”

But Akiva did not answer, he looked down under his feet, and his lips moved as if uttering the words of prayer. Or maybe he prayed to his god, whose name Jews could not say out loud. But Hadrian could speak because he was not a Jew.

Having lost interest in Akiva, Hadrian returned to the murdered Varkoheba. Looking closely, he saw something unusual on the rebel's body, where the neck was supposed to be, something was moving, it seemed that the dead man's shoulders were rising, as if the leader of the rebels had not yet died, and just put his head to the body as it comes to life. For a moment, Hadrian was terrified.

“Fire here!” he shouted.

The legionnaire ran up with a torch, and now everyone saw that the shoulders of Varkoheba were enveloped by a large viper, as light yellow, in dark spots, as the surrounding walls and stones under their feet.

“Look!” Severus exclaimed. “He is the messenger of their god. The Jewish god himself killed him, punishing him for deceit and treachery.”

The old man muttered something barely audible.

“What are you saying?” Hadrian turned to him and said, “Translate someone.”

One of the Syrians who guarding the emperor reported, “He says that God did not kill Varcoheba, he came for his soul, as a righteous man's soul, to place it in the treasury of the throne of glory.”

Hadrian frowned.

“Does God want to take this man’s soul to heaven? Then chop off the head of this snake! Rufus,” he found with his eyes among the retinue the figure of the viceroy, “Rufus, come here! You trust the great honor of defeating the messenger of the Jewish god.”

Before Rufus immediately parted, and he had to come forward. Near Varcoheba’s body, the governor stopped, hesitantly drew a sword from its scabbard, and began fussily poking at the head of the viper. The snake hissed menacingly, sliding from the body of the murdered, but the governor still could not get into her small flat head with a forked tongue. It seemed that horror shackled him, it was one thing to anger your gods, whom you can cajole by making a rich sacrifice to them, and another thing was a stranger, an unknown god. He, Tineius Rufus, did not know what sacrifices this Yahweh received. And would he accept from him?

“How long are you going to practice, Quintus? We're tired,” sneered Hadrian, who was amused by the squirming figure of the viceroy standing on half-bent legs.

The old man again muttered something in a stubborn, loud voice, and without waiting for the emperor's question, the Syrian translated it.

“He says that God will punish the one who will kill this snake.”

The remark of the recalcitrant rebel angered Hadrian, and he, a mighty, like the majestic monumental sculpture of Trajan, standing on the Forum, hung over the puny old man.