"There stand my Byzantines, under Gregorius. The Gothic archers aim well. The ramparts become thinned. Massurius, bring up my Abasgian archers, and the best archers of the legions. They must aim at the oxen and horses of the battering-rams." Very soon the battle was kindled upon all sides, and Cethegus remarked with rage that the Goths progressed everywhere. The Byzantines seemed to miss their leader; they shot at random and fell back from the walls, against which the Goths pressed with unusual daring. They had already crossed the trenches at many points, and Duke Guntharis had even erected ladders against the walls near the Portuensian Gate; while the old master-at-arms had dragged a strong battering-ram to the Pancratian Gate, and had caused it to be protected by a penthouse against the fiery darts from above. Already the first strokes of the ram thundered through the uproar of the battle against the beams of the gate. This well-known sound gave the Prefect a shock. "It is evident," he said to himself, "that they are in good earnest." Again a thundering stroke, Gregorius, the Byzantine, looked at him inquiringly. "This must not continue any longer," cried Cethegus angrily; and he tore a bow and quiver from an archer who stood near him, and hurried to the battlements over the gate. "Here, archers and slingers! Follow me!" he cried. "Bring heavy stones. Where is the next balista? Where the scorpions? That penthouse must come down!" But under it stood Gothic archers, who eagerly looked through the apertures at the pinnacles of the battlements. "It is useless, Haduswinth," grumbled young Gunthamund; "for the third time I have aimed in vain. Not one of them will venture even his nose above the battlements." "Patience!" answered the old man; "only keep thy bow ready bent. Some curious body will be sure to show himself. Lay a bow ready for me too, and have patience." "Patience! That is easier for thee with thy seventy years, than for me with my twenty," grumbled Gunthamund. Meanwhile Cethegus reached the wall over the gate, and cast a look across the plain. There he saw the King standing motionless in the distance with his centre, upon the right bank of the Tiber. This sight disturbed him. "What does he intend? Has he learned that the commander-in-chief ought not to fight? Come, Gajus," he cried to a young archer, who had boldly followed him, "your young eyes are sharp. Look over the battlements. What is the King doing there?" And he bent over the bulwarks. Gajus followed his example, and both looked out eagerly. "Now, Gunthamund!" cried Haduswinth below. Two strings twanged, and the two Romans started back. Gajus fell, shot in the forehead; and an arrow fell rattling from the Prefect's helmet. Cethegus passed his hand across his brow. "You live, my general!" cried Piso, springing towards him. "Yes, friend. It was well aimed, but the gods need me yet. Only the skin is scratched," said Cethegus, and set his helmet straight.