"Cæsar has gone mad!" groaned the terrified Hormizdas to Dagalaïf. That wily barbarian shrugged his shoulders in perplexity. With an irresistible impulse the legions dashed down to the river, all ranks elbowing each other and shouting "Victory! victory!" Jostling, falling into the water, dragging each other out, the men swarmed on board. A few small boats nearly sank; and there was no room on the galleys to take over all. Many cavalry swam across, hanging to the manes and tails of their horses. The Celts and Batavians flung themselves into the water, pushing over, afloat, their great hollowed leather shields. Through fog they swam, many being caught and whirled round in eddies, but regardless of danger they too shouted "Victory, victory!" from the water. So great was the number of ships that the current was slightly broken, thus aiding the swimmers. The conflagration of the first five galleys was extinguished without difficulty. Then only did all ranks understand the Emperor's audacious ruse. But the spirit of the soldiers rose still higher after the avoidance of such a danger. Now everything seemed possible. A little before dawn they made themselves masters of the heights of the far bank, but hardly had the Romans time for a brief rest on their arms when they saw at daybreak a vast army sally from the walls of Ctesiphon into the plain round the city. The battle lasted twelve hours. The Persians fought with the fierceness of despair. Julian's army here saw for the first time the great war-elephants which could crush a cohort like a tuft of grass. Never had the Romans won such a victory since the great days of the Emperors Trajan, Vespasian, and Titus. On the following morning at daybreak Julian brought a grateful offering to Ares, the god of war. It consisted of ten white bulls, beautiful beasts like those on the old Greek bas-reliefs. The whole army was given up to merrymaking. Only the Tuscan wizards, who at every victory of Julian's had become more sombre, mute, and enigmatic, remained obstinately sullen. The first bull, arrayed with laurels, was led to the smoking altar. He walked slowly and passively. Suddenly he stumbled to his knees, lowing pitifully, almost humanly, so that a thrill ran through the spectators; and then, burying his muzzle in the dust, shuddered. Before the axe of the slayer had touched his forehead he had reeled over and died. A second bull similarly fell dead, then a third and a fourth. All paced weakly to the altar, seeming hardly able to stand upright, as if attacked by some mortal malady. The army was in dismay at the presage. Some said that the Etruscan wizards had poisoned the bulls, to revenge themselves for the Emperor's contempt for their art. Nine bulls thus fell, and the tenth, snapping his bonds, escaped, and rushed bellowing through the camp beyond hope of recapture.