He had lost his helmet in the river, his shield he had thrown away, in order the more speedily to gain the land.
He was on the point of attacking the King, who had just landed, with his sword alone, when a Gothic arrow grazed his neck.
"Well hit, Haduswinth?" cried a young voice; "better than at the Mausoleum!"
At the same moment a hand was laid on his shoulder. He recognised Marcus Licinius.
"Dead!" said Marcus. "The hundred Romans fell on the bulwark. Teja, the terrible Teja, stormed it. The half of your Isaurians fell on the way to the Capitol. The rest still keep the doors, and the half-bulwark in front of your house. I can no more. Teja's axe penetrated through my shield and entered my ribs. Farewell, O great Cethegus! Save the Capitol. But--look there! Teja is quick!"
From the Capitoline Hill flames rose high into the night.
"There is nothing more to be done here," the Prefect said with difficulty, for he was losing blood fast and becoming rapidly weak. "I will save the Capitol! To you, Piso, I leave the barbarian King. Once before you have wounded a Gothic King upon the threshold of Rome. Now wound a second, but this time mortally! You, Lucius, will revenge your brother. Do not follow me!"
As he spoke he cast one more furious glance at the King, at whose feet kneeled his Abasgians, and sighed deeply.
"You tremble, master!" said Syphax sadly.
"_Rome_ trembles!" cried Cethegus. "To the Capitol!"
Lucius Licinius pressed the hand of his dying brother.
"I shall follow him notwithstanding," he said, "for he is wounded."
While Cethegus, Syphax, and Lucius Licinius disappeared in the distance, Piso crouched behind the columns of a Basilica close to which the street led upwards from the river.
Meanwhile the King had placed the Abasgians under the guard of his soldiers. He went a few steps up the bank of the river and pointed with his sword to the flames which arose from the Capitol.
Then he turned to the Goths who were landing.
"Forward!" he cried. "Make haste! The flames up there must be extinguished. The fight is over. Now, Goths, protect and preserve Rome, for it is yours!"
"Apollo!" he exclaimed; "if ever my satires hit their mark, help now my sword!"
And he sprang from behind the column towards the King, who stood with his back turned to him. But before he could deal a blow, he let his sword fell with a loud cry. A sturdy stroke from a stick had lamed his hand.