The rays of the setting sun dazzled the eyes of the Byzantines.
Totila, from the hill, observed the position of the enemy.
"The victory is mine!" he cried to his troops, and, drawing his sword, he swooped upon his enemies like a falcon on his prey.
Cethegus and his followers had reached the last deserted camp of the Byzantines shortly after sunset.
They were met by the first fugitives.
"Turn, Prefect," cried the foremost horseman, who recognised him, "turn and save yourself! Totila is upon us! He cleaved the helm and head of Artabazes, the best captain of the Armenians, with his own hand!" And the man continued his flight.
"A god led the barbarians!" cried a second. "All is lost--the commander-in-chief is taken!"
"This King Totila is irresistible!" cried a third, trying to pass the Prefect, who blocked his way.
"Tell that in hell!" cried Cethegus, and struck him to the earth. "Forward!"
But he had scarcely given the command when he recalled it.