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Title: Legends of the conquest of Spain
Author: Washington Irving
Release date: January 12, 2026 [eBook #77685]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John Murray, 1836
Credits: WebRover, Tim Lindell, Turgut Dincer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEGENDS OF THE CONQUEST OF SPAIN ***
LEGENDS
OF THE
CONQUEST OF SPAIN.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF “THE SKETCH-BOOK.”
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
MDCCCXXXVI.
PREFACE.
Few events in history have been so signal and striking in their main
circumstances, and so overwhelming and enduring in their consequences, as
that of the conquest of Spain by the Saracens; yet there are few where
the motives, characters, and actions of the agents have been enveloped
in more doubt and contradiction. As in the memorable story of the Fall
of Troy, we have to make out, as well as we can, the veritable details
through the mists of poetic fiction; yet poetry has so combined itself
with, and lent its magic colouring to, every fact, that to strip it
away, would be to reduce the story to a meagre skeleton, and rob it of
all its charms. The storm of Moslem invasion that swept so suddenly over
the peninsula, silenced for a time the faint voice of the Muse, and drove
the sons of learning from their cells. The pen was thrown aside to grasp
the sword and spear; and men were too much taken up with battling against
the evils which beset them on every side, to find time or inclination to
record them.
When the nation had recovered in some degree from the effects of this
astounding blow, or rather, had become accustomed to the tremendous
reverse which it produced, and sage men sought to inquire and write the
particulars, it was too late to ascertain them in their exact verity.
The gloom and melancholy that had overshadowed the land, had given birth
to a thousand superstitious fancies; the woes and terrors of the past
were clothed with supernatural miracles and portents, and the actors in
the fearful drama had already assumed the dubious characteristics of
romance. Or if a writer from among the conquerors undertook to touch
upon the theme, it was embellished with all the wild extravagances of an
oriental imagination; which afterwards stole into the graver works of the
monkish historians.
Hence the earliest chronicles which treat of the downfall of Spain are
apt to be tinctured with those saintly miracles which savour of the pious
labours of the cloister, or those fanciful fictions that betray their
Arabian authors. Yet, from these apocryphal sources, the most legitimate
and accredited Spanish histories have taken their rise, as pure rivers
may be traced up to the fens and mantled pools of a morass. It is
true, the authors, with cautious discrimination, have discarded those
particulars too startling for belief, and have culled only such as, from
their probability and congruity, might be safely recorded as historical
facts; yet scarce one of these but has been connected in the original
with some romantic fiction, and, even in its divorced state, bears traces
of its former alliance.
To discard, however, every thing wild and marvellous in this portion of
Spanish history, is to discard some of its most beautiful, instructive,
and national features; it is to judge of Spain by the standard of
probability suited to tamer and more prosaic countries. Spain is
virtually a land of poetry and romance, where every-day life partakes
of adventure, and where the least agitation or excitement carries every
thing up into extravagant enterprise and daring exploit. The Spaniards,
in all ages, have been of swelling and braggart spirit, soaring in
thought, pompous in word, and valiant, though vainglorious, in deed.
Their heroic aims have transcended the cooler conceptions of their
neighbours, and their reckless daring has borne them on to achievements
which prudent enterprise could never have accomplished. Since the time,
too, of the conquest and occupation of their country by the Arabs, a
strong infusion of oriental magnificence has entered into the national
character, and rendered the Spaniard distinct from every other nation of
Europe.
In the following pages, therefore, the author has ventured to dip more
deeply into the enchanted fountains of old Spanish chronicle, than has
usually been done by those who, in modern times, have treated of the
eventful period of the conquest; but, in so doing, he trusts he will
illustrate more fully the character of the people and the times. He has
thought proper to throw these records into the form of legends, not
claiming for them the authenticity of sober history, yet giving nothing
that has not historical foundation. All the facts herein contained,
however extravagant some of them may be deemed, will be found in the
works of sage and reverend chroniclers of yore, growing side by side with
long acknowledged truths, and might be supported by learned and imposing
references in the margin.
CONTENTS.
Page
LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.
CHAPTER I.
Of the ancient Inhabitants of Spain.—Of the Misrule of Witiza
the Wicked 1
CHAPTER II.
The Rise of Don Roderick.—His Government 11
CHAPTER III.
Of the Loves of Roderick and the Princess Elyata 18
CHAPTER IV.
Of Count Julian 27
CHAPTER V.
The Story of Florinda 31
CHAPTER VI.
Don Roderick receives an extraordinary Embassy 44
CHAPTER VII.
Story of the marvellous and portentous Tower 50
CHAPTER VIII.
Count Julian.—His Fortunes in Africa.—He hears of the Dishonour
of his Child.—His Conduct thereupon 66
CHAPTER IX.
Secret Visit of Count Julian to the Arab Camp.—First Expedition
of Taric el Tuerto 78
CHAPTER X.
Letter of Muza to the Caliph.—Second Expedition of Taric el Tuerto 85
CHAPTER XI.
Measures of Don Roderick on hearing of the Invasion.—Expedition
of Ataulpho.—Vision of Taric 94
CHAPTER XII.
Battle of Calpe.—Fate of Ataulpho 102
CHAPTER XIII.
Terror of the Country.—Roderick rouses himself to Arms 112
CHAPTER XIV.
March of the Gothic Army.—Encampment on the Banks of the
Guadalete.—Mysterious Predictions of a Palmer.—Conduct
of Pelistes thereupon 121
CHAPTER XV.
Skirmishing of the Armies.—Pelistes and his Son.—Pelistes and
the Bishop 129
CHAPTER XVI.
Traitorous Message of Count Julian 136
CHAPTER XVII.
Last Day of the Battle 141
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Field of Battle after the Defeat.—The Fate of Roderick 150
ILLUSTRATIONS TO THE FOREGOING LEGEND.
The Tomb of Roderick 158
The Cave of Hercules 160
LEGEND OF THE SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN.
CHAPTER I.
Consternation of Spain.—Conduct of the Conquerors.—Missives
between Taric and Muza 173
CHAPTER II.
Capture of Granada.—Subjugation of the Alpuxarra Mountains 181
CHAPTER III.
Expedition of Magued against Cordova.—Defence of the Patriot
Pelistes 192
CHAPTER IV.
Defence of the Convent of St. George by Pelistes 198
CHAPTER V.
Meeting between the Patriot Pelistes and the Traitor Julian 207
CHAPTER VI.
How Taric el Tuerto captured the City of Toledo through the Aid
of the Jews, and how he found the famous Talismanic Table of
Solomon 213
CHAPTER VII.
Muza ben Nozier.—His Entrance into Spain, and Capture of Carmona 223
CHAPTER VIII.
Muza marches against the City of Seville 230
CHAPTER IX.
Muza besieges the City of Merida 233
CHAPTER X.
Expedition of Abdalasis against Seville and the “Land of Tadmir” 245
CHAPTER XI.
Muza arrives at Toledo.—Interview between him and Taric 259
CHAPTER XII.
Muza prosecutes the Scheme of Conquest.—Siege of
Saragossa.—Complete Subjugation of Spain 266
CHAPTER XIII.
Feud between the Arab Generals.—They are summoned to appear
before the Caliph at Damascus.—Reception of Taric 273
CHAPTER XIV.
Muza arrives at Damascus.—His Interview with the Caliph—The
Table of Solomon.—A rigorous Sentence 282
CHAPTER XV.
Conduct of Abdalasis as Emir of Spain 289
CHAPTER XVI.
Loves of Abdalasis and Exilona 296
CHAPTER XVII.
Fate of Abdalasis and Exilona.—Death of Muza 303
LEGEND OF COUNT JULIAN AND HIS FAMILY 313
Note to the preceding Legend 339
THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.
THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.[1]
CHAPTER I.
OF THE ANCIENT INHABITANTS OF SPAIN.—OF THE MISRULE OF WITIZA THE WICKED.
Spain, or Iberia, as it was called in ancient days, has been a country
harassed from the earliest times by the invader. The Celts, the Greeks,
the Phœnicians, the Carthaginians, by turns, or simultaneously,
infringed its territories; drove the native Iberians from their rightful
homes, and established colonies and founded cities in the land. It
subsequently fell into the all-grasping power of Rome, remaining for some
time a subjugated province; and when that gigantic empire crumbled into
pieces, the Suevi, the Alani, and the Vandals, those barbarians of the
north, overran and ravaged this devoted country, and portioned out the
soil among them.
Their sway was not of long duration. In the fifth century the Goths, who
were then the allies of Rome, undertook the reconquest of Iberia, and
succeeded, after a desperate struggle of three years’ duration. They
drove before them the barbarous hordes, their predecessors; intermarried
and incorporated themselves with the original inhabitants; and founded
a powerful and splendid empire, comprising the Iberian peninsula, the
ancient Narbonnaise, afterwards called Gallia Gotica, or Gothic Gaul, and
a part of the African coast called Tingitania. A new nation was, in a
manner, produced by this mixture of the Goths and Iberians. Sprung from a
union of warrior races, reared and nurtured amidst the din of arms, the
Gothic Spaniards, if they may so be termed, were a warlike, unquiet, yet
high-minded and heroic people. Their simple and abstemious habits, their
contempt for toil and suffering, and their love of daring enterprise,
fitted them for a soldier’s life. So addicted were they to war that, when
they had no external foes to contend with, they fought with one another;
and, when engaged in battle, says an old chronicler, the very thunders
and lightnings of heaven could not separate them.[2]
For two centuries and a half the Gothic power remained unshaken, and
the sceptre was wielded by twenty-five successive kings. The crown was
elective, in a council of palatines, composed of the bishops and nobles:
who, while they swore allegiance to the newly-made sovereign, bound
him by a reciprocal oath to be faithful to his trust. Their choice was
made from among the people, subject only to one condition, that the king
should be of pure Gothic blood. But though the crown was elective in
principle, it gradually became hereditary from usage, and the power of
the sovereign grew to be almost absolute. The king was commander-in-chief
of the armies; the whole patronage of the kingdom was in his hands; he
summoned and dissolved the national councils; he made and revoked laws
according to his pleasure; and, having ecclesiastical supremacy, he
exercised a sway even over the consciences of his subjects.
The Goths, at the time of their inroad, were stout adherents to the
Arian doctrines; but after a time they embraced the Catholic faith,
which was maintained by the native Spaniards free from many of the gross
superstitions of the church at Rome; and this unity of faith contributed
more than any thing else to blend and harmonise the two races into one.
The bishops and other clergy were exemplary in their lives, and aided
to promote the influence of the laws and maintain the authority of the
state. The fruits of regular and secure government were manifest in the
advancement of agriculture, commerce, and the peaceful arts, and in the
increase of wealth, luxury, and refinement; but there was a gradual
decline of the simple, hardy, and warlike habits that had distinguished
the nation in its semi-barbarous days.
Such was the state of Spain when, in the year of Redemption 701, Witiza
was elected to the Gothic throne. The beginning of his reign gave promise
of happy days to Spain. He redressed grievances, moderated the tributes
of his subjects, and conducted himself with mingled mildness and energy
in the administration of the laws. In a little while, however, he threw
off the mask, and showed himself in his true nature, cruel and luxurious.
Two of his relatives, sons of a preceding king, awakened his jealousy
for the security of his throne. One of them, named Favila, duke of
Cantabria, he put to death, and would have inflicted the same fate upon
his son Pelayo, but that the youth was beyond his reach, being preserved
by Providence for the future salvation of Spain. The other object of his
suspicion was Theodofredo, who lived retired from court. The violence of
Witiza reached him even in his retirement. His eyes were put out, and
he was immured within a castle at Cordova. Roderick, the youthful son
of Theodofredo, escaped to Italy, where he received protection from the
Romans.
Witiza, now considering himself secure upon the throne, gave the reins
to his licentious passions; and soon, by his tyranny and sensuality,
acquired the appellation of Witiza the Wicked. Despising the old Gothic
continence, and yielding to the example of the sect of Mahomet, which
suited his lascivious temperament, he indulged in a plurality of wives
and concubines, encouraging his subjects to do the same. Nay, he even
sought to gain the sanction of the church to his excesses; promulgating
a law by which the clergy were released from their vows of celibacy, and
permitted to marry and to entertain paramours.
The sovereign pontiff Constantine threatened to depose and excommunicate
him, unless he abrogated this licentious law; but Witiza set him at
defiance, threatening, like his Gothic predecessor Alaric, to assail
the eternal city with his troops, and make spoil of her accumulated
treasures.[3] “We will adorn our damsels,” said he, “with the jewels of
Rome, and replenish our coffers from the mint of St. Peter.”
Some of the clergy opposed themselves to the innovating spirit of the
monarch, and endeavoured, from the pulpits, to rally the people to
the pure doctrines of their faith; but they were deposed from their
sacred office, and banished as seditious mischief-makers. The church of
Toledo continued refractory; the archbishop Sindaredo, it is true, was
disposed to accommodate himself to the corruptions of the times, but the
prebendaries battled intrepidly against the new laws of the monarch, and
stood manfully in defence of their vows of chastity. “Since the church
of Toledo will not yield itself to our will,” said Witiza, “it shall
have two husbands.” So saying, he appointed his own brother Oppas, at
that time Archbishop of Seville, to take a seat with Sindaredo in the
episcopal chair of Toledo, and made him Primate of Spain. He was a priest
after his own heart, and seconded him in all his profligate abuses.
It was in vain the denunciations of the church were fulminated from the
chair of St. Peter; Witiza threw off all allegiance to the Roman pontiff,
threatening with pain of death those who should obey the papal mandates.
“We will suffer no foreign ecclesiastic with triple crown,” said he, “to
domineer over our dominions.”
The Jews had been banished from the country during the preceding
reign, but Witiza permitted them to return, and even bestowed upon
their synagogues privileges of which he had despoiled the churches. The
children of Israel, ever since the time when they borrowed the jewels of
gold and the jewels of silver from their neighbours, on preparing for
their memorable flight out of Egypt, have been curious dealers in gold
and silver and precious stones: on this occasion, therefore, they were
enabled, it is said, to repay the monarch for his protection by bags of
money, and caskets of sparkling gems, the rich product of their oriental
commerce.
The kingdom at this time enjoyed external peace, but there were symptoms
of internal discontent. Witiza took the alarm; he remembered the ancient
turbulence of the nation, and its proneness to internal feuds. Issuing
secret orders, therefore, in all directions, he dismantled most of the
cities, and demolished the castles and fortresses that might serve as
rallying points for the factious. He disarmed the people also, and
converted the weapons of war into the implements of peace. It seemed, in
fact, as if the millennium were dawning upon the land; for the sword was
beaten into a ploughshare, and the spear into a pruning hook.
While thus the ancient martial fire of the nation was extinguished, its
morals likewise were corrupted. The altars were abandoned, the churches
closed, wide disorder and sensuality prevailed throughout the land; so
that, according to the old chroniclers, within the compass of a few short
years, “Witiza the Wicked taught all Spain to sin.”
CHAPTER II.
THE RISE OF DON RODERICK.—HIS GOVERNMENT.
Woe to the ruler who founds his hope of sway on the weakness or
corruption of the people! The very measures taken by Witiza to perpetuate
his power ensured his downfall. While the whole nation, under his
licentious rule, was sinking into vice and effeminacy, and the arm of war
was unstrung, the youthful Roderick, son of Theodofredo, was training up
for action in the stern but wholesome school of adversity. He instructed
himself in the use of arms; became adroit and vigorous by varied
exercises; learned to despise all danger; and inured himself to hunger
and watchfulness, and the rigour of the seasons.
His merits and misfortunes procured him many friends among the Romans;
and when, being arrived at a fitting age, he undertook to revenge the
wrongs of his father and his kindred, a host of brave and hardy soldiers
flocked to his standard. With these he made his sudden appearance in
Spain. The friends of his house, and the disaffected of all classes,
hastened to join him; and he advanced rapidly, and without opposition,
through an unarmed and enervated land.
Witiza saw too late the evil he had brought upon himself. He made a hasty
levy, and took the field with a scantily equipped and undisciplined host,
but was easily routed and made prisoner, and the whole kingdom submitted
to Don Roderick.
The ancient city of Toledo, the royal residence of the Gothic kings, was
the scene of high festivity and solemn ceremonial on the coronation of
the victor. Whether he was elected to the throne according to the Gothic
usage, or seized it by the right of conquest, is a matter of dispute
among historians; but all agree that the nation submitted cheerfully to
his sway, and looked forward to prosperity and happiness under their
newly elevated monarch. His appearance and character seemed to justify
the anticipation. He was in the splendour of youth, and of a majestic
presence. His soul was bold and daring, and elevated by lofty desires.
He had a sagacity that penetrated the thoughts of men, and a magnificent
spirit that won all hearts. Such is the picture which ancient writers
give of Don Roderick, when, with all the stern and simple virtues
unimpaired which he had acquired in adversity and exile, and flushed with
the triumph of a pious revenge, he ascended the Gothic throne.
Prosperity, however, is the real touchstone of the human heart. No sooner
did Roderick find himself in possession of the crown, than the love of
power, and the jealousy of rule, were awakened in his breast. His first
measure was against Witiza, who was brought in chains into his presence.
Roderick beheld the captive monarch with an unpitying eye, remembering
only his wrongs and cruelties to his father. “Let the evils he has
inflicted on others be visited upon his own head,” said he: “as he did
unto Theodofredo, even so be it done unto him.” So the eyes of Witiza
were put out, and he was thrown into the same dungeon at Cordova in which
Theodofredo had languished. There he passed the brief remnant of his
days, in perpetual darkness, a prey to wretchedness and remorse.
Roderick now cast an uneasy and suspicious eye upon Evan and Siseburto,
the two sons of Witiza. Fearful lest they should foment some secret
rebellion, he banished them the kingdom. They took refuge in the Spanish
dominions in Africa, where they were received and harboured by Requila,
governor of Tangier, out of gratitude for favours which he had received
from their late father. There they remained, to brood over their fallen
fortunes, and to aid in working out the future woes of Spain.
Their uncle Oppas, bishop of Seville, who had been made co-partner, by
Witiza, in the arch-episcopal chair at Toledo, would have likewise
fallen under the suspicion of the king; but he was a man of consummate
art and vast exterior sanctity, and won upon the good graces of the
monarch. He was suffered, therefore, to retain his sacred office at
Seville; but the see of Toledo was given in charge to the venerable
Urbino; and the law of Witiza was revoked, that dispensed the clergy from
their vows of celibacy.
The jealousy of Roderick for the security of his crown was soon again
aroused, and his measures were prompt and severe. Having been informed
that the governors of certain castles and fortresses in Castile and
Andalusia had conspired against him, he caused them to be put to death,
and their strongholds to be demolished. He now went on to imitate the
pernicious policy of his predecessor; throwing down walls and towers,
disarming the people, and thus incapacitating them from rebellion. A few
cities were permitted to retain their fortifications, but these were
intrusted to Alcaydes, in whom he had especial confidence: the greater
part of the kingdom was left defenceless. The nobles, who had been roused
to temporary manhood during the recent stir of war, sunk back into the
inglorious state of inaction which had disgraced them during the reign of
Witiza, passing their time in feasting, and dancing to the sound of loose
and wanton minstrelsy.[4] It was scarcely possible to recognise, in these
idle wassailers and soft voluptuaries, the descendants of the stern and
frugal warriors of the frozen north; who had braved flood and mountain,
and heat and cold, and had battled their way to empire across half a
world in arms.
They surrounded their youthful monarch, it is true, with a blaze of
military pomp. Nothing could surpass the splendour of their arms, which
were embossed and enamelled, and enriched with gold and jewels and
curious devices; nothing could be more gallant and glorious than their
array—it was all plume and banner and silken pageantry, the gorgeous
trappings for tilt and tourney and courtly revel; but the iron soul of
war was wanting.
How rare it is to learn wisdom from the misfortunes of others! With the
fate of Witiza full before his eyes, Don Roderick indulged in the same
pernicious errors, and was doomed, in like manner, to prepare the way for
his own perdition.
CHAPTER III.
OF THE LOVES OF RODERICK AND THE PRINCESS ELYATA.
As yet the heart of Roderick, occupied by the struggles of his early
life, by warlike enterprises, and by the inquietudes of newly-gotten
power, had been insensible to the charms of women; but in the present
voluptuous calm the amorous propensities of his nature assumed their
sway. There are divers accounts of the youthful beauty who first found
favour in his eyes, and was elevated by him to the throne. We follow, in
our legend, the details of an Arabian chronicler[5], authenticated by a
Spanish poet.[6] Let those who dispute our facts produce better authority
for their contradiction.
Among the few fortified places that had not been dismantled by Don
Roderick was the ancient city of Denia, situated on the Mediterranean
coast, and defended on a rock-built castle that overlooked the sea.
The Alcayde of the castle, with many of the people of Denia, was one day
on his knees in the chapel, imploring the Virgin to allay a tempest which
was strewing the coast with wrecks, when a sentinel brought word that a
Moorish cruiser was standing for the land. The Alcayde gave orders to
ring the alarm bells, light signal fires on the hill tops, and rouse the
country; for the coast was subject to cruel maraudings from the Barbary
cruisers.
In a little while the horsemen of the neighbourhood were seen pricking
along the beach, armed with such weapons as they could find; and the
Alcayde and his scanty garrison descended from the hill. In the meantime
the Moorish bark came rolling and pitching towards the land. As it drew
near, the rich carving and gilding with which it was decorated, its
silken bandaroles, and banks of crimson oars, showed it to be no warlike
vessel, but a sumptuous galleot, destined for state and ceremony. It bore
the marks of the tempest: the masts were broken, the oars shattered, and
fragments of snowy sails and silken awnings were fluttering in the blast.
As the galleot grounded upon the sand, the impatient rabble rushed into
the surf to capture and make spoil; but were awed into admiration and
respect by the appearance of the illustrious company on board. There
were Moors of both sexes sumptuously arrayed, and adorned with precious
jewels, bearing the demeanour of persons of lofty rank. Among them shone
conspicuous a youthful beauty, magnificently attired, to whom all seemed
to pay reverence.
Several of the Moors surrounded her with drawn swords, threatening death
to any that approached; others sprang from the bark, and, throwing
themselves on their knees before the Alcayde, implored him, by his
honour and courtesy as a knight, to protect a royal virgin from injury
and insult.
“You behold before you,” said they, “the only daughter of the King of
Algiers, the betrothed bride of the son of the King of Tunis. We were
conducting her to the court of her expecting bridegroom, when a tempest
drove us from our course, and compelled us to take refuge on your coast.
Be not more cruel than the tempest, but deal nobly with that which even
sea and storm have spared.”
The Alcayde listened to their prayers. He conducted the princess and her
train to the castle, where every honour due to her rank was paid her.
Some of her ancient attendants interceded for her liberation, promising
countless sums to be paid by her father for her ransom; but the Alcayde
turned a deaf ear to all their golden offers. “She is a royal captive,”
said he; “it belongs to my sovereign alone to dispose of her.” After she
had reposed, therefore, for some days at the castle, and recovered from
the fatigue and terror of the seas, he caused her to be conducted, with
all her train, in magnificent state to the court of Don Roderick.
The beautiful Elyata[7] entered Toledo more like a triumphant sovereign
than a captive. A chosen band of Christian horsemen, splendidly armed,
appeared to wait upon her as a mere guard of honour. She was surrounded
by the Moorish damsels of her train, and followed by her own Moslem
guards, all attired with the magnificence that had been intended to
grace her arrival at the court of Tunis. The princess was arrayed in
bridal robes, woven in the most costly looms of the orient; her diadem
sparkled with diamonds, and was decorated with the rarest plumes of the
bird of paradise; and even the silken trappings of her palfrey, which
swept the ground, were covered with pearls and precious stones. As this
brilliant cavalcade crossed the bridge of the Tagus, all Toledo poured
forth to behold it; and nothing was heard throughout the city but praises
of the wonderful beauty of the princess of Algiers. King Roderick came
forth, attended by the chivalry of his court, to receive the royal
captive. His recent voluptuous life had disposed him for tender and
amorous affections, and, at the first sight of the beautiful Elyata, he
was enraptured with her charms. Seeing her face clouded with sorrow and
anxiety, he soothed her with gentle and courteous words, and, conducting
her to a royal palace, “Behold,” said he, “thy habitation, where no one
shall molest thee; consider thyself at home in the mansion of thy father,
and dispose of any thing according to thy will.”
Here the princess passed her time, with the female attendants who had
accompanied her from Algiers; and no one but the king was permitted
to visit her, who daily became more and more enamoured of his lovely
captive, and sought, by tender assiduity, to gain her affections. The
distress of the princess at her captivity was soothed by this gentle
treatment. She was of an age when sorrow cannot long hold sway over the
heart. Accompanied by her youthful attendants, she ranged the spacious
apartments of the palace, and sported among the groves and alleys of its
garden. Every day the remembrance of the paternal home grew less and
less painful, and the king became more and more amiable in her eyes; and
when, at length, he offered to share his heart and throne with her, she
listened with downcast looks and kindling blushes, but with an air of
resignation.
One obstacle remained to the complete fruition of the monarch’s
wishes, and this was the religion of the princess. Roderick forthwith
employed the Archbishop of Toledo to instruct the beautiful Elyata in
the mysteries of the Christian faith. The female intellect is quick
in perceiving the merits of new doctrines: the archbishop, therefore,
soon succeeded in converting, not merely the princess, but most of
her attendants; and a day was appointed for their public baptism. The
ceremony was performed with great pomp and solemnity, in the presence of
all the nobility and chivalry of the court. The princess and her damsels,
clad in white, walked on foot to the cathedral, while numerous beautiful
children, arrayed as angels, strewed the path with flowers; and the
archbishop, meeting them at the portal, received them, as it were, into
the bosom of the church. The princess abandoned her Moorish appellation
of Elyata, and was baptised by the name of Exilona, by which she was
thenceforth called, and has generally been known in history.
The nuptials of Roderick and the beautiful convert took place shortly
afterwards, and were celebrated with great magnificence. There were
jousts, and tourneys, and banquets, and other rejoicings, which lasted
twenty days, and were attended by the principal nobles from all parts of
Spain. After these were over, such of the attendants of the princess as
refused to embrace Christianity, and desired to return to Africa, were
dismissed with munificent presents; and an embassy was sent to the king
of Algiers, to inform him of the nuptials of his daughter, and to proffer
him the friendship of King Roderick.[8]
CHAPTER IV.
OF COUNT JULIAN.
For a time Don Roderick lived happily with his young and beautiful queen,
and Toledo was the seat of festivity and splendour. The principal nobles
throughout the kingdom repaired to his court to pay him homage, and to
receive his commands; and none were more devoted in their reverence than
those who were obnoxious to suspicion, from their connection with the
late king.
Among the foremost of these was Count Julian, a man destined to be
infamously renowned in the dark story of his country’s woes. He was of
one of the proudest Gothic families, lord of Consuegra and Algeziras, and
connected by marriage with Witiza and the Bishop Oppas; his wife, the
Countess Frandina, being their sister. In consequence of this connection,
and of his own merits, he had enjoyed the highest dignities and
commands: being one of the Espatorios, or royal sword-bearers; an office
of the greatest confidence about the person of the sovereign.[9] He had,
moreover, been intrusted with the military government of the Spanish
possessions on the African coast of the strait, which at that time were
threatened by the Arabs of the East, the followers of Mahomet, who were
advancing their victorious standard to the extremity of Western Africa.
Count Julian established his seat of government at Ceuta, the frontier
bulwark, and one of the far-famed gates of the Mediterranean Sea. Here he
boldly faced, and held in check, the torrent of Moslem invasion.
Don Julian was a man of an active, but irregular genius, and a grasping
ambition; he had a love for power and grandeur, in which he was joined
by his haughty countess; and they could ill brook the downfall of their
house as threatened by the fate of Witiza. They had hastened, therefore,
to pay their court to the newly elevated monarch, and to assure him of
their fidelity to his interests.
Roderick was readily persuaded of the sincerity of Count Julian; he was
aware of his merits as a soldier and a governor, and continued him in
his important command; honouring him with many other marks of implicit
confidence. Count Julian sought to confirm this confidence by every proof
of devotion. It was a custom among the Goths to rear many of the children
of the most illustrious families in the royal household. They served as
pages to the king, and handmaids and ladies of honour to the queen, and
were instructed in all manner of accomplishments befitting their gentle
blood. When about to depart for Ceuta, to resume his command, Don Julian
brought his daughter Florinda to present her to the sovereigns. She was a
beautiful virgin, that had not as yet attained to womanhood. “I confide
her to your protection,” said he to the king, “to be unto her as a
father; and to have her trained in the paths of virtue. I can leave with
you no dearer pledge of my loyalty.”
King Roderick received the timid and blushing maiden into his paternal
care; promising to watch over her happiness with a parent’s eye, and that
she should be enrolled among the most cherished attendants of the queen.
With this assurance of the welfare of his child, Count Julian departed,
well pleased, for his government at Ceuta.
CHAPTER V.
THE STORY OF FLORINDA.
The beautiful daughter of Count Julian was received with great favour by
the queen Exilona, and admitted among the noble damsels that attended
upon her person. Here she lived in honour and apparent security, and
surrounded by innocent delights. To gratify his queen, Don Roderick had
built for her rural recreation a palace without the walls of Toledo, on
the banks of the Tagus. It stood in the midst of a garden, adorned after
the luxurious style of the East. The air was perfumed by fragrant shrubs
and flowers; the groves resounded with the song of the nightingale; while
the gush of fountains and waterfalls, and the distant murmur of the
Tagus, made it a delightful retreat during the sultry days of summer.
The charm of perfect privacy also reigned throughout the place; for the
garden walls were high, and numerous guards kept watch without to protect
it from all intrusion.
In this delicious abode, more befitting an oriental voluptuary than a
Gothic king, Don Roderick was accustomed to while away much of that time
which should have been devoted to the toilsome cares of government. The
very security and peace which he had produced throughout his dominions,
by his precautions to abolish the means and habitudes of war, had
effected a disastrous change in his character. The hardy and heroic
qualities which had conducted him to the throne, were softened in the
lap of indulgence. Surrounded by the pleasures of an idle and effeminate
court, and beguiled by the example of his degenerate nobles, he gave way
to a fatal sensuality that had lain dormant in his nature during the
virtuous days of his adversity. The mere love of female beauty had first
enamoured him of Exilona; and the same passion, fostered by voluptuous
idleness, now betrayed him into the commission of an act fatal to
himself and Spain. The following is the story of his error, as gathered
from an old chronicle and legend.
In a remote part of the palace was an apartment devoted to the queen. It
was like an eastern harem, shut up from the foot of man, and where the
king himself but rarely entered. It had its own courts, and gardens, and
fountains, where the queen was wont to recreate herself with her damsels,
as she had been accustomed to do in the jealous privacy of her father’s
palace.
One sultry day, the king, instead of taking his siesta, or mid-day
slumber, repaired to this apartment to seek the society of the queen.
In passing through a small oratory, he was drawn by the sound of female
voices to a casement overhung with myrtles and jessamines. It looked into
an interior garden, or court, set out with orange trees, in the midst of
which was a marble fountain, surrounded by a grassy bank, enamelled with
flowers.
It was the high noontide of a summer day, when, in sultry Spain, the
landscape trembles to the eye, and all nature seeks repose, except the
grasshopper, that pipes his lulling note to the herdsman as he sleeps
beneath the shade.
Around the fountain were several of the damsels of the queen, who,
confident of the sacred privacy of the place, were yielding in that cool
retreat to the indulgence prompted by the season and the hour. Some lay
asleep on the flowery bank; others sat on the margin of the fountain,
talking and laughing, as they bathed their feet in its limpid waters, and
King Roderick beheld delicate limbs shining through the wave, that might
rival the marble in whiteness.
Among the damsels was one who had come from the Barbary coast with the
queen. Her complexion had the dark tinge of Mauritania, but it was clear
and transparent, and the deep rich rose blushed through the lovely brown.
Her eyes were black and full of fire, and flashed from under long silken
eyelashes.
A sportive contest arose among the maidens, as to the comparative beauty
of the Spanish and Moorish forms; but the Mauritanian damsel revealed
limbs of voluptuous symmetry that seemed to defy all rivalry.
The Spanish beauties were on the point of giving up the contest, when
they bethought themselves of the young Florinda, the daughter of Count
Julian, who lay on the grassy bank, abandoned to a summer slumber.
The soft glow of youth and health mantled on her cheek; her fringed
eyelashes scarcely covered their sleeping orbs; her moist and ruby lips
were lightly parted, just revealing a gleam of her ivory teeth; while
her innocent bosom rose and fell beneath her boddice, like the gentle
swelling and sinking of a tranquil sea. There was a breathing tenderness
and beauty in the sleeping virgin, that seemed to send forth sweetness
like the flowers around her.
“Behold,” cried her companions exultingly, “the champion of Spanish
beauty!”
In their playful eagerness they half disrobed the innocent Florinda
before she was aware. She awoke in time, however, to escape from their
busy hands; but enough of her charms had been revealed to convince the
monarch that they were not to be rivalled by the rarest beauties of
Mauritania.
From this day the heart of Roderick was inflamed with a fatal passion. He
gazed on the beautiful Florinda with fervid desire, and sought to read in
her looks whether there was levity or wantonness in her bosom; but the
eye of the damsel ever sunk beneath his gaze, and remained bent on the
earth in virgin modesty.
It was in vain he called to mind the sacred trust reposed in him by Count
Julian, and the promise he had given to watch over his daughter with
paternal care; his heart was vitiated by sensual indulgence, and the
consciousness of power had rendered him selfish in his gratifications.
Being one evening in the garden where the queen was diverting herself
with her damsels, and coming to the fountain where he had beheld the
innocent maidens at their sport, he could no longer restrain the passion
that raged within his breast. Seating himself beside the fountain, he
called Florinda to him to draw forth a thorn which had pierced his hand.
The maiden knelt at his feet to examine his hand, and the touch of her
slender fingers thrilled through his veins. As she knelt, too, her amber
locks fell in rich ringlets about her beautiful head, her innocent bosom
palpitated beneath the crimson boddice, and her timid blushes increased
the effulgence of her charms.
Having examined the monarch’s hand in vain, she looked up in his face
with artless perplexity.
“Senior,” said she, “I can find no thorn, nor any sign of wound.”
Don Roderick grasped her hand and pressed it to his heart. “It is here,
lovely Florinda!” said he, “It is here! and thou alone canst pluck it
forth!”
“My lord!” exclaimed the blushing and astonished maiden.
“Florinda!” said Don Roderick, “dost thou love me?”
“Senior,” said she, “my father taught me to love and reverence you. He
confided me to your care as one who would be as a parent to me, when he
should be far distant, serving your majesty with life and loyalty. May
God incline your majesty ever to protect me as a father.” So saying, the
maiden dropped her eyes to the ground, and continued kneeling; but her
countenance had become deadly pale, and as she knelt she trembled.
“Florinda,” said the king, “either thou dost not or thou wilt not
understand me. I would have thee love me, not as a father, nor as
a monarch, but as one who adores thee. Why dost thou start? No one
shall know our loves; and, moreover, the love of a monarch inflicts no
degradation like the love of a common man—riches and honours attend upon
it. I will advance thee to rank and dignity, and place thee above the
proudest females of my court. Thy father, too, shall be more exalted and
endowed than any noble in my realm.”
The soft eye of Florinda kindled at these words. “Senior,” said she,
“the line I spring from can receive no dignity by means so vile; and my
father would rather die than purchase rank and power by the dishonour of
his child. But I see,” continued she, “that your majesty speaks in this
manner only to try me. You may have thought me light and simple, and
unworthy to attend upon the queen. I pray your majesty to pardon me, that
I have taken your pleasantry in such serious part.”
In this way the agitated maiden sought to evade the addresses of the
monarch; but still her cheek was blanched, and her lip quivered as she
spake.
The king pressed her hand to his lips with fervour. “May ruin seize me,”
cried he, “if I speak to prove thee! My heart, my kingdom, are at thy
command. Only be mine, and thou shalt rule absolute mistress of myself
and my domains.”
The damsel rose from the earth where she had hitherto knelt, and her
whole countenance glowed with virtuous indignation. “My lord,” said
she, “I am your subject, and in your power; take my life if it be your
pleasure; but nothing shall tempt me to commit a crime which would be
treason to the queen, disgrace to my father, agony to my mother, and
perdition to myself.” With these words she left the garden, and the king,
for the moment, was too much awed by her indignant virtue to oppose her
departure.
We shall pass briefly over the succeeding events of the story of
Florinda, about which so much has been said and sung by chronicler and
bard: for the sober page of history should be carefully chastened from
all scenes that might inflame a wanton imagination; leaving them to
poems and romances, and such-like highly seasoned works of fantasy and
recreation.
Let it suffice to say, that Don Roderick pursued his suit to the
beautiful Florinda, his passion being more and more inflamed by the
resistance of the virtuous damsel. At length, forgetting what was due
to helpless beauty, to his own honour as a knight, and his word as a
sovereign, he triumphed over her weakness by base and unmanly violence.
There are not wanting those who affirm that the hapless Florinda lent
a yielding ear to the solicitations of the monarch, and her name has
been treated with opprobrium in several of the ancient chronicles and
legendary ballads that have transmitted, from generation to generation,
the story of the woes of Spain. In very truth, however, she appears to
have been a guiltless victim, resisting, as far as helpless female could
resist, the arts and intrigues of a powerful monarch, who had nought
to check the indulgence of his will, and bewailing her disgrace with a
poignancy that shows how dearly she had prized her honour.
In the first paroxysm of her grief she wrote a letter to her father,
blotted with her tears, and almost incoherent from her agitation. “Would
to God, my father,” said she, “that the earth had opened and swallowed me
ere I had been reduced to write these lines. I blush to tell thee, what
it is not proper to conceal. Alas, my father; thou hast intrusted thy
lamb to the guardianship of the lion. Thy daughter has been dishonoured,
the royal cradle of the Goths polluted, and our lineage insulted and
disgraced. Hasten, my father, to rescue your child from the power of the
spoiler, and to vindicate the honour of your house!”
When Florinda had written these lines, she summoned a youthful esquire,
who had been a page in the service of her father. “Saddle thy steed,”
said she, “and if thou dost aspire to knightly honour, or hope for lady’s
grace—if thou hast fealty for thy lord, or devotion to his daughter—speed
swiftly upon my errand. Rest not, halt not, spare not the spur; but hie
thee day and night until thou reach the sea; take the first bark, and
haste with sail and oar to Ceuta, nor pause until thou give this letter
to the count my father.” The youth put the letter in his bosom. “Trust
me, lady,” said he, “I will neither halt nor turn aside, nor cast a look
behind, until I reach Count Julian.” He mounted his fleet steed, sped his
way across the bridge, and soon left behind him the verdant valley of the
Tagus.
CHAPTER VI.
DON RODERICK RECEIVES AN EXTRAORDINARY EMBASSY.
The heart of Don Roderick was not so depraved by sensuality, but that
the wrong he had been guilty of toward the innocent Florinda, and the
disgrace he had inflicted on her house, weighed heavy on his spirits, and
a cloud began to gather on his once clear and unwrinkled brow.
Heaven, at this time, say the old Spanish chronicles, permitted a
marvellous intimation of the wrath with which it intended to visit the
monarch and his people, in punishment of their sins; nor are we, say the
same orthodox writers, to startle, and withhold our faith, when we meet
in the page of discreet and sober history with these signs and portents,
which transcend the probabilities of ordinary life; for the revolutions
of empires and the downfall of mighty kings are awful events, that
shake the physical as well as the moral world, and are often announced
by forerunning marvels and prodigious omens. With such-like cautious
preliminaries do the wary but credulous historiographers of yore usher in
a marvellous event of prophecy and enchantment, linked in ancient story
with the fortunes of Don Roderick, but which modern doubters would fain
hold up as an apocryphal tradition of Arabian origin.
Now, so it happened, according to the legend, that about this time, as
King Roderick was seated one day on his throne, surrounded by his nobles,
in the ancient city of Toledo, two men of venerable appearance entered
the hall of audience. Their snowy beards descended to their breasts,
and their gray hairs were bound with ivy. They were arrayed in white
garments of foreign or antiquated fashion, which swept the ground, and
were cinctured with girdles, wrought with the signs of the zodiac, from
which were suspended enormous bunches of keys of every variety of form.
Having approached the throne and made obeisance: “Know, O King,” said one
of the old men, “that in days of yore, when Hercules of Libya, surnamed
the strong, had set up his pillars at the ocean strait, he erected a
tower near to this ancient city of Toledo. He built it of prodigious
strength, and finished it with magic art, shutting up within it a fearful
secret, never to be penetrated without peril and disaster. To protect
this terrible mystery he closed the entrance to the edifice with a
ponderous door of iron, secured by a great lock of steel; and he left a
command that every king who should succeed him should add another lock to
the portal; denouncing woe and destruction on him who should eventually
unfold the secret of the tower.
“The guardianship of the portal was given to our ancestors, and has
continued in our family, from generation to generation, since the days
of Hercules. Several kings, from time to time, have caused the gate to
be thrown open, and have attempted to enter, but have paid dearly for
their temerity. Some have perished within the threshold, others have been
overwhelmed with horror at tremendous sounds, which shook the foundations
of the earth, and have hastened to reclose the door, and secure it with
its thousand locks. Thus, since the days of Hercules, the inmost recesses
of the pile have never been penetrated by mortal man, and a profound
mystery continues to prevail over this great enchantment. This, O king,
is all we have to relate; and our errand is to entreat thee to repair
to the tower and affix thy lock to the portal, as has been done by all
thy predecessors.” Having thus said, the ancient men made a profound
reverence and departed from the presence chamber.[10]
Don Roderick remained for some time lost in thought after the departure
of the men: he then dismissed all his court, excepting the venerable
Urbino, at that time archbishop of Toledo. The long white beard of this
prelate bespoke his advanced age, and his overhanging eyebrows showed him
a man full of wary counsel.
“Father,” said the king, “I have an earnest desire to penetrate the
mystery of this tower.” The worthy prelate shook his hoary head: “Beware,
my son,” said he; “there are secrets hidden from man for his good. Your
predecessors for many generations have respected this mystery, and have
increased in might and empire. A knowledge of it, therefore, is not
material to the welfare of your kingdom. Seek not then to indulge a
rash and unprofitable curiosity, which is interdicted under such awful
menaces.”
“Of what importance,” cried the king, “are the menaces of Hercules, the
Lybian? was he not a pagan? and can his enchantments have aught avail
against a believer in our holy faith? Doubtless, in this tower are locked
up treasures of gold and jewels, amassed in days of old, the spoils of
mighty kings, the riches of the pagan world. My coffers are exhausted; I
have need of supply; and surely it would be an acceptable act in the eyes
of Heaven, to draw forth this wealth which lies buried under profane and
necromantic spells, and consecrate it to religious purposes.”
The venerable archbishop still continued to remonstrate, but Don
Roderick heeded not his counsel, for he was led on by his malignant
star. “Father,” said he, “it is in vain you attempt to dissuade me. My
resolution is fixed. To-morrow I will explore the hidden mystery, or
rather the hidden treasures of this tower.”
CHAPTER VII.
STORY OF THE MARVELLOUS AND PORTENTOUS TOWER.
The morning sun shone brightly upon the cliff-built towers of Toledo,
when King Roderick issued out of the gate of the city, at the head of a
numerous train of courtiers and cavaliers, and crossed the bridge that
bestrides the deep rocky bed of the Tagus. The shining cavalcade wound up
the road that leads among the mountains, and soon came in sight of the
necromantic tower.
Of this renowned edifice marvels are related by the ancient Arabian and
Spanish chroniclers; “and I doubt much,” adds the venerable Agpaida,
“whether many readers will not consider the whole as a cunningly devised
fable, sprung from an oriental imagination; but it is not for me to
reject a fact which is recorded by all those writers who are the fathers
of our national history: a fact, too, which is as well attested as most
of the remarkable events in the story of Don Roderick. None but light
and inconsiderate minds,” continues the good friar, “do hastily reject
the marvellous. To the thinking mind the whole world is enveloped in
mystery, and every thing is full of type and portent. To such a mind
the necromantic tower of Toledo will appear as one of those wondrous
monuments of the olden time; one of those Egyptian and Chaldaic piles,
storied with hidden wisdom and mystic prophecy, which have been devised
in past ages, when man yet enjoyed an intercourse with high and spiritual
natures, and when human foresight partook of divination.”
This singular tower was round, and of great height and grandeur; erected
upon a lofty rock, and surrounded by crags and precipices. The foundation
was supported by four brazen lions, each taller than a cavalier on
horseback. The walls were built of small pieces of jasper, and various
coloured marbles, not larger than a man’s hand; so subtilely joined,
however, that, but for their different hues, they might be taken for
one entire stone. They were arranged with marvellous cunning, so as to
represent battles and warlike deeds of times and heroes long since passed
away; and the whole surface was so admirably polished that the stones
were as lustrous as glass, and reflected the rays of the sun with such
resplendent brightness as to dazzle all beholders.[11]
King Roderick and his courtiers arrived wondering and amazed, at the foot
of the rock. Here there was a narrow arched way cut through the living
stone; the only entrance to the tower. It was closed by a massive iron
gate, covered with rusty locks of divers workmanship, and in the fashion
of different centuries, which had been affixed by the predecessors
of Don Roderick. On either side of the portal stood the two ancient
guardians of the tower, laden with the keys appertaining to the locks.
The king alighted, and, approaching the portals, ordered the guardians
to unlock the gate. The hoary-headed men drew back with terror. “Alas!”
cried they, “what is it your majesty requires of us. Would you have the
mischiefs of this tower unbound, and let loose to shake the earth to its
foundations?”
The venerable archbishop Urbino likewise implored him not to disturb a
mystery which had been held sacred from generation to generation, within
the memory of man; and which even Cæsar himself, when sovereign of Spain,
had not ventured to invade. The youthful cavaliers, however, were eager
to pursue the adventure, and encouraged him in his rash curiosity.
“Come what come may,” exclaimed Don Roderick, “I am resolved to penetrate
the mystery of this tower.” So saying, he again commanded the guardians
to unlock the portal. The ancient men obeyed with fear and trembling,
but their hands shook with age, and when they applied the keys, the
locks were so rusted by time, or of such strange workmanship, that they
resisted their feeble efforts; whereupon the young cavaliers pressed
forward and lent their aid. Still the locks were so numerous and
difficult, that with all their eagerness and strength a great part of the
day was exhausted before the whole of them could be mastered.
When the last bolt had yielded to the key, the guardians and the reverend
archbishop again entreated the king to pause and reflect. “Whatever is
within this tower,” said they, “is as yet harmless, and lies bound under
a mighty spell: venture not then to open a door which may let forth a
flood of evil upon the land.” But the anger of the king was roused, and
he ordered that the portal should be instantly thrown open. In vain,
however, did one after another exert his strength; and equally in vain
did the cavaliers unite their forces, and apply their shoulders to the
gate: though there was neither bar nor bolt remaining, it was perfectly
immoveable.
The patience of the king was now exhausted, and he advanced to apply his
hand; scarcely, however, did he touch the iron gate, when it swung slowly
open, uttering, as it were, a dismal groan, as it turned reluctantly upon
its hinges. A cold, damp wind issued forth, accompanied by a tempestuous
sound. The hearts of the ancient guardians quaked within them, and their
knees smote together; but several of the youthful cavaliers rushed in,
eager to gratify their curiosity, or to signalise themselves in this
redoubtable enterprise. They had scarcely advanced a few paces, however,
when they recoiled, overcome by the baleful air, or by some fearful
vision.[12] Upon this, the king ordered that fires should be kindled to
dispel the darkness, and to correct the noxious and long imprisoned air:
he then led the way into the interior; but, though stout of heart, he
advanced with awe and hesitation.
After proceeding a short distance, he entered a hall, or antechamber,
on the opposite side of which was a door; and before it, on a pedestal,
stood a gigantic figure, of the colour of bronze, and of a terrible
aspect. It held a huge mace, which it whirled incessantly, giving such
cruel and resounding blows upon the earth as to prevent all further
entrance.
The king paused at sight of this appalling figure; for whether it were a
living being, or a statue of magic artifice, he could not tell. On its
breast was a scroll, whereon was inscribed in large letters, “I do my
duty.”[13] After a little while Roderick plucked up heart, and addressed
it with great solemnity: “Whatever thou be,” said he, “know that I
come not to violate this sanctuary, but to inquire into the mystery it
contains; I conjure thee, therefore, to let me pass in safety.”
Upon this the figure paused with uplifted mace, and the king and his
train passed unmolested through the door.
They now entered a vast chamber, of a rare and sumptuous architecture,
difficult to be described. The walls were incrusted with the most
precious gems, so joined together as to form one smooth and perfect
surface. The lofty dome appeared to be self-supported, and was studded
with gems, lustrous as the stars of the firmament. There was neither
wood, nor any other common or base material to be seen throughout the
edifice. There were no windows or other openings to admit the day, yet a
radiant light was spread throughout the place, which seemed to shine from
the walls, and to render every object distinctly visible.
In the centre of this hall stood a table of alabaster, of the rarest
workmanship, on which was inscribed in Greek characters, that Hercules
Alcides, the Theban Greek, had founded this tower in the year of the
world three thousand and six. Upon the table stood a golden casket,
richly set round with precious stones, and closed with a lock of
mother-of-pearl; and on the lid were inscribed the following words:—
“In this coffer is contained the mystery of the tower. The hand of none
but a king can open it; but let him beware! for marvellous events will be
revealed to him, which are to take place before his death.”
King Roderick boldly seized upon the casket. The venerable archbishop
laid his hand upon his arm, and made a last remonstrance. “Forbear,
my son!” said he; “desist while there is yet time. Look not into the
mysterious decrees of Providence. God has hidden them in mercy from our
sight, and it is impious to rend the veil by which they are concealed.”
“What have I to dread from a knowledge of the future?” replied Roderick,
with an air of haughty presumption. “If good be destined me, I shall
enjoy it by anticipation: if evil, I shall arm myself to meet it.” So
saying, he rashly broke the lock.
Within the coffer he found nothing but a linen cloth, folded between
two tablets of copper. On unfolding it, he beheld painted on it figures
of men on horseback, of fierce demeanour, clad in turbans and robes of
various colours, after the fashion of the Arabs, with scimitars hanging
from their necks, and cross-bows at their saddle backs, and they carried
banners and pennons with divers devices. Above them was inscribed in
Greek characters, “Rash monarch! behold the men who are to hurl thee from
thy throne, and subdue thy kingdom!”
At sight of these things the king was troubled in spirit, and dismay
fell upon his attendants. While they were yet regarding the paintings,
it seemed as if the figures began to move, and a faint sound of
warlike tumult arose from the cloth, with the clash of cymbal and bray
of trumpet, the neigh of steed and shout of army; but all was heard
indistinctly, as if afar off, or in a reverie or dream. The more they
gazed, the plainer became the motion, and the louder the noise; and the
linen cloth rolled forth, and amplified and spread out, as it were, a
mighty banner, and filled the hall, and mingled with the air, until its
texture was no longer visible, or appeared as a transparent cloud: and
the shadowy figures became all in motion, and the din and uproar became
fiercer and fiercer; and whether the whole were an animated picture, or
a vision, or an array of embodied spirits, conjured up by supernatural
power, no one present could tell. They beheld before them a great field
of battle, where Christians and Moslems were engaged in deadly conflict.
They heard the rush and tramp of steeds, the blast of trump and clarion,
the clash of cymbal, and the stormy din of a thousand drums. There was
the clash of swords, and maces, and battle-axes, with the whistling of
arrows, and the hurling of darts and lances. The Christians quailed
before the foe; the infidels pressed upon them and put them to utter
rout; the standard of the cross was cast down, the banner of Spain was
trodden under foot, the air resounded with shouts of triumph, with yells
of fury, and with the groans of dying men. Amidst the flying squadrons,
King Roderick beheld a crowned warrior, whose back was turned towards
him, but whose armour and device were his own, and who was mounted on a
white steed that resembled his own war horse Orelia. In the confusion of
the flight, the warrior was dismounted, and was no longer to be seen, and
Orelia galloped wildly through the field of battle without a rider.
Roderick stayed to see no more, but rushed from the fatal hall, followed
by his terrified attendants. They fled through the outer chamber, where
the gigantic figure with the whirling mace had disappeared from his
pedestal; and on issuing into the open air, they found the two ancient
guardians of the tower lying dead at the portal, as though they had been
crushed by some mighty blow. All nature, which had been clear and serene,
was now in wild uproar. The heavens were darkened by heavy clouds; loud
bursts of thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged with rain and
rattling hail.
The king ordered that the iron portal should be closed; but the door was
immoveable, and the cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous turmoil and
the mingled shouts and groans that continued to prevail within. The king
and his train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted by the tempest.
The mountains shook and echoed with the thunder, trees were uprooted and
blown down, and the Tagus raged and roared and flowed above its banks.
It seemed to the affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of the
tower had issued forth and mingled with the storm; for amidst the claps
of thunder and the howling of the wind, they fancied they heard the sound
of the drums and trumpets, the shouts of armies and the rush of steeds.
Thus beaten by tempest, and overwhelmed with horror, the king and his
courtiers arrived at Toledo, clattering across the bridge of the Tagus,
and entering the gate in headlong confusion, as though they had been
pursued by an enemy.
In the morning the heavens were again serene, and all nature was restored
to tranquillity. The king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers
and took the road to the tower, followed by a great multitude, for he
was anxious once more to close the iron door, and shut up those evils
that threatened to overwhelm the land. But lo! on coming in sight of the
tower, a new wonder met their eyes. An eagle appeared high in the air,
seeming to descend from heaven. He bore in his beak a burning brand, and
lighting on the summit of the tower, fanned the fire with his wings. In a
little while the edifice burst forth into a blaze as though it had been
built of rosin, and the flames mounted into the air with a brilliancy
more dazzling than the sun; nor did they cease until every stone was
consumed and the whole was reduced to a heap of ashes. Then there came a
vast flight of birds, small of size and sable of hue, darkening the sky
like a cloud; and they descended and wheeled in circles round the ashes,
causing so great a wind with their wings that the whole was borne up into
the air and scattered throughout all Spain, and wherever a particle of
those ashes fell it was as a stain of blood. It is furthermore recorded
by ancient men and writers of former days, that all those on whom this
dust fell were afterwards slain in battle, when the country was conquered
by the Arabs, and that the destruction of this necromantic tower was a
sign and token of the approaching perdition of Spain.
“Let all those,” concludes the cautious friar, “who question the verity
of this most marvellous occurrence, consult those admirable sources of
our history, the chronicle of the Moor Rasis, and the work entitled, ‘The
Fall of Spain,’ written by the Moor, Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique. Let
them consult, moreover, the venerable historian Bleda, and the cloud of
other Catholic Spanish writers, who have treated of this event, and they
will find I have related nothing that has not been printed and published
under the inspection and sanction of our holy mother church. God alone
knoweth the truth of these things; I speak nothing but what has been
handed down to me from times of old.”
CHAPTER VIII.
COUNT JULIAN.—HIS FORTUNES IN AFRICA.—HE HEARS OF THE DISHONOUR OF HIS
CHILD.—HIS CONDUCT THEREUPON.
The course of our legendary narration now returns to notice the
fortunes of Count Julian, after his departure from Toledo, to resume
his government on the coast of Barbary. He left the Countess Frandina
at Algeziras, his paternal domain, for the province under his command
was threatened with invasion. In fact, when he arrived at Ceuta he found
his post in imminent danger from the all-conquering Moslems. The Arabs
of the East, the followers of Mahomet, having subjugated several of the
most potent oriental kingdoms, had established their seat of empire
at Damascus, where, at this time, it was filled by Waled Almanzor,
surnamed “the Sword of God.” From thence the tide of Moslem conquest
had rolled on to the shores of the Atlantic; so that all Almagreb, or
Western Africa, had submitted to the standard of the prophet, with the
exception of a portion of Tingitania, lying along the straits; being
the province held by the Goths of Spain, and commanded by Count Julian.
The Arab invaders were a hundred thousand strong, most of them veteran
troops, seasoned in warfare and accustomed to victory. They were led by
an old Arab general, Muza ben Nosier, to whom was confided the government
of Almagreb; most of which he had himself conquered. The ambition of
this veteran was to make the Moslem conquest complete, by expelling the
Christians from the African shores; with this view his troops menaced the
few remaining Gothic fortresses of Tingitania, while he himself sat down
in person before the walls of Ceuta. The Arab chieftain had been rendered
confident by continual success, and thought nothing could resist his arms
and the sacred standard of the prophet. Impatient of the tedious delays
of a siege, he led his troops boldly against the rock-built towers of
Ceuta, and attempted to take the place by storm. The onset was fierce,
and the struggle desperate: the swarthy sons of the desert were light
and vigorous, and of fiery spirits; but the Goths, inured to danger on
this frontier, retained the stubborn valour of their race, so impaired
among their brethren in Spain. They were commanded, too, by one skilled
in warfare and ambitious of renown. After a vehement conflict, the Moslem
assailants were repulsed from all points, and driven from the walls. Don
Julian sallied forth, and harassed them in their retreat; and so severe
was the carnage, that the veteran Musa was fain to break up his camp, and
retire confounded from the siege.
The victory at Ceuta resounded throughout Tingitania, and spread
universal joy. On every side were heard shouts of exultation mingled with
praises of Count Julian. He was hailed by the people, wherever he went,
as their deliverer, and blessings were invoked upon his head. The heart
of Count Julian was lifted up, and his spirit swelled within him; but it
was with noble and virtuous pride, for he was conscious of having merited
the blessings of his country.
In the midst of his exultation, and while the rejoicings of the people
were yet sounding in his ears, the page arrived who bore the letter from
his unfortunate daughter.
“What tidings from the king?” said the count, as the page knelt before
him: “None, my lord,” replied the youth, “but I bear a letter sent in all
haste by the Lady Florinda.”
He took the letter from his bosom and presented it to his lord. As Count
Julian read it, his countenance darkened and fell. “This,” said he,
bitterly, “is my reward for serving a tyrant; and these are the honours
heaped on me by my country, while fighting its battles in a foreign land.
May evil overtake me, and infamy rest upon my name, if I cease until I
have full measure of revenge.”
Count Julian was vehement in his passions, and took no counsel in his
wrath. His spirit was haughty in the extreme, but destitute of true
magnanimity, and when once wounded turned to gall and venom. A dark and
malignant hatred entered into his soul, not only against Don Roderick,
but against all Spain: he looked upon it as the scene of his disgrace,
a land in which his family was dishonoured: and, in seeking to avenge
the wrongs he had suffered from his sovereign, he meditated against his
native country one of the blackest schemes of treason that ever entered
into the human heart.
The plan of Count Julian was to hurl King Roderick from his throne, and
to deliver all Spain into the hands of the infidels. In concerting and
executing this treacherous plot, it seemed as if his whole nature was
changed; every lofty and generous sentiment was stifled, and he stooped
to the meanest dissimulation. His first object was to extricate his
family from the power of the king, and to remove it from Spain before
his treason should be known; his next, to deprive the country of its
remaining means of defence against an invader.
With these dark purposes at heart, but with an open and serene
countenance, he crossed to Spain, and repaired to the court at Toledo.
Wherever he came he was hailed with acclamations as a victorious general,
and appeared in the presence of his sovereign radiant with the victory
at Ceuta. Concealing from King Roderick his knowledge of the outrage
upon his house, he professed nothing but the most devoted loyalty and
affection.
The king loaded him with favours; seeking to appease his own conscience
by heaping honours upon the father in atonement of the deadly wrong
inflicted upon his child. He regarded Count Julian, also, as a man able
and experienced in warfare, and took his advice in all matters relating
to the military affairs of the kingdom. The count magnified the dangers
that threatened the frontier under his command, and prevailed upon the
king to send thither the best horses and arms remaining from the time of
Witiza, there being no need of them in the centre of Spain in its present
tranquil state. The residue, at his suggestion, was stationed on the
frontiers of Gallia; so that the kingdom was left almost wholly without
defence against any sudden irruption from the south.
Having thus artfully arranged his plans, and all things being prepared
for his return to Africa, he obtained permission to withdraw his daughter
from the court, and leave her with her mother, the Countess Frandina,
who, he pretended, lay dangerously ill at Algeziras. Count Julian issued
out of the gate of the city, followed by a shining band of chosen
followers, while beside him, on a palfrey, rode the pale and weeping
Florinda. The populace hailed and blessed him as he passed, but his heart
turned from them with loathing. As he crossed the bridge of the Tagus,
he looked back with a dark brow upon Toledo, and raised his mailed hand
and shook it at the royal palace of King Roderick, which crested the
rocky height. “A father’s curse,” said he, “be upon thee and thine! May
desolation fall upon thy dwelling, and confusion and defeat upon thy
realm!”
In his journeyings through the country, he looked round him with a
malignant eye; the pipe of the shepherd, and the song of the husbandman,
were as discord to his soul; every sight and sound of human happiness
sickened him at heart, and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he prayed
that he might see the whole scene of prosperity laid waste with fire and
sword by the invader.
The story of domestic outrage and disgrace had already been made known
to the Countess Frandina. When the hapless Florinda came in presence of
her mother, she fell on her neck, and hid her face in her bosom, and
wept; but the countess shed never a tear, for she was a woman haughty
of spirit and strong of heart. She looked her husband sternly in the
face. “Perdition light upon thy head,” said she, “if thou submit to this
dishonour. For my own part, woman as I am, I will assemble the followers
of my house, nor rest until rivers of blood have washed away this stain.”
“Be satisfied,” replied the count; “vengeance is on foot, and will be
sure and ample.”
Being now in his own domains, surrounded by his relatives and friends,
Count Julian went on to complete his web of treason. In this he was aided
by his brother-in-law, Oppas, the bishop of Seville: a man dark and
perfidious as the night, but devout in demeanour, and smoothly plausible
in council. This artful prelate had contrived to work himself into the
entire confidence of the king, and had even prevailed upon him to permit
his nephews, Evan and Siseburto, the exiled sons of Witiza, to return
into Spain. They resided in Andalusia, and were now looked to as fit
instruments in the present traitorous conspiracy.
By the advice of the bishop, Count Julian called a secret meeting of his
relatives and adherents on a wild rocky mountain, not far from Consuegra,
and which still bears the Moorish appellation of “La Sierra de
Calderin,” or the mountain of treason.[14] When all were assembled, Count
Julian appeared among them, accompanied by the bishop and by the Countess
Frandina. Then gathering around him those who were of his blood and
kindred, he revealed the outrage that had been offered to their house. He
represented to them that Roderick was their legitimate enemy; that he had
dethroned Witiza, their relation, and had now stained the honour of one
of the most illustrious daughters of their line. The Countess Frandina
seconded his words. She was a woman majestic in person and eloquent of
tongue; and being inspired by a mother’s feelings, her speech aroused the
assembled cavaliers to fury.
The count took advantage of the excitement of the moment to unfold his
plan. The main object was to dethrone Don Roderick, and give the crown
to the sons of the late King Witiza. By this means they would visit
the sins of the tyrant upon his head, and, at the same time, restore
the regal honours to their line. For this purpose their own force would
be sufficient; but they might procure the aid of Muza ben Nosier, the
Arabian general, in Mauritania, who would no doubt gladly send a part of
his troops into Spain to assist in the enterprise.
The plot thus suggested by Count Julian received the unholy sanction of
Bishop Oppas, who engaged to aid it secretly with all his influence and
means: for he had great wealth and possessions, and many retainers. The
example of the reverend prelate determined all who might otherwise have
wavered, and they bound themselves by dreadful oaths to be true to the
conspiracy. Count Julian undertook to proceed to Africa, and seek the
camp of Muza, to negotiate for his aid, while the bishop was to keep
about the person of King Roderick, and lead him into the net prepared for
him.
All things being thus arranged, Count Julian gathered together his
treasure, and taking his wife and daughter and all his household,
abandoned the country he meant to betray; embarking at Malaga for Ceuta.
The gate in the wall of that city, through which they went forth,
continued for ages to bear the name of _Puerta de la Cava_, or the gate
of the harlot; for such was the opprobrious and unmerited appellation
bestowed by the Moors on the unhappy Florinda.[15]
CHAPTER IX.
SECRET VISIT OF COUNT JULIAN TO THE ARAB CAMP.—FIRST EXPEDITION OF TARIC
EL TUERTO.
When Count Julian had placed his family in security in Ceuta, surrounded
by soldiery devoted to his fortunes, he took with him a few confidential
followers, and departed in secret for the camp of the Arabian Emir, Muza
ben Nosier. The camp was spread out in one of those pastoral valleys
which lie at the feet of the Barbary hills, with the great range of
the Atlas mountains towering in the distance. In the motley army here
assembled were warriors of every tribe and nation, that had been united
by pact or conquest in the cause of Islam. There were those who had
followed Muza from the fertile regions of Egypt, across the deserts of
Barca, and those who had joined his standard from among the sunburnt
tribes of Mauritania. There were Saracen and Tartar, Syrian and Copt,
and swarthy Moor; sumptuous warriors from the civilised cities of the
east, and the gaunt and predatory rovers of the desert. The greater
part of the army, however, was composed of Arabs; but differing greatly
from the first rude hordes that enlisted under the banner of Mahomet.
Almost a century of continual wars with the cultivated nations of the
east had rendered them accomplished warriors; and the occasional sojourn
in luxurious countries and populous cities, had acquainted them with
the arts and habits of civilised life. Still the roving, restless, and
predatory habits of the genuine son of Ishmael prevailed, in defiance of
every change of clime or situation.
Count Julian found the Arab conqueror Muza surrounded by somewhat of
oriental state and splendour. He was advanced in life, but of a noble
presence, and concealed his age by tinging his hair and beard with
henna. The count assumed an air of soldier-like frankness and decision
when he came into his presence. “Hitherto,” said he, “we have been
enemies; but I come to thee in peace, and it rests with thee to make
me the most devoted of thy friends. I have no longer country or king.
Roderick the Goth is an usurper, and my deadly foe; he has wounded my
honour in the tenderest point, and my country affords me no redress. Aid
me in my vengeance, and I will deliver all Spain into thy hands: a land
far exceeding in fertility and wealth all the vaunted regions thou hast
conquered in Tingitania.”
The heart of Muza leaped with joy at these words, for he was a bold
and ambitious conqueror, and, having overrun all western Africa, had
often cast a wistful eye to the mountains of Spain, as he beheld them
brightening beyond the waters of the strait. Still he possessed the
caution of a veteran, and feared to engage in an enterprise of such
moment, and to carry his arms into another division of the globe, without
the approbation of his sovereign. Having drawn from Count Julian the
particulars of his plan, and of the means he possessed to carry it into
effect, he laid them before his confidential counsellors and officers,
and demanded their opinion. “These words of Count Julian,” said he,
“may be false and deceitful; or he may not possess the power to fulfil
his promises. The whole may be a pretended treason to draw us on to our
destruction. It is more natural that he should be treacherous to us than
to his country.”
Among the generals of Muza was a gaunt swarthy veteran, scarred with
wounds; a very Arab, whose great delight was roving and desperate
enterprise; and who cared for nothing beyond his steed, his lance, and
his scimitar. He was a native of Damascus; his name was Taric ben Zeyad;
but, from having lost an eye, he was known among the Spaniards by the
appellation of Taric el Tuerto, or Taric the one-eyed.
The hot blood of this veteran Ishmaelite was in a ferment when he heard
of a new country to invade, and vast regions to subdue; and he dreaded
lest the cautious hesitation of Muza would permit the glorious prize
to escape them. “You speak doubtingly,” said he, “of the words of this
Christian cavalier, but their truth is easily to be ascertained. Give
me four galleys and a handful of men, and I will depart with this Count
Julian, skirt the Christian coast, and bring thee back tidings of the
land, and of his means to put it in our power.”
The words of the veteran pleased Muza ben Nosier, and he gave his
consent; and Taric departed with four galleys and five hundred men,
guided by the traitor Julian.[16] This first expedition of the Arabs
against Spain took place, according to certain historians, in the year of
our Lord seven hundred and twelve; though others differ on this point, as
indeed they do upon almost every point in this early period of Spanish
history. The date to which the judicious chroniclers incline is that of
seven hundred and ten, in the month of July. It would appear from some
authorities, also, that the galleys of Taric cruised along the coasts of
Andalusia and Lusitania, under the feigned character of merchant barks:
nor is this at all improbable, while they were seeking merely to observe
the land, and get a knowledge of the harbours. Wherever they touched,
Count Julian despatched emissaries, to assemble his friends and adherents
at an appointed place. They gathered together secretly at Gezira Alhadra,
that is to say, the Green Island; where they held a conference with Count
Julian in presence of Taric ben Zeyad.[17] Here they again avowed their
readiness to flock to his standard whenever it should be openly raised,
and made known their various preparations for a rebellion. Taric was
convinced, by all that he had seen and heard, that Count Julian had not
deceived them; either as to his disposition or his means to betray his
country. Indulging his Arab inclinations, he made an inroad into the
land, collected great spoil and many captives, and bore off his plunder
in triumph to Muza, as a specimen of the riches to be gained by the
conquest of the Christian land.[18]
CHAPTER X.
LETTER OF MUZA TO THE CALIPH.—SECOND EXPEDITION OF TARIC EL TUERTO.
On hearing the tidings brought by Taric el Tuerto, and beholding
the spoil he had collected, Muza wrote a letter to the Caliph Waled
Almanzor, setting forth the traitorous proffer of Count Julian, and the
probability, through his means, of making a successful invasion of Spain.
“A new land,” said he, “spreads itself out before our delighted eyes, and
invites our conquest: a land, too, that equals Syria in the fertility of
its soil, and the serenity of its sky; Yemen, or Arabia the Happy, in its
delightful temperature; India, in its flowers and spices; Hegias, in its
fruits and flowers; Cathay, in its precious minerals; and Aden, in the
excellence of its ports and harbours! It is populous also, and wealthy;
having many splendid cities, and majestic monuments of ancient art.
What is to prevent this glorious land from becoming the inheritance of
the faithful? Already we have overcome the tribes of Berbery, of Zab, of
Derar, of Zaara, Mazamuda, and Sus; and the victorious standard of Islam
floats on the towers of Tangier. But four leagues of sea separate us
from the opposite coast. One word from my sovereign, and the conquerors
of Africa will pour their legions into Andalusia, rescue it from the
domination of the unbeliever, and subdue it to the law of the Koran.”[19]
The Caliph was overjoyed with the contents of the letter. “God is great!”
exclaimed he, “and Mahomet is his prophet! It has been foretold by the
ambassador of God, that his law should extend to the ultimate parts of
the west, and be carried by the sword into new and unknown regions.
Behold, another land is opened for the triumphs of the faithful! It is
the will of Allah, and be his sovereign will obeyed!” So the Caliph sent
missives to Muza, authorising him to undertake the conquest.
Upon this there was a great stir of preparation; and numerous vessels
were assembled and equipped at Tangier, to convey the invading army
across the Straits. Twelve thousand men were chosen for this expedition:
most of them light Arabian troops, seasoned in warfare, and fitted for
hardy and rapid enterprise. Among them were many horsemen, mounted
on fleet Arabian steeds. The whole was put under the command of the
veteran, Taric el Tuerto, or the one-eyed, in whom Muza reposed implicit
confidence, as in a second self. Taric accepted the command with joy: his
martial fire was roused at the idea of having such an army under his sole
command, and such a country to overrun; and he secretly determined never
to return unless victorious.
He chose a dark night to convey his troops across the Straits of
Hercules; and, by break of day, they began to disembark at Tarifa,
before the country had time to take the alarm. A few Christians hastily
assembled from the neighbourhood, and opposed their landing, but were
easily put to flight. Taric stood on the sea-side, and watched until
the last squadron had landed; and all the horses, armour, and munitions
of war, were brought on shore: he then gave orders to set fire to the
ships. The Moslems were struck with terror when they beheld their fleet
wrapped in flames and smoke, and sinking beneath the waves. “How shall we
escape,” exclaimed they, “if the fortune of war should be against us?”
“There is no escape for the coward!” cried Taric: “the brave man thinks
of none: your only chance is victory.” “But how, without ships, shall we
ever return to our homes?” “Your home,” replied Taric, “is before you;
but you must win it with your swords.”
While Taric was yet talking with his followers, says one of the ancient
chroniclers, a Christian female was described, waving a white pennon on
a reed, in signal of peace. On being brought into the presence of Taric
she prostrated herself before him. “Senior,” said she, “I am an ancient
woman; and it is now full sixty years, past and gone, since, as I was
keeping vigils one winter’s night by the fireside, I heard my father,
who was an exceeding old man, read a prophecy, said to have been written
by a holy friar; and this was the purport of the prophecy: that a time
would arrive when our country would be invaded and conquered by a people
from Africa, of a strange garb, a strange tongue, and a strange religion.
They were to be led by a strong and valiant captain, who would be known
by these signs: on his right shoulder he would have a hairy mole, and his
right arm would be much longer than the left; and of such length as to
enable him to cover his knee with his hand without bending his body.”
Taric listened to the old beldame with grave attention; and, when she had
concluded, he laid bare his shoulder, and lo! there was the mole as it
had been described; his right arm, also, was, in verity, found to exceed
the other in length, though not to the degree that had been mentioned.
Upon this the Arab host shouted for joy, and felt assured of conquest.[20]
The discreet Antonio Agapida, though he records this circumstance as
it is set down in ancient chronicle, yet withholds his belief from the
pretended prophecy, considering the whole a cunning device of Taric to
increase the courage of his troops. “Doubtless,” says he, “there was a
collusion between this ancient sybil and the crafty son of Ishmael; for
these infidel leaders were full of damnable inventions, to work upon the
superstitious fancies of their followers, and to inspire them with a
blind confidence in the success of their arms.”
Be this as it may, the veteran Taric took advantage of the excitement of
his soldiery, and led them forward to gain possession of a stronghold,
which was, in a manner, the key to all the adjacent country. This was
a lofty mountain, or promontory, almost surrounded by the sea; and
connected with the mainland by a narrow isthmus. It was called the rock
of Calpe, and, like the opposite rock of Ceuta, commanded the entrance to
the Mediterranean Sea. Here, in old times, Hercules had set up one of his
pillars, and the city of Heraclea had been built.
As Taric advanced against this promontory, he was opposed by a hasty levy
of the Christians, who had assembled under the banner of a Gothic noble
of great power and importance, whose domains lay along the mountainous
coast of the Mediterranean. The name of this Christian cavalier was
Theodomir, but he has universally been called Tadmir by the Arabian
historians; and is renowned as being the first commander that made any
stand against the inroad of the Moslems. He was about forty years of age;
hardy, prompt, and sagacious; and had all the Gothic nobles been equally
vigilant and shrewd in their defence, the banner of Islam would never
have triumphed over the land.
Theodomir had but seventeen hundred men under his command, and these but
rudely armed; yet he made a resolute stand against the army of Taric, and
defended the pass to the promontory with great valour. He was, at length,
obliged to retreat; and Taric advanced, and planted his standard on the
rock of Calpe, and fortified it as his stronghold, and as the means of
securing an entrance into the land. To commemorate his first victory, he
changed the name of the promontory, and called it Gibel Taric, or the
mountain of Taric; but, in process of time, the name has gradually been
altered to Gibraltar.
In the meantime, the patriotic chieftain, Theodomir, having collected his
routed forces, encamped with them on the skirts of the mountains, and
summoned the country round to join his standard. He sent off missives,
in all speed, to the king; imparting, in brief and blunt terms, the news
of the invasion, and craving assistance with equal frankness. “Senior,”
said he, in his letter, “the legions of Africa are upon us, but whether
they come from heaven or earth I know not. They seem to have fallen from
the clouds, for they have no ships. We have been taken by surprise,
overpowered by numbers, and obliged to retreat; and they have fortified
themselves in our territory. Send us aid, senior, with instant speed; or,
rather, come yourself to our assistance.”[21]
CHAPTER XI.
MEASURES OF DON RODERICK ON HEARING OF THE INVASION.—EXPEDITION OF
ATAULPHO.—VISION OF TARIC.
When Don Roderick heard that legions of turbaned troops had poured into
the land from Africa, he called to mind the visions and predictions of
the necromantic tower, and great fear came upon him. But, though sunk
from his former hardihood and virtue, though enervated by indulgence,
and degraded in spirit by a consciousness of crime, he was resolute of
soul, and roused himself to meet the coming danger. He summoned a hasty
levy of horse and foot, amounting to forty thousand; but now were felt
the effects of the crafty council of Count Julian, for the best of the
horses and armour intended for the public service had been sent into
Africa, and were really in possession of the traitors. Many nobles, it
is true, took the field with the sumptuous array with which they had
been accustomed to appear at tournaments and jousts; but most of their
vassals were destitute of weapons, and cased in cuirasses of leather, or
suits of armour almost consumed by rust. They were without discipline
or animation; and their horses, like themselves, pampered by slothful
peace, were little fitted to bear the heat, the dust, and toil, of long
campaigns.
This army Don Roderick put under the command of his kinsman Ataulpho,
a prince of the royal blood of the Goths, and of a noble and generous
nature; and he ordered him to march with all speed to meet the foe, and
to recruit his forces on the way with the troops of Theodomir.
In the meantime, Taric el Tuerto had received large re-enforcements from
Africa, and the adherents of Count Julian, and all those discontented
with the sway of Don Roderick, had flocked to his standard; for many were
deceived by the representations of Count Julian, and thought that the
Arabs had come to aid him in placing the sons of Witiza upon the throne.
Guided by the count, the troops of Taric penetrated into various parts
of the country, and laid waste the land; bringing back loads of spoil to
their stronghold at the rock of Calpe.
The prince Ataulpho marched with his army through Andalusia, and was
joined by Theodomir with his troops; he met with various detachments of
the enemy foraging the country, and had several bloody skirmishes; but he
succeeded in driving them before him, and they retreated to the rock of
Calpe, where Taric lay gathered up with the main body of his army.
The prince encamped not far from the bay which spreads itself out before
the promontory. In the evening he despatched the veteran Theodomir, with
a trumpet, to demand a parley of the Arab chieftain, who received the
envoy in his tent, surrounded by his captains. Theodomir was frank and
abrupt in speech, for the most of his life had been passed far from
courts. He delivered, in round terms, the message of the Prince Ataulpho;
upbraiding the Arab general with his wanton invasion of the land, and
summoning him to surrender his army, or to expect no mercy.
The single eye of Taric el Tuerto glowed like a coal of fire at this
message. “Tell your commander,” replied he, “that I have crossed the
strait to conquer Spain, nor will I return until I have accomplished my
purpose. Tell him I have men skilled in war, and armed in proof, with
whose aid I trust soon to give a good account of his rabble host.”
A murmur of applause passed through the assemblage of Moslem captains.
Theodomir glanced on them a look of defiance, but his eye rested on a
renegado Christian, one of his own ancient comrades, and a relation of
Count Julian. “As to you, Don Greybeard,” said he, “you who turn apostate
in your declining age, I here pronounce you a traitor to your God, your
king, and country; and stand ready to prove it this instant upon your
body, if field be granted me.”
The traitor knight was stung with rage at these words, for truth rendered
them piercing to the heart. He would have immediately answered to the
challenge, but Taric forbade it, and ordered that the Christian envoy
should be conducted from the camp. “’Tis well,” replied Theodomir; “God
will give me the field which you deny. Let yon hoary apostate look to
himself to-morrow in the battle, for I pledge myself to use my lance upon
no other foe until it has shed his blood upon the native soil he has
betrayed.” So saying, he left the camp; nor could the Moslem chieftains
help admiring the honest indignation of this patriot knight, while they
secretly despised his renegado adversary.
The ancient Moorish chroniclers relate many awful portents, and strange
and mysterious visions, which appeared to the commanders of either army
during this anxious night. Certainly it was a night of fearful suspense,
and Moslem and Christian looked forward with doubt to the fortune of the
coming day. The Spanish sentinel walked his pensive round, listening
occasionally to the vague sounds from the distant rock of Calpe, and
eyeing it as the mariner eyes the thunder cloud, pregnant with terror and
destruction. The Arabs, too, from their lofty cliffs beheld the numerous
camp-fires of the Christians gradually lighted up, and saw that they were
a powerful host; at the same time the night breeze brought to their ears
the sullen roar of the sea which separated them from Africa. When they
considered their perilous situation, an army on one side, with a whole
nation aroused to re-enforce it, and on the other an impassable sea, the
spirits of many of the warriors were cast down, and they repented the day
when they had ventured into this hostile land.
Taric marked their despondency, but said nothing. Scarce had the first
streak of morning light trembled along the sea, however, when he
summoned his principal warriors to his tent. “Be of good cheer,” said
he: “Allah is with us, and has sent his prophet to give assurance of
his aid. Scarce had I retired to my tent last night, when a man of a
majestic and venerable presence stood before me. He was taller by a palm
than the ordinary race of men: his flowing beard was of a golden hue,
and his eyes were so bright that they seemed to send forth flashes of
fire. I have heard the Emir Bahamet, and other ancient men, describe the
prophet, whom they had seen many times while on earth, and such was his
form and lineament. ‘Fear nothing, O Taric, from the morrow,’ said he,
‘I will be with thee in the fight. Strike boldly, then, and conquer.
Those of thy followers who survive the battle will have this land for
an inheritance; for those who fall, a mansion in paradise is prepared,
and immortal houris await their coming.’ He spake and vanished; I heard
a strain of celestial melody, and my tent was filled with the odours of
Arabia the Happy.” “Such,” say the Spanish chroniclers, “was another of
the arts by which this arch son of Ishmael sought to animate the hearts
of his followers;” and the pretended vision had been recorded by the
Arabian writers as a veritable occurrence. Marvellous, indeed, was the
effect produced by it upon the infidel soldiery, who now cried out with
eagerness to be led against the foe.
CHAPTER XII.
BATTLE OF CALPE.—FATE OF ATAULPHO.
The grey summits of the rock of Calpe brightened with the first rays of
morning, as the Christian army issued forth from its encampment. The
Prince Ataulpho rode from squadron to squadron, animating his soldiers
for the battle. “Never should we sheath our swords,” said he, “while
these infidels have a footing in the land. They are pent up within yon
rocky mountain, we must assail them in their rugged hole. We have a long
day before us: let not the setting sun shine upon one of their host, who
is not a fugitive, a captive, or a corpse.”
The words of the prince were received with shouts, and the army moved
towards the promontory. As they advanced, they heard the clash of cymbals
and the bray of trumpets, and the rocky bosom of the mountain glittered
with helms and spears and scimitars; for the Arabs, inspired with fresh
confidence by the words of Taric, were sallying forth, with flaunting
banners, to the combat.
The gaunt Arab chieftain stood upon a rock as his troops marched by; his
buckler was at his back, and he brandished in his hand a double-pointed
spear. Calling upon the several leaders by their names, he exhorted them
to direct their attacks against the Christian captains, and especially
against Ataulpho; “for the chiefs being slain,” said he, “their followers
will vanish from before us like the morning mist.”
The Gothic nobles were easily to be distinguished by the splendour of
their arms; but the Prince Ataulpho was conspicuous above all the rest
for the youthful grace and majesty of his appearance, and the bravery
of his array. He was mounted on a superb Andalusian charger, richly
caparisoned with crimson velvet, embroidered with gold. His surcoat
was of like colour and adornment, and the plumes that waved above
his burnished helmet were of the purest white. Ten mounted pages,
magnificently attired, followed him to the field, but their duty was not
so much to fight as to attend upon their lord, and to furnish him with
steed or weapon.
The Christian troops, though irregular and undisciplined, were full of
native courage; for the old warrior spirit of their Gothic sires still
glowed in their bosoms. There were two battalions of infantry, but
Ataulpho stationed them in the rear; “for God forbid,” said he, “that
foot soldiers should have the place of honour in the battle, when I
have so many valiant cavaliers.” As the armies drew nigh to each other,
however, it was discovered that the advance of the Arabs was composed of
infantry. Upon this the cavaliers checked their steeds, and requested
that the foot soldiery might advance and disperse this losel crew,
holding it beneath their dignity to contend with pedestrian foes. The
prince, however, commanded them to charge; upon which, putting spurs to
their steeds, they rushed upon the foe.
The Arabs stood the shock manfully, receiving the horses upon the points
of their lances; many of the riders were shot down with bolts from
cross-bows, or stabbed with the poniards of the Moslems. The cavaliers
succeeded, however, in breaking into the midst of the battalion and
throwing it into confusion, cutting down some with their swords,
transpiercing others with their spears, and trampling many under the
hoofs of their horses. At this moment, they were attacked by a band of
Spanish horsemen, the recreant partisans of Count Julian. Their assault
bore hard upon their countrymen, who were disordered by the contest with
the foot soldiers, and many a loyal Christian knight fell beneath the
sword of an unnatural foe.
The foremost among these recreant warriors was the renegado cavalier
whom Theodomir had challenged in the tent of Taric. He dealt his blows
about him with a powerful arm and with malignant fury, for nothing is
more deadly than the hatred of an apostate. In the midst of his career he
was espied by the hardy Theodomir, who came spurring to the encounter:
“Traitor,” cried he, “I have kept my vow. This lance has been held
sacred from all other foes to make a passage for thy perjured soul.” The
renegado had been renowned for prowess before he became a traitor to his
country, but guilt will sap the courage of the stoutest heart. When he
beheld Theodomir rushing upon him, he would have turned and fled; pride
alone withheld him; and, though an admirable master of defence, he lost
all skill to ward the attack of his adversary. At the first assault
the lance of Theodomir pierced him through and through; he fell to the
earth, gnashed his teeth as he rolled in the dust, but yielded his breath
without uttering a word.
The battle now became general, and lasted throughout the morning with
varying success. The stratagem of Taric, however, began to produce
its effect. The Christian leaders and most conspicuous cavaliers were
singled out, and severally assailed by overpowering numbers. They fought
desperately, and performed miracles of prowess; but fell, one by one,
beneath a thousand wounds. Still the battle lingered on throughout a
great part of the day; and as the declining sun shone through the clouds
of dust, it seemed as if the conflicting hosts were wrapped in smoke and
fire.
The Prince Ataulpho saw that the fortune of battle was against him. He
rode about the field calling out the names of the bravest of his knights,
but few answered to his call; the rest lay mangled on the field. With
this handful of warriors he endeavoured to retrieve the day, when he was
assailed by Tenderos, a partisan of Count Julian, at the head of a body
of recreant Christians. At sight of this new adversary, fire flashed from
the eyes of the prince, for Tenderos had been brought up in his father’s
palace. “Well dost thou, traitor!” cried he, “to attack the son of thy
lord, who gave thee bread; thou, who hast betrayed thy country and thy
God!”
So saying, he seized a lance from one of his pages, and charged furiously
upon the apostate; but Tenderos met him in mid career, and the lance of
the prince was shivered upon his shield. Ataulpho then grasped his mace,
which hung at his saddle bow, and a doubtful fight ensued. Tenderos was
powerful of frame and superior in the use of his weapons, but the curse
of treason seemed to paralyse his arm. He wounded Ataulpho slightly
between the greaves of his armour, but the prince dealt a blow with his
mace that crushed through helm and skull, and reached the brains; and
Tenderos fell dead to the earth, his armour rattling as he fell.
At the same moment a javelin, hurled by an Arab, transpierced the horse
of Ataulpho, which sunk beneath him. The prince seized the reins of the
steed of Tenderos; but the faithful animal, as though he knew him to
be the foe of his late lord, reared and plunged, and refused to let him
mount. The prince, however, used him as a shield to ward off the press of
foes: while, with his sword, he defended himself against those in front
of him. Taric ben Zeyad arrived at the scene of conflict, and paused,
for a moment, in admiration of the surpassing prowess of the prince:
recollecting, however, that his fall would be a death-blow to his army,
he spurred upon him, and wounded him severely with his scimitar. Before
he could repeat his blow, Theodomir led up a body of Christian cavaliers
to the rescue, and Taric was parted from his prey by the tumult of the
fight. The prince sank to the earth, covered with wounds, and exhausted
by the loss of blood. A faithful page drew him from under the hoofs
of the horses, and, aided by a veteran soldier, an ancient vassal of
Ataulpho, conveyed him to a short distance from the field of battle,
by the side of a small stream that gushed out from among rocks. They
stanched the blood that flowed from his wounds, and washed the dust from
his face, and laid him beside the fountain. The page sat at his head, and
supported it on his knees; and the veteran stood at his feet, with his
brow bent, and his eyes full of sorrow. The prince gradually revived, and
opened his eyes. “How fares the battle?” said he. “The struggle is hard,”
replied the soldier, “but the day may yet be ours.”
The prince felt that the hour of his death was at hand, and ordered
that they should aid him to rise upon his knees. They supported him
between them, and he prayed fervently for a short time, when, finding
his strength declining, he beckoned the veteran to sit down beside him
on the rock. Continuing to kneel, he confessed himself to that ancient
soldier; having no priest or friar to perform that office in this hour of
extremity. When he had so done, he sunk again upon the earth, and pressed
it with his lips, as if he would take a fond farewell of his beloved
country. The page would then have raised his head, but found that his
lord had yielded up the ghost.
A number of Arab warriors, who came to the fountain to slake their
thirst, cut off the head of the prince, and bore it in triumph to Taric,
crying, “Behold the head of the Christian leader!” Taric immediately
ordered that the head should be put upon the end of a lance, together
with the surcoat of the prince, and borne about the field of battle, with
the sound of trumpets, atabels, and cymbals.
When the Christians beheld the surcoat, and knew the features of the
prince, they were struck with horror, and heart and hand failed them.
Theodomir endeavoured in vain to rally them; they threw by their weapons
and fled; and they continued to fly, and the enemy to pursue and slay
them, until the darkness of the night. The Moslems then returned, and
plundered the Christian camp, where they found abundant spoil.
CHAPTER XIII.
TERROR OF THE COUNTRY.—RODERICK ROUSES HIMSELF TO ARMS.
The scattered fugitives of the Christian army spread terror throughout
the land. The inhabitants of the towns and villages gathered around them
as they applied at their gates for food, or laid themselves down, faint
and wounded, beside the public fountains. When they related the tale
of their defeat, old men shook their heads and groaned, and the women
uttered cries and lamentations. So strange and unlooked-for a calamity
filled them with consternation and despair; for it was long since the
alarm of war had sounded in their land: and this was a warfare that
carried chains and slavery, and all kinds of horrors, in its train.
Don Roderick was seated with his beauteous queen, Exilona, in the royal
palace which crowned the rocky summit of Toledo, when the bearer of
ill-tidings came galloping over the bridge of the Tagus. “What tidings
from the army?” demanded the king, as the panting messenger was brought
into his presence. “Tidings of great woe!” exclaimed the soldier. “The
prince has fallen in battle. I saw his head and surcoat upon a Moorish
lance; and the army was overthrown and fled!”
At hearing these words, Roderick covered his face with his hands, and for
some time sat in silence; and all his courtiers stood mute and aghast,
and no one dared to speak a word. In that awful space of time passed
before his thoughts all his errors and his crimes, and all the evil that
had been predicted in the necromantic tower. His mind was filled with
horror and confusion, for the hour of his destruction seemed at hand:
but he subdued his agitation by his strong and haughty spirit; and, when
he uncovered his face, no one could read on his brow the trouble and
agony of his heart. Still, every hour brought fresh tidings of disaster.
Messenger after messenger came spurring into the city, distracting it
with new alarms. The infidels, they said, were strengthening themselves
in the land; host after host were pouring in from Africa: the sea coast
of Andalusia glittered with spears and scimitars. Bands of turbaned
horsemen had overrun the plains of Sidonia, even to the banks of the
Guadiana. Fields were laid waste, towns and cities plundered, the
inhabitants carried into captivity, and the whole country lay in smoking
desolation.
Roderick heard all these tidings with an undaunted aspect; nor did he
ever again betray sign of consternation: but the anxiety of his soul
was evident in his warlike preparations. He issued orders that every
noble and prelate of his kingdom should put himself at the head of his
retainers, and take the field; and that every man capable of bearing arms
should hasten to his standard, bringing whatever horse, and mule, and
weapon he possessed: and he appointed the plain of Cordova for the place
where the army was to assemble. Throwing by, then, all the trappings of
his late slothful and voluptuous life, and arming himself for warlike
action, he departed from Toledo at the head of his guard, composed of the
flower of the youthful nobility. His queen, Exilona, accompanied him; for
she craved permission to remain in one of the cities of Andalusia, that
she might be near her lord in this time of peril.
Among the first who appeared to hail the arrival of the king at Cordova,
was the Bishop Oppas, the secret partisan of the traitor Julian. He
brought with him his two nephews, Evan and Siseburto, the sons of the
late king Witiza; and a great host of vassals and retainers, all well
armed and appointed, for they had been furnished, by Count Julian, with
a part of the arms sent by the king to Africa. The bishop was smooth of
tongue, and profound in his hypocrisy: his pretended zeal and devotion,
and the horror with which he spoke of the treachery of his kinsman,
imposed upon the credulous spirit of the king, and he was readily
admitted into his most secret council.
The alarm of the infidel invasion had spread throughout the land, and
roused the Gothic valour of the inhabitants. On receiving the orders of
Roderick, every town and hamlet, every mountain and valley, had sent
forth its fighting men, and the whole country was on the march towards
Andalusia. In a little while there were gathered together, on the plain
of Cordova, near fifty thousand horsemen, and a countless host of
foot-soldiers. The Gothic nobles appeared in burnished armour, curiously
inlaid, and adorned with chains and jewels of gold, and ornaments of
precious stones, and silken scarfs, and surcoats of brocade, or velvet
richly embroidered; betraying the luxury and ostentation with which they
had declined from the iron hardihood of their warlike sires. As to the
common people, some had lances and shields and swords and cross-bows,
but the greater part were unarmed, or provided merely with slings, and
clubs studded with nails, and with the iron implements of husbandry; and
many had made shields for themselves from the doors and windows, of their
habitations. They were a prodigious host, and appeared, say the Arabian
chroniclers, like an agitated sea; but, though brave in spirit, they
possessed no knowledge of warlike art, and were ineffectual through lack
of arms and discipline.
Several of the most ancient and experienced cavaliers, beholding the
state of the army, advised Don Roderick to await the arrival of more
regular troops, which were stationed in Iberia, Cantabria, and Gallia
Gothica; but this counsel was strenuously opposed by the Bishop Oppas;
who urged the king to march immediately against the infidels. “As yet,”
said he, “their number is but limited; but every day new hosts arrive,
like flocks of locusts, from Africa. They will augment faster than we;
they are living, too, at our expense, and, while we pause, both armies
are consuming the substance of the land.”
King Roderick listened to the crafty counsel of the bishop, and
determined to advance without delay. He mounted his war horse, Orelia,
and rode among his troops assembled on that spacious plain, and wherever
he appeared he was received with acclamations; for nothing so arouses the
spirit of the soldier as to behold his sovereign in arms. He addressed
them in words calculated to touch their hearts and animate their courage.
“The Saracens,” said he, “are ravaging our land, and their object is our
conquest. Should they prevail, your very existence as a nation is at an
end. They will overturn your altars; trample on the cross; lay waste your
cities; carry off your wives and daughters, and doom yourselves and sons
to hard and cruel slavery. No safety remains for you but in the prowess
of your arms. For my own part, as I am your king, so will I be your
leader, and will be the foremost to encounter every toil and danger.”
The soldiery answered their monarch with loud acclamations, and solemnly
pledged themselves to fight to the last gasp in defence of their country
and their faith. The king then arranged the order of their march: all
those who were armed with cuirasses and coats of mail were placed in the
front and rear; the centre of the army was composed of a promiscuous
throng, without body armour, and but scantily provided with weapons.
When they were about to march, the king called to him a noble cavalier
named Ramiro, and delivering him the royal standard, charged him to guard
it well for the honour of Spain; scarcely, however, had the good knight
received it in his hand, when he fell dead from his horse, and the staff
of the standard was broken in twain. Many ancient courtiers who were
present looked upon this as an evil omen, and counselled the king not to
set forward on his march that day; but, disregarding all auguries and
portents, he ordered the royal banner to be put upon a lance, and gave it
in charge of another standard bearer: then commanding the trumpets to be
sounded, he departed at the head of his host to seek the enemy.
The field where this great army assembled was called, from the solemn
pledge given by the nobles and the soldiery, _El campo de la verdad_; or,
The field of Truth; a name, says the sage chronicler Abul Cassim, which
it bears even to the present day.[22]
CHAPTER XIV.
MARCH OF THE GOTHIC ARMY.—ENCAMPMENT ON THE BANKS OF THE
GUADALETE.—MYSTERIOUS PREDICTIONS OF A PALMER.—CONDUCT OF PELISTES
THEREUPON.
The hopes of Andalusia revived, as this mighty host stretched in
lengthened lines along its fertile plains; from morn until night it
continued to pour along, with sound of drum and trumpet; it was led on
by the proudest nobles and bravest cavaliers of the land, and, had it
possessed arms and discipline, might have undertaken the conquest of the
world.
After a few days’ march, Don Roderick arrived in sight of the Moslem
army, encamped on the banks of the Guadalete[23], where that beautiful
stream winds through the fertile land of Xeres. The infidel host was
far inferior in number to the Christians; but then it was composed of
hardy and dexterous troops, seasoned to war, and admirably armed. The
camp shone gloriously in the setting sun, and resounded with the clash
of cymbal, the note of the trumpet, and the neighing of fiery Arabian
steeds. There were swarthy troops from every nation of the African coast,
together with legions from Syria and Egypt, while the light Bedouins were
careering about the adjacent plain. What grieved and incensed the spirits
of the Christian warriors, however, was to behold, a little apart from
the Moslem host, an encampment of Spanish cavaliers, with the banner of
Count Julian waving above their tents. They were ten thousand in number,
valiant and hardy men, the most experienced of Spanish soldiery, most
of them having served in the African wars; they were well armed and
appointed also, with the weapons of which the count had beguiled his
sovereign; and it was a grievous sight to behold such good soldiers
arrayed against their country and their faith.
The Christians pitched their tents about the hour of vespers, at a short
league distant from the enemy, and remained gazing with anxiety and
awe upon this barbaric host that had caused such terror and desolation
in the land: for the first sight of a hostile encampment in a country
disused to war, is terrible to the newly enlisted soldier. A marvellous
occurrence is recorded by the Arabian chroniclers as having taken place
in the Christian camp; but discreet Spanish writers relate it with much
modification, and consider it a stratagem of the wily Bishop Oppas, to
sound the loyalty of the Christian cavaliers.
As several leaders of the army were seated with the bishop in his tent,
conversing on the dubious fortunes of the approaching contest, an ancient
pilgrim appeared at the entrance. He was bowed down with years, his
snowy beard descended to his girdle, and he supported his tottering
steps with a palmer’s staff. The cavaliers rose and received him with
great reverence as he advanced within the tent. Holding up his withered
hand, “Woe, woe to Spain!” exclaimed he, “for the vial of the wrath of
heaven is about to be poured out. Listen, warriors, and take warning.
Four months since, having performed my pilgrimage to the sepulchre of our
Lord in Palestine, I was on my return towards my native land. Wearied and
wayworn, I lay down one night to sleep beneath a palm tree, by the side
of a fountain, when I was awakened by a voice saying unto me, in soft
accents, ‘Son of sorrow, why sleepest thou?’ I opened my eyes, and beheld
one of a fair and beauteous countenance, in shining apparel and with
glorious wings, standing by the fountain; and I said, ‘Who art thou who
callest upon me in this deep hour of the night?’
“‘Fear not,’ replied the stranger, ‘I am an angel from heaven, sent to
reveal unto thee the fate of thy country. Behold the sins of Roderick
have come up before God, and his anger is kindled against him, and he
has given him up to be invaded and destroyed. Hasten then to Spain, and
seek the camp of thy countrymen. Warn them that such only shall be saved
as shall abandon Roderick; but those who adhere to him shall share his
punishment, and shall fall under the sword of the invader.’”
The pilgrim ceased, and passed forth from the tent; certain of the
cavaliers followed him to detain him, that they might converse further
with him about these matters, but he was no where to be found. The
sentinel before the tent said, “I saw no one come forth, but it was as if
a blast of wind passed by me, and there was a rustling as of dry leaves.”
The cavaliers remained looking upon each other with astonishment. The
Bishop Oppas sat with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and shadowed by his
overhanging brow. At length, breaking silence, in a low and faltering
voice, “Doubtless,” said he, “this message is from God; and since he has
taken compassion upon us, and given us notice of his impending judgment,
it behoves us to hold grave council, and determine how best we may
accomplish his will and avert his displeasure.”
The chiefs still remained silent, as men confounded. Among them was a
veteran noble named Pelistes. He had distinguished himself in the African
wars, fighting side by side with Count Julian, but the latter had never
dared to tamper with his faith, for he knew his stern integrity. Pelistes
had brought with him to the camp his only son, who had never drawn a
sword except in tourney. When the young man saw that the veterans held
their peace, the blood mantled in his cheek, and, overcoming his modesty,
he broke forth with a generous warmth: “I know not, cavaliers,” said
he, “what is passing in your minds, but I believe this pilgrim to be an
envoy from the devil; for none else could have given such dastard and
perfidious counsel. For my own part, I stand ready to defend my king,
my country, and my faith. I know no higher duty than this, and if God
thinks fit to strike me dead in the performance of it, his sovereign will
be done!”
When the young man had risen to speak, his father had fixed his eyes upon
him with a grave and stern demeanour, leaning upon a two-handed sword.
As soon as the youth had finished, Pelistes embraced him with a father’s
fondness. “Thou hast spoken well, my son,” said he; “if I held my peace
at the counsel of this losel pilgrim, it was but to hear thy opinion,
and to learn whether thou wert worthy of thy lineage and of the training
I had given thee. Hadst thou counselled otherwise than thou hast done,
hadst thou shown thyself craven and disloyal, so help me God, I would
have struck off thy head with this weapon which I hold in my hand. But
thou hast counselled like a loyal and a Christian knight, and I thank God
for having given me a son worthy to perpetuate the honours of my line.
As to this pilgrim, be he saint or be he devil, I care not; this much I
promise, that if I am to die in defence of my country and my king, my
life shall be a costly purchase to the foe. Let each man make the same
resolve, and I trust we shall yet prove the pilgrim a lying prophet.”
The words of Pelistes roused the spirits of many of the cavaliers;
others, however, remained full of anxious foreboding, and when this
fearful prophecy was rumoured about the camp, as it presently was by the
emissaries of the bishop, it spread awe and dismay among the soldiery.
CHAPTER XV.
SKIRMISHING OF THE ARMIES.—PELISTES AND HIS SON.—PELISTES AND THE BISHOP.
On the following day, the two armies remained regarding each other with
wary but menacing aspect. About noontide, King Roderick sent forth a
chosen force of five hundred horse and two hundred foot, the best armed
of his host, to skirmish with the enemy, that, by gaining some partial
advantage, they might raise the spirits of the army. They were led on
by Theodomir, the same Gothic noble who had signalised himself by first
opposing the invasion of the Moslems.
The Christian squadrons paraded with flying pennons in the valley which
lay between the armies. The Arabs were not slow in answering their
defiance. A large body of horsemen sallied forth to the encounter,
together with three hundred of the followers of Count Julian. There was
hot skirmishing about the field, and on the banks of the river; many
gallant feats were displayed on either side, and many valiant warriors
were slain. As the night closed in, the trumpets from either camp
summoned the troops to retire from the combat. In this day’s action the
Christians suffered greatly in the loss of their distinguished cavaliers;
for it is the noblest spirits who venture most, and lay themselves open
to danger; and the Moslem soldiers had instructions to single out the
leaders of the adverse host. All this is said to have been devised by the
perfidious Bishop Oppas, who had secret communications with the enemy,
while he influenced the councils of the king; and who trusted that by
this skirmishing warfare the power of the Christian troops would be cut
off, and the rest disheartened.
On the following morning, a larger force was ordered out to skirmish,
and such of the soldiery as were unarmed were commanded to stand ready
to seize the horses and strip off the armour of the killed and wounded.
Among the most illustrious of the warriors who fought that day was
Pelistes, the Gothic noble who had so sternly checked the tongue of the
Bishop Oppas. He led to the field a large body of his own vassals and
retainers, and of cavaliers trained up in his house, who had followed
him to the wars in Africa, and who looked up to him more as a father
than a chieftain. Beside him was his only son, who now for the first
time was fleshing his sword in battle. The conflict that day was more
general and bloody than the day preceding; the slaughter of the Christian
warriors was immense, from their lack of defensive armour; and as nothing
could prevent the flower of the Gothic chivalry from spurring to the
combat, the field was strewed with the bodies of the youthful nobles.
None suffered more, however, than the warriors of Pelistes. Their leader
himself was bold and hardy, and prone to expose himself to danger; but
years and experience had moderated his early fire; his son, however,
was eager to distinguish himself in this, his first essay, and rushed
with impetuous ardour into the hottest of the battle. In vain his father
called to caution him; he was ever in the advance, and seemed unconscious
of the perils that surrounded him. The cavaliers and vassals of his
father followed him with devoted zeal, and many of them paid for their
loyalty with their lives. When the trumpets sounded in the evening for
retreat, the troops of Pelistes were the last to reach the camp. They
came slowly and mournfully, and much decreased in number. Their veteran
commander was seated on his war-horse, but the blood trickled from the
greaves of his armour. His valiant son was borne on the shields of his
vassals; when they laid him on the earth near to where the king was
standing, they found that the heroic youth had expired of his wounds. The
cavaliers surrounded the body and gave utterance to their grief; but the
father restrained his agony, and looked on with the stern resignation of
a soldier.
Don Roderick surveyed the field of battle with a rueful eye, for it was
covered with the mangled bodies of his most illustrious warriors; he saw,
too, with anxiety, that the common people, unused to war, and unsustained
by discipline, were harassed by incessant toils and dangers, and were
cooling in their zeal and courage.
The crafty bishop Oppas marked the internal trouble of the king, and
thought a favourable moment had arrived to sway him to his purpose. He
called to his mind the various portents and prophecies which had forerun
their present danger. “Let not my lord the king,” said he, “make light
of these mysterious revelations, which appear to be so disastrously
fulfilling. The hand of Heaven appears to be against us. Destruction is
impending over our heads. Our troops are rude and unskilful, but slightly
armed, and much cast down in spirit. Better is it that we should make a
treaty with the enemy, and, by granting part of his demands, prevent the
utter ruin of our country. If such counsel be acceptable to my lord the
king, I stand ready to depart upon an embassy to the Moslem camp.”
Upon hearing these words, Pelistes, who had stood in mournful silence,
regarding the dead body of his son, burst forth with honest indignation.
“By this good sword,” said he, “the man who yields such dastard counsel
deserves death from the hand of his countrymen rather than from the foe;
and, were it not for the presence of the king, may I forfeit salvation if
I would not strike him dead upon the spot.”
The bishop turned an eye of venom upon Pelistes. “My lord,” said he, “I,
too, bear a weapon, and know how to wield it. Were the king not present
you would not dare to menace, nor should you advance one step without my
hastening to meet you.”
The king interposed between the jarring nobles, and rebuked the
impetuosity of Pelistes, but at the same time rejected the counsel of
the bishop. “The event of this conflict,” said he, “is in the hand of
God; but never shall my sword return to its scabbard while an infidel
invader remains within the land.”
He then held a council with his captains, and it was determined to offer
the enemy general battle on the following day. A herald was despatched
defying Taric ben Zeyad to the contest, and the defiance was gladly
accepted by the Moslem chieftain.[24] Don Roderick then formed the plan
of action, and assigned to each commander his several station, after
which he dismissed his officers, and each one sought his tent, to prepare
by diligence or repose for the next day’s eventful contest.
CHAPTER XVI.
TRAITOROUS MESSAGE OF COUNT JULIAN.
Taric ben Zeyad had been surprised by the valour of the Christian
cavaliers in the recent battles, and at the number and apparent devotion
of the troops which accompanied the king to the field. The confident
defiance of Don Roderick increased his surprise. When the herald had
retired, he turned an eye of suspicion on Count Julian. “Thou hast
represented thy countrymen,” said he, “as sunk in effeminacy and lost
to all generous impulse: yet I find them fighting with the courage and
the strength of lions. Thou hast represented thy king as detested by
his subjects, and surrounded by secret treason, but I behold his tents
whitening the hills and dales, while thousands are hourly flocking to
his standard. Woe unto thee if thou hast dealt deceitfully with us, or
betrayed us with guileful words.”
Don Julian retired to his tent in great trouble of mind, and fear came
upon him that the Bishop Oppas might play him false; for it is the lot
of traitors ever to distrust each other. He called to him the same page
who had brought him the letter from Florinda, revealing the story of her
dishonour.
“Thou knowest, my trusty page,” said he, “that I have reared thee in my
household, and cherished thee above all thy companions. If thou hast
loyalty and affection for thy lord, now is the time to serve him. Hie
thee to the Christian camp, and find thy way to the tent of the Bishop
Oppas. If any one ask thee who thou art, tell them thou art of the
household of the bishop, and bearer of missives from Cordova. When thou
art admitted to the presence of the bishop, show him this ring, and he
will commune with thee in secret. Then tell him Count Julian greets him
as a brother, and demands how the wrongs of his daughter Florinda are
to be redressed. Mark well his reply, and bring it word for word. Have
thy lips closed, but thine eyes and ears open; and observe every thing of
note in the camp of the king. So speed thee on thy errand—away, away!”
The page hastened to saddle a Barbary steed, fleet as the wind, and of
a jet black colour, so as not to be easily discernible in the night. He
girded on a sword and dagger, slung an Arab bow with a quiver of arrows
at his side, and a buckler at his shoulder. Issuing out of the camp,
he sought the banks of the Guadalete, and proceeded silently along its
stream, which reflected the distant fires of the Christian camp. As he
passed by the place which had been the scene of the recent conflict, he
heard, from time to time, the groan of some expiring warrior who had
crawled among the reeds on the margin of the river; and sometimes his
steed stepped cautiously over the mangled bodies of the slain. The young
page was unused to the sights of war, and his heart beat quick within
him. He was hailed by the sentinels as he approached the Christian camp,
and, on giving the reply taught him by Count Julian, was conducted to the
tent of the Bishop Oppas.
The bishop had not yet retired to his couch. When he beheld the ring of
Count Julian, and heard the words of his message, he saw that the page
was one in whom he might confide. “Hasten back to thy lord,” said he,
“and tell him to have faith in me, and all shall go well. As yet I have
kept my troops out of the combat. They are all fresh, well armed, and
well appointed. The king has confided to myself, aided by the princes
Evan and Siseburto, the command of a wing of the army. To-morrow, at the
hour of noon, when both armies are in the heat of action, we will pass
over with our forces to the Moslems. But I claim the compact made with
Taric ben Zeyad, that my nephews be placed in dominion over Spain, and
tributary only to the Caliph of Damascus.” With this traitorous message
the page departed. He led his black steed by the bridle to present
less mark for observation, as he went stumbling along near the expiring
fires of the camp. On passing the last outpost, when the guards were
half slumbering on their arms, he was overheard and summoned, but leaped
lightly into the saddle and put spurs to his steed. An arrow whistled by
his ear, and two more stuck in the target which he had thrown upon his
back. The clatter of swift hoofs echoed behind him, but he had learnt of
the Arabs to fight and fly. Plucking a shaft from his quiver, and turning
and rising in the stirrups as his courser galloped at full speed, he
drew the arrow to the head and launched it at his pursuer. The twang of
the bow-string was followed by the crash of armour, and a deep groan, as
the horseman tumbled to the earth. The page pursued his course without
further molestation, and arrived at the Moslem camp before the break of
day.
CHAPTER XVII.
LAST DAY OF THE BATTLE.
A light had burned throughout the night in the tent of the king, and
anxious thoughts and dismal visions troubled his repose. If he fell
into a slumber, he beheld in his dreams the shadowy phantoms of the
necromantic tower, or the injured Florinda, pale and dishevelled,
imprecating the vengeance of Heaven upon his head. In the mid-watches
of the night, when all was silent except the footstep of the sentinel,
pacing before his tent, the king rose from his couch, and walking forth
looked thoughtfully upon the martial scene before him. The pale crescent
of the moon hung over the Moorish camp, and dimly lighted up the windings
of the Guadalete. The heart of the king was heavy and oppressed; but
he felt only for himself, says Antonio Agapida, he thought nothing of
the perils impending over the thousands of devoted subjects in the camp
below him; sleeping, as it were, on the margin of their graves. The faint
clatter of distant hoofs, as if in rapid flight, reached the monarch’s
ear, but the horsemen were not to be descried. At that very hour, and
along the shadowy banks of that river, here and there gleaming with the
scanty moonlight, passed the fugitive messenger of Count Julian, with the
plan of the next day’s treason.
The day had not yet dawned, when the sleepless and impatient monarch
summoned his attendants and arrayed himself for the field. He then
sent for the venerable Bishop Urbino, who had accompanied him to the
camp, and, laying aside his regal crown, he knelt with head uncovered,
and confessed his sins before the holy man. After this a solemn mass
was performed in the royal tent, and the eucharist administered to the
monarch. When these ceremonies were concluded, he besought the archbishop
to depart forthwith for Cordova, there to await the issue of the
battle, and to be ready to bring forward reinforcements and supplies.
The archbishop saddled his mule and departed just as the faint blush of
morning began to kindle in the east. Already the camp resounded with the
thrilling call of the trumpet, the clank of armour, and the tramp and
neigh of steeds. As the archbishop passed through the camp, he looked
with a compassionate heart on this vast multitude, of whom so many
were soon to perish. The warriors pressed to kiss his hand, and many a
cavalier full of youth and fire received his benediction, who was to lie
stiff and cold before the evening.
When the troops were marshalled for the field, Don Roderick prepared to
sally forth in the state and pomp with which the Gothic kings were wont
to go to battle. He was arrayed in robes of gold brocade; his sandals
were embroidered with pearls and diamonds; he had a sceptre in his
hand, and he wore a regal crown resplendent with inestimable jewels.
Thus gorgeously apparelled, he ascended a lofty chariot of ivory, the
axle-trees of which were of silver, and the wheels and pole covered with
plates of burnished gold. Above his head was a canopy of cloth of gold
embossed with armorial devices, and studded with precious stones.[25]
This sumptuous chariot was drawn by milk-white horses, with caparisons of
crimson velvet, embroidered with pearls. A thousand youthful cavaliers
surrounded the car; all of the noblest blood and bravest spirit; all
knighted by the king’s own hand, and sworn to defend him to the last.
When Roderick issued forth in this resplendent state, says an Arabian
writer, surrounded by his guards in gilded armour and waving plumes
and scarfs and surcoats of a thousand dyes, it was as if the sun were
emerging in the dazzling chariot of the day from amidst the glorious
clouds of morning.
As the royal car rolled along in front of the squadrons, the soldiers
shouted with admiration. Don Roderick waved his sceptre, and addressed
them from his lofty throne, reminding them of the horror and desolation
which had already been spread through the land by the invaders. He called
upon them to summon up the ancient valour of their race, and avenge the
blood of their brethren. “One day of glorious fighting,” said he, “and
this infidel horde will be driven into the sea, or will perish beneath
your swords. Forward bravely to the fight; your families are behind you
praying for your success; the invaders of your country are before you;
God is above to bless his holy cause, and your king leads you to the
field.” The army shouted with one accord, “Forward to the foe, and death
be his portion who shuns the encounter!”
The rising sun began to shine along the glistening waters of the
Guadalete as the Moorish army, squadron after squadron, came sweeping
down a gentle declivity to the sound of martial music. Their turbans and
robes, of various dyes and fashions, gave a splendid appearance to their
host; as they marched, a cloud of dust arose and partly hid them from
the sight, but still there would break forth flashes of steel and gleams
of burnished gold, like rays of vivid lightning; while the sound of drum
and trumpet, and the clash of Moorish cymbal, were as the warlike thunder
within that stormy cloud of battle.
As the armies drew near each other the sun disappeared among gathering
clouds, and the gloom of the day was increased by the columns of dust
which rose from either host. At length the trumpet sounded for the
encounter. The battle commenced with showers of arrows, stones, and
javelins. The Christian foot-soldiers fought to disadvantage, the greater
part being destitute of helm or buckler. A battalion of light Arabian
horsemen, led by a Greek renegado named Magued el Rumi, careered in
front of the Christian line, launching their darts, and then wheeling
off beyond the reach of the missiles hurled after them. Theodomir
now brought up his seasoned troops into the action, seconded by the
veteran Pelistes, and in a little while the battle became furious and
promiscuous. It was glorious to behold the old Gothic valour shining
forth in this hour of fearful trial. Wherever the Moslems fell, the
Christians rushed forward, seized upon their horses, and stripped them of
their armour and their weapons. They fought desperately and successfully,
for they fought for their country and their faith. The battle raged for
several hours; the field was strown with slain, and the Moors, overcome
by the multitude and fury of their foes, began to falter.
When Taric beheld his troops retreating before the enemy, he threw
himself before them, and, rising in his stirrups, “Oh, Moslems!
conquerors of Africa!” cried he, “whither would you fly? The sea is
behind you, the enemy before; you have no hope but in your valour and the
help of God. Do as I do, and the day is ours!”
With these words he put spurs to his horse and sprang among the enemy,
striking to right and left, cutting down and destroying, while his steed,
fierce as himself, trampled upon the foot-soldiers, and tore them with
his teeth. At this moment a mighty shout arose in various parts of the
field; the noontide hour had arrived. The Bishop Oppas with the two
princes, who had hitherto kept their bands out of the fight, suddenly
went over to the enemy, and turned their weapons upon their astonished
countrymen. From that moment the fortune of the day was changed, and the
field of battle became a scene of wild confusion and bloody massacre. The
Christians knew not whom to contend with, or whom to trust. It seemed
as if madness had seized upon their friends and kinsmen, and that their
worst enemies were among themselves.
The courage of Don Roderick rose with his danger. Throwing off the
cumbrous robes of royalty, and descending from his car, he sprang upon
his steed Orelia, grasped his lance and buckler, and endeavoured
to rally his retreating troops. He was surrounded and assailed by a
multitude of his own traitorous subjects, but defended himself with
wondrous prowess. The enemy thickened around him; his loyal band of
cavaliers were slain, bravely fighting in his defence; the last that was
seen of the king was in the midst of the enemy, dealing death at every
blow.
A complete panic fell upon the Christians; they threw away their arms and
fled in all directions. They were pursued with dreadful slaughter, until
the darkness of the night rendered it impossible to distinguish friend
from foe. Taric then called off his troops from the pursuit, and took
possession of the royal camp; and the couch which had been pressed so
uneasily on the preceding night by Don Roderick, now yielded sound repose
to his conqueror.[26]
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE FIELD OF BATTLE AFTER THE DEFEAT.—THE FATE OF RODERICK.
On the morning after the battle, the Arab leader, Taric ben Zeyad, rode
over the bloody field of the Guadalete, strewed with the ruins of those
splendid armies, which had so lately passed like glorious pageants along
the river banks. There Moor and Christian, horseman and horse, lay gashed
with hideous wounds; and the river, still red with blood, was filled with
the bodies of the slain. The gaunt Arab was as a wolf roaming through
the fold he had laid waste. On every side his eye revelled on the ruin
of the country, on the wrecks of haughty Spain. There lay the flower of
her youthful chivalry, mangled and destroyed, and the strength of her
yeomanry prostrated in the dust. The Gothic noble lay confounded with
his vassals; the peasant with the prince; all ranks and dignities were
mingled in one bloody massacre.
When Taric had surveyed the field, he caused the spoils of the dead and
the plunder of the camp to be brought before him. The booty was immense.
There were massy chains, and rare jewels of gold; pearls and precious
stones; rich silks and brocades, and all other luxurious decorations
in which the Gothic nobles had indulged in the latter times of their
degeneracy. A vast amount of treasure was likewise found, which had been
brought by Roderick for the expenses of the war.
Taric then ordered that the bodies of the Moslem warriors should be
interred; as for those of the Christians, they were gathered in heaps,
and vast pyres of wood were formed, on which they were consumed. The
flames of these pyres rose high in the air, and were seen afar off in the
night; and when the Christians beheld them from the neighbouring hills
they beat their breasts and tore their hair, and lamented over them
as over the funeral fires of their country. The carnage of that battle
infected the air for two whole months, and bones were seen lying in heaps
upon the field for more than forty years; nay, when ages had past and
gone, the husbandman, turning up the soil, would still find fragments of
Gothic cuirasses and helms, and Moorish scimitars, the relics of that
dreadful fight.
For three days the Arabian horsemen pursued the flying Christians,
hunting them over the face of the country; so that but a scanty number of
that mighty host escaped to tell the tale of their disaster.
Taric ben Zeyad considered his victory incomplete so long as the Gothic
monarch survived; he proclaimed great rewards, therefore, to whomsoever
should bring Roderick to him, dead or alive. A diligent search was
accordingly made in every direction, but for a long time in vain; at
length a soldier brought to Taric the head of a Christian warrior, on
which was a cap decorated with feathers and precious stones. The Arab
leader received it as the head of the unfortunate Roderick, and sent it,
as a trophy of his victory, to Muza ben Nosier, who, in like manner,
transmitted it to the caliph at Damascus. The Spanish historians,
however, have always denied its identity.
A mystery has ever hung, and ever must continue to hang, over the fate
of King Roderick, in that dark and doleful day of Spain. Whether he went
down amidst the storm of battle, and atoned for his sins and errors by a
patriot grave, or whether he survived to repent of them in hermit exile,
must remain matter of conjecture and dispute. The learned Archbishop
Rodrigo, who has recorded the events of this disastrous field, affirms
that Roderick fell beneath the vengeful blade of the traitor Julian, and
thus expiated with his blood his crime against the hapless Florinda; but
the archbishop stands alone in his record of the fact. It seems generally
admitted that Orelia, the favourite war-horse of Don Roderick, was found
entangled in a marsh on the borders of the Guadalete, with the sandals
and mantle and royal insignia of the king lying close by him. The river
at this place ran broad and deep, and was encumbered with the dead bodies
of warriors and steeds; it has been supposed, therefore, that he perished
in the stream; but his body was not found within its waters.
When several years had passed away, and men’s minds, being restored
to some degree of tranquillity, began to occupy themselves about the
events of this dismal day, a rumour arose that Roderick had escaped from
the carnage on the banks of the Guadalete, and was still alive. It was
said, that having from a rising ground caught a view of the whole field
of battle, and seen that the day was lost, and his army flying in all
directions, he likewise sought his safety in flight. It is added, that
the Arab horsemen, while scouring the mountains in quest of fugitives,
found a shepherd arrayed in the royal robes, and brought him before the
conqueror, believing him to be the king himself. Count Julian soon
dispelled the error. On being questioned, the trembling rustic declared,
that while tending his sheep in the folds of the mountains, there came a
cavalier on a horse wearied and spent and ready to sink beneath the spur;
that the cavalier with an authoritative voice and menacing air commanded
him to exchange garments with him, and clad himself in his rude garb of
sheep-skin, and took his crook and his scrip of provisions, and continued
up the rugged defiles of the mountains leading towards Castile, until he
was lost to view.[27]
This tradition was fondly cherished by many, who clung to the belief in
the existence of their monarch as their main hope for the redemption of
Spain. It was even affirmed that he had taken refuge, with many of his
host, in an island of the “Ocean sea,” from whence he might yet return,
once more to elevate his standard, and battle for the recovery of his
throne.
Year after year, however, elapsed, and nothing was heard of Don Roderick;
yet, like Sebastian of Portugal, and Arthur of England, his name
continued to be a rallying point for popular faith, and the mystery of
his end to give rise to romantic fables. At length, when generation after
generation had sunk into the grave, and near two centuries had passed
and gone, traces were said to be discovered that threw a light on the
final fortunes of the unfortunate Roderick. At that time, Don Alphonso
the Great, King of Leon, had wrested the city of Viseo in Lusitania from
the hands of the Moslems. As his soldiers were ranging about the city and
its environs, one of them discovered in a field, outside of the walls,
a small chapel or hermitage, with a sepulchre in front, on which was
inscribed this epitaph in Gothic characters:—
HIC REQUIESCIT RUDERICUS,
ULTIMUS REX GOTHORUM.
Here lies Roderick,
The last king of the Goths.
It has been believed by many that this was the veritable tomb of the
monarch, and that in this hermitage he had finished his days in solitary
penance. The warrior, as he contemplated the supposed tomb of the once
haughty Roderick, forgot all his faults and errors, and shed a soldier’s
tear over his memory; but when his thoughts turned to Count Julian, his
patriotic indignation broke forth, and with his dagger he inscribed a
rude malediction on the stone.
“Accursed,” said he, “be the impious and headlong vengeance of the
traitor Julian. He was a murderer of his king; a destroyer of his
kindred; a betrayer of his country. May his name be bitter in every
mouth, and his memory infamous to all generations.”
Here ends the legend of Don Roderick.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE FOREGOING LEGEND.
THE TOMB OF RODERICK.
The venerable Sebastiano, Bishop of Salamanca, declares that the
inscription on the tomb at Viseo, in Portugal, existed in his time, and
that he had seen it. A particular account of the exile and hermit life
of Roderick is furnished by Berganza, on the authority of Portuguese
chronicles.
Algunos historiadores Portugueses asseguran, que el Rey Rodrigo, perdida
la battalla, huyo a tierra de Merida, y se recogio en el monasterio de
Cauliniano, en donde, arrepentido de sus culpas, procuro confessarlas con
muchas lagrimas. Deseando mas retiro, y escogiendo por compañero a un
monge llamado Roman, y elevando la Imagen de Nazareth, que Cyriaco monge
de nacion griego avra traido de Jerusalem al monasterio de Cauliniano,
se subio á un monte muy aspero, que estaba sobre el mar, junto al lugar
de Pederneyra. Vivio Rodrigo en compania de el monge en el hueco de una
gruta por espacio de un año; despues se passo a la ermita de san Miguel,
que estaba cerca de Viseo, en donde murio y fue sepultado.
Puedese ver esta relacion en las notas de Don Thomas Tamayo sobre Paulo
deacano. El chronicon de san Millan, que llega hasta el año 883, deze
que, hasta su tiempo, si ignora el fin del Rey Rodrigo. Pocos años
despues el Rey Don Alonzo el Magno, aviéndo ganado la ciudad de Viseo,
encontro en una iglesia el epitafio que en romance dize—aqui yaze
Rodrigo, ultimo Rey de los Godos.—Berganza, l. 1. c. 13.
THE CAVE OF HERCULES.
As the story of the necromantic tower is one of the most famous as well
as least credible points in the history of Don Roderick, it may be well
to fortify or buttress it by some account of another marvel of the city
of Toledo. This ancient city, which dates its existence almost from the
time of the flood, claiming as its founder Tubal, the son of Japhet, and
grandson of Noah[28], has been the warrior hold of many generations,
and a strange diversity of races. It bears traces of the artifices and
devices of its various occupants, and is full of mysteries and subjects
for antiquarian conjecture and perplexity. It is built upon a high rocky
promontory, with the Tagus brawling round its base, and is overlooked
by cragged and precipitous hills. These hills abound with clefts and
caverns; and the promontory itself, on which the city is built, bears
traces of vaults and subterraneous habitations, which are occasionally
discovered under the ruins of ancient houses, or beneath the churches and
convents.
These are supposed by some to have been the habitations or retreats
of the primitive inhabitants; for it was the custom of the ancients,
according to Pliny, to make caves in high and rocky places, and live in
them through fear of floods; and such a precaution, says the worthy Don
Pedro de Roxas, in his history of Toledo, was natural enough among the
first Toledans, seeing that they founded their city shortly after the
deluge, while the memory of it was still fresh in their minds.
Some have supposed these secret caves and vaults to have been places of
concealment of the inhabitants and their treasure, during times of war
and violence; or rude temples for the performance of religious ceremonies
in times of persecution. There are not wanting other, and grave writers,
who give them a still darker purpose. In these caves, say they, were
taught the diabolical mysteries of magic; and here were performed those
infernal ceremonies and incantations, horrible in the eyes of God and
man. “History,” says the worthy Don Pedro de Roxas, “is full of accounts
that the magi taught and performed their magic and their superstitious
rites in profound caves and secret places; because, as this art of the
devil was prohibited from the very origin of Christianity, they always
sought for hidden places in which to practise it.” In the time of the
Moors this art, we are told, was publicly taught at their universities,
the same as astronomy, philosophy, and mathematics, and at no place was
it cultivated with more success than at Toledo. Hence this city has ever
been darkly renowned for mystic science; insomuch that the magic art was
called by the French, and by other nations, the Arte Toledana.
Of all the marvels, however, of this ancient, picturesque, romantic, and
necromantic city, none in modern times surpass the cave of Hercules,
if we may take the account of Don Pedro de Roxas for authentic. The
entrance to this cave is within the church of San Gines, situated in
nearly the highest part of the city. The portal is secured by massive
doors, opening within the walls of the church, but which are kept
rigorously closed. The cavern extends under the city and beneath the bed
of the Tagus to the distance of three leagues beyond. It is, in some
places, of rare architecture, built of small stones curiously wrought,
and supported by columns and arches.
In the year 1546 an account of this cavern was given to the archbishop
and cardinal Don Juan Martinez Siliceo, who, desirous of examining it,
ordered the entrance to be cleaned. A number of persons furnished with
provisions, lanterns, and cords, then went in, and having proceeded
about half a league, came to a place where there was a kind of chapel or
temple, having a table or altar, with several statues of bronze in niches
or on pedestals.
While they were regarding this mysterious scene of ancient worship or
incantation, one of the statues fell, with a noise that echoed through
the cavern, and smote the hearts of the adventurers with terror.
Recovering from their alarm they proceeded onward, but were soon again
dismayed by a roaring and rushing sound that increased as they advanced.
It was made by a furious and turbulent stream, the dark waters of which
were too deep and broad and rapid to be crossed. By this time their
hearts were so chilled they could not seek any other passage by which
they might advance; so they turned back and hastened out of the cave. It
was nightfall when they sallied forth, and they were so much affected
by the terror they had undergone, and by the cold and damp air of the
cavern, to which they were the more sensible from its being in the
summer, that all of them fell sick, and several of them died. Whether
the archbishop was encouraged to pursue his research and gratify his
curiosity, the history does not mention.
Alonzo Telles de Meneses, in his history of the world, records, that not
long before his time a boy of Toledo, being threatened with punishment by
his master, fled and took refuge in this cave. Fancying his pursuer at
his heels, he took no heed of the obscurity or coldness of the cave, but
kept groping and blundering forward, until he came forth at three leagues
distance from the city.
Another and very popular story of this cave, current among the common
people, was, that in its remote recesses lay concealed a great treasure
of gold, left there by the Romans. Whoever would reach this precious
hoard must pass through several caves or grottos; each having its
particular terror, and all under the guardianship of a ferocious dog, who
has the key of all the gates, and watches day and night. At the approach
of any one, he shows his teeth, and makes a hideous growling; but no
adventurer after wealth has had courage to brave a contest with this
terrific cerberus.
The most intrepid candidate on record was a poor man who had lost his
all, and had those grand incentives to desperate enterprise, a wife and
a large family of children. Hearing the story of this cave, he determined
to venture alone in search of the treasure. He accordingly entered, and
wandered many hours, bewildered, about the cave. Often would he have
returned, but the thoughts of his wife and children urged him on. At
length he arrived near to the place where he supposed the treasure lay
hidden; but here, to his dismay, he beheld the floor of the cavern strown
with human bones; doubtless the remains of adventurers like himself, who
had been torn to pieces.
Losing all courage, he now turned and sought his way out of the cave.
Horrors thickened upon him as he fled. He beheld direful phantoms glaring
and gibbering around him, and heard the sound of pursuit in the echoes of
his footsteps. He reached his home overcome with affright; several hours
elapsed before he could recover speech to tell his story, and he died on
the following day.
The judicious Don Pedro de Roxas holds the account of the buried treasure
for fabulous, but the adventure of this unlucky man for very possible;
being led on by avarice, or rather the hope of retrieving a desperate
fortune. He, moreover, pronounces his dying, shortly after coming forth,
as very probable; because the darkness of the cave, its coldness, the
fright at finding the bones, the dread of meeting the imaginary dog, all
joining to operate upon a man who was past the prime of his days, and
enfeebled by poverty and scanty food, might easily cause his death.
Many have considered this cave as intended originally for a sally or
retreat from the city in case it should be taken; an opinion rendered
probable, it is thought, by its grandeur and great extent.
The learned Salazar de Mendoza, however, in his history of the grand
cardinal of Spain, affirms it as an established fact, that it was first
wrought out of the rock by Tubal, the son of Japhet, and grandson of
Noah; and afterwards repaired and greatly augmented by Hercules the
Egyptian, who made it his habitation after he had erected his pillars
at the straits of Gibraltar. Here, too, it is said, he read magic to
his followers, and taught them those supernatural arts by which he
accomplished his vast achievements. Others think that it was a temple
dedicated to Hercules; as was the case, according to Pomponius Mela,
with the great cave in the rock of Gibraltar; certain it is, that it has
always borne the name of “The Cave of Hercules.”
There are not wanting some who have insinuated that it was a work dating
from the time of the Romans, and intended as a cloaca or sewer of the
city; but such a grovelling insinuation will be treated with proper scorn
by the reader, after the nobler purposes to which he has heard this
marvellous cavern consecrated.
From all the circumstances here adduced from learned and reverend
authors, it will be perceived that Toledo is a city fruitful of marvels,
and that the necromantic tower of Hercules has more solid foundation than
most edifices of similar import in ancient history.
The writer of these pages will venture to add the result of his personal
researches respecting the far famed cavern in question. Rambling about
Toledo in the year 1826, in company with a small knot of antiquity
hunters, among whom was an eminent British painter[29], and an English
nobleman[30], who has since distinguished himself in Spanish historical
research, we directed our steps to the church of San Gines, and inquired
for the portal of the secret cavern. The sacristan was a voluble and
communicative man, and one not likely to be niggard of his tongue about
any thing he knew, or slow to boast of any marvel pertaining to his
church; but he professed utter ignorance of the existence of any such
portal. He remembered to have heard, however, that immediately under the
entrance to the church there was an arch of mason work, apparently the
upper part of some subterranean portal; but that all had been covered up,
and a pavement laid down thereon; so that whether it led to the magic
cave or the necromantic tower remains a mystery, and so must remain until
some monarch or archbishop shall again have courage and authority to
break the spell.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Many of the facts in this legend are taken from an old chronicle,
written in quaint and antiquated Spanish, and professing to be a
translation from the Arabian chronicle of the Moor Rasis, by Mohammed,
a Moslem writer, and Gil Parez, a Spanish priest. It is supposed to be
a piece of literary mosaic work, made up from both Spanish and Arabian
chronicles: yet from this work most of the Spanish historians have drawn
their particulars relative to the fortunes of Don Roderick.
[2] Florian de Ocampo, lib. iii. c. 12. Justin Abrev. Trog. Pomp. lib.
xliv. Bleda. Cronica, lib. ii. c. 3.
[3] Chron. de Luitprando, 709. Abarca Anales de Aragon (el Mahometismo,
fol. 5.)
[4] Mariana, Hist. Esp. lib. vi. c. 21.
[5] Perdida de España por Abulcacim Tarif Abentarique, lib. i.
[6] Lope de Vega.
[7] By some she is called Zara.
[8] “Como esta Infanta era muy hermosa, y el Rey [Don Rodrigo] dispuesta
y gentil hombre, entro por medio el amor y aficion, y junto con el
regalo con que la avia mandado hospedar y servir ful causa que el
rey persuadio esta Infanta, que si se tornava a su ley de Christiano
la tomaria por muger, y que la haria señora de sus Reynos. Con esta
persuasion ella fue contenta, y aviendose vuelto Christiana, se caso con
ella, y se celebraron sus bodas con muchas fiestas y regozijos, como era
razon.”—_Abulcasim_, _Conq’st de Espan_, cap. 3.
[9] Condes Espatorios; so called from the drawn swords of ample size and
breadth, with which they kept guard in the antechambers of the Gothic
kings. Comes Spathariorum, custodum corporis Regis Profectus. Hunc et
Propospatharium appellatum existimo.—_Patr. Pant. de Offic. Goth._
[10] Perdida de España por Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique, lib. i. c. 6.
Cronica del Rey Don Rodrigo por el moro Rasis, lib. i. c. 1. Bleda, Cron.
cap. vii.
[11] From the minute account of the good friar, drawn from the ancient
chronicles, it would appear that the walls of the tower were pictured in
mosaic work.
[12] Bleda, Cronica, cap. 7.
[13] Bleda, Cronica, cap. 7.
[14] Bleda, cap. 5.
[15] Bleda, cap. 4.
[16] Beuter, Cron. Gen. de España, lib. i. c. 28. Marmol. Descrip. de
Africa, lib. ii. c. 10.
[17] Bleda, Cron. c. 5.
[18] Conde, Hist. Dom. Arab. part. i. c. 8.
[19] Conde, part i. c. 8.
[20] Perdida de España, por Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique, lib. i. c. 7.
[21] Conde, part i. c. 9.
[22] La Perdida de España, cap. 9. Bleda, lib. ii. c. 8.
[23] This name was given to it subsequently by the Arabs. It signifies
the River of Death. Vide Pedruza, Hist. Granad. p. 3. c. 1.
[24] Bleda, Cronica.
[25] Eutrand. Chron. an. Christ. 714.
[26] This battle is called indiscriminately by historians the battle of
Guadalete, or Xeres, from the neighbourhood of that city.
[27] Bleda, Cron. lib. ii. c. 9. Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique, lib. i. c.
10.
[28] Salazar, Hist. Gran. Cardinal. Prologo, vol. i. plan i.
[29] Mr. D. W—kie.
[30] Lord Mah—n.
LEGEND OF THE SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN.
LEGEND OF THE SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN.[31]
CHAPTER I.
CONSTERNATION OF SPAIN.—CONDUCT OF THE CONQUERORS.—MISSIVES BETWEEN TARIC
AND MUZA.
The overthrow of King Roderick and his army on the banks of the
Guadalete, threw open all southern Spain to the inroads of the moslems.
The whole country fled before them; villages and hamlets were hastily
abandoned; the inhabitants placed their aged and infirm, their wives and
children, and their most precious effects, on mules and other beasts of
burden, and, driving before them their flocks and herds, made for distant
parts of the land; for the fastnesses of the mountains, and for such of
the cities as yet possessed walls and bulwarks. Many gave out, faint
and weary, by the way, and fell into the hands of the enemy; others, at
the distant sight of a turban or a Moslem standard, or on hearing the
clangour of a trumpet, abandoned their flocks and herds, and hastened
their flight with their families. If their pursuers gained upon them,
they threw by their household goods and whatever was of burden, and
thought themselves fortunate to escape, naked and destitute, to a place
of refuge. Thus the roads were covered with scattered flocks and herds,
and with spoil of all kind.
The Arabs, however, were not guilty of wanton cruelty or ravage; on
the contrary, they conducted themselves with a moderation but seldom
witnessed in more civilised conquerors. Taric el Tuerto, though a
thorough man of the sword, and one whose whole thoughts were warlike,
yet evinced wonderful judgment and discretion. He checked the predatory
habits of his troops with a rigorous hand. They were forbidden, under
pain of severe punishment, to molest any peaceable and unfortified towns,
or any unarmed and unresisting people who remained quiet in their homes.
No spoil was permitted to be made excepting in fields of battle, in camps
of routed foes, or in cities taken by the sword.
Taric had little need to exercise his severity; his orders were obeyed
through love, rather than fear, for he was the idol of his soldiery. They
admired his restless and daring spirit, which nothing could dismay. His
gaunt and sinewy form, his fiery eye, his visage seamed with scars, were
suited to the hardihood of his deeds; and when mounted on his foaming
steed, careering the field of battle with quivering lance or flashing
scimitar, his Arabs would greet him with shouts of enthusiasm. But what
endeared him to them more than all was his soldier-like contempt of
gain. Conquest was his only passion; glory the only reward he coveted. As
to the spoil of the conquered, he shared it freely among his followers,
and squandered his own portion with open-handed generosity.
While Taric was pushing his triumphant course through Andalusia, tidings
of his stupendous victory on the banks of the Guadalete were carried to
Muza ben Nozier. Messengers after messengers arrived, vying who should
most extol the achievements of the conqueror and the grandeur of the
conquest. “Taric,” said they, “has overthrown the whole force of the
unbelievers in one mighty battle. Their king is slain; thousands and tens
of thousands of their warriors are destroyed; the whole land lies at our
mercy; and city after city is surrendering to the victorious arms of
Taric.”
The heart of Muza ben Nozier sickened at these tidings, and, instead
of rejoicing at the success of the cause of Islam, he trembled with
jealous fear lest the triumphs of Taric in Spain should eclipse his
own victories in Africa. He despatched missives to the Caliph Waled
Almanzor, informing him of these new conquests, but taking the whole
glory to himself, and making no mention of the services of Taric; or, at
least, only mentioning him incidentally as a subordinate commander. “The
battles,” said he, “have been terrible as the day of judgment; but, by
the aid of Allah, we have gained the victory.”
He then prepared in all haste to cross over into Spain and assume the
command of the conquering army; and he wrote a letter in advance to
interrupt Taric in the midst of his career. “Wherever this letter may
find thee,” said he, “I charge thee halt with thy army and await my
coming. Thy force is inadequate to the subjugation of the land, and
by rashly venturing, thou mayst lose every thing. I will be with thee
speedily, with a reinforcement of troops competent to so great an
enterprise.”
The letter overtook the veteran Taric while in the full glow of
triumphant success; having overrun some of the richest part of
Andalusia, and just received the surrender of the city of Ecija. As he
read the letter, the blood mantled in his sunburnt cheek and fire kindled
in his eye; for he penetrated the motives of Muza. He suppressed his
wrath, however, and turning with a bitter expression of forced composure
to his captains, “Unsaddle your steeds,” said he, “and plant your lances
in the earth; set up your tents and take your repose: for we must await
the coming of the Wali with a mighty force to assist us in our conquest.”
The Arab warriors broke forth with loud murmurs at these words: “What
need have we of aid,” cried they, “when the whole country is flying
before us; and what better commander can we have than Taric to lead us on
to victory?”
Count Julian also, who was present, now hastened to give his traitorous
counsel.
“Why pause,” cried he, “at this precious moment? The great army of the
Goths is vanquished, and their nobles are slaughtered or dispersed.
Follow up your blow before the land can recover from its panic. Overrun
the provinces, seize upon the cities, make yourself master of the
capital, and your conquest is complete.”[32]
The advice of Julian was applauded by all the Arab chieftains, who were
impatient of any interruption in their career of conquest. Taric was
easily persuaded to what was the wish of his heart. Disregarding the
letter of Muza, therefore, he prepared to pursue his victories. For this
purpose he ordered a review of his troops on the plain of Ecija. Some
were mounted on steeds which they had brought from Africa; the rest he
supplied with horses taken from the Christians. He repeated his general
orders, that they should inflict no wanton injury, nor plunder any
place that offered no resistance. They were forbidden also to encumber
themselves with booty, or even with provisions; but were to scour the
country with all speed, and seize upon all its fortresses and strongholds.
He then divided his host into three several armies. One he placed under
the command of the Greek renegado, Magued el Rumi, a man of desperate
courage; and sent it against the ancient city of Cordova. Another was
sent against the city of Malaga, and was led by Zayd ben Kesadi, aided by
the Bishop Oppas. The third was led by Taric himself, and with this he
determined to make a wide sweep through the kingdom.[33]
CHAPTER II.
CAPTURE OF GRANADA.—SUBJUGATION OF THE ALPUXARRA MOUNTAINS.
The terror of the arms of Taric ben Zeyad went before him; and, at the
same time, the report of his lenity to those who submitted without
resistance. Wherever he appeared the towns, for the most part, sent forth
some of their principal inhabitants to proffer a surrender; for they
were destitute of fortifications, and their fighting men had perished in
battle. They were all received into allegiance to the caliph, and were
protected from pillage or molestation.
After marching some distance through the country, he entered one day
a vast and beautiful plain, interspersed with villages, adorned with
groves and gardens, watered by winding rivers, and surrounded by lofty
mountains. It was the famous vega, or plain of Granada, destined to be
for ages the favourite abode of the Moslems. When the Arab conquerors
beheld this delicious vega, they were lost in admiration; for it seemed
as if the prophet had given them a paradise on earth, as a reward for
their services in his cause.
Taric approached the city of Granada, which had a formidable aspect,
seated on lofty hills and fortified with Gothic walls and towers, and
with the red castle or citadel, built in times of old by the Phœnicians
or the Romans. As the Arab chieftain eyed the place, he was pleased with
its stern warrior look, contrasting with the smiling beauty of its vega,
and the freshness and voluptuous abundance of its hills and valleys. He
pitched his tents before its walls, and made preparations to attack it
with all his force.
The city, however, bore but the semblance of power. The flower of its
youth had perished in the battle of the Guadalete; many of the principal
inhabitants had fled to the mountains, and few remained in the city
excepting old men, women, and children, and a number of Jews, which last
were well disposed to take part with the conquerors. The city, therefore,
readily capitulated, and was received into vassalage on favourable terms.
The inhabitants were to retain their property, their laws, and their
religion; their churches and priests were to be respected; and no other
tribute was required of them than such as they had been accustomed to pay
to their Gothic kings.
On taking possession of Granada, Taric garrisoned the towers and castles,
and left as alcayde, or governor, a chosen warrior named Betiz Aben
Habuz, a native of Arabia Felix, who had distinguished himself by his
valour and abilities. This alcayde subsequently made himself king of
Granada, and built a palace on one of its hills; the remains of which may
be seen at the present day.[34]
Even the delights of Granada had no power to detain the active and ardent
Taric. To the east of the city he beheld a lofty chain of mountains,
towering to the sky, and crowned with shining snow. These were the
“Mountains of the Sun and Air;” and the perpetual snows on their summits
gave birth to streams that fertilised the plains. In their bosoms, shut
up among cliffs and precipices, were many small valleys of great beauty
and abundance. The inhabitants were a bold and hardy race, who looked
upon their mountains as everlasting fortresses that could never be taken.
The inhabitants of the surrounding country had fled to these natural
fastnesses for refuge, and driven thither their flocks and herds.
Taric felt that the dominion he had acquired of the plains would be
insecure until he had penetrated and subdued these haughty mountains.
Leaving Aben Habuz, therefore, in command of Granada, he marched with
his army across the vega, and entered the folds of the sierra, which
stretch towards the south. The inhabitants fled with affright on
hearing the Moorish trumpets, or beholding the approach of the turbaned
horsemen, and plunged deeper into the recesses of their mountains. As
the army advanced, the roads became more and more rugged and difficult;
sometimes climbing great rocky heights, and at other times descending
abruptly into deep ravines, the beds of winter torrents. The mountains
were strangely wild and sterile; broken into cliffs and precipices of
variegated marble. At their feet were little valleys enamelled with
groves and gardens, interlaced with silver streams, and studded with
villages and hamlets; but all deserted by their inhabitants. No one
appeared to dispute the inroad of the Moslems, who continued their march
with increasing confidence, their pennons fluttering from rock and
cliff, and the valleys echoing to the din of trumpet, drum, and cymbal.
At length they came to a defile where the mountains seemed to have been
rent asunder to make way for a foaming torrent. The narrow and broken
road wound along the dizzy edge of precipices, until it came to where a
bridge was thrown across the chasm. It was a fearful and gloomy pass;
great beetling cliffs overhung the road, and the torrent roared below.
This awful defile has ever been famous in the warlike history of those
mountains, by the name, in former times, of the Barranco de Tocos, and at
present of the bridge of Tablete. The Saracen army entered fearlessly
into the pass; a part had already crossed the bridge, and was slowly
toiling up the rugged road on the opposite side, when great shouts
arose, and every cliff appeared suddenly peopled with furious foes.
In an instant a deluge of missiles of every sort was rained upon the
astonished Moslems. Darts, arrows, javelins, and stones, came whistling
down, singling out the most conspicuous cavaliers; and at times great
masses of rock, bounding and thundering along the mountain side, crushed
whole ranks at once, or hurled horses and riders over the edge of the
precipices.
It was in vain to attempt to brave this mountain warfare. The enemy were
beyond the reach of missiles, and safe from pursuit; and the horses of
the Arabs were here an incumbrance rather than an aid. The trumpets
sounded a retreat, and the army retired in tumult and confusion, harassed
by the enemy until extricated from the defile. Taric, who had beheld
cities and castles surrendering without a blow, was enraged at being
braved by a mere horde of mountain boors, and made another attempt to
penetrate the mountains, but was again waylaid and opposed with horrible
slaughter.
The fiery son of Ishmael foamed with rage at being thus checked in his
career and foiled in his revenge. He was on the point of abandoning the
attempt, and returning to the vega, when a Christian boor sought his
camp, and was admitted to his presence. The miserable wretch possessed a
cabin and a little patch of ground among the mountains, and offered, if
these should be protected from ravage, to inform the Arab commander of a
way by which troops of horse might be safely introduced into the bosom of
the sierra, and the whole subdued. The name of this caitiff was Fandino,
and it deserves to be perpetually recorded with ignominy. His case is an
instance how much it is in the power, at times, of the most insignificant
being to do mischief, and how all the valour of the magnanimous and the
brave may be defeated by the treason of the selfish and the despicable.
Instructed by this traitor, the Arab commander caused ten thousand foot
soldiers and four thousand horsemen, commanded by a valiant captain,
named Ibrahim Albuxarra, to be conveyed by sea to the little port of
Adra, at the Mediterranean foot of the mountains. Here they landed, and,
guided by the traitor, penetrated to the heart of the sierra, laying
every thing waste. The brave mountaineers, thus hemmed in between two
armies, destitute of fortresses and without hope of succour, were obliged
to capitulate; but their valour was not without avail, for never, even
in Spain, did vanquished people surrender on prouder or more honourable
terms. We have named the wretch who betrayed his native mountains: let
us equally record the name of him whose pious patriotism saved them from
desolation. It was the reverend Bishop Centerio. While the warriors
rested on their arms in grim and menacing tranquillity among the cliffs,
this venerable prelate descended to the Arab tents in the valley, to
conduct the capitulation. In stipulating for the safety of his people, he
did not forget that they were brave men, and that they still had weapons
in their hands. He obtained conditions accordingly. It was agreed that
they should be permitted to retain their houses, lands, and personal
effects; that they should be unmolested in their religion, and their
temples and priests respected; and that they should pay no other tribute
than such as they had been accustomed to render to their kings. Should
they prefer to leave the country and remove to any part of Christendom,
they were to be allowed to sell their possessions; and to take with them
the money, and all their other effects.[35]
Ibrahim Albuxarra remained in command of the territory, and the whole
sierra, or chain of mountains, took his name, which has since been
slightly corrupted into that of the Alpuxarras. The subjugation of
this rugged region, however, was for a long time incomplete; many of
the Christians maintained a wild and hostile independence, living in
green glens and scanty valleys among the heights; and the sierra of the
Alpuxarras has, in all ages, been one of the most difficult parts of
Andalusia to be subdued.
CHAPTER III.
EXPEDITION OF MAGUED AGAINST CORDOVA.—DEFENCE OF THE PATRIOT PELISTES.
While the veteran Taric was making this wide circuit through the land,
the expedition under Magued the renegado proceeded against the city of
Cordova. The inhabitants of that ancient place had beheld the great
army of Don Roderick spreading like an inundation over the plain of the
Guadalquivir, and had felt confident that it must sweep the infidel
invaders from the land. What then was their dismay, when scattered
fugitives, wild with horror and affright, brought them tidings of the
entire overthrow of that mighty host, and the disappearance of the
king! In the midst of their consternation, the Gothic noble, Pelistes,
arrived at their gates, haggard with fatigue of body and anguish of mind,
and leading a remnant of his devoted cavaliers, who had survived the
dreadful battle of the Guadalete. The people of Cordova knew the valiant
and steadfast spirit of Pelistes, and rallied round him as a last hope.
“Roderick is fallen,” cried they, “and we have neither king nor captain:
be unto us as a sovereign; take command of our city, and protect us in
this hour of peril!”
The heart of Pelistes was free from ambition, and was too much broken by
grief to be flattered by the offer of command; but he felt above every
thing for the woes of his country, and was ready to assume any desperate
service in her cause. “Your city,” said he, “is surrounded by walls and
towers, and may yet check the progress of the foe. Promise to stand by
me to the last, and I will undertake your defence.” The inhabitants all
promised implicit obedience and devoted zeal: for what will not the
inhabitants of a wealthy city promise and profess in a moment of alarm?
The instant, however, that they heard of the approach of the Moslem
troops, the wealthier citizens packed up their effects and fled to the
mountains, or to the distant city of Toledo. Even the monks collected
the riches of their convents and churches, and fled. Pelistes, though
he saw himself thus deserted by those who had the greatest interest in
the safety of the city, yet determined not to abandon its defence. He
had still his faithful though scanty band of cavaliers, and a number of
fugitives of the army; in all amounting to about four hundred men. He
stationed guards, therefore, at the gates and in the towers, and made
every preparation for a desperate resistance.
In the mean time, the army of Moslems and apostate Christians advanced,
under the command of the Greek renegado, Magued, and guided by the
traitor Julian. While they were yet at some distance from the city, their
scouts brought to them a shepherd, whom they had surprised on the banks
of the Guadalquivir. The trembling hind was an inhabitant of Cordova, and
revealed to them the state of the place, and the weakness of its garrison.
“And the walls and gates,” said Magued, “are they strong and well
guarded?”
“The walls are high, and of wondrous strength,” replied the shepherd;
“and soldiers hold watch at the gates by day and night. But there is one
place where the city may be secretly entered. In a part of the wall, not
far from the bridge, the battlements are broken, and there is a breach
at some height from the ground. Hard by stands a fig tree, by the aid of
which the wall may easily be scaled.”
Having received this information, Magued halted with his army, and sent
forward several renegado Christians, partisans of Count Julian, who
entered Cordova as if flying before the enemy. On a dark and tempestuous
night, the Moslems approached to the end of the bridge which crosses the
Guadalquivir, and remained in ambush. Magued took a small party of chosen
men, and, guided by the shepherd, forded the stream, and groped silently
along the wall to the place where stood the fig tree. The traitors,
who had fraudulently entered the city, were ready on the wall to render
assistance. Magued ordered his followers to make use of the long folds
of their turbans instead of cords, and succeeded without difficulty in
clambering into the breach.
Drawing their scimitars, they now hastened to the gate which opened
towards the bridge; the guards, suspecting no assault from within, were
taken by surprise, and easily overpowered; the gate was thrown open, and
the army that had remained in ambush rushed over the bridge, and entered
without opposition.
The alarm had by this time spread throughout the city; but already a
torrent of armed men was pouring through the streets. Pelistes sallied
forth with his cavaliers and such of the soldiery as he could collect,
and endeavoured to repel the foe; but every effort was in vain. The
Christians were slowly driven from street to street, and square to
square, disputing every inch of ground; until, finding another body of
the enemy approaching to attack them in rear, they took refuge in a
convent, and succeeded in throwing to and barring the ponderous doors.
The Moors attempted to force the gates, but were assailed with such
showers of missiles from the windows and battlements that they were
obliged to retire. Pelistes examined the convent, and found it admirably
calculated for defence. It was of great extent, with spacious courts and
cloisters. The gates were massive, and secured with bolts and bars; the
walls were of great thickness; the windows high and grated; there was a
great tank or cistern of water, and the friars, who had fled from the
city, had left behind a good supply of provisions. Here, then, Pelistes
proposed to make a stand, and to endeavour to hold out until succour
should arrive from some other city. His proposition was received with
shouts by his loyal cavaliers; not one of whom but was ready to lay down
his life in the service of his commander.
CHAPTER IV.
DEFENCE OF THE CONVENT OF ST. GEORGE BY PELISTES.
For three long and anxious months did the good knight Pelistes and his
cavaliers defend their sacred asylum against the repeated assaults of
the infidels. The standard of the true faith was constantly displayed
from the loftiest tower, and a fire blazed there throughout the night,
as signals of distress to the surrounding country. The watchman from
his turret kept a wary look out over the land, hoping in every cloud of
dust to descry the glittering helms of Christian warriors. The country,
however, was forlorn and abandoned, or if perchance a human being
was perceived, it was some Arab horseman, careering the plain of the
Guadalquivir as fearlessly as if it were his native desert.
By degrees the provisions of the convent were consumed, and the
cavaliers had to slay their horses, one by one, for food. They suffered
the wasting miseries of famine without a murmur, and always met their
commander with a smile. Pelistes, however, read their sufferings in their
wan and emaciated countenances, and felt more for them than for himself.
He was grieved at heart that such loyalty and valour should only lead to
slavery or death, and resolved to make one desperate attempt for their
deliverance. Assembling them one day in the court of the convent, he
disclosed to them his purpose.
“Comrades and brothers in arms,” said he, “it is needless to conceal
danger from brave men. Our case is desperate: our countrymen either know
not or heed not our situation, or have not the means to help us. There
is but one chance of escape; it is full of peril, and, as your leader,
I claim the right to brave it. To-morrow at break of day I will sally
forth and make for the city gates at the moment of their being opened; no
one will suspect a solitary horseman; I shall be taken for one of those
recreant Christians who have basely mingled with the enemy. If I succeed
in getting out of the city, I will hasten to Toledo for assistance. In
all events I shall be back in less than twenty days. Keep a vigilant look
out toward the nearest mountain. If you behold five lights blazing upon
its summit, be assured I am at hand with succour, and prepare yourselves
to sally forth upon the city as I attack the gates. Should I fail in
obtaining aid, I will return to die with you.”
When he had finished, his warriors would fain have severally undertaken
the enterprise, and they remonstrated against his exposing himself
to such peril; but he was not to be shaken from his purpose. On the
following morning, ere the break of day, his horse was led forth,
caparisoned, into the court of the convent, and Pelistes appeared in
complete armour. Assembling his cavaliers in the chapel, he prayed with
them for some time before the altar of the holy Virgin. Then rising, and
standing in the midst of them, “God knows, my companions,” said he,
“whether we have any longer a country; if not, better were we in our
graves. Loyal and true have ye been to me, and loyal have ye been to my
son, even to the hour of his death; and grieved am I that I have no other
means of proving my love for you, than by adventuring my worthless life
for your deliverance. All I ask of you before I go, is a solemn promise
to defend yourselves to the last like brave men and Christian cavaliers,
and never to renounce your faith, or throw yourselves on the mercy of the
renegado Magued, or the traitor Julian.” They all pledged their words,
and took a solemn oath to the same effect before the altar.
Pelistes then embraced them one by one, and gave them his benediction,
and as he did so his heart yearned over them, for he felt towards them,
not merely as a companion in arms and as a commander, but as a father;
and he took leave of them as if he had been going to his death. The
warriors, on their part, crowded round him in silence, kissing his hands
and the hem of his surcoat, and many of the sternest shed tears.
The grey of the dawning had just streaked the east, when Pelistes took
lance in hand, hung his shield about his neck, and, mounting his steed,
issued quietly forth from a postern of the convent. He paced slowly
through the vacant streets, and the tramp of his steed echoed afar in
that silent hour; but no one suspected a warrior, moving thus singly
and tranquilly in an armed city, to be an enemy. He arrived at the gate
just at the hour of opening; a foraging party was entering with cattle
and with beasts of burthen, and he passed unheeded through the throng.
As soon as he was out of sight of the soldiers who guarded the gate, he
quickened his pace, and at length, galloping at full speed, succeeded
in gaining the mountains. Here he paused, and alighted at a solitary
farm-house to breathe his panting steed; but had scarce put foot to
ground when he heard the distant sound of pursuit, and beheld a horseman
spurring up the mountain.
Throwing himself again upon his steed, he abandoned the road and galloped
across the rugged heights. The deep dry channel of a torrent checked
his career, and his horse, stumbling upon the margin, rolled with his
rider to the bottom. Pelistes was sorely bruised by the fall, and his
whole visage was bathed in blood. His horse, too, was maimed and unable
to stand, so that there was no hope of escape. The enemy drew near, and
proved to be no other than Magued the renegado general, who had perceived
him as he issued forth from the city, and had followed singly in pursuit.
“Well met, señor alcayde!” exclaimed he, “and overtaken in good time.
Surrender yourself my prisoner.”
Pelistes made no other reply than by drawing his sword, bracing his
shield, and preparing for defence. Magued, though an apostate, and a
fierce warrior, possessed some sparks of knightly magnanimity. Seeing
his adversary dismounted, he disdained to take him at a disadvantage,
but, alighting, tied his horse to a tree.
The conflict that ensued was desperate and doubtful, for seldom had two
warriors met so well matched or of equal prowess. Their shields were
hacked to pieces, the ground was strewed with fragments of their armour,
and stained with their blood. They paused repeatedly to take breath;
regarding each other with wonder and admiration. Pelistes, however, had
been previously injured by his fall, and fought to great disadvantage.
The renegado perceived it, and sought not to slay him, but to take him
alive. Shifting his ground continually, he wearied his antagonist, who
was growing weaker and weaker from the loss of blood. At length Pelistes
seemed to summon up all his remaining strength to make a signal blow;
it was skilfully parried, and he fell prostrate upon the ground. The
renegado ran up, and, putting his foot upon his sword, and the point
of his scimitar to his throat, called upon him to ask his life; but
Pelistes lay without sense, and as one dead. Magued then unlaced the
helmet of his vanquished enemy, and seated himself on a rock beside him,
to recover breath. In this situation the warriors were found by certain
Moorish cavaliers, who marvelled much at the traces of that stern and
bloody combat.
Finding there was yet life in the Christian knight, they laid him upon
one of their horses, and, aiding Magued to remount his steed, proceeded
slowly to the city. As the convoy passed by the convent, the cavaliers
looked forth and beheld their commander borne along bleeding and a
captive. Furious at the sight, they sallied forth to the rescue, but
were repulsed by a superior force, and driven back to the great portal
of the church. The enemy entered pell-mell with them, fighting from
aisle to aisle, from altar to altar, and in the courts and cloisters
of the convent. The greater part of the cavaliers died bravely, sword
in hand; the rest were disabled with wounds and made prisoners. The
convent, which was lately their castle, was now made their prison, and in
after-times, in commemoration of this event, was consecrated by the name
of St. George of the Captives.
CHAPTER V.
MEETING BETWEEN THE PATRIOT PELISTES AND THE TRAITOR JULIAN.
The loyalty and prowess of the good knight Pelistes had gained him the
reverence even of his enemies. He was for a long time disabled by his
wounds, during which he was kindly treated by the Arab chieftains, who
strove by every courteous means to cheer his sadness and make him forget
that he was a captive. When he was recovered from his wounds they gave
him a magnificent banquet, to testify their admiration of his virtues.
Pelistes appeared at the banquet clad in sable armour, and with a
countenance pale and dejected; for the ills of his country evermore
preyed upon his heart. Among the assembled guests was Count Julian, who
held a high command in the Moslem army, and was arrayed in garments of
mingled Christian and Morisco fashion. Pelistes had been a close and
bosom friend of Julian in former times, and had served with him in the
wars in Africa; but when the Count advanced to accost him with his wonted
amity, he turned away in silence and deigned not to notice him; neither,
during the whole of the repast, did he address to him ever a word, but
treated him as one unknown.
When the banquet was nearly at a close, the discourse turned upon the
events of the war; and the Moslem chieftains, in great courtesy, dwelt
upon the merits of many of the Christian cavaliers who had fallen in
battle, and all extolled the valour of those who had recently perished
in the defence of the convent. Pelistes remained silent for a time, and
checked the grief which swelled within his bosom as he thought of his
devoted cavaliers. At length, lifting up his voice, “Happy are the dead,”
said he, “for they rest in peace, and are gone to receive the reward of
their piety and valour! I could mourn over the loss of my companions in
arms, but they have fallen with honour, and are spared the wretchedness I
feel in witnessing the thraldom of my country. I have seen my only son,
the pride and hope of my age, cut down at my side; I have beheld kindred
friends and followers falling one by one around me, and have become so
seasoned to those losses that I have ceased to weep. Yet there is one man
over whose loss I will never cease to grieve. He was the loved companion
of my youth, and the steadfast associate of my graver years. He was one
of the most loyal of Christian knights. As a friend he was loving and
sincere; as a warrior his achievements were above all praise. What has
become of him, alas! I know not. If fallen in battle, and I knew where
his bones were laid, whether bleaching on the plains of Xeres, or buried
in the waters of the Guadalete, I would seek them out and enshrine them
as the relics of a sainted patriot. Or if, like many of his companions in
arms, he should be driven to wander in foreign lands, I would join him
in his hapless exile, and we would mourn together over the desolation of
our country!”
Even the hearts of the Arab warriors were touched by the lament of the
good Pelistes, and they said—“Who was this peerless friend, in whose
praise thou art so fervent?”
“His name,” replied Pelistes, “was Count Julian.”
The Moslem warriors stared with surprise. “Noble cavalier,” exclaimed
they, “has grief disordered thy senses? Behold thy friend living, and
standing before thee, and yet thou dost not know him! This, this is Count
Julian!”
Upon this, Pelistes turned his eyes upon the count, and regarded him for
a time, with a lofty and stern demeanour; and the countenance of Julian
darkened, and was troubled, and his eye sank beneath the regard of that
loyal and honourable cavalier. And Pelistes said, “In the name of God, I
charge thee, man unknown! to answer. Dost thou presume to call thyself
Count Julian?”
The count reddened with anger at these words. “Pelistes,” said he, “what
means this mockery? Thou knowest me well; thou knowest me for Count
Julian?”
“I know thee for a base impostor!” cried Pelistes. “Count Julian was a
noble Gothic knight; but thou appearest in mongrel Moorish garb. Count
Julian was a Christian, faithful and devout; but I behold in thee a
renegado and an infidel. Count Julian was ever loyal to his king, and
foremost in his country’s cause: were he living, he would be the first
to put shield on neck and lance in rest, to clear the land of her
invaders:—but thou art a hoary traitor! thy hands are stained with the
royal blood of the Goths, and thou hast betrayed thy country and thy
God. Therefore, I again repeat, man unknown! if thou sayest thou art
Count Julian, thou liest! My friend, alas! is dead; and thou art some
fiend from hell, which has taken possession of his body to dishonour
his memory and render him an abhorrence among men!” So saying, Pelistes
turned his back upon the traitor, and went forth from the banquet;
leaving Count Julian overwhelmed with confusion, and an object of scorn
to all the Moslem cavaliers.
CHAPTER VI.
HOW TARIC EL TUERTO CAPTURED THE CITY OF TOLEDO THROUGH THE AID OF THE
JEWS, AND HOW HE FOUND THE FAMOUS TALISMANIC TABLE OF SOLOMON.
While these events were passing in Cordova, the one-eyed Arab general,
Taric el Tuerto, having subdued the city and vega of Granada, and the
Mountains of the Sun and Air, directed his march into the interior of
the kingdom to attack the ancient city of Toledo, the capital of the
Gothic kings. So great was the terror caused by the rapid conquests of
the invaders, that, at the very rumour of their approach, many of the
inhabitants, though thus in the very citadel of the kingdom, abandoned it
and fled to the mountains with their families. Enough remained, however,
to have made a formidable defence; and, as the city was seated on a lofty
rock, surrounded by massive walls and towers, and almost girdled by
the Tagus, it threatened a long resistance. The Arab warriors pitched
their tents in the vega, on the borders of the river, and prepared for a
tedious siege.
One evening, as Taric was seated in his tent meditating on the mode in
which he should assail this rock-built city, certain of the patroles of
the camp brought a stranger before him. “As we were going our rounds,”
said they, “we beheld this man lowered down with cords from a tower,
and he delivered himself into our hands, praying to be conducted to thy
presence, that he might reveal to thee certain things important for thee
to know.”
Taric fixed his eyes upon the stranger: he was a Jewish rabbi, with a
long beard which spread upon his gabardine, and descended even to his
girdle. “What hast thou to reveal?” said he to the Israelite. “What I
have to reveal,” replied the other, “is for thee alone to hear: command
then, I entreat thee, that these men withdraw.” When they were alone
he addressed Taric in Arabic: “Know, O leader of the host of Islam,”
said he, “that I am sent to thee on the part of the children of Israel
resident in Toledo. We have been oppressed and insulted by the Christians
in the time of their prosperity, and now that they are threatened with
siege, they have taken from us all our provisions and our money; they
have compelled us to work like slaves, repairing their walls; and they
oblige us to bear arms and guard a part of the towers. We abhor their
yoke, and are ready, if thou wilt receive us as subjects, and permit
us the free enjoyment of our religion and our property, to deliver the
towers we guard into thy hands, and to give thee safe entrance into the
city.”
The Arab chief was overjoyed at this proposition, and he rendered much
honour to the rabbi, and gave orders to clothe him in a costly robe, and
to perfume his beard with essences of a pleasant odour, so that he was
the most sweet smelling of his tribe; and he said, “Make thy words good,
and put me in possession of the city, and I will do all and more than
thou hast required, and will bestow countless wealth upon thee and thy
brethren.”
Then a plan was devised between them by which the city was to be betrayed
and given up. “But how shall I be secured,” said he, “that all thy tribe
will fulfil what thou hast engaged, and that this is not a stratagem to
get me and my people into your power?”
“This shall be thy assurance,” replied the rabbi: “ten of the principal
Israelites will come to this tent and remain as hostages.”
“It is enough,” said Taric; and he made oath to accomplish all that he
had promised; and the Jewish hostages came and delivered themselves into
his hands.
On a dark night, a chosen band of Moslem warriors approached the part
of the walls guarded by the Jews, and were secretly admitted into a
postern gate and concealed within a tower. Three thousand Arabs were at
the same time placed in ambush among rocks and thickets, in a place on
the opposite side of the river, commanding a view of the city. On the
following morning Taric ravaged the gardens of the valley, and set fire
to the farm-houses, and then, breaking up his camp, marched off as if
abandoning the siege.
The people of Toledo gazed with astonishment from their walls at the
retiring squadrons of the enemy, and scarcely could credit their
unexpected deliverance; before night, there was not a turban nor a
hostile lance to be seen in the vega. They attributed it all to the
special intervention of their patron saint, Leocadia; and the following
day being Palm Sunday, they sallied forth in procession, man, woman, and
child, to the church of that blessed saint, which is situated without the
walls, that they might return thanks for her marvellous protection.
When all Toledo had thus poured itself forth, and was marching with
cross and relic and solemn chaunt towards the chapel, the Arabs, who
had been concealed in the tower, rushed forth and barred the gates of
the city. While some guarded the gates, others dispersed themselves
about the streets, slaying all who made resistance; and others kindled
a fire and made a column of smoke on the top of the citadel. At sight
of this signal the Arabs, in ambush beyond the river, rose with a great
shout, and attacked the multitude who were thronging to the church of St.
Leocadia. There was a great massacre, although the people were without
arms, and made no resistance; and it is said, in ancient chronicles, that
it was the apostate Bishop Oppas who guided the Moslems to their prey,
and incited them to this slaughter. The pious reader, says Fray Antonio
Agapida, will be slow to believe such turpitude; but there is nothing
more venomous than the rancour of an apostate priest; for the best things
in this world, when corrupted, become the worst and most baneful.
Many of the Christians had taken refuge within the church, and had barred
the doors; but Oppas commanded that fire should be set to the portals,
threatening to put every one within to the sword. Happily the veteran
Taric arrived just in time to stay the fury of this reverend renegado.
He ordered the trumpets to call off the troops from the carnage, and
extended grace to all the surviving inhabitants. They were permitted to
remain in quiet possession of their homes and effects, paying only a
moderate tribute; and they were allowed to exercise the rites of their
religion in the existing churches, to the number of seven, but were
prohibited from erecting any others. Those who preferred to leave the
city were suffered to depart in safety, but not to take with them any of
their wealth.
Immense spoil was found by Taric in the alcazar, or royal castle,
situated on a rocky eminence, in the highest part of the city. Among the
regalia treasured up in a secret chamber, were twenty-five regal crowns
of fine gold, garnished with jacynths, amethysts, diamonds, and other
precious stones. These were the crowns of the different Gothic kings who
had reigned in Spain; it having been the usage, on the death of each
king, to deposit his crown in this treasury, inscribing on it his name
and age.[36]
When Taric was thus in possession of the city, the Jews came to him in
procession, with songs and dances, and the sound of timbrel and psaltry,
hailing him as their lord, and reminding him of his promises.
The son of Ishmael kept his word with the children of Israel: they were
protected in the possession of all their wealth, and the exercise of
their religion; and were, moreover, rewarded with jewels of gold, and
jewels of silver, and much monies.[37]
A subsequent expedition was led by Taric against Guadalaxara, which
surrendered without resistance: he moreover captured the city of Medina
Celi, where he found an inestimable table which had formed a part of
the spoil taken at Rome by Alaric, at the time that the sacred city
was conquered by the Goths. It was composed of one single and entire
emerald, and possessed talismanic powers; for tradition affirms that it
was the work of genii, and had been wrought by them for King Solomon the
Wise, the son of David. This marvellous relic was carefully preserved by
Taric, as the most precious of all his spoils, being intended by him as a
present to the caliph; and in commemoration of it, the city was called by
the Arabs, Medina Almeyda; that is to say, “The City of the Table.”[38]
Having made these and other conquests of less importance, and having
collected great quantities of gold and silver, and rich stuffs and
precious stones, Taric returned with his booty to the royal city of
Toledo.
CHAPTER VII.
MUZA BEN NOZIER.—HIS ENTRANCE INTO SPAIN, AND CAPTURE OF CARMONA.
Let us leave for a season the bold Taric in his triumphant progress from
city to city, while we turn our eyes to Muza ben Nozier, the renowned
emir of Almagreb, and the commander-in-chief of the Moslem forces
of the west. When that jealous chieftain had despatched his letter
commanding Taric to pause and await his coming, he immediately made every
preparation to enter Spain with a powerful reinforcement, and to take
command of the conquering army. He left his eldest son, Abdalasis, in
Caervan, with authority over Almagreb, or Western Africa. This Abdalasis
was in the flower of his youth, and beloved by the soldiery for the
magnanimity and the engaging affability which graced his courage.
Muza ben Nozier crossed the strait of Hercules with a chosen force of
ten thousand horse and eight thousand foot, Arabs and Africans. He
was accompanied by his two sons, Meruan and Abdelola, and by numerous
illustrious Arabian cavaliers of the tribe of Koreish. He landed his
shining legions on the coast of Andalusia, and pitched his tents near to
the Guadiana. There first he received intelligence of the disobedience of
Taric to his orders, and that, without waiting his arrival, the impetuous
chieftain had continued his career, and with his light Arab squadrons had
overrun and subdued the noblest provinces and cities of the kingdom.
The jealous spirit of Muza was still more exasperated by these tidings:
he looked upon Taric no longer as a friend and coadjutor, but as an
invidious rival, the decided enemy of his glory; and he determined on
his ruin. His first consideration, however, was to secure to himself a
share in the actual conquest of the land, before it should be entirely
subjugated.
Taking guides, therefore, from among his Christian captives, he set out
to subdue such parts of the country as had not been visited by Taric. The
first place which he assailed was the ancient city of Carmona: it was not
of great magnitude, but was fortified with high walls and massive towers,
and many of the fugitives of the late army had thrown themselves into it.
The Goths had by this time recovered from their first panic; they had
become accustomed to the sight of Moslem troops, and their native courage
had been roused by danger. Shortly after the Arabs had encamped before
their walls, a band of cavaliers made a sudden sally one morning before
the break of day, fell upon the enemy by surprise, killed above three
hundred of them in their tents, and effected their retreat into the city;
leaving twenty of their number dead, covered with honourable wounds, and
in the very centre of the camp.
On the following day they made another sally, and fell on a different
quarter of the encampment: but the Arabs were on their guard, and met
them with superior numbers. After fighting fiercely for a time, they
were routed, and fled full speed for the city, with the Arabs hard upon
their traces. The guards within feared to open the gate, lest with their
friends they should admit a torrent of enemies. Seeing themselves thus
shut out, the fugitives determined to die like brave soldiers rather than
surrender. Wheeling suddenly round, they opened a path through the host
of their pursuers, fought their way back to the camp, and raged about it
with desperate fury until they were all slain, after having killed above
eight hundred of the enemy.[39]
Muza now ordered that the place should be taken by storm. The Moslems
assailed it on all sides, but were vigorously resisted; many were slain
by showers of stones, arrows, and boiling pitch, and many who had mounted
with scaling ladders were thrown headlong from the battlements. The
alcayde, Galo, aided solely by two men, defended a tower and a portion of
the wall; killing and wounding, with a cross-bow, more than eighty of the
enemy. The attack lasted above half a day, when the Moslems were repulsed
with the loss of fifteen hundred men.
Muza was astonished and exasperated at meeting with such formidable
resistance from so small a city; for it was one of the few places, during
that memorable conquest, where the Gothic valour shone forth with its
proper lustre. While the Moslem army lay encamped before the place, it
was joined by Magued the renegado and Count Julian the traitor, with one
thousand horsemen; most of them recreant Christians, base betrayers of
their country, and more savage in their warfare than the Arabs of the
desert. To find favour in the eyes of Muza, and to evince his devotion to
the cause, the count undertook, by wily stratagem, to put this gallant
city in his power.
One evening, just at twilight, a number of Christians, habited as
travelling merchants, arrived at one of the gates, conducting a train of
mules laden with arms and warlike munitions. “Open the gate quickly,”
cried they; “we bring supplies for the garrison, but the Arabs have
discovered, and are in pursuit of us.” The gate was thrown open; the
merchants entered with their beasts of burden, and were joyfully
received. Meat and drink were placed before them; and after they had
refreshed themselves they retired to the quarters allotted to them.
These pretended merchants were Count Julian and a number of his
partisans. At the hour of midnight they stole forth silently, and,
assembling together, proceeded to what was called the Gate of Cordova.
Here setting suddenly upon the unsuspecting guards, they put them to the
edge of the sword, and, throwing open the gates, admitted a great body of
the Arabs. The inhabitants were roused from their sleep by sound of drum
and trumpet, and the clattering of horses. The Arabs scoured the streets;
a horrible massacre was commenced, in which none were spared but such
of the females as were young and beautiful, and fitted to grace the
harems of the conquerors. The arrival of Muza put an end to the pillage
and the slaughter, and he granted favourable terms to the survivors.
Thus the valiant little city of Carmona, after nobly resisting the open
assaults of the infidels, fell a victim to the treachery of apostate
Christians.[40]
CHAPTER VIII.
MUZA MARCHES AGAINST THE CITY OF SEVILLE.
After the capture of Carmona, Muza descended into a noble plain, covered
with fields of grain, with orchards and gardens, through which glided the
soft-flowing Guadalquivir. On the borders of the river stood the ancient
city of Seville, surrounded by Roman walls, and defended by its golden
tower. Understanding from his spies that the city had lost the flower of
its youth in the battle of the Guadalete, Muza anticipated but a faint
resistance. A considerable force, however, still remained within the
place, and what they wanted in numbers they made up in resolution. For
some days they withstood the assaults of the enemy, and defended their
walls with great courage. Their want of warlike munitions, however, and
the superior force and skill of the besieging army, left them no hope
of being able to hold out long. There were two youthful cavaliers of
uncommon valour in the city. They assembled the warriors, and addressed
them. “We cannot save the city,” said they, “but at least we may save
ourselves, and preserve so many strong arms for the service of our
country. Let us cut our way through the infidel force and gain some
secure fortress, from whence we may return with augmented numbers for the
rescue of the city.”
The advice of the young cavaliers was adopted. In the dead of the night
the garrison assembled, to the number of about three thousand; the most
part mounted on horseback. Suddenly sallying from one of the gates,
they rushed in a compact body upon the camp of the Saracens, which was
negligently guarded; for the Moslems expected no such act of desperation.
The camp was a scene of great carnage and confusion; many were slain on
both sides; the two valiant leaders of the Christians fell covered with
wounds, but the main body succeeded in forcing their way through the
centre of the army, and in making their retreat to Beja in Lusitania.
Muza was at a loss to know the meaning of this desperate sally. In the
morning he perceived the gates of the city wide open. A number of ancient
and venerable men presented themselves at his tent, offering submission
and imploring mercy; for none were left in the place but the old, the
infirm, and the miserable. Muza listened to them with compassion, and
granted their prayer; and the only tribute he exacted was three measures
of wheat and three of barley from each house or family. He placed a
garrison of Arabs in the city, and left there a number of Jews to form
a body of population. Having thus secured two important places in
Andalusia, he passed the boundaries of the province, and advanced with
great martial pomp into Lusitania.
CHAPTER IX.
MUZA BESIEGES THE CITY OF MERIDA.
The army of Muza was now augmented to about eighteen thousand horsemen;
but he took with him but few foot soldiers, leaving them to garrison
the conquered towns. He met with no resistance on his entrance into
Lusitania. City after city laid its keys at his feet, and implored to
be received in peaceful vassalage. One city alone prepared for vigorous
defence, the ancient Merida, a place of great extent, uncounted riches,
and prodigious strength. A noble Goth named Sacarus was the governor;
a man of consummate wisdom, patriotism, and valour. Hearing of the
approach of the invaders, he gathered within the walls all the people of
the surrounding country, with their horses and mules, their flocks and
herds, and most precious effects. To insure for a long time a supply of
bread, he filled the magazines with grain, and erected windmills on the
churches. This done, he laid waste the surrounding country to a great
extent, so that a besieging army would have to encamp in a desert.
When Muza came in sight of this magnificent city, he was struck with
admiration. He remained for some time gazing in silence upon its mighty
walls and lordly towers, its vast extent, and the stately palaces and
temples with which it was adorned. “Surely,” cried he, at length, “all
the people of the earth have combined their power and skill to embellish
and aggrandise this city. Allah Achbar! Happy will he be who shall have
the glory of making such a conquest!”
Seeing that a place so populous and so strongly fortified would be
likely to maintain a long and formidable resistance, he sent messengers
to Africa to his son Abdalasis, to collect all the forces that could be
spared from the garrisons of Mauritania, and to hasten and reinforce him.
While Muza was forming his encampment, deserters from the city brought
him word that a chosen band intended to sally forth at midnight and
surprise his camp. The Arab commander immediately took measures to
receive them with a counter surprise. Having formed his plan, and
communicated it to his principal officers, he ordered that, throughout
the day, there should be kept up an appearance of negligent confusion
in his encampment. The outposts were feebly guarded; fires were lighted
in various places, as if preparing for feasting; bursts of music and
shouts of revelry resounded from different quarters, and the whole camp
seemed to be rioting in careless security on the plunder of the land. As
the night advanced, the fires were gradually extinguished, and silence
ensued, as if the soldiery had sunk into deep sleep after the carousal.
In the mean time, bodies of troops had been secretly and silently
marched to reinforce the outposts; and the renegado Magued, with a
numerous force, had formed an ambuscade in a deep stone quarry by which
the Christians would have to pass. These preparations being made, they
awaited the approach of the enemy in breathless silence.
About midnight, the chosen force intended for the sally assembled,
and the command was confided to Count Tendero, a Gothic cavalier of
tried prowess. After having heard a solemn mass, and received the
benediction of the priest, they marched out of the gate with all possible
silence. They were suffered to pass the ambuscade in the quarry without
molestation: as they approached the Moslem camp, every thing appeared
quiet; for the foot soldiers were concealed in slopes and hollows, and
every Arab horseman lay in his armour beside his steed. The sentinels on
the outposts waited until the Christians were close at hand, and then
fled in apparent consternation.
Count Tendero gave the signal for assault, and the Christians rushed
confidently forward. In an instant an uproar of drums, trumpets, and
shrill war cries burst forth from every side. An army seemed to spring
up from the earth; squadrons of horse came thundering on them in front,
while the quarry poured forth legions of armed warriors in their rear.
The noise of the terrific conflict that took place was heard on the city
walls, and answered by shouts of exultation; for the Christians thought
it rose from the terror and confusion of the Arab camp. In a little
while, however, they were undeceived by fugitives from the fight, aghast
with terror, and covered with wounds. “Hell itself,” cried they, “is on
the side of these infidels; the earth casts forth warriors and steeds to
aid them. We have fought, not with men, but devils!”
The greater part of the chosen troops who had sallied were cut to pieces
in that scene of massacre, for they had been confounded by the tempest of
battle which suddenly broke forth around them. Count Tendero fought with
desperate valour, and fell covered with wounds. His body was found the
next morning, lying among the slain, and transpierced with half a score
of lances. The renegado Magued cut off his head and tied it to the tail
of his horse, and repaired with this savage trophy to the tent of Muza;
but the hostility of the Arab general was of a less malignant kind. He
ordered that the head and body should be placed together upon a bier, and
treated with becoming reverence.
In the course of the day, a train of priests and friars came forth from
the city to request permission to seek for the body of the count. Muza
delivered it to them, with many soldier-like encomiums on the valour of
that good cavalier. The priests covered it with a pall of cloth of gold,
and bore it back in melancholy procession to the city, where it was
received with loud lamentations.
The siege was now pressed with great vigour, and repeated assaults were
made, but in vain. Muza saw at length that the walls were too high to be
scaled, and the gates too strong to be burst open without the aid of
engines; and he desisted from the attack until machines for the purpose
could be constructed. The governor suspected from this cessation of
active warfare, that the enemy flattered themselves to reduce the place
by famine; he caused, therefore, large baskets of bread to be thrown from
the wall, and sent a messenger to Muza to inform him that if his army
should be in want of bread, he would supply it, having sufficient corn in
his granaries for a ten years’ siege.[41]
The citizens, however, did not possess the undaunted spirit of their
governor. When they found that the Moslems were constructing tremendous
engines for the destruction of their walls, they lost all courage, and,
surrounding the governor in a clamorous multitude, compelled him to send
forth persons to capitulate.
The ambassadors came into the presence of Muza with awe; for they
expected to find a fierce and formidable warrior in one who had filled
the land with terror: but, to their astonishment, they beheld an ancient
and venerable man, with white hair, a snowy beard, and a pale emaciated
countenance. He had passed the previous night without sleep, and had been
all day in the field: he was exhausted, therefore, by watchfulness and
fatigue; and his garments were covered with dust.
“What a devil of a man is this,” murmured the ambassadors one to another,
“to undertake such a siege when on the verge of the grave! Let us defend
our city the best way we can; surely we can hold out longer than the life
of this greybeard.”
They returned to the city, therefore, scoffing at an invader who seemed
fitter to lean on a crutch than wield a lance; and the terms offered by
Muza, which would otherwise have been thought favourable, were scornfully
rejected by the inhabitants. A few days put an end to this mistaken
confidence. Abdalasis, the son of Muza, arrived from Africa, at the head
of his reinforcement: he brought seven thousand horsemen, and a host of
Barbary archers; and made a glorious display as he marched into the camp.
The arrival of this youthful warrior was hailed with great acclamations;
so much had he won the hearts of the soldiery by the frankness, and
suavity, and generosity of his conduct. Immediately after his arrival, a
grand assault was made upon the city; and several of the huge battering
engines being finished, they were wheeled up, and began to thunder
against the walls.
The unsteady populace were again seized with terror; and, surrounding
their governor with fresh clamours, obliged him to send forth ambassadors
a second time to treat of a surrender. When admitted to the presence of
Muza, the ambassadors could scarcely believe their eyes; or that this was
the same withered, white-headed old man, of whom they had lately spoken
with scoffing. His hair and beard were tinged of a ruddy brown; his
countenance was refreshed by repose, and flushed with indignation; and
he appeared a man in the matured vigour of his days. The ambassadors were
struck with awe. “Surely,” whispered they, one to the other, “this must
be either a devil or a magician, who can thus make himself old and young
at pleasure!”
Muza received them haughtily. “Hence!” said he, “and tell your people I
grant them the same terms I have already proffered, provided the city
be instantly surrendered; but, by the head of Mahomet, if there be any
further delay not one mother’s son of ye shall receive mercy at my hands!”
The deputies returned into the city pale and dismayed. “Go forth! go
forth!” cried they, “and accept whatever terms are offered: of what avail
is it to fight against men who can renew their youth at pleasure? Behold,
we left the leader of the infidels an old and feeble man, and to-day we
find him youthful and vigorous!”[42]
The place was, therefore, surrendered forthwith, and Muza entered it
in triumph. His terms were merciful. Those who chose to remain were
protected in persons, possessions, and religion: he took the property of
those only who abandoned the city, or had fallen in battle, together with
all arms and horses, and the treasures and ornaments of the churches.
Among these sacred spoils was found a cup, made of a single pearl,
which a king of Spain, in ancient times, had brought from the temple
of Jerusalem when it was destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar. This prize was
presented by Muza to the caliph, and placed in the principal mosque of
the city of Damascus.[43]
Muza knew how to esteem merit even in an enemy. When Sacarus, the
governor of Merida, appeared before him, he lauded him greatly for the
skill and courage he had displayed in the defence of his city; and,
taking off his own scimitar, which was of great value, girded it upon
him with his own hands. “Wear this,” said he, “as a poor memorial of my
admiration; a soldier of such virtue and valour is worthy of far higher
honours.”
He would have engaged the governor in his service, or have persuaded
him to remain in the city, as an illustrious vassal of the caliph; but
the noble-minded Sacarus refused to bend to the yoke of the conquerors;
nor could he bring himself to reside contentedly in his country, when
subjected to the domination of the infidels. Gathering together all those
who chose to accompany him into exile, he embarked, to seek some country
where he might live in peace, and in the free exercise of his religion.
What shore these ocean-pilgrims landed upon has never been revealed; but
tradition vaguely gives us to believe that it was some unknown island,
far in the bosom of the Atlantic.[44]
CHAPTER X.
EXPEDITION OF ABDALASIS AGAINST SEVILLE AND THE “LAND OF TADMIR.”
After the capture of Merida, Muza gave a grand banquet to his captains
and distinguished warriors in that magnificent city. At this martial
feast were many Arab cavaliers who had been present in various battles;
and they vied with each other in recounting the daring enterprises
in which they had been engaged, and the splendid triumphs they had
witnessed. While they talked with ardour and exultation, Abdalasis, the
son of Muza, alone kept silence, and sat with a dejected countenance. At
length, when there was a pause, he turned to his father, and addressed
him with modest earnestness. “My lord and father,” said he, “I blush to
hear your warriors recount the toils and dangers they have passed, while
I have done nothing to entitle me to their companionship. When I return
to Egypt, and present myself before the caliph, he will ask me of my
services in Spain; what battle I have gained; what town or castle I have
taken. How shall I answer him? If you love me, then, as your son, give me
a command; intrust to me an enterprise; and let me acquire a name worthy
to be mentioned among men.”
The eyes of Muza kindled with joy at finding Abdalasis thus ambitious of
renown in arms. “Allah be praised!” exclaimed he; “the heart of my son
is in the right place. It is becoming in youth to look upward, and be
aspiring. Thy desire, Abdalasis, shall be gratified.”
An opportunity at that very time presented itself, to prove the prowess
and discretion of the youth. During the siege of Merida, the Christian
troops which had taken refuge at Beja had reinforced themselves from
Penaflor, and, suddenly returning, had presented themselves before the
gates of the city of Seville.[45] Certain of the Christian inhabitants
threw open the gates and admitted them. The troops rushed to the alcazar,
took it by surprise, and put many of the Moslem garrison to the sword:
the residue made their escape, and fled to the Arab camp before Merida,
leaving Seville in the hands of the Christians.
The veteran Muza, now that the siege of Merida was at an end, was
meditating the recapture and punishment of Seville at the very time when
Abdalasis addressed him. “Behold, my son,” exclaimed he, “an enterprise
worthy of thy ambition! Take with thee all the troops thou hast brought
from Africa; reduce the city of Seville again to subjection, and plant
thy standard upon its alcazar. But stop not there: carry thy conquering
sword into the southern parts of Spain: thou wilt find there a harvest of
glory yet to be reaped.”
Abdalasis lost no time in departing upon this enterprise. He took with
him Count Julian, Magued el Rumi, and the Bishop Oppas, that he might
benefit by their knowledge of the country. When he came in sight of the
fair city of Seville, seated like a queen in the midst of its golden
plain, with the Guadalquivir flowing beneath its walls, he gazed upon it
with the admiration of a lover, and lamented in his soul that he had to
visit it as an avenger. His troops, however, regarded it with wrathful
eyes, thinking only of its rebellion and of the massacre of their
countrymen in the alcazar.
The principal people of the city had taken no part in this gallant but
fruitless insurrection; and now, when they beheld the army of Abdalasis
encamped upon the banks of the Guadalquivir, would fain have gone forth
to make explanations, and intercede for mercy. The populace, however,
forbade any one to leave the city, and, barring the gates, prepared to
defend themselves to the last.
The place was attacked with resistless fury. The gates were soon burst
open; the Moslems rushed in, panting for revenge. They confined not
their slaughter to the soldiery in the alcazar, but roamed through every
street, confounding the innocent with the guilty in one bloody massacre,
and it was with the utmost difficulty that Abdalasis could at length
succeed in staying their sanguinary career.[46]
The son of Muza proved himself as mild in conquest as he had been
intrepid in assault. The moderation and benignity of his conduct soothed
the terrors of the vanquished, and his wise precautions restored
tranquillity. Having made proper regulations for the protection of the
inhabitants, he left a strong garrison in the place to prevent any
future insurrection, and then departed on the further prosecution of his
enterprise.
Wherever he went his arms were victorious; and his victories were
always characterised by the same magnanimity. At length he arrived on
the confines of that beautiful region comprising lofty and precipitous
mountains and rich and delicious plains, afterwards known by the name of
the kingdom of Murcia. All this part of the country was defended by the
veteran Theodomir, who, by skilful management, had saved a remnant of his
forces after the defeat on the banks of the Guadalete.
Theodomir was a stanch warrior, but a wary and prudent man. He had
experienced the folly of opposing the Arabs in open field, where their
cavalry and armour gave them such superiority; on their approach,
therefore, he assembled all his people capable of bearing arms, and took
possession of the cliffs and mountain passes. “Here,” said he, “a simple
goatherd, who can hurl down rocks and stones, is as good as a warrior
armed in proof.” In this way be checked and harassed the Moslem army
in all its movements; showering down missiles upon it from overhanging
precipices, and waylaying it in narrow and rugged defiles, where a few
raw troops could make stand against a host.
Theodomir was in a fair way to baffle his foes and oblige them to
withdraw from his territories; unfortunately, however, the wary veteran
had two sons with him, young men of hot and heady valour, who considered
all this prudence of their father as savouring of cowardice, and who were
anxious to try their prowess in the open field. “What glory,” said they,
“is to be gained by destroying an enemy in this way, from the covert of
rocks and thickets?”
“You talk like young men,” replied the veteran. “Glory is a prize one may
fight for abroad, but safety is the object when the enemy is at the door.”
One day, however, the young men succeeded in drawing down their father
into the plain. Abdalasis immediately seized on the opportunity, and
threw himself between the Goths and their mountain fastnesses. Theodomir
saw too late the danger into which he was betrayed. “What can our raw
troops do,” said he, “against those squadrons of horse that move like
castles? Let us make a rapid retreat to Orihuela, and defend ourselves
from behind its walls.”
“Father,” said the eldest son, “it is too late to retreat; remain here
with the reserve, while my brother and I advance. Fear nothing; am not I
your son, and would I not die to defend you?”
“In truth,” replied the veteran, “I have my doubts whether you are my
son. But if I remain here, and you should all be killed, where then would
be my protection? Come,” added he, turning to the second son. “I trust
that thou art virtually my son; let us hasten to retreat before it is too
late.”
“Father,” replied the youngest, “I have not a doubt that I am honestly
and thoroughly your son, and as such I honour you; but I owe duty
likewise to my mother, and when I sallied to the war she gave me her
blessing as long as I should act with valour, but her curse should I
prove craven and fly the field. Fear nothing, Father; I will defend you
while living, and even after you are dead. You shall never fail of an
honourable sepulture among your kindred.”
“A pestilence on ye both,” cried Theodomir, “for a brace of misbegotten
madmen! What care I, think ye, where ye lay my body when I am dead?
One day’s existence in a hovel is worth an age of interment in a
marble sepulchre. Come, my friends,” said he, turning to his principal
cavaliers, “let us leave these hot-headed striplings and make our
retreat; if we tarry any longer, the enemy will be upon us.”
Upon this the cavaliers and proud hidalgoes drew up scornfully and tossed
their heads: “What do you see in us,” said they, “that you think we
will show our backs to the enemy? Forward! was ever the good old Gothic
watchword, and with that will we live and die!”
While time was lost in these disputes, the Moslem army kept advancing,
until retreat was no longer practicable. The battle was tumultuous and
bloody. Theodomir fought like a lion, but it was all in vain: he saw his
two sons cut down, and the greater part of their rash companions, while
his raw mountain troops fled in all directions.
Seeing there was no longer any hope, he seized the bridle of a favourite
page who was near him, and who was about spurring for the mountains.
“Part not from me,” said he, “but do thou at least attend to my counsel,
my son; and, of a truth, I believe thou art my son, for thou art the
offspring of one of my handmaids who was kind unto me.” And indeed the
youth marvellously resembled him. Turning then the reins of his own
steed, and giving him the spur, he fled amain from the field, followed by
the page; nor did he stop until he arrived within the walls of Orihuela.
Ordering the gates to be barred and bolted, he prepared to receive the
enemy. There were but few men in the city capable of bearing arms, most
of the youth having fallen in the field. He caused the women, therefore,
to clothe themselves in male attire, to put on hats and helmets, to take
long reeds in their hands instead of lances, and to cross their hair
upon their chins in semblance of beards. With these troops he lined the
walls and towers.
It was about the hour of twilight that Abdalasis approached with his
army, but he paused when he saw the walls so numerously garrisoned. Then
Theodomir took a flag of truce in his hand, and put a herald’s tabard on
the page, and they two sallied forth to capitulate, and were graciously
received by Abdalasis.
“I come,” said Theodomir, “on the behalf of the commander of this city,
to treat for terms worthy of your magnanimity and of his dignity. You
perceive that the city is capable of withstanding a long siege, but
he is desirous of sparing the lives of his soldiers. Promise that the
inhabitants shall be at liberty to depart unmolested with their property,
and the city will be delivered up to you to-morrow morning without a
blow; otherwise we are prepared to fight until not a man be left.”
Abdalasis was well pleased to get so powerful a place upon such easy
terms, but stipulated that the garrison should lay down their arms. To
this Theodomir readily assented; with the exception, however, of the
governor and his retinue, which was granted out of consideration for his
dignity. The articles of capitulation were then drawn out; and, when
Abdalasis had affixed his name and seal, Theodomir took the pen and wrote
his signature. “Behold in me,” said he, “the governor of the city!”
Abdalasis was pleased with the hardihood of the commander of the place
in thus venturing personally into his power, and entertained the veteran
with still greater honour. When Theodomir returned to the city, he made
known the capitulation, and charged the inhabitants to pack up their
effects during the night, and be ready to sally forth in the morning.
At the dawn of day the gates were thrown open, and Abdalasis looked to
see a great force issuing forth; but, to his surprise, beheld merely
Theodomir and his page in battered armour, followed by a multitude of old
men, women, and children.
Abdalasis waited until the whole had come forth; then, turning to
Theodomir, “Where,” cried he, “are the soldiers whom I saw last evening,
lining the walls and towers?”
“Soldiers have I none,” replied the veteran. “As to my garrison, behold
it before you. With these women did I man my walls; and this, my page, is
my herald, guard, and retinue.”
Upon this the Bishop Oppas and Count Julian exclaimed that the
capitulation was a base fraud, and ought not to be complied with; but
Abdalasis relished the stratagem of the old soldier, and ordered that the
stipulations of the treaty should be faithfully performed. Nay, so high
an opinion did he conceive of the subtle wisdom of this commander, that
he permitted him to remain in authority over the surrounding country, on
his acknowledging allegiance and engaging to pay tribute to the caliph;
and all that part of Spain, comprising the beautiful provinces of Murcia
and Valencia, was long after known by the Arabic name of its defender,
and is still recorded in Arabian chronicles as “The land of Tadmir.”
Having succeeded in subduing this rich and fruitful region, and having
gained great renown for his generosity as well as valour, Abdalasis
returned with the chief part of his army to the city of Seville.[47]
CHAPTER XI.
MUZA ARRIVES AT TOLEDO.—INTERVIEW BETWEEN HIM AND TARIC.
When Muza ben Nozier had sent his son Abdalasis to subdue Seville, he
departed for Toledo, to call Taric to account for his disobedience to
his orders; for, amidst all his own successes, the prosperous career
of that commander preyed upon his mind. What can content the jealous
and ambitious heart? As Muza passed through the land, towns and cities
submitted to him without resistance; he was lost in wonder at the riches
of the country, and the noble monuments of art with which it was adorned:
when he beheld the bridges, constructed in ancient times by the Romans,
they seemed to him the work, not of men, but of genii. Yet all these
admirable objects only made him repine the more, that he had not had the
exclusive glory of invading and subduing the land; and exasperated him
the more against Taric, for having apparently endeavoured to monopolise
the conquest.
Taric heard of his approach, and came forth to meet him at Talavera,
accompanied by many of the most distinguished companions of his
victories, and with a train of horses and mules laden with spoils, with
which he trusted to propitiate the favour of his commander. Their meeting
took place on the banks of the rapid river Tietar, which rises in the
mountains of Placencia, and throws itself into the Tagus. Muza, in former
days, while Taric had acted as his subordinate and indefatigable officer,
had cherished and considered him as a second self; but now that he had
started up to be a rival, he could not conceal his jealousy. When the
veteran came into his presence, he regarded him for a moment with a stern
and indignant aspect. “Why hast thou disobeyed my orders?” said he. “I
commanded thee to await my arrival with reinforcements, but thou hast
rashly overrun the country, endangering the loss of our armies and the
ruin of our cause.”
“I have acted,” replied Taric, “in such manner as I thought would best
serve the cause of Islam; and in so doing I thought to fulfil the wishes
of Muza. Whatever I have done has been as your servant. Behold your
share, as commander-in-chief, of the spoils which I have collected.” So
saying, he produced an immense treasure in silver and gold, and costly
stuffs, and precious stones, and spread it before Muza.
The anger of the Arab commander was still more kindled at the sight of
this booty, for it proved how splendid had been the victories of Taric;
but he restrained his wrath for the present, and they proceeded together
in moody silence to Toledo. When he entered this royal city, however, and
ascended to the ancient palace of the Gothic kings, and reflected that
all this had been a scene of triumph to his rival, he could no longer
repress his indignation. He demanded of Taric a strict account of all
the riches he had gathered in Spain, even of the presents he had reserved
for the caliph; and, above all, he made him yield up his favourite
trophy, the talismanic table of Solomon. When all this was done, he
again upbraided him bitterly with his disobedience of orders, and with
the rashness of his conduct. “What blind confidence in fortune hast thou
shown,” said he, “in overrunning such a country, and assailing such
powerful cities with thy scanty force! What madness, to venture every
thing upon a desperate chance, when thou knewest I was coming with a
force to make the victory secure! All thy success has been owing to mere
luck, not to judgment nor generalship.”
He then bestowed high praises upon the other chieftains for their
services in the cause of Islam; but they answered not a word, and their
countenances were gloomy and discontented, for they felt the injustice
done to their favourite leader. As to Taric, though his eye burned like
fire, he kept his passion within bounds. “I have done the best I could
to serve God and the caliph,” said he, emphatically; “my conscience
acquits me, and I trust my sovereign will do the same.”
“Perhaps he may,” replied Muza bitterly; “but, in the meantime, I cannot
confide his interests to a desperado, who is heedless of orders and
throws every thing at hazard. Such a general is unworthy to be intrusted
with the fate of armies.”
So saying, he divested Taric of his command, and gave it to Magued the
renegado. The gaunt Taric still maintained an air of stern composure. His
only words were, “The caliph will do me justice!” Muza was so transported
with passion at this laconic defiance that he ordered him to be thrown
into prison, and even threatened his life.
Upon this, Magued el Rumi, though he had risen by the disgrace of Taric,
had the generosity to speak out warmly in his favour. “Consider,” said
he, to Muza, “what may be the consequences of this severity. Taric
has many friends in the army; his actions, too, have been signal and
illustrious, and entitle him to the highest honours and rewards, instead
of disgrace and imprisonment.”
The anger of Muza, however, was not to be appeased; and he trusted to
justify his measures by despatching missives to the caliph, complaining
of the insubordination of Taric, and his rash and headlong conduct. The
result proved the wisdom of the caution given by Magued. In the course
of a little while Muza received a humiliating letter from the caliph,
ordering him to restore Taric to the command of the soldiers “whom he
had so gloriously conducted;” and not to render useless “one of the best
swords in Islam!”[48]
It is thus the envious man brings humiliation and reproach upon himself,
in endeavouring to degrade a meritorious rival. When the tidings came
of the justice rendered by the caliph to the merits of the veteran,
there was general joy throughout the army; and Muza read, in the smiling
countenances of every one around him, a severe censure upon his conduct.
He concealed, however, his deep humiliation, and affected to obey the
orders of his sovereign with great alacrity: he released Taric from
prison, feasted him at his own table, and then publicly replaced him at
the head of his troops. The army received its favourite veteran with
shouts of joy, and celebrated with rejoicings the reconciliation of the
commanders: but the shouts of the soldiery were abhorrent to the ears of
Muza.
CHAPTER XII.
MUZA PROSECUTES THE SCHEME OF CONQUEST.—SIEGE OF SARAGOSSA.—COMPLETE
SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN.
The dissensions, which for a time had distracted the conquering
army, being appeased, and the Arabian generals being apparently once
more reconciled, Muza, as commander-in-chief, proceeded to complete
the enterprise by subjugating the northern parts of Spain. The same
expeditious mode of conquest that had been sagaciously adopted by Taric
was still pursued. The troops were lightly armed, and freed from every
superfluous incumbrance. Each horseman, beside his arms, carried a
small sack of provisions, a copper vessel in which to cook them, and
a skin which served him for surcoat and for bed. The infantry carried
nothing but their arms. To each regiment or squadron was allowed a
limited number of sumpter mules and attendants; barely enough to carry
their necessary baggage and supplies: nothing was permitted that could
needlessly diminish the number of fighting men, delay their rapid
movements, or consume their provisions. Strict orders were again issued,
prohibiting, on pain of death, all plunder excepting the camp of an
enemy, or cities given up to pillage.[49]
The armies now took their several lines of march. That under Taric
departed towards the north-east; beating up the country towards the
source of the Tagus, traversing the chain of Iberian or Arragonian
mountains, and pouring down into the plains and valleys watered by the
Ebro. It was wonderful to see, in so brief a space of time, such a vast
and difficult country penetrated and subdued; and the invading army, like
an inundating flood, pouring its streams into the most remote recesses.
While Taric was thus sweeping the country to the north-east, Muza
departed in an opposite direction; yet purposing to meet him, and to
join their forces in the north. Bending his course westwardly, he made a
circuit behind the mountains, and then, advancing into the open country,
displayed his banners before Salamanca, which surrendered without
resistance. From hence he continued on towards Astorga, receiving the
terrified submission of the land; then turning up the valley of the
Douro, he ascended the course of that famous river towards the east;
crossed the Sierra de Moncayo, and, arriving on the banks of the Ebro,
marched down along its stream, until he approached the strong city of
Saragossa, the citadel of all that part of Spain. In this place had taken
refuge many of the most valiant of the Gothic warriors; the remnants
of armies, and fugitives from conquered cities. It was one of the last
rallying points of the land. When Muza arrived, Taric had already been
for some time before the place, laying close siege: the inhabitants were
pressed by famine, and had suffered great losses in repeated combats;
but there was a spirit and obstinacy in their resistance surpassing any
thing that had yet been witnessed by the invaders.
Muza now took command of the siege, and ordered a general assault upon
the walls. The Moslems planted their scaling ladders, and mounted with
their accustomed intrepidity, but were vigorously resisted; nor could all
their efforts obtain them a footing upon the battlements. While they were
thus assailing the walls, Count Julian ordered a heap of combustibles
to be placed against one of the gates, and set on fire. The inhabitants
attempted in vain from the barbican to extinguish the flames. They burnt
so fiercely, that in a little while the gate fell from the hinges. Count
Julian galloped into the city mounted upon a powerful charger, himself
and his steed all covered with mail. He was followed by three hundred of
his partisans, and supported by Magued, the renegado, with a troop of
horse.
The inhabitants disputed every street and public square; they made
barriers of dead bodies, fighting behind these ramparts of their
slaughtered countrymen. Every window and roof was filled with combatants:
the very women and children joined in the desperate fight, throwing down
stones and missiles of all kinds, and scalding water, upon the enemy.
The battle raged until the hour of vespers, when the principal
inhabitants held a parley, and capitulated for a surrender. Muza had been
incensed at their obstinate resistance, which had cost the lives of so
many of his soldiers; he knew also that in the city were collected the
riches of many of the towns of eastern Spain. He demanded, therefore,
beside the usual terms, a heavy sum to be paid down by the citizens,
called the contribution of blood; as by this they redeemed themselves
from the edge of the sword. The people were obliged to comply. They
collected all the jewels of their richest families, and all the ornaments
of their temples, and laid them at the feet of Muza; and placed in his
power many of their noblest youths as hostages. A strong garrison was
then appointed; and thus the fierce city of Saragossa was subdued to the
yoke of the conqueror.
The Arab generals pursued their conquests even to the foot of the
Pyrenees: Taric then descended along the course of the Ebro, and
continued along the Mediterranean coast; subduing the famous city of
Valencia, with its rich and beautiful domains, and carrying the success
of his arms even to Denia.
Muza undertook with his host a wider range of conquest. He overcame the
cities of Barcelona, Gerona, and others that lay on the skirts of the
eastern mountains: then crossing into the land of the Franks, he captured
the city of Narbonne; in a temple of which he found seven equestrian
images of silver, which he brought off as trophies of his victory.[50]
Returning into Spain, he scoured its northern regions along Gallicia and
the Asturias; passed triumphantly through Lusitania, and arrived once
more in Andalusia, covered with laurels, and enriched with immense spoils.
Thus was completed the subjugation of unhappy Spain. All its cities
and fortresses, and strong holds, were in the hands of the Saracens,
excepting some of the wild mountain tracts that bordered the Atlantic,
and extended towards the north. Here, then, the story of the conquest
might conclude, but that the indefatigable chronicler, Fray Antonio
Agapida, goes on to record the fate of those persons who were most
renowned in the enterprise. We shall follow his steps, and avail
ourselves of his information, laboriously collected from various sources;
and, truly, the story of each of the actors in this great historical
drama bears with it its striking moral, and is full of admonition and
instruction.
CHAPTER XIII.
FEUD BETWEEN THE ARAB GENERALS.—THEY ARE SUMMONED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE
CALIPH AT DAMASCUS.—RECEPTION OF TARIC.
The heart of Muza ben Nozier was now lifted up, for he considered his
glory complete. He held a sway that might have gratified the ambition of
the proudest sovereign, for all western Africa and the newly acquired
peninsula of Spain were obedient to his rule; and he was renowned
throughout all the lands of Islam as the great conqueror of the west. But
sudden humiliation awaited him in the very moment of his highest triumph.
Notwithstanding the outward reconciliation of Muza and Taric, a deep
and implacable hostility continued to exist between them; and each had
busy partisans who distracted the armies by their feuds. Letters were
incessantly despatched to Damascus by either party, exalting the merits
of their own leader and decrying his rival. Taric was represented as
rash, arbitrary, and prodigal, and as injuring the discipline of the
army, by sometimes treating it with extreme rigour, and at other times
giving way to licentiousness and profusion. Muza was lauded as prudent,
sagacious, dignified, and systematic in his dealings. The friends of
Taric, on the other hand, represented him as brave, generous, and
high-minded; scrupulous in reserving to his sovereign his rightful share
of the spoils, but distributing the rest bounteously among his soldiers,
and thus increasing their alacrity in the service. “Muza, on the
contrary,” said they, “is grasping and insatiable: he levies intolerable
contributions, and collects immense treasure, but sweeps it all into his
own coffers.”
The caliph was at length wearied out by these complaints, and feared
that the safety of the cause might be endangered by the dissensions
of the rival generals. He sent letters, therefore, ordering them to
leave suitable persons in charge of their several commands, and appear,
forthwith, before him at Damascus.
Such was the greeting from his sovereign that awaited Muza on his return
from the conquest of northern Spain. It was a grievous blow to a man of
his pride and ambition; but he prepared instantly to obey. He returned
to Cordova, collecting by the way all the treasures he had deposited
in various places. At that city he called a meeting of his principal
officers, and of the leaders of the faction of apostate Christians, and
made them all do homage to his son Abdalasis, as emir or governor of
Spain. He gave this favourite son much sage advice for the regulation of
his conduct, and left with him his nephew Ayub, a man greatly honoured by
the Moslems for his wisdom and discretion; exhorting Abdalasis to consult
him on all occasions, and consider him as his bosom counsellor. He made
a parting address to his adherents, full of cheerful confidence; assuring
them that he would soon return, loaded with new favours and honours by
his sovereign, and enabled to reward them all for their faithful services.
When Muza sallied forth from Cordova to repair to Damascus, his cavalgada
appeared like the sumptuous pageant of some Oriental potentate; for
he had numerous guards and attendants splendidly armed and arrayed,
together with four hundred hostages, who were youthful cavaliers of the
noblest families of the Goths, and a great number of captives of both
sexes, chosen for their beauty, and intended as presents for the caliph.
Then there was a vast train of beasts of burden, laden with the plunder
of Spain; for he took with him all the wealth he had collected in his
conquests, and all the share that had been set apart for his sovereign.
With this display of trophies and spoils, showing the magnificence of the
land he had conquered, he looked forward with confidence to silence the
calumnies of his foes.
As he traversed the valley of the Guadalquivir, he often turned and
looked back wistfully upon Cordova; and, at the distance of a league,
when about to lose sight of it, he checked his steed upon the summit of a
hill, and gazed for a long time upon its palaces and towers. “O Cordova!”
exclaimed he, “great and glorious art thou among cities, and abundant
in all delights. With grief and sorrow do I part from thee; for sure I
am it would give me length of days to abide within thy pleasant walls!”
When he had uttered these words, say the Arabian chronicles, he resumed
his wayfaring; but his eyes were bent upon the ground, and frequent sighs
bespoke the heaviness of his heart.
Embarking at Cadiz, he passed over to Africa with all his people and
effects, to regulate his government in that country. He divided the
command between his sons Abdelola and Meruan, leaving the former in
Tangier, and the latter in Cairvan. Thus having secured, as he thought,
the power and prosperity of his family, by placing all his sons as his
lieutenants in the country he had conquered, he departed for Syria,
bearing with him the sumptuous spoils of the west.
While Muza was thus disposing of his commands, and moving cumbrously
under the weight of wealth, the veteran Taric was more speedy and alert
in obeying the summons of the caliph. He knew the importance, where
complaints were to be heard, of being first in presence of the judge;
beside, he was ever ready to march at a moment’s warning, and had nothing
to impede him in his movements. The spoils he had made in his conquests
had either been shared among his soldiers, or yielded up to Muza, or
squandered away with open-handed profusion. He appeared in Syria with
a small train of war-worn followers, and had no other trophies to show
than his battered armour, and a body seamed with scars. He was received,
however, with rapture by the multitude, who crowded to behold one of
those conquerors of the west, whose wonderful achievements were the
theme of every tongue. They were charmed with his gaunt and martial air,
his hard sunburnt features, and his scathed eye. “All hail,” cried they,
“to the sword of Islam, the terror of the unbelievers! Behold the true
model of a warrior, who despises gain, and seeks for nought but glory!”
Taric was graciously received by the caliph, who asked tidings of his
victories. He gave a soldier-like account of his actions, frank and
full, without any feigned modesty, yet without vainglory. “Commander of
the faithful,” said he, “I bring thee no silver, nor gold, nor precious
stones, nor captives; for what spoils I did not share with my soldiers
I gave up to Muza as my commander. How I have conducted myself, the
honourable warriors of thy host will tell thee; nay, let our enemies, the
Christians, be asked if I have ever shown myself cowardly, or cruel, or
rapacious.”
“What kind of people are these Christians?” demanded the caliph.
“The Spaniards,” replied Taric, “are lions in their castles, eagles in
their saddles, but mere women when on foot. When vanquished they escape
like goats to the mountains, for they need not see the ground they tread
on.”
“And tell me of the Moors of Barbary.”
“They are like Arabs in the fierceness and dexterity of their attacks,
and in their knowledge of the stratagems of war; they resemble them,
too, in feature, in fortitude, and hospitality; but they are the most
perfidious people upon earth, and never regard promise or plighted faith.”
“And the people of Afranc; what sayest thou of them?”
“They are infinite in number, rapid in the onset, fierce in battle, but
confused and headlong in flight.”
“And how fared it with thee among these people? Did they sometimes
vanquish thee?”
“Never, by Allah!” cried Taric with honest warmth, “never did a banner of
mine fly the field. Though the enemy were two to one, my Moslems never
shunned the combat!”
The caliph was well pleased with the martial bluntness of the veteran,
and showed him great honour; and wherever Taric appeared he was the idol
of the populace.
CHAPTER XIV.
MUZA ARRIVES AT DAMASCUS.—HIS INTERVIEW WITH THE CALIPH.—THE TABLE OF
SOLOMON.—A RIGOROUS SENTENCE.
Shortly after the arrival of Taric el Tuerto at Damascus the caliph fell
dangerously ill, insomuch that his life was despaired of. During his
illness, tidings were brought that Muza ben Nozier had entered Syria
with a vast cavalcade, bearing all the riches and trophies gained in the
western conquests. Now Suleiman ben Abdelmelec, brother to the caliph,
was successor to the throne; and he saw that his brother had not long
to live, and wished to grace the commencement of his reign by this
triumphant display of the spoils of Christendom: he sent messengers,
therefore, to Muza, saying, “The caliph is ill, and cannot receive thee
at present; I pray thee tarry on the road until his recovery.” Muza,
however, paid no attention to the messages of Suleiman, but rather
hastened his march to arrive before the death of the caliph. And Suleiman
treasured up his conduct in his heart.
Muza entered the city in a kind of triumph, with a long train of horses
and mules and camels laden with treasure, and with the four hundred sons
of Gothic nobles as hostages, each decorated with a diadem and a girdle
of gold; and with one hundred Christian damsels, whose beauty dazzled all
beholders. As he passed through the streets he ordered purses of gold
to be thrown among the populace, who rent the air with acclamations.
“Behold,” cried they, “the veritable conqueror of the unbelievers! Behold
the true model of a conqueror, who brings home wealth to his country!”
And they heaped benedictions on the head of Muza.
The caliph Walid Almanzor rose from his couch of illness to receive the
emir; who, when he repaired to the palace, filled one of its great
courts with treasures of all kinds: the halls, too, were thronged
with the youthful hostages, magnificently attired, and with Christian
damsels, lovely as the houries of Paradise. When the caliph demanded an
account of the conquest of Spain, he gave it with great eloquence; but,
in describing the various victories, he made no mention of the name of
Taric, but spoke as if every thing had been effected by himself. He then
presented the spoils of the Christians as if they had been all taken by
his own hands; and when he delivered to the caliph the miraculous table
of Solomon, he dwelt with animation on the virtues of that inestimable
talisman.
Upon this Taric, who was present, could no longer hold his peace.
“Commander of the faithful!” said he, “examine this precious table, if
any part be wanting.” The caliph examined the table, which was composed
of a single emerald, and he found that one foot was supplied by a foot
of gold. The caliph turned to Muza and said, “Where is the other foot
of the table?” Muza answered, “I know not; one foot was wanting when it
came into my hands.” Upon this, Taric drew from beneath his robe a foot
of emerald of like workmanship to the others, and fitting exactly to
the table. “Behold, O commander of the faithful!” cried he, “a proof of
the real finder of the table; and so is it with the greater part of the
spoils exhibited by Muza as trophies of his achievements. It was I who
gained them, and who captured the cities in which they were found. If
you want proof, demand of these Christian cavaliers here present, most
of whom I captured; demand of those Moslem warriors who aided me in my
battles.”
Muza was confounded for a moment, but attempted to vindicate himself. “I
spake,” said he, “as the chief of your armies, under whose orders and
banners this conquest was achieved. The actions of the soldier are the
actions of the commander. In a great victory, it is not supposed that
the chief of the army takes all the captives, or kills all the slain,
or gathers all the booty, though all are enumerated in the records of
his triumph.” The caliph, however, was wroth, and heeded not his words.
“You have vaunted your own deserts,” said he, “and have forgotten the
deserts of others; nay, you have sought to debase another who has loyally
served his sovereign: the reward of your envy and covetousness be upon
your head!” So saying, he bestowed a great part of the spoils upon Taric
and the other chiefs, but gave nothing to Muza; and the veteran retired
amidst the sneers and murmurs of those present.
In a few days the Caliph Walid died, and was succeeded by his brother
Suleiman. The new sovereign cherished deep resentment against Muza
for having presented himself at court contrary to his command, and he
listened readily to the calumnies of his enemies; for Muza had been too
illustrious in his deeds not to have many enemies. All now took courage
when they found he was out of favour, and they heaped slanders on
his head; charging him with embezzling much of the share of the booty
belonging to the sovereign. The new caliph lent a willing ear to the
accusation, and commanded him to render up all that he had pillaged from
Spain. The loss of his riches might have been borne with fortitude by
Muza, but the stigma upon his fame filled his heart with bitterness. “I
have been a faithful servant to the throne from my youth upwards,” said
he, “and now am I degraded in my old age. I care not for wealth, I care
not for life, but let me not be deprived of that honour which God has
bestowed upon me!”
The caliph was still more exasperated at his repining, and stripped him
of his commands; confiscated his effects; fined him two hundred thousand
pesants of gold, and ordered that he should be scourged and exposed to
the noontide sun, and afterwards thrown into prison.[51] The populace,
also, reviled and scoffed at him in his misery; and as they beheld him
led forth to the public gaze, and fainting in the sun, they pointed
at him with derision, and exclaimed—“Behold the envious man and the
impostor: this is he who pretended to have conquered the land of the
unbelievers!”
CHAPTER XV.
CONDUCT OF ABDALASIS AS EMIR OF SPAIN.
While these events were happening in Syria, the youthful Abdalasis, the
son of Muza, remained as emir or governor of Spain. He was of a generous
and benignant disposition, but he was open and confiding, and easily led
away by the opinions of those he loved. Fortunately his father had left
with him, as a bosom counsellor, the discreet Ayub, the nephew of Muza:
aided by his advice, he for some time administered the public affairs
prudently and prosperously.
Not long after the departure of his father, he received a letter from
him, written while on his journey to Syria; it was to the following
purport:—
“Beloved son; honour of thy lineage; Allah guard thee from all harm and
peril! Listen to the words of thy father. Avoid all treachery, though
it should promise great advantage; and trust not in him who counsels
it, even though he should be a brother. The company of traitors put far
from thee; for how canst thou be certain that he who has proved false
to others will prove true to thee? Beware, O my son, of the seductions
of love. It is an idle passion which enfeebles the heart, and blinds
the judgment: it renders the mighty weak, and makes slaves of princes.
If thou shouldst discover any foible of a vicious kind springing up in
thy nature, pluck it forth, whatever pang it cost thee. Every error,
while new, may easily be weeded out; but if suffered to take root, it
flourishes, and bears seed, and produces fruit an hundred fold. Follow
these counsels, O son of my affections, and thou shalt live secure.”
Abdalasis meditated upon this letter; for some part of it seemed to
contain a mystery which he could not comprehend. He called to him his
cousin and counsellor, the discreet Ayub. “What means my father,” said
he, “in cautioning me against treachery and treason? Does he think my
nature so base that it could descend to such means?”
Ayub read the letter attentively. “Thy father,” said he, “would put thee
on thy guard against the traitors Julian and Oppas, and those of their
party who surround thee. What love canst thou expect from men who have
been unnatural to their kindred; and what loyalty from wretches who have
betrayed their country?”
Abdalasis was satisfied with the interpretation, and he acted
accordingly. He had long loathed all communion with these men; for there
is nothing which the open, ingenuous nature so much abhors as duplicity
and treason. Policy, too, no longer required their agency; they had
rendered their infamous service, and had no longer a country to betray:
but they might turn and betray their employers. Abdalasis, therefore,
removed them to a distance from his court, and placed them in situations
where they could do no harm; and he warned his commanders from being in
any wise influenced by their counsels, or aided by their arms.
He now confided entirely in his Arabian troops, and in the Moorish
squadrons from Africa, and with their aid he completed the conquest of
Lusitania to the ultimate parts of the Algarbe, or west, even to the
shores of the great Ocean sea.[52] From hence, he sent his generals to
overrun all those vast and rugged sierras, which rise like ramparts along
the ocean borders of the peninsula; and they carried the standard of
Islam in triumph even to the mountains of Biscay, collecting all manner
of precious spoil.
“It is not enough, O Abdalasis,” said Ayub, “that we conquer and rule
this country with the sword: if we wish our dominion to be secure, we
must cultivate the arts of peace, and study to secure the confidence
and promote the welfare of the people we have conquered.” Abdalasis
relished counsel which accorded so well with his own beneficent nature.
He endeavoured, therefore, to allay the ferment and confusion of the
conquest; forbade, under rigorous punishment, all wanton spoil or
oppression, and protected the native inhabitants in the enjoyment and
cultivation of their lands, and the pursuit of all useful occupations. By
the advice of Ayub also, he encouraged great numbers of industrious Moors
and Arabs to emigrate from Africa, and gave them houses and lands; thus
introducing a peaceful Mahometan population into the conquered provinces.
The good effect of the counsels of Ayub were soon apparent. Instead of
a sudden but transient influx of wealth, made by the ruin of the land,
which left the country desolate, a regular and permanent revenue sprang
up, produced by reviving prosperity, and gathered without violence.
Abdalasis ordered it to be faithfully collected, and deposited in
coffers by public officers appointed in each province for the purpose;
and the whole was sent by ten deputies to Damascus, to be laid at the
feet of the caliph,—not as the spoils of a vanquished country, but as the
peaceful trophies of a wisely administered government.
The common herd of warlike adventurers, the mere men of the sword,
who had thronged to Spain for the purpose of ravage and rapine, were
disappointed at being thus checked in their career, and at seeing the
reign of terror and violence drawing to a close. “What manner of leader
is this,” said they, “who forbids us to make spoil of the enemies of
Islam, and to enjoy the land we have wrested from the unbelievers?”
The partisans of Julian also whispered their calumnies. “Behold,” said
they, “with what kindness he treats the enemies of your faith: all the
Christians who have borne arms against you, and withstood your entrance
into the land, are favoured and protected; but it is enough for a
Christian to have befriended the cause of the Moslems to be singled
out by Abdalasis for persecution, and to be driven with scorn from his
presence.”
These insinuations fermented the discontent of the turbulent and
rapacious among the Moslems; but all the friends of peace and order and
good government applauded the moderation of the youthful emir.
CHAPTER XVI.
LOVES OF ABDALASIS AND EXILONA.
Abdalasis had fixed his seat of government at Seville, as permitting easy
and frequent communications with the coast of Africa. His palace was of
noble architecture, with delightful gardens extending to the banks of the
Guadalquivir. In a part of this palace resided many of the most beautiful
Christian females, who were detained as captives, or rather hostages, to
ensure the tranquillity of the country. Those who were of noble rank were
entertained in luxury and magnificence; slaves were appointed to attend
upon them, and they were arrayed in the richest apparel and decorated
with the most precious jewels. Those of tender age were taught all
graceful accomplishments; and even where tasks were imposed, they were of
the most elegant and agreeable kind. They embroidered, they sang, they
danced, and passed their times in pleasing revelry. Many were lulled by
this easy and voluptuous existence; the scenes of horror through which
they had passed were gradually effaced from their minds, and a desire
was often awakened of rendering themselves pleasing in the eyes of their
conquerors.
After his return from his campaign in Lusitania, and during the intervals
of public duty, Abdalasis solaced himself in the repose of this palace,
and in the society of these Christian captives. He remarked one among
them who ever sat apart; and neither joined in the labours nor sports of
her companions. She was lofty in her demeanour, and the others always
paid her reverence; yet sorrow had given a softness to her charms, and
rendered her beauty touching to the heart. Abdalasis found her one day
in the garden with her companions: they had adorned their heads with
flowers, and were singing the songs of their country; but she sat by
herself and wept. The youthful emir was moved by her tears, and accosted
her in gentle accents. “O fairest of women!” said he, “why dost thou
weep, and why is thy heart troubled?” “Alas!” replied she, “have I not
cause to weep, seeing how sad is my condition, and how great the height
from which I have fallen? In me you behold the wretched Exilona, but
lately the wife of Roderick, and the Queen of Spain, now a captive and a
slave!” And, having said these words, she cast her eyes upon the earth,
and her tears began to flow afresh.
The generous feelings of Abdalasis were aroused at the sight of beauty
and royalty in tears. He gave orders that Exilona should be entertained
in a style befitting her former rank; he appointed a train of female
attendants to wait upon her, and a guard of honour to protect her from
all intrusion. All the time that he could spare from public concerns was
passed in her society; and he even neglected his divan, and suffered his
counsellors to attend in vain, while he lingered in the apartments and
gardens of the palace, listening to the voice of Exilona.
The discreet Ayub saw the danger into which he was falling. “Oh
Abdalasis!” said he, “remember the words of thy father. ‘Beware, my son,’
said he, ‘of the seductions of love. It renders the mighty weak, and
makes slaves of princes!’” A blush kindled on the cheek of Abdalasis,
and he was silent for a moment. “Why,” said he, at length, “do you seek
to charge me with such weakness? It is one thing to be infatuated by the
charms of a woman, and another to be touched by her misfortunes. It is
the duty of my station to console a princess who has been reduced to the
lowest humiliation by the triumphs of our arms. In doing so, I do but
listen to the dictates of true magnanimity.”
Ayub was silent, but his brow was clouded; and for once Abdalasis parted
in discontent from his counsellor. In proportion as he was dissatisfied
with others or with himself, he sought the society of Exilona; for there
was a charm in her conversation that banished every care. He daily
became more and more enamoured; and Exilona gradually ceased to weep,
and began to listen with secret pleasure to the words of her Arab lover.
When, however, he sought to urge his passion, she recollected the light
estimation in which her sex was held by the followers of Mahomet, and
assumed a countenance grave and severe.
“Fortune,” said she, “has cast me at thy feet: behold I am thy captive
and thy spoil. But though my person is in thy power, my soul is
unsubdued; and know that, should I lack force to defend my honour, I have
resolution to wash out all stain upon it with my blood. I trust, however,
in thy courtesy as a cavalier to respect me in my reverses, remembering
what I have been; and that, though the crown has been wrested from my
brow, the royal blood still warms within my veins.”[53]
The lofty spirit of Exilona, and her proud repulse, served but to
increase the passion of Abdalasis. He besought her to unite her destiny
with his, and share his state and power, promising that she should have
no rival nor co-partner in his heart. Whatever scruples the captive queen
might originally have felt to a union with one of the conquerors of her
lord, and an enemy of her adopted faith, they were easily vanquished;
and she became the bride of Abdalasis. He would fain have persuaded her
to return to the faith of her fathers; but though of Moorish origin, and
brought up in the doctrines of Islam, she was too thorough a convert to
Christianity to consent, and looked back with disgust upon a religion
that admitted a plurality of wives.
When the sage Ayub heard of the resolution of Abdalasis to espouse
Exilona he was in despair. “Alas, my cousin!” said he, “what infatuation
possesses thee? Hast thou then entirely forgotten the letter of thy
father? ‘Beware my son,’ said he, ‘of love: it is an idle passion,
which enfeebles the heart and blinds the judgment.’” But Abdalasis
interrupted him with impatience. “My father,” said he, “spake but of the
blandishments of wanton love; against these I am secured by my virtuous
passion for Exilona.”
Ayub would fain have impressed upon him the dangers he ran of awakening
suspicion in the caliph, and discontent among the Moslems, by wedding
the queen of the conquered Roderick, and one who was an enemy to the
religion of Mahomet; but the youthful lover only listened to his passion.
Their nuptials were celebrated at Seville with great pomp and rejoicings,
and he gave his bride the name of Omalisam; that is to say, she of the
precious jewels[54]; but she continued to be known among the Christians
by the name of Exilona.
CHAPTER XVII.
FATE OF ABDALASIS AND EXILONA.—DEATH OF MUZA.
Possession, instead of cooling the passion of Abdalasis, only added
to its force; he became blindly enamoured of his beautiful bride, and
consulted her will in all things; nay, having lost all relish for the
advice of the discreet Ayub, he was even guided by the counsels of his
wife in the affairs of government. Exilona, unfortunately, had once been
a queen, and she could not remember her regal glories without regret. She
saw that Abdalasis had great power in the land; greater even than had
been possessed by the Gothic kings; but she considered it as wanting in
true splendour until his brows should be encircled with the outward badge
of royalty. One day, when they were alone in the palace of Seville, and
the heart of Abdalasis was given up to tenderness, she addressed him
in fond yet timid accents. “Will not my lord be offended,” said she,
“if I make an unwelcome request?” Abdalasis regarded her with a smile.
“What canst thou ask of me, Exilona,” said he, “that it would not be
a happiness for me to grant?” Then Exilona produced a crown of gold,
sparkling with jewels, which had belonged to the king, Don Roderick, and
said, “Behold, thou art king in authority, be so in thy outward state.
There is majesty and glory in a crown; it gives a sanctity to power.”
Then putting the crown upon his head, she held a mirror before him that
he might behold the majesty of his appearance. Abdalasis chid her fondly,
and put the crown away from him; but Exilona persisted in her prayer.
“Never,” said she, “has there been a king in Spain that did not wear a
crown.” So Abdalasis suffered himself to be beguiled by the blandishments
of his wife, and to be invested with the crown and sceptre and other
signs of royalty.[55]
It is affirmed by ancient and discreet chroniclers, that Abdalasis only
assumed this royal state in the privacy of his palace, and to gratify
the eye of his youthful bride: but where was a secret ever confined
within the walls of a palace? The assumption of the insignia of the
ancient Gothic kings was soon rumoured about, and caused the most violent
suspicions. The Moslems had already felt jealous of the ascendancy of
this beautiful woman; and it was now confidently asserted that Abdalasis,
won by her persuasions, had secretly turned Christian.
The enemies of Abdalasis, those whose rapacious spirits had been kept
in check by the beneficence of his rule, seized upon this occasion to
ruin him. They sent letters to Damascus accusing him of apostacy, and of
an intention to seize upon the throne in right of his wife, Exilona,
as widow of the late King Roderick. It was added, that the Christians
were prepared to flock to his standard, as the only means of regaining
ascendancy in their country.
These accusations arrived at Damascus just after the accession of the
sanguinary Suleiman to the throne, and in the height of his persecution
of the unfortunate Muza. The caliph waited for no proofs in confirmation;
he immediately sent private orders that Abdalasis should be put to death,
and that the same fate should be dealt to his two brothers who governed
in Africa, as a sure means of crushing the conspiracy of this ambitious
family.
The mandate for the death of Abdalasis was sent to Abhilbar ben Obeidah
and Zeyd ben Nabegat, both of whom had been cherished friends of Muza,
and had lived in intimate favour and companionship with his son. When
they read the fatal parchment, the scroll fell from their trembling
hands. “Can such hostility exist against the family of Muza?” exclaimed
they. “Is this the reward for such great and glorious services?” The
cavaliers remained for some time plunged in horror and consternation.
The order, however, was absolute, and left them no discretion. “Allah
is great,” said they, “and commands us to obey our sovereign.” So they
prepared to execute the bloody mandate with the blind fidelity of Moslems.
It was necessary to proceed with caution. The open and magnanimous
character of Abdalasis had won the hearts of a great part of the
soldiery, and his magnificence pleased the cavaliers who formed his
guard: it was feared, therefore, that a sanguinary opposition would
be made to any attempt upon his person. The rabble, however, had been
embittered against him from his having restrained their depredations, and
because they thought him an apostate in his heart, secretly bent upon
betraying them to the Christians. While, therefore, the two officers made
vigilant dispositions to check any movement on the part of the soldiery,
they let loose the blind fury of the populace, by publishing the fatal
mandate. In a moment the city was in a ferment, and there was a ferocious
emulation who should be first to execute the orders of the caliph.
Abdalasis was at this time at a palace in the country not far from
Seville, commanding a delightful view of the fertile plain of the
Guadalquivir. Hither he was accustomed to retire from the tumult of the
court, and to pass his time among groves and fountains, and the sweet
repose of gardens, in the society of Exilona. It was the dawn of day,
the hour of early prayer, when the furious populace arrived at this
retreat. Abdalasis was offering up his orisons in a small mosque which he
had erected for the use of the neighbouring peasantry. Exilona was in a
chapel in the interior of the palace, where her confessor, a holy friar,
was performing mass. They were both surprised at their devotions, and
dragged forth by the hands of the rabble. A few guards, who attended at
the palace, would have made defence; but they were overawed by the sight
of the written mandate of the caliph.
The captives were borne in triumph to Seville. All the beneficent virtues
of Abdalasis were forgotten; nor had the charms of Exilona any effect
in softening the hearts of the populace. The brutal eagerness to shed
blood, which seems inherent in human nature, was awakened; and woe to
the victims when that eagerness is quickened by religious hate! The
illustrious couple, adorned with all the graces of youth and beauty, were
hurried to a scaffold in the great square of Seville, and there beheaded,
amidst the shouts and execrations of an infatuated multitude. Their
bodies were left exposed upon the ground, and would have been devoured
by dogs, had they not been gathered at night by some friendly hand, and
poorly interred in one of the courts of their late dwelling.
Thus terminated the loves and lives of Abdalasis and Exilona, in the year
of the Incarnation seven hundred and fourteen. Their names were held
sacred as martyrs to the Christian faith: but many read in their untimely
fate a lesson against ambition and vainglory; having sacrificed real
power and substantial rule to the glittering bauble of a crown.
The head of Abdalasis was embalmed, and enclosed in a casket, and sent
to Syria to the cruel Suleiman. The messenger who bore it overtook the
caliph as he was performing a pilgrimage to Mecca. Muza was among the
courtiers in his train, having been released from prison. On opening the
casket, and regarding its contents, the eyes of the tyrant sparkled with
malignant satisfaction. Calling the unhappy father to his side: “Muza,”
said he, “dost thou know this head?” The veteran recognised the features
of his beloved son, and turned his face away with anguish. “Yes! well do
I know it,” replied he; “and may the curse of God light upon him who has
destroyed a better man than himself.”
Without adding another word, he retired to Mount Deran, a prey to
devouring melancholy. He shortly after received tidings of the death
of his two sons, whom he had left in the government of western Africa,
and who had fallen victims to the jealous suspicions of the caliph. His
advanced age was not proof against these repeated blows, and this utter
ruin of his late prosperous family; and he sank into his grave, sorrowing
and broken-hearted.
Such was the lamentable end of the conqueror of Spain; whose great
achievements were not sufficient to atone, in the eye of his sovereign,
for a weakness to which all men ambitious of renown are subject; and
whose triumphs eventually brought persecution upon himself, and untimely
death upon his children.
* * * * *
Here ends the legend of the Subjugation of Spain.
FOOTNOTES
[31] In this legend most of the facts respecting the Arab inroads into
Spain are on the authority of Arabian writers; who had the most accurate
means of information. Those relative to the Spaniards are chiefly from
old Spanish chronicles. It is to be remarked that the Arab accounts have
most the air of verity, and the events, as they relate them, are in the
ordinary course of common life. The Spanish accounts, on the contrary,
are full of the marvellous; for there were no greater romancers than the
monkish chroniclers.
[32] Conde, p. i. c. 10.
[33] Cronica de España, de Alonzo el Sabio, p. iii. c. 1.
[34] The house shown as the ancient residence of Aben Habuz is called _La
Casa del Gallo_, or the house of the weathercock; so named, says Pedraza,
in his History of Granada, from a bronze figure of an Arab horseman,
armed with lance and buckler, which once surmounted it, and which varied
with every wind. On this warlike weathercock was inscribed, in Arabic
characters,—
“Dice el sabio Aben Habuz
Que asi se defiende el Andaluz.”
“In this way, says Aben Habuz the wise,
The Andalusian his foe defies.”
The Casa del Gallo, even until within twenty years, possessed two great
halls beautifully decorated with Morisco reliefs. It then caught fire,
and was so damaged as to require to be nearly rebuilt. It is now a
manufactory of coarse canvas, and has nothing of the Moorish character
remaining. It commands a beautiful view of the city and the Vega.
[35] Pedraza, Hist. Granada, p. iii. c. 2. Bleda, Cronica, lib. ii. c. 10.
[36] Conde, Hist. de las Arabes en España, c. 12.
[37] The stratagem of the Jews of Toledo is recorded briefly by Bishop
Lucas de Tuy, in his chronicle, but is related at large in the chronicle
of the Moor Rasis.
[38] According to Arabian legends, this table was a mirror revealing all
great events; insomuch that by looking on it the possessor might behold
battles and sieges and feats of chivalry, and all actions worthy of
renown; and might thus ascertain the truth of all historic transactions.
It was a mirror of history, therefore, and had very probably aided King
Solomon in acquiring that prodigious knowledge and wisdom for which he
was renowned.
[39] Abulcasim. Perdita de España, lib. i. c. 13.
[40] Cron. Gen. de España, por Alonzo el Sabio, p. iii. c. 1.
[41] Bleda, Cronica, lib. ii. c. 11.
[42] Conde, p. i. c. 13. Ambrosio de Morales.—N.B. In the Chronicle of
Spain, composed by order of Alonzo the Wise, this anecdote is given as
having happened at the siege of Seville.
[43] Marmol. Descrip. de Africa, t. i. l. 2.
[44] Abulcasim, Perdida de España, l. i. c. 13.
[45] Espinosa. Antq. y Grand. de Seville, lib. ii c. 3.
[46] Conde, p. i. c. 14.
[47] Conde, p. i. Cronica del moro Rasis. Cron. Gen. España, por Alonzo
el Sabio, p. iii. c. 1.
[48] Conde, p. i. c. 15.
[49] Conde, p. i. c. 15.
[50] Conde, p. i. c. 16.
[51] Conde, p. i. c. 17.
[52] Algarbe, or Algarbia, in Arabic signifies the west, as Axarkia is
the east, Algufia the north, and Aquibla the south. This will serve to
explain some of the geographical names on the peninsula which are of
Arabian origin.
[53] Faxardo, Corona, Gothica, t. i. p. 492. Joan. Mar. de Reb. Hisp. l.
vi. c. 27.
[54] Conde, p. i. c. 17.
[55] Cron. Gen. de Alonzo el Sabio, p. 3. Joan. Mar. de Reb. Hisp. lib.
vi. c. 27. Conde, p. i. cap. 19.
LEGEND OF COUNT JULIAN AND HIS FAMILY.
LEGEND OF COUNT JULIAN AND HIS FAMILY.
In the preceding legends is darkly shadowed out a true story of the
woes of Spain. It is a story full of wholesome admonition, rebuking the
insolence of human pride, and the vanity of human ambition, and showing
the futility of all greatness that is not strongly based on virtue. We
have seen, in brief space of time, most of the actors in this historic
drama disappearing, one by one, from the scene, and going down, conqueror
and conquered, to gloomy and unhonoured graves. It remains to close this
eventful history, by holding up as a signal warning the fate of the
traitor, whose perfidious scheme of vengeance brought ruin on his native
land.
Many and various are the accounts given in ancient chronicles of the
fortunes of Count Julian and his family; and many are the traditions on
the subject still extant among the populace of Spain, and perpetuated in
those countless ballads sung by peasants and muleteers, which spread a
singular charm over the whole of this romantic land.
He who has travelled in Spain in the true way in which the country ought
to be travelled; sojourning in its remote provinces; rambling among the
rugged defiles and secluded valleys of its mountains; and making himself
familiar with the people in their out-of-the-way hamlets, and rarely
visited neighbourhoods, will remember many a group of travellers and
muleteers, gathered of an evening around the door or the spacious hearth
of a mountain venta, wrapped in their brown cloaks, and listening with
grave and profound attention to the long historic ballad of some rustic
troubadour, either recited with the true _ore rotundo_ and modulated
cadences of Spanish elocution, or chanted to the tinkling of a guitar.
In this way, he may have heard the doleful end of Count Julian and his
family recounted in traditionary rhymes, that have been handed down from
generation to generation. The particulars, however, of the following wild
legend are chiefly gathered from the writings of the pseudo Moor, Rasis:
how far they may be safely taken as historic facts, it is impossible now
to ascertain; we must content ourselves, therefore, with their answering
to the exactions of poetic justice.
As yet every thing had prospered with Count Julian. He had gratified
his vengeance; he had been successful in his treason, and had acquired
countless riches from the ruin of his country. But it is not outward
success that constitutes prosperity. The tree flourishes with fruit and
foliage while blasted and withering at the heart. Wherever he went, Count
Julian read hatred in every eye. The Christians cursed him as the cause
of all their woe; the Moslems despised and distrusted him as a traitor.
Men whispered together as he approached, and then turned away in scorn;
and mothers snatched away their children with horror if he offered to
caress them. He withered under the execration of his fellow men; and
last, and worst of all, he began to loathe himself. He tried in vain to
persuade himself that he had but taken a justifiable vengeance: he felt
that no personal wrong can justify the crime of treason to one’s country.
For a time, he sought in luxurious indulgence to soothe, or forget,
the miseries of the mind. He assembled round him every pleasure and
gratification that boundless wealth could purchase; but all in vain. He
had no relish for the dainties of his board; music had no charm wherewith
to lull his soul, and remorse drove slumber from his pillow. He sent to
Ceuta for his wife Frandina, his daughter Florinda, and his youthful
son Alarbot; hoping in the bosom of his family to find that sympathy
and kindness which he could no longer meet with in the world. Their
presence, however, brought him no alleviation. Florinda, the daughter of
his heart, for whose sake he had undertaken this signal vengeance, was
sinking a victim to its effects. Wherever she went, she found herself a
bye-word of shame and reproach. The outrage she had suffered was imputed
to her as wantonness, and her calamity was magnified into a crime. The
Christians never mentioned her name without a curse, and the Moslems, the
gainers by her misfortune, spake of her only by the appellation of Cava,
the vilest epithet they could apply to woman.
But the opprobrium of the world was nothing to the upbraiding of her own
heart. She charged herself with all the miseries of these disastrous
wars; the deaths of so many gallant cavaliers; the conquest and perdition
of her country. The anguish of her mind preyed upon the beauty of her
person. Her eye, once soft and tender in its expression, became wild
and haggard; her cheek lost its bloom, and became hollow and pallid;
and at times there was desperation in her words. When her father sought
to embrace her, she withdrew with shuddering from his arms; for she
thought of his treason, and the ruin it had brought upon Spain. Her
wretchedness increased after her return to her native country, until it
rose to a degree of frenzy. One day when she was walking with her parents
in the garden of their palace, she entered a tower, and, having barred
the door, ascended to the battlements. From thence she called to them in
piercing accents, expressive of her insupportable anguish and desperate
determination. “Let this city,” said she, “be henceforth called Malacca,
in memorial of the most wretched of women, who therein put an end to her
days.” So saying, she threw herself headlong from the tower, and was
dashed to pieces. The city, adds the ancient chronicler, received the
name thus given it, though afterwards softened to Malaga, which it still
retains, in memory of the tragical end of Florinda.
The Countess Frandina abandoned this scene of woe, and returned to Ceuta,
accompanied by her infant son. She took with her the remains of her
unfortunate daughter, and gave them honourable sepulture in a mausoleum
of the chapel belonging to the citadel. Count Julian departed for
Carthagena, where he remained plunged in horror at this doleful event.
About this time, the cruel Suleiman, having destroyed the family of Muza,
had sent an Arab general, named Alahor, to succeed Abdalasis as emir or
governor of Spain. The new emir was of a cruel and suspicious nature,
and commenced his sway with a stern severity that soon made those under
his command look back with regret to the easy rule of Abdalasis. He
regarded with an eye of distrust the renegado Christians who had aided
in the conquest, and who bore arms in the service of the Moslems; but
his deepest suspicions fell upon Count Julian. “He has been a traitor to
his own countrymen,” said he: “how can we be sure that he will not prove
traitor to us?”
A sudden insurrection of the Christians who had taken refuge in the
Asturian mountains quickened his suspicions, and inspired him with
fears of some dangerous conspiracy against his power. In the height of
his anxiety, he bethought him of an Arabian sage named Yuza, who had
accompanied him from Africa. This son of science was withered in form,
and looked as if he had outlived the usual term of mortal life. In the
course of his studies and travels in the East, he had collected the
knowledge and experience of ages; being skilled in astrology and, it
is said, in necromancy, and possessing the marvellous gift of prophecy
or divination. To this expounder of mysteries Alahor applied, to learn
whether any secret treason menaced his safety.
The astrologer listened with deep attention and overwhelming brow to
all the surmises and suspicions of the emir; then shut himself up to
consult his books, and commune with those supernatural intelligences
subservient to his wisdom. At an appointed hour, the emir sought him in
his cell. It was filled with the smoke of perfumes: squares and circles
and various diagrams were described upon the floor; and the astrologer
was poring over a scroll of parchment covered with cabalistic characters.
He received Alahor with a gloomy and sinister aspect; pretending to have
discovered fearful portents in the heavens, and to have had strange
dreams and mystic visions.
“O emir,” said he, “be on your guard! Treason is around you, and in your
path: your life is in peril. Beware of Count Julian and his family.”
“Enough,” said the emir. “They shall all die! Parents and children—all
shall die!”
He forthwith sent a summons to Count Julian to attend him in Cordova.
The messenger found him plunged in affliction for the recent death of
his daughter. The count excused himself, on account of this misfortune,
from obeying the commands of the emir in person, but sent several of
his adherents. His hesitation, and the circumstance of his having sent
his family across the straits to Africa, were construed by the jealous
mind of the emir into proofs of guilt. He no longer doubted his being
concerned in the recent insurrections, and that he had sent his family
away, preparatory to an attempt, by force of arms, to subvert the Moslem
domination. In his fury, he put to death Siseburto and Evan, the nephews
of Bishop Oppas, and sons of the former king, Witiza, suspecting them
of taking part in the treason. Thus did they expiate their treachery to
their country in the fatal battle of the Gaudalete.
Alahor next hastened to Carthagena, to seize upon Count Julian. So rapid
were his movements that the count had barely time to escape with fifteen
cavaliers, with whom he took refuge in the strong castle of Marcuello,
among the mountains of Arragon. The emir, enraged to be disappointed of
his prey, embarked at Carthagena, and crossed the straits to Ceuta, to
make captives of the Countess Frandina and her son.
The old chronicle from which we take this part of our legend presents a
gloomy picture of the countess in the stern fortress to which she had
fled for refuge; a picture heightened by supernatural horrors. These
latter the sagacious reader will admit or reject, according to the
measure of his faith and judgment; always remembering, that in dark
and eventful times, like those in question, involving the destinies of
nations, the downfall of kingdoms, and the crimes of rulers and mighty
men, the hand of fate is sometimes strangely visible, and confounds
the wisdom of the worldly wise, by intimations and portents above the
ordinary course of things. With this proviso, we make no scruple to
follow the venerable chronicler in his narration.
Now so it happened, that the Countess Frandina was seated late at night
in her chamber in the city of Ceuta, which stands on a lofty rock,
overlooking the sea. She was revolving, in gloomy thought, the late
disasters of her family, when she heard a mournful noise, like that of
the sea breeze, moaning about the castle walls. Raising her eyes, she
beheld her brother, the Bishop Oppas, at the entrance of the chamber. She
advanced to embrace him, but he forbade her with a motion of his hand;
and she observed that he was ghastly pale, and that his eyes glared as
with lambent flames.
“Touch me not, sister,” said he with a mournful voice, “lest thou be
consumed by the fire which rages within me. Guard well thy son, for
blood-hounds are upon his track. His innocence might have secured him
the protection of Heaven, but our crimes have involved him in our common
ruin.” He ceased to speak, and was no longer to be seen. His coming and
going were alike without noise, and the door of the chamber remained fast
bolted.
On the following morning, a messenger arrived with tidings that the
Bishop Oppas had been made prisoner in battle by the insurgent
Christians of the Asturias, and had died in fetters in a tower of the
mountains. The same messenger brought word that the Emir Alahor had put
to death several of the friends of Count Julian; had obliged him to fly
for his life to a castle in Arragon; and was embarking with a formidable
force for Ceuta.
The Countess Frandina, as has already been shown, was of courageous
heart; and danger made her desperate. There were fifty Moorish soldiers
in the garrison; she feared that they would prove treacherous, and take
part with their countrymen. Summoning her officers, therefore, she
informed them of their danger, and commanded them to put those Moors to
death. The guards sallied forth to obey her orders. Thirty-five of the
Moors were in the great square, unsuspicious of any danger, when they
were severally singled out by their executioners, and, at a concerted
signal, killed on the spot. The remaining fifteen took refuge in a tower.
They saw the armada of the emir at a distance, and hoped to be able to
hold out until its arrival. The soldiers of the countess saw it also,
and made extraordinary efforts to destroy these internal enemies, before
they should be attacked from without. They made repeated attempts to
storm the tower, but were as often repulsed with severe loss. They then
undermined it, supporting its foundations by stanchions of wood. To these
they set fire, and withdrew to a distance, keeping up a constant shower
of missiles to prevent the Moors from sallying forth to extinguish the
flames. The stanchions were rapidly consumed; and when they gave way the
tower fell to the ground. Some of the Moors were crushed among the ruins;
others were flung to a distance, and dashed among the rocks: those who
survived were instantly put to the sword.
The fleet of the emir arrived at Ceuta about the hour of vespers. He
landed, but found the gates closed against him. The countess herself
spoke to him from a tower, and set him at defiance. The emir immediately
laid siege to the city. He consulted the astrologer Yuza, who told him
that, for seven days, his star would have the ascendant over that of
the youth Alarbot; but after that time the youth would be safe from his
power, and would effect his ruin.
Alahor immediately ordered the city to be assailed on every side, and
at length carried it by storm. The countess took refuge with her forces
in the citadel, and made a desperate defence; but the walls were sapped
and mined, and she saw that all resistance would soon be unavailing. Her
only thoughts now were to conceal her child. “Surely,” said she, “they
will not think of seeking him among the dead.” She led him, therefore,
into the dark and dismal chapel. “Thou art not afraid to be alone in this
darkness, my child?” said she.
“No, mother,” replied the boy, “darkness gives silence and sleep.” She
conducted him to the tomb of Florinda. “Fearest thou the dead, my child?”
“No, mother, the dead can do no harm,—and what should I fear from my
sister?”
The countess opened the sepulchre. “Listen, my son,” said she. “There are
fierce and cruel people who have come hither to murder thee. Stay here in
company with thy sister, and be quiet as thou dost value thy life!” The
boy, who was of a courageous nature, did as he was bidden, and remained
there all that day, and all the night, and the next day until the third
hour.
In the mean time the walls of the citadel were sapped, the troops of the
emir poured in at the breach, and a great part of the garrison was put to
the sword. The countess was taken prisoner and brought before the emir.
She appeared in his presence with a haughty demeanour, as if she had been
a queen receiving homage; but when he demanded her son, she faltered, and
turned pale, and replied, “My son is with the dead.”
“Countess,” said the emir, “I am not to be deceived; tell me where you
have concealed the boy, or tortures shall wring from you the secret.”
“Emir,” replied the countess, “may the greatest torments be my portion,
both here and hereafter, if what I speak be not the truth! My darling
child lies buried with the dead.”
The emir was confounded by the solemnity of her words; but the withered
astrologer, Yuza, who stood by his side regarding the countess from
beneath his bushed eyebrows, perceived trouble in her countenance and
equivocation in her words. “Leave this matter to me,” whispered he to
Alahor; “I will produce the child.”
He ordered strict search to be made by the soldiery, and he obliged the
countess to be always present. When they came to the chapel, her cheek
turned pale and her lip quivered. “This,” said the subtle astrologer, “is
the place of concealment.”
The search throughout the chapel, however, was equally vain, and the
soldiers were about to depart, when Yuza remarked a slight gleam of joy
in the eye of the countess. “We are leaving our prey behind,” thought he;
“the countess is exulting.”
He now called to mind the words of her asseveration, that her child
was with the dead. Turning suddenly to the soldiers, he ordered them
to search the sepulchres. “If you find him not,” said he, “drag forth
the bones of that wanton Cava, that they may be burnt, and the ashes
scattered to the winds.”
The soldiers searched among the tombs, and found that of Florinda partly
open. Within lay the boy in the sound sleep of childhood, and one of the
soldiers took him gently in his arms to bear him to the emir.
When the countess beheld that her child was discovered, she rushed into
the presence of Alahor, and, forgetting all her pride, threw herself upon
her knees before him.
“Mercy! mercy!” cried she, in piercing accents, “mercy on my son—my only
child! O emir! listen to a mother’s prayer, and my lips shall kiss thy
feet. As thou art merciful to him, so may the most high God have mercy
upon thee, and heap blessings on thy head!”
“Bear that frantic women hence,” said the emir; “but guard her well.”
The countess was dragged away by the soldiery, without regard to her
struggles and her cries, and confined in a dungeon of the citadel.
The child was now brought to the emir. He had been awakened by the
tumult, but gazed fearlessly on the stern countenances of the soldiers.
Had the heart of the emir been capable of pity, it would have been
touched by the tender youth and innocent beauty of the child; but his
heart was as the nether millstone, and he was bent upon the destruction
of the whole family of Julian. Calling to him the astrologer, he gave
the child into his charge with a secret command. The withered son of the
desert took the boy by the hand, and led him up the winding staircase of
a tower. When they reached the summit, Yuza placed him on the battlements.
“Cling not to me, my child,” said he; “there is no danger.” “Father, I
fear not,” said the undaunted boy; “yet it is a wondrous height!”
The child looked around with delighted eyes. The breeze blew his curling
locks from about his face, and his cheek glowed at the boundless
prospect; for the tower was reared upon that lofty promontory on which
Hercules founded one of his pillars. The surges of the sea were heard far
below beating upon the rocks, the sea-gull screamed and wheeled about the
foundations of the tower, and the sails of lofty caraccas were as mere
specks on the bosom of the deep.
“Dost thou know yonder land beyond the blue water?” said Yuza.
“It is Spain,” replied the boy; “it is the land of my father and my
mother.”
“Then stretch forth thy hands and bless it, my child,” said the
astrologer.
The boy let go his hold of the wall, and, as he stretched forth his
hands, the aged son of Ishmael, exerting all the strength of his
withered limbs, suddenly pushed him over the battlements. He fell
headlong from the top of that tall tower, and not a bone in his tender
frame but was crushed upon the rocks beneath.
Alahor came to the foot of the winding stairs.
“Is the boy safe?” cried he.
“He is safe,” replied Yuza; “come and behold the truth with thine own
eyes.”
The emir ascended the tower and looked over the battlements, and beheld
the body of the child, a shapeless mass, on the rocks far below, and the
sea-gulls hovering about it; and he gave orders that it should be thrown
into the sea, which was done.
On the following morning, the countess was led forth from her dungeon
into the public square. She knew of the death of her child, and that her
own death was at hand; but she neither wept nor supplicated. Her hair was
dishevelled, her eyes were haggard with watching, and her cheek was as
the monumental stone; but there were the remains of commanding beauty
in her countenance; and the majesty of her presence awed even the rabble
into respect.
A multitude of Christian prisoners were then brought forth; and Alahor
cried out—“Behold the wife of Count Julian; behold one of that traitorous
family which has brought ruin upon yourselves and upon your country.”
And he ordered that they should stone her to death. But the Christians
drew back with horror from the deed, and said—“In the hand of God is
vengeance, let not her blood be upon our heads.” Upon this the emir
swore, with horrid imprecations, that whoever of the captives refused
should himself be stoned to death. So the cruel order was executed, and
the Countess Frandina perished by the hands of her countrymen. Having
thus accomplished his barbarous errand, the emir embarked for Spain, and
ordered the citadel of Ceuta to be set on fire, and crossed the straights
at night by the light of its towering flames.
The death of Count Julian, which took place not long after, closed
the tragic story of his family. How he died remains involved in doubt.
Some assert that the cruel Alahor pursued him to his retreat among the
mountains, and, having taken him prisoner, beheaded him; others that
the Moors confined him in a dungeon, and put an end to his life with
lingering torments; while others affirm that the tower of the castle of
Marcuello, near Huesca, in Arragon, in which he took refuge, fell on him
and crushed him to pieces. All agree that his latter end was miserable in
the extreme, and his death violent. The curse of Heaven, which had thus
pursued him to the grave, was extended to the very place which had given
him shelter: for we are told that the castle is no longer inhabited, on
account of the strange and horrible noises that are heard in it; and that
visions of armed men are seen above it in the air; which are supposed to
be the troubled spirits of the apostate Christians who favoured the cause
of the traitor.
In after times a stone sepulchre was shown, outside of the chapel of the
castle, as the tomb of Count Julian: but the traveller and the pilgrim
avoided it, or bestowed upon it a malediction; and the name of Julian
has remained a by-word and a scorn in the land for the warning of all
generations. Such ever be the lot of him who betrays his country!
* * * * *
Here end the legends of the conquest of Spain.
_Written in the Alhambra, June 10. 1829._
NOTE TO THE PRECEDING LEGEND.
El licenciado Ardevines (Lib. ii. c. 8.) dize que dichos Duendos caseros,
o los del aire, hazen aparacer exercitos y peleas, como lo que se cuenta
por tradición (y aun algunos personas lo deponen como testigos de vista)
de la torre y castello de Marcuello, lugar al pie de las montañas de
Aragon (aora inhabitable, por las grandes y espantables ruidos que en el
se oyen) donde se retraxo el Conde Don Julian, causa de la perdicion de
España; sobre el qual castillo, deze se ven en el aire ciertas visiones,
como de soldados, que el vulgo dize son los cavalleros y gente que le
favorecian.
Vide “el Ente Dislucidado”, por Fray Antonio de Fuentalapeña capuchin.
Seccion 3. Subseccion 5. Instancia 8. Num. 644.
As readers unversed in the Spanish language may wish to know the
testimony of the worthy and discreet capuchin friar, Antonio de
Fuentalapeña, we subjoin a translation of it.
“The licentiate Ardevines (Book II. chap. 8.) says, that the said house
fairies (or familiar spirits), or those of the air, cause the apparitions
of armies and battles; such as those which are related in tradition (and
some persons even depose to the truth of them as eye-witnesses) of the
town and castle of Marcuello, a fortress at the foot of the mountains of
Arragon (at present uninhabitable, on account of the great and frightful
noises heard in it), the place of retreat of Count Don Julian, the
cause of the perdition of Spain. It is said that certain apparitions
of soldiers are seen in the air, which the vulgar say are those of the
courtiers and people who aided him.”
THE END.
LONDON:
Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE,
New-Street-Square.
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