Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 1

That the king was so depraved by the indulgence of his life as not to be haunted by the shame of what he had done is difficult to believe. That he counted, however, on the secrecy of Florinda would seem certain from the indifference he displayed to the consequences of his action as affecting his relations with Julian, at that very time leading his army against the Moorish hosts, commanded by the veteran general, Mousa, in the neighbourhood of Ceuta.

“Those whom the gods forsake, they blind,” says the Pagan proverb. It is certainly impossible to explain the inactivity of the once valiant Roderich by any rational course of reasoning. Not only had the rumour of approaching battle come from the African shores, but swift messengers had brought to Toledo the news that the rock of Calpe (Gibraltar) in Spain bristled with scimitars, led by the ferocious old Berber, Tháryk, with his single eye.

“Tell Roderich the Goth,” ran the message, “that Tháryk has crossed the Straits to conquer his kingdom, and that he will not return until he has made the Goth lick the dust before him.”

Whatever blindness had fallen on Roderich, the consciousness of her disgrace soon forced itself on the mind of Florinda. Guilty or not, despair at last took possession of her. For a time she was silent, but unable to endure her shame, and horrified at her treason towards the queen, who ever tenderly cherished her, in a paroxysm of remorseful grief she caught up a pen and wrote to Julian:

“Would to God, my father, that the earth had swallowed me ere I came to Toledo! What am I to tell you of that which it is meet to conceal? Alas! my father, your lamb has been entrusted to the wolf. She were better dead than dishonoured. Hasten to rescue your unhappy Florinda. Come quickly.”

Tying this brief missive in a square of silk, and fastening it with a ribbon, she called to her a young page, bred at her father’s court, who had been especially appointed to her service.

“Adolfo,” said she, and sobs were in her voice, “saddle the swiftest steed you can lay hands on, and if ever, dear niño, you aspire to the honours of a belted knight in the service of my father, or hope for lady’s grace in the tourney; if ever – ” here she burst into a flood of tears, moved by her own vehemence. “Oh, sweet Adolfo, dear little page, reared up in my home, for the love of Christ, ride day and night until you reach the sea. Then, at the price of gold, which I give you,” and she placed in his hands a heavy purse, “take the best boat and the swiftest rowers, and with flowing sail speed to my father at Ceuta, nor eat nor drink until you have placed this writing in his hand.”

Before the eager Florinda, whose every feature spoke the deadly anxiety she felt, the page, cap in hand, bowed low.

“Trust me, noble daughter of my honoured lord. I will truly execute your trust. Swiftly will I ride, nor turn aside for aught but death, either by land or sea.”

Placing the letter in the bosom of his gaudy vest, he kissed her hand and sped his way, mounted a fast horse he found in the patio of the Palace, galloped down the declivity, through the Golden Gate, and so on into the eternal plains which gird about Toledo, until clouds of dust concealed him from Florinda’s anxious gaze.

Meanwhile, Julian, fighting valiantly in Africa, had just repulsed an attack of Mousa on the castle of Ceuta, standing on a cape which juts out into the Straits, the nearest point to the Spanish mainland. It was a desperate struggle; the Moors, under the command of the famous Arabs, rallying again and again.

The news of such a success spread round not only in Africa but over all the breadth of Spain. The landing of the Moors in Andalusia was a constant subject of terror on the mainland. Men knew that the Gothic nation no longer held together as under the early kings, and that each chief looked to himself alone, caring but little what became of his neighbours. The castles were dismantled by the selfish policy of Witica and Roderich, and the army was sunk into the same luxurious ease as the rest of the nation.

The name of Julian was soon on every lip. He was hailed as a saviour, and blessings invoked on him as the bulwark of the Cross.

With the sound of this homage ringing in his ears, the page arrives at Ceuta, bearing the letter from Florinda. Julian at once summons him to his tent, as perchance the bearer of some signal honour bestowed upon him by the king, or of some royal recompense for his services.

“What tidings from Don Roderich?” he asks.

“None, my lord,” is the answer. “I rode in haste away, without seeing the king. What I bear is a letter from the Lady Florinda.”

“Florinda – how fares she?”

“Well, my lord,” answers the page, as he takes the silken packet from his bosom.

Cutting the ribbon that binds it with his dagger, Julian reads the miserable lines; word after word brings a terrible certainty to his mind; he stands in speechless anguish, then, flinging the parchment from him, he folds his arms, while one by one the burning remembrance of each act of devotion to Roderich stings him to the soul. It is a terrible reckoning; a dark and malignant fury enters into his soul, not only against Roderich, but against all Spain, the scene of his dishonour, the home of his disgrace.

“And this,” cries he, when words come to his lips, “is my reward for serving a villain! This is the return he makes me for the hostage of my child! May I die a slave if I rest until I have given him full measure in return!”

CHAPTER IV

Don Julian Goes over to the Moors

JULIAN’S first object is, without exciting suspicion, to remove his daughter from Toledo. Full of the project of revenge, he crosses the Straits and repairs to the Court. Wherever he appears is hailed as the leader to whose prowess the nation owes its safety. Roderich, counting on the silence of Florinda, receives him with a frank and generous welcome, and loads him with new honours. Julian, meanwhile, artfully magnifies the present danger which threatens the frontier, and prepares all things for his return to Africa. For Florinda he obtains leave of absence from the queen “to attend upon her mother Frandina, dangerously ill at Algeciras.” Together they cross the bridge of the Tagus, followed by the shouting populace, but as his horse’s hoofs strike on the opposite bank he raises his mailed hand, and shakes it in the air as he turns his eyes towards the Alcazar.

“My curse rest on thee, Don Roderich!” are his words. “May desolation fall on thy dwelling and thy realm!”

Journeying on with Florinda, he came to a wild range of mountains near Consucara – still called the Mountain of Treason – where he meets his kinsman, Archbishop Opas, and his wife Frandina, a formidable amazon, who not only followed her lord in battle, but concentrated in herself all the duplicity of her brother.

She had long hated Roderich for his marriage with Egilona, now she could revenge herself.

“I would rather die,” she exclaims, as she gazed at Florinda, prostrate at her feet, “than submit to this outrage!”

“Be satisfied,” replies Don Julian; “she shall be avenged. Opas will bind our friends by dreadful oaths. I myself will go to Africa to seek great Mousa, and negotiate his aid.”

From Malaga Julian embarked for Africa with Frandina and Florinda, his treasure and his household, and ever since the gate in the city wall through which they passed has been called Puerta de la Cava (Gate of the Harlot), by which name the unhappy Florinda was known among the Moors.

The dark tents of the Moslems were spread in a pastoral valley at the foot of the billowy chain of hills which follow along the north of Barbary (as it was called of old), outshoots from the great Atlas range which towers in the far distance. A motley host from Egypt and Mauretania – Saracens, Tartars, Syrians, Copts, and Berbers, – all, Christian or Moslem, fair-skinned or negro, united under the banner of Mousa, Governor of North Africa for the Caliph of Damascus, a man long past middle life, but who concealed his years cunningly.

As Mousa sits to administer justice among the mixed tribes of his host, raised on a divan covered with sheep-skins, under a wide-spreading oak, near which a rapid streamlet runs down into the sea, the flag of Islam floating beside him, Tháryk, his lieutenant, on his right hand, a bugle sounds from above among the hills, and the gay apparel of a herald appears in the distance, attended by a single trumpeter. Cautiously descending the steep path among a forest-like grove, the herald, bearing on his tabard the Gothic arms, pauses at the base; the trumpeter sounds another loud blast, then both ride boldly into the circle gathered round Mousa. After an obeisance, responded to in silence by the astonished Moors, he speaks, lowering his cognisance before the chief: “I demand,” says he, “a safe passage for my master, Don Julian Espatorios of Spain, under King Roderich the Goth. Can he come without danger to life and limb and depart when he lists?”

To which Mousa, touching with the tips of his fingers the folds of the green turban which he wears, then carrying them down and crossing them on his chest, in an Eastern salute of ceremony replies:

“The demand of Don Julian is granted. Let my noble adversary advance without fear. So brave a leader shall eat of our salt were he ten times our foe.”

Clad in a complete suit of armour, and mounted on a powerful charger, Julian appears. A surcoat of black is over his armour, his legs are encased in fluted steel, and on his helmet rests a sable plume. Behind him rides his esquire, bearing his lance and shield. With grave courtesy he salutes the Moslem chiefs whom he has so lately defeated, then, upon the motion of Mousa, who rises at his approach, he dismounts, and, flinging the bridle to his esquire, takes the place assigned to him.

The deep-set eyes of Julian, for he wears his vizor raised, are fixed on the face of Mousa, who with the refinement of Eastern courtesy, affects to smile, although much exercised in his mind as to what motive can have induced his adversary thus voluntarily to place himself in his power. His lieutenant Tháryk, a rough warrior, gifted with little command over his countenance, glares at him meanwhile out of his single eye with unconcealed hatred.

An awkward pause follows, broken only by the low ripple of the brook, carolling swiftly over the glancing pebbles, which separates Julian from Mousa, thus as it were symbolising the position of the late combatants by its slender barrier. At last Julian speaks: “Hitherto, O Emir of the Faithful, we have met as enemies. Now I am come to offer you my country and my king. Country,” he repeats bitterly, as a dark frown overshadows his face, pale under his helmet, “I have none; Roderich the Goth is my deadliest enemy. He has blasted the honour of my name. Aid me, O Mousa, to revenge, and all Spain is in your hand.”

Not even the grave immobility of countenance in which the Moslem is trained to conceal his emotions could altogether prevent the movement of amazement with which this speech was received by Mousa and Tháryk and those around. What motive, however, was powerful enough to cause Julian thus to present himself in the face of the assembled chiefs of Islam mattered not to Mousa. Julian had spoken, and his heart leaped within him at the words. How often had he gazed on the low hills along the Spanish coast washed by the Straits! How often had he longed to possess himself of the fair plains lying beyond: a land rich with rivers and pastures, vines, olives, and pomegranates, splendid cities and castles, flowing with milk and honey – and now it was his own! But, wary by nature, and cautious by age, the henna-stained warrior (for it was said of Mousa that, to retain his youthful appearance, he dyed his hair and beard) pauses ere he replies, and turns towards the sheikhs who sit around:

“Don Julian,” says he, affecting to knit his bushy eyebrows, “comes here as a traitor. The same treason may be hidden in his word that he shows to his own master. But lately he held the garrisons of the Goths against us in the stronghold of Ceuta, and prevailed. The faithful were driven out, and the Arab camp broken. How can we credit him? The Koran teaches that those who deceive an enemy are blessed.”

“Ceuta!” shouts Julian, “yes, O Mousa, you have said well. It is true I drove your Moslems from the field like sheep before the wolves. Yes!” (and even as he speaks his voice grows loud and fierce) “on every side I was hailed as a deliverer, and my heart swelled within me as I thought upon the victory I had won. Then, in the moment when the shouts of the Goths were echoing in my ears, and Roderich made of me almost a king, a letter came to my hand.” Here all expression died out of his face, his powerful frame seemed to stiffen into stone, but from out of the upraised bars of his helmet a menacing fire shone in his eyes, which belied the seeming calm of his demeanour. His gaze was fixed on Mousa, not as though he perceived him, but rather as if the eyes of his mind were ranging far away among the scenes which had brought him to this pass.

“Explain, noble Goth,” replies Mousa, “else is your coming vain.”

Recalled to himself by the Emir’s voice, Julian proceeded; but he visibly faltered as the words came slowly to his lips. “The dishonour of my house is my reward. My name is blasted while Roderich lives. For this purpose am I come.”

“This is a wild tale,” answers Mousa, crossing his arms within the draperies of his robe. “Your own words proclaim you a traitor. You may be true. If false, Allah judge you!”

Then it was that Tháryk-el-Tuerto rose and stood forth from among the sheikhs, his one eye gleaming with a savage joy.

“Doubt not the words of Don Julian, O Emir,” he cries. “The wrong which Roderich has wrought him would move the lowest Berber of the desert to revenge. By his offer, O Emir, a new land spreads out before us, inviting us to conquest. What is to prevent us from becoming the inheritors of the Goth? Let me go forth with Don Julian and prove the land.”

The bold words of “the one-eyed Tháryk” find favour with Mousa and the chiefs. “Allah is great,” is their answer. “Mahomet the Prophet speaks by the mouth of Tháryk. Let it be as he desires.”

So Julian and Tháryk departed with five galleys and five hundred men; landed at Algeciras in the Bay of Gibraltar (Gibel Taric to this day, in memory of him), and returned to Africa with such tidings of the power of Julian to raise the land, that a formidable invasion was decided on.

CHAPTER V

Landing of the Moors – The Eve of Battle

DON RODERICH, seated with the beauteous Queen Egilona in the royal castle of Toledo, eagerly questions a herald sent forward by Teodomir from Murcia.

“What tidings from the south?” he asks.

“Of great woe,” is the answer. “Already the rock of Calpe has fallen. The noble Teodomir is wounded. The Gothic troops, O King, fly before the Moslem. Whether they come from heaven or hell we know not. They have no ships, yet they overrun the coast. Send us aid with speed.”

At this dismal news Roderich turned to the wall and covered his face with his robe. Changed as he was from the valorous young hero of earlier days, enervated and sensual, the blood of brave warriors flowed in his veins, and shame and remorse overwhelmed him. Not one word could Egilona draw from him. To the pressure of her soft arms he did not respond; nor did he heed the kisses she showered on him, as, parting the long meshes of his flowing locks, she strove to uncover his face.

Around, the courtiers stand mute, each man with his eyes fixed on the earth. An awful silence follows, broken only by the sobs of the queen, as messenger after messenger rides in, distracting the city with fresh tales of woe. So easy had the treachery of Julian made conquest for the Moors, that already the coast of Andalusia bristled with scimitars, and bands of turbaned horsemen had overrun the plains to the banks of the Guadalete.

What were Roderich’s thoughts as he sat motionless? Did he recall the prophecy of his fall, when, contrary to the advice of the archbishop, who implored him to respect a mystery held sacred for generations, he had forced his way into the magic Tower of Hercules, planted on the cliffs outside Toledo, and in spite of all warnings had broken the lock of the enchanted casket, and unfolded the linen cloths on which were painted miniature figures of horsemen wearing turbans and Eastern tunics, scimitars at their sides, and crossbows at their saddle-bows, carrying pennons and banners with crescents and Moorish devices – all of which at first appeared small, as a pattern to be folded up, then grew and expanded into the size of life, – squadrons of Moorish warriors filling the space, as they moved upwards out of the cloth, in ever-lengthening lines, to the faint sound of distant warlike instruments; becoming ever larger and louder as the enchantment grew, and the figures waxing greater to the far-off clash of cymbals and trumpets, the neighing of war-steeds snorting in the charge, and shouts as of the approach of serried hosts?

And, as Don Roderich gazed as one stupefied before the vision he had audaciously invoked, plainer and plainer became the motion of the figures, and wilder the din, as the linen cloth rolled itself higher and higher and spread and amplified out of the casket, until it rose into the dome of the hall, its texture no longer visible, but moving with the air, the shadowy figures plainer and yet plainer in their fierce warfare, and the din and uproar more appalling as they formed into the semblance of a great battlefield where Christians and Moors strove with each other in deadly conflict; the rush and tramp of horses ever clearer, the blast of trumpet and clarion shriller and louder, the clash of swords and maces, the thud of battle-axes striking together, the whistle of ghostly arrows through the air, and the hurling of lances and darts – while phantom drums rumbled as by thousands with the under-note of war; two battling hosts clearly discerned, presenting all the phases of a desperate combat. And now, behold the phantom lines of Christians quail before the infidel, pressing on them in shadowy thousands, the standard of the Cross is felled, the Gothic banner fouled, the air resounds with shouts, yells of fury, and groans of dying men; and plain among the flying hosts is seen a mounted form, bearing the semblance of a shadowy king – a golden crown encircles his helmet – mounted on a white steed with blood-stained haunches, the satin-coated Orelia gallantly bearing him out of the battle. No countenance is visible, for his back is turned, but in the fashion of the inlaid armour, the jewelled circlet, the device, and graceful lines of his favourite war-horse, Don Roderich, with eyes dilated with horror, beholds himself flying across the plains! Unseated in the mêlée he disappears; and Orelia, without a rider, careers wildly on, as though in search of the loved master, the touch of whose hand she knows so well!

Roderich, paralysed with horror, sees no more, but rushing from the magic hall, the rumble of phantom drums and trumpets in his ear, commands that the iron doors of the Tower of Hercules be for ever closed.

Such was the warning, but he heeded not.

On July 26, 711, beside the river Guadalete (Wady Lete), near Xerez, was fought out the fate of Spain. A dull, dreary region, over which the eye now wanders objectless, save for a far-off lying tower, or a solitary pine marked against the horizon; the scent of lavender and rosemary strong in the wind, like incense rising up for the forgotten dead, whose bones whitened the plain.

The Moors, under the command of Tháryk, “the one-eyed,” were inferior in numbers to the Goths, but compacter and more dexterous, accustomed to constant warfare, and headed by experienced leaders. As the rays of the setting sun caught the wide circle of the Moslem camp the evening before the battle, a motley crowd of many tribes met the astonished eyes of the Goths: Berbers from North Africa in white turbans and white flying bournous, armed with lance and wattled shields; roving Bedouins on the fleetest steeds, their glossy coats hung with beads and charms; Ethiopians, black as night; Nubians with matted hair, and men from Barbary and Tunis.

On landing at Tarifa, near the rock of Gibraltar, Thàryk had burnt every ship. “Behold,” said he, pointing to the flames which ran swiftly along the wood of the light African triremes, “there is now no escape for cowards. We conquer, or we die. Your home is before you,” and he pointed to the low line of inland hills which bound the horizon. As he spoke, an ancient woman, covered with a woollen sheet gathered about her naked limbs, drew near to where he was standing surrounded by his sheikhs, waving a white rag.

“Great Emir,” quoth she, falling on the earth to kiss his feet in Eastern fashion, “I am the bearer of a prophecy written by an ancient seer. He foretold that the Moors would overrun our country, if a leader should appear known by these signs: On his right shoulder is a mole, and his right arm is longer than his left, so that he can cover his knee with one hand without bending down.”

Tháryk listened with grave attention, then laid bare his arms. There was the mole, and so much did his right arm exceed the left in length, that he could clasp his knee with his hand.

The Christians had pitched their tents at sunset, somewhat distant from the Moors, whose black banners, with mysterious signs, dark tents, and savage weapons inspired them with awe. Before night, Don Roderich sent out a picked squadron of the Gothic bodyguard to skirmish with the enemy, with flags and standards bearing the same device as those which had floated before Alaric at the walls of Rome. Each chief, encased in ponderous armour, in singular contrast to the light-armed Moors – attended by esquires heavily armed also, and bowmen and men-at-arms. Old Teodomir led them, having come from his government of Murcia, with many another tried Gothic chief; Ataulfo, and the grey-headed Pelistes, heading, with the traditions of the earliest times, his vassals and retainers. With him was his young son, who had never borne arms but in the lists of the tourney. The young Pelayo had craved to be present, to flesh his maiden sword against the enemy, but the jealousy of Roderich, who hated all those of the old race, had forbidden it; an affront that so rankled in his soul that he swore what seemed then a foolish oath, but which time ratified – to lead his countrymen or to die.

To this goodly array of Christian knights the Moors were not slow to correspond. Ranks of fleet horsemen rode out in the failing light, under the command of Julian (ever to the fore where the fighting was hottest), sacrificing many a gallant life in empty skirmishing, all by the advice of the Archbishop Opas, whose tent lay near to Roderich, while he secretly guided the Moors.

Old Tháryk, astonished by this prompt display of the valour of the Goths, and their devotion to their king, sought out Julian, sternly remonstrating:

“You told me your countrymen were sunk in sloth and effeminacy under a dastard king. But behold, I see their tents whitening the plains and his army to be reckoned by thousands upon thousands of good fighting men. Woe unto you, O Christian knight, if, to work out your own vengeance, you have lured me with false words.”

Julian, greatly troubled, retired to his tent, and called to him his page, the same who had brought him the letter of Florinda from Toledo.

“My pretty boy,” he said, passing his arm about his neck, “you know that I love you almost as a son. Now is the time to serve me. Hie to the Christian camp, and find the tent of my kinsman, Archbishop Opas. Show him this ring, and tell him Julian greets him and demands how Florinda can be avenged. Mark well his answer. Repeat it word by word. Carry close lips and open eyes in the enemy’s camp. If challenged, say you are one of the household of the archbishop, bearing missives from Cordoba. So speed you well, my boy. Away, away, away.”

Along the margin of the Guadalete he rode, the soft turf giving back no sound. A sword girded to his saddle-bow, a dagger in his belt, mounted on a steed as fleet as air, and black in colour as the night.

Brightly gleamed the Christian fires around their camp, but sadly to his ear came the plaints of the soldiers wounded in the skirmish, who had crawled to the river bank to slake their thirst. Then with a groan, a dying Moor, doomed to expire alone under an alien sky, called on him to stay, and his trusty horse stumbled, and nearly fell, over the prostrate body of a dead knight lately prancing proudly under the sun. The heart of the page faltered. Fain would he have stayed, for he had served in courts, and was of a gentle nature, but never for a moment did he tarry on his course, or let compassion tempt him to help such as called on him for aid. His master’s word was law, and he had said, “Haste thee on thy way for life and death.”