LAMENTATIONS OF THE MOORS FOR THE BATTLE OF LUCENA.
The sentinels looked out from the watch-towers of Loxa along the valley
of the Xenil, which passes through the mountains of Algaringo. They
looked to behold the king returning in triumph at the head of his
shining host, laden with the spoil of the unbeliever. They looked to
behold the standard of their warlike idol, the fierce Ali Atar, borne by
the chivalry of Loxa, ever foremost in the wars of the border.
In the evening of the 21st of April they descried a single horseman
urging his faltering steed along the banks of the Xenil. As he drew
near they perceived, by the flash of arms, that he was a warrior, and
on nearer approach by the richness of his armor and the caparison of his
steed they knew him to be a warrior of rank.
He reached Loxa faint and aghast, his courser covered with foam and dust
and blood, panting and staggering with fatigue and gashed with wounds.
Having brought his master in safety, he sank down and died before the
gate of the city. The soldiers at the gate gathered round the cavalier
as he stood by his expiring steed: they knew him to be Cidi Caleb,
nephew of the chief alfaqui of the mosque in the Albaycin, and their
hearts were filled with fearful forebodings.
“Cavalier,” said they, “how fares it with the king and army?”
He cast his hand mournfully toward the land of the Christians. “There
they lie!” exclaimed he. “The heavens have fallen upon them. All are
lost! all dead!”*
* Bernaldez (Cura de los Palacios), Hist. de los Reyes Catol.,
MS., cap. 61.
Upon this there was a great cry of consternation among the people, and
loud wailings of women, for the flower of the youth of Loxa were with
the army.
An old Moorish soldier, scarred in many a border battle, stood leaning
on his lance by the gateway. “Where is Ali Atar?” demanded he eagerly.
“If he lives the army cannot be lost.”
“I saw his helm cleft by the Christian sword; his body is floating in
the Xenil.”
When the soldier heard these words he smote his breast and threw dust
upon his head, for he was an old follower of Ali Atar.
Cidi Caleb gave himself no repose, but, mounting another steed, hastened
toward Granada. As he passed through the villages and hamlets he spread
sorrow around, for their chosen men had followed the king to the wars.
When he entered the gates of Granada and announced the loss of the king
and army, a voice of horror went throughout the city. Every one thought
but of his own share in the general calamity, and crowded round the
bearer of ill tidings. One asked after a father, another after a
brother, some after a lover, and many a mother after her son. His
replies all spoke of wounds and death. To one he replied, “I saw thy
father pierced with a lance as he defended the person of the king;” to
another, “Thy brother fell wounded under the hoofs of the horses, but
there was no time to aid him, for the Christian cavalry were upon
us;” to another, “I saw the horse of thy lover covered with blood and
galloping without his rider;” to another, “Thy son fought by my side on
the banks of the Xenil: we were surrounded by the enemy and driven into
the stream. I heard him cry upon Allah in the midst of the waters: when
I reached the other bank he was no longer by my side.”
Cidi Caleb passed on, leaving all Granada in lamentation: he urged
his steed up the steep avenue of trees and fountains that leads to the
Alhambra, nor stopped until he arrived before the Gate of Justice. Ayxa,
the mother of Boabdil, and Morayma, his beloved and tender wife, had
daily watched from the Tower of Comares to behold his triumphant return.
Who shall describe their affliction when they heard the tidings of Cidi
Caleb? The sultana Ayxa spake not much, but sat as one entranced. Every
now and then a deep sigh burst forth, but she raised her eyes to heaven.
“It is the will of Allah!” said she, and with these words endeavored
to repress the agonies of a mother’s sorrow. The tender Morayma
threw herself on the earth and gave way to the full turbulence of her
feelings, bewailing her husband and her father. The high-minded Ayxa
rebuked the violence of her grief. “Moderate these transports, my
daughter,” said she; “remember magnanimity should be the attribute
of princes: it becomes not them to give way to clamorous sorrow, like
common and vulgar minds.” But Morayma could only deplore her loss with
the anguish of a tender woman. She shut herself up in her mirador, and
gazed all day with streaming eyes upon the Vega. Every object recalled
the causes of her affliction. The river Xenil, which ran shining amidst
groves and gardens, was the same on whose banks had perished her
father, Ali Atar; before her lay the road to Loxa, by which Boabdil had
departed, in martial state, surrounded by the chivalry of Granada. Ever
and anon she would burst into an agony of grief. “Alas! my father!” she
would exclaim; “the river runs smiling before me that covers thy mangled
remains; who will gather them to an honored tomb in the land of the
unbeliever? And thou, O Boabdil, light of my eyes! joy of my heart! life
of my life! woe the day and woe the hour that I saw thee depart from
these walls! The road by which thou hast departed is solitary; never
will it be gladdened by thy return: the mountain thou hast traversed
lies like a cloud in the distance, and all beyond is darkness.”
The royal minstrels were summoned to assuage her sorrows: they attuned
their instruments to cheerful strains, but in a little while the anguish
of their hearts prevailed and turned their songs to lamentations.
“Beautiful Granada!” exclaimed they, “how is thy glory faded! The flower
of thy chivalry lies low in the land of the stranger; no longer does the
Vivarrambla echo to the tramp of steed and sound of trumpet; no longer
is it crowded with thy youthful nobles gloriously arrayed for the tilt
and tourney. Beautiful Granada! the soft note of the lute no longer
floats through thy moonlit streets; the serenade is no more heard
beneath thy balconies; the lively castanet is silent upon thy hills;
the graceful dance of the Zambra is no more seen beneath thy bowers!
Beautiful Granada! why is the Alhambra so lorn and desolate? The orange
and myrtle still breathe their perfumes into its silken chambers; the
nightingale still sings within its groves; its marble halls are still
refreshed with the plash of fountains and the gush of limpid rills.
Alas! alas! the countenance of the king no longer shines within those
halls! The light of the Alhambra is set for ever!”
Thus all Granada, say the Arabian chroniclers, gave itself up to
lamentation; there was nothing but the voice of wailing from the palace
to the cottage. All joined to deplore their youthful monarch, cut
down in the freshness and promise of his youth; many feared that the
prediction of the astrologers was about to be fulfilled, and that the
downfall of the kingdom would follow the death of Boabdil; while all
declared that had he survived he was the very sovereign calculated to
restore the realm to its ancient prosperity and glory.