Don Roderich--Gathering of the Chiefs--Trial of Witica
How strange to think of Cordoba before the Moors, who so imbued it with
the spirit of Moslem life! Those famous Caliphs of the rival houses of
Mirvan and Ummaija, and the great Abdurraman, whose wealth and luxury
read like a dream; Eastern luxury in banquets under painted domes;
odalisques and white-robed eunuchs gliding beneath fretted arches,
vaults of alabaster and porphyry; harems with walls shedding showers of
jasmine and rose-leaves, the soft breathings of _guzla_ and cither, dark
heads crowned with orient pearls, and tissue-robed Sultanas reclining on
golden thrones.
“Kartuba the important,” the gem of the Carthaginians,--ancient when the
Gentiles reigned in the time of Moses; possessed in turn by Greeks and
Romans, the birthplace of Seneca, Lucan, Averroës, and El Gran Capitan
Gonsalvo Aguilar de Cordoba; for ages the capital of Southern Spain,--is
to be considered exclusively, before the advent of the Moors, as a
Roman settlement, the grandly regular aspect of these masters of the
world impressed upon its buildings. Siding with Pompey in the time of
the Republic, it was destroyed by the vengeance of Cæsar. Rebuilt by
Marcellus and repeopled by penniless patricians from Rome, it was for a
time called “Patricia”; under all names a sober and dignified capital
gathered round its ancient castle on the banks of the Guadalquivir.
At all times Cordoba is beautiful; the verdant slopes of the Sierra
Morena, rising precipitously from the very gates, look down serenely on
the strife of rival peoples; lovely retreats, dotted with white
_quintas_, farms, mills, vineyards, and olive-grounds; the rugged
summits rising westwards to the limits of Lusitania; the lazy
Guadalquivir flowing at their base, through grassy plains dark with
orange and myrtle.
Now what a desolation! A solitary shepherd pipes to his flock, as he
passes at the _Ave Maria_, on the lonely road; a file of mules carrying
bricks or corn succeed him; a ragged goatherd watches his kids grazing
beside the river, and droves of swine burrow in the mould once trodden
by the steps of heroes! Two boldly crenelated towers and a portion of
the outer walls, rising from an ancient garden of exceeding sweetness,
are all that remains of the palace and fortress of the Gothic kings.
Thickets of roses and lilacs engulf you as you enter, broad palm leaves
shroud decay, and quivering cane-brakes whisper softly of the past. A
little to the left rises a lower tower, grey against the sky, another
and another, the stones scarcely held together by entwining ropes of
ivy--all that remains of the royal castle.
In the prison beneath, on a level with the Guadalquivir, the noble
Theodofredo, father of Roderich, languishes, deprived of sight by
red-hot irons held before the eyes, a favourite mode of torture,
borrowed, like all that is degraded, from the Byzantines. Now Witica,
who commanded this savage act, has taken his place in the same prison,
and is to be judged by Theodofredo’s son. Wiser would it be, and more
merciful, if Roderich should forego this vengeance. But with power have
come the savage instincts of his race. The indulgence of his life has
already begun to tell on his once generous nature. Little by little, he
has fallen from the high position of regenerator of Spain, and, led on
by evil counsel and a natural weakness inherent in his nature, has
adopted the same false and cruel principles of government which he was
called to the throne to reform.
* * * * *
Within a broad vaulted hall, the high roof supported by carved rafters,
the walls hung with tapestry woven with silver thread--in which the
stories of Gothic victories are rudely depicted--Roderich sits on a low
silver throne. It is shaped like a shield, in remembrance of the early
custom of the nomad chiefs, his ancestors, who, when invested with
military command, were three times, standing upon a shield, carried
round the camp, on the shoulders of stalwart Goths. A rich mantle of
purple brocade covers a lightly wrought cuirass inlaid with gold. The
Gothic crown, which has, in the altered manners of the time, come to be
not of iron but of gold, set with resplendent jewels, rests upon his
head, almost concealed by luxuriant masses of hair, falling on neck and
shoulders, in beard and love-locks. His buskins are red, like the
Eastern emperors’, and his feet, shod with pearled sandals, rest on an
inlaid footstool. The sceptre lies beside him with his sword, and over
his head is a raised canopy of cloth of gold, decorated with
inscriptions in Runic characters and quaint devices, come down from
early times.
Around are the chiefs and nobles of the nation, gathered from all
quarters of Spain--to judge him who lately was their king. All are men
of war, habited in the superb but cumbrous armour of the time, before
the delicate handling of the Moor turned metal into thin plates of
steel, made swords as fine and piercing as needles, and armory a
science.
Nearest to Roderich stands Ataulfo, next in succession to the throne, a
generous-hearted youth, full of the old virtues of his nation. With much
of the ruddy countenance of the king, he shows his Northern origin in
the chestnut locks which escape from his burnished cap, and a certain
blond fairness in spite of exposure to a southern sun.
[Illustration: THE CLOISTERS, TOLEDO.]
Teodomir, a veteran general, comes next; as too rigid a disciplinarian
for the degenerate times, he has somewhat fallen into neglect among the
younger chiefs who have risen to power with the accession of the king.
Teodomir is well past the prime of life, but retains the keen eye and
stalwart limbs of youth, as at the head of an army he will show before
many years are past. The historic warrior, Pelistes, is here too,
already sunk into the vale of years, but, like Teodomir, strong and
ready of hand and purpose, his grizzled hair shading a noble
countenance. These two trusty chiefs, who present themselves in the
antiquated armour of the Goths, were close friends of Roderich’s father,
and were specially active in raising the hasty levies for the battle
which placed his son on the throne; spite of which services, as time
goes by, they find themselves somewhat disregarded by the young king,
who listens to more flattering counsels and secretly laughs at the
rustic virtues applauded in the days of Recaredo and Wamba.
The royal lad Pelayo is also bidden, the son of that Favila, Dux of
Cantabria, put to death by Witica, when he purposed to slaughter all of
his blood. Pelayo stands somewhat back as becomes his youth, for who can
guess that this beardless boy, with a smiling, artless face, and full
blue Northern eyes will, by his fortitude, become the founder of a new
race of Gothic kings, and by his endurance and valour raise up a native
dynasty in Spain?
A crowd of young courtiers, most careful of the adornment of their
persons, fill up the space behind, apparelled in long embroidered
mantles of many brilliant shades, held in by jewelled cinctures and
buckles, elaborately worked caps upon their heads (the first idea of the
later _toque_ of the Renaissance)--fashions which have taken the place
of the short tunic, leather girdle, and heavy head-piece of former
times.
Beside these stands one on whom all eyes are turned. Stern and composed
of aspect, as if conscious of the possession of such power that he is
cautious of displaying it. His name is Julian, and it is he who chiefly
seconded the rising in favour of Roderich. Yet this man, Espatorios of
Spain, Lord of Consuegra and Algeciras, commander of the Goths on the
African seaboard, and governor of Ceuta, half royal himself, is a
dangerous subject and a doubtful friend. Why he supported Roderich is
the enigma of the day; he had but to stretch out his hand to seize the
crown himself, and with a much more legitimate claim. The ambition of
his wife Frandina is well known, and that she chafes at her inferior
position, and shuns the Court of Toledo and the royal house since
Egilona is the queen; yet, strange to say, Julian as yet, has never
swerved in his allegiance to Roderich. If any dark purpose of treason is
brooding in his soul, as yet it appears not. To this time he is
faithful, and is now present at Cordoba to judge his own near kinsman
Witica for divers misdeeds, but principally for his share in the death
of Roderich’s father, Theodofredo.
What that judgment will be is very plain to see. Rather to behold the
wretched tyrant die than to judge him are they all assembled there, for
the settled purpose in the mind of Roderich is revenge.
If Julian is an enigma, much more so is his smooth-faced brother-in-law,
Opas, Archbishop of Seville, brother of the fallen king, and his aider
and abettor in all his vice and cruelty. A very Judas in cunning is
Opas, who, with the fall of the supremacy of the Church has, for the
sake of power, accommodated himself to the new ideas, and looks out now
upon the course of events with a cold eye. What are his present motives?
None can guess. Yet in the fiendish treachery and bitter hatred he came
later to display towards Roderich some explanation may be found in the
cruel punishment he inflicted on his unfortunate brother. But the
present unnatural compliance of Opas, even in these rough days, is
looked on with disgust. There he stands, however, scornfully indifferent
to what men think, clothed in a rich cope and jewel-adorned dalmatica, a
double tiara on his head, resplendent with gems, for as he is in the
presence of one king, to judge another who has worn the crown, Opas has
arrayed himself in the splendid paraphernalia of his double office of
Archbishop of Seville and of Toledo. Attended by two deacons he presents
the very picture of the prelate of the day, ready to lead in war, or
govern in peace; a cross upon his neck, his waist girded with a sword,
and his feet cased in steel.
More than any one else present, however, the royal lad Pelayo, for whom
so romantic a future is in store, is personally interested in the
punishment of Witica, the murderer of his father; yet the composure of
his face and the carelessness of his attitude, as he leans against one
of the columns that uphold the raftered roof, are as if he were but one
among the many. Outwardly he betrays no consciousness of his great
wrong. Death and torture are familiar to the Gothic mind, and, like the
rest, he appears prepared to abide by the judgment of the king.
The heavy hangings shrouding the southern entrance to the hall are drawn
aside, and, with a rush of sunshine and scent of aromatic herbs and
odorous flowers, Witica appears, led in by slaves, heavy chains clanking
at his feet, and manacles binding his arms. Common woollen garments of a
dark colour cling to his emaciated frame, and his long, unkempt hair
streams down to his waist. So greatly is he changed that it is almost
impossible to recognise the lineaments of the jubilant and
gross-featured voluptuary in this thin, care-ravaged face. As he slowly
approaches the throne upon which Roderich is seated, he stops abruptly.
The rude guards on either side push him on, and weighted by the grasp of
the fetters he falls helplessly forward on his knees. Thus he remains
motionless. No friendly hand is outstretched to help him--the miserable
king. Not a single eye in that assembly softens with a pitying glance.
A wan, craven look comes over his face as he raises his eyes
beseechingly to the superb young monarch who has taken his place--so
miserable an object, that whatever have been his crimes it seems
impossible he can now inspire anything but pity. But Don Roderich thinks
otherwise; he contemplates the wretched figure before him with a stern
glance. Then, turning to the assembled chiefs and addressing himself
more especially to Julian, standing as sword-bearer at the right of the
throne, he speaks in a hard, resonant voice:
“In this man you behold the butcher of my father. To amuse his caprice,
he put out his eyes and imprisoned him in the dungeon of this castle
until, worn out by suffering, he died. My father,” he repeats, in a
ringing voice, which sounds hollow in the vast bare hall, “the noble
Theodofredo, whose only crime was being born near the throne.”
As he speaks there is so cruel an echo in his voice, the miserable
Witica shivers and cowers still lower on the floor. Never possessed of
much intelligence it would seem as if the long imprisonment and
certainty of death have deadened within him the little sense he has.
Dragged from the darkness of a dungeon into the full light of day,
before the varied pageant of a court once his own, his brain has become
confused. A dreadful horror is all he feels.
“What punishment,” continues Don Roderich, “think you, noble Goths,
most revered archbishop, and brother chiefs, should be inflicted on him
for this death, and all the evil he has wrought in Spain?”
“My lord,” replies Julian, bowing low, apparently unmoved by the
miserable object grovelling before him, “that is a personal matter,
which you alone can decide. The wrongs of a father are the wrongs of his
child.”
“That is my mind also,” briefly spoke the veteran Teodomir. “And
mine--and mine,” ran round the warlike circle, to whom the soft
attribute of mercy was unknown--“blood calls for blood. Such is the law
of our ancestors.”
Loud, too, in assent was heard the voice of Pelistes, moved to something
like feeling, as the image of his friend, the noble Theodofredo, rose to
his mind, condemned to a slow death within the very castle in which they
stand. For the shifting of the Gothic Court to Cordoba, for the trial of
Witica on the very spot where Theodofredo suffered was indeed a
master-stroke on the part of Roderich to heighten to the utmost pitch of
intensity not only the acuteness of his own vengeance, but the
sanguinary passions of the Goths.
While each noble gives assent, the young Pelayo grows very pale. Was not
Favila, his father, lord of the wide district of Cantabria, on the
iron-bound coast, besides the range of the Asturian mountains, a
Northern king in all but the name? Was not Favila also cruelly put to
death. And had not Witica sought to lay his murderous hands on him
also? Yet no man heeded. The death of Favila passed unnoticed, and
Roderich, at best but a usurper, and Roderich’s wrongs are alone in
every mouth! Too young to remonstrate with these elder chiefs, the heart
of Pelayo chafes in silent indignation, and he swears to himself that if
he lives, the day shall come when ancient Iberia shall ring with the
forgotten name of his sire!
“And you, most venerable archbishop,” continues Roderich, turning to
address himself to Opas, who, as if some claim of kindred had sounded at
his heart, had further withdrawn himself when Witica appeared, and stood
so placed as to conceal the view of the pathetic spectacle before
him--“you who, by your presence here this day, give us so signal a proof
of your loyalty, what seems to you just in this matter, so closely
touching yourself? We would willingly carry the Church with us. Speak
your mind freely, nor let our royal presence in aught prejudice the
prisoner.”
“My lord,” answers Opas, in a voice which, spite of his efforts to
steady it, still sounds scarcely in its natural tone, “my vote lies with
my kinsman, Julian. In a matter so nearly concerning myself as a
brother’s life and death, it fitteth best for me to be silent.”
Something in the familiar tones of his voice, some subtle affinity of
blood betwixt brother and brother, struck the dull sense of Witica. As
Opas spoke he raised his head, and, as he seemed to listen, a sickly
smile played for a moment about his sunken lips, and a more human
expression passed into his eyes. Listening, listening eagerly, as if
expecting some help, a wistful gleam of hope striking across the depths
of blank despair, his glance swept upwards with a pleading impotency
terrible to behold, the vibration as it were of some subtle instrument
set mysteriously in motion. Watching for what was to come, with open
mouth and anxious eyes, thus he remained some time, then gradually the
tension ceased, the heavy eye clouded, the jaw dropped, and the head,
with its shaggy, unkempt locks, freely mixed with grey, once more sank
hopelessly on his breast. All this occupied but the space of a few
minutes.
Don Roderich spoke once more. “Witica,” says he, lowering his eyes to
the level of the prostrate king, “you have heard the judgment of your
kinsmen and those who were your former subjects. What have you to
answer?”
An inarticulate sound breaks the silence. Witica makes a feeble effort
to raise himself in the arms of the slaves, who have never withdrawn
their hold, opens his mouth to answer, and then falls back speechless.
The Goths were ever a people cruel and savage in their laws, but so
terrible a spectacle as that one, lately monarch in the land, should
have fallen into such a strait might have touched even the heart of an
enemy, how much more kinsmen so nearly allied to him? But it was not so,
neither did any generous impulse move the king from his cruel purpose.
With the kindling eye of vengeance Roderich contemplates what was left
of that Witica whose kingdom he had seized, and proceeds to give
sentence in clear, ringing tones, audible in every corner of the hall.
“Let the evil Witica has wrought on others be visited on himself. The
eyes of my father Theodofredo were put out by his order, even so be it
done with him. In the same dungeon here at Cordoba, where my father
died, shall his life end. Away with the prisoner.”
The sounds of approval which follow these words, especially from the
group of young courtiers, serve in some sort to drown the piercing
shrieks which break from Witica when his dulled senses grasp the full
meaning of the sentence. Quick as thought he is borne away, and the spot
where he has lain is rapidly covered by the feet of the crowd of chiefs
and princes who gather in groups in front of the throne.
With a careless laugh Roderich descends the marble steps on which the
throne is placed, and placing his crown in the hands of a daintily
apparelled page, moves freely about among his nobles. The friends of his
father, Pelistes and Teofredo, coming from Murcia, are specially
greeted. To the Archbishop Opas he again addresses himself with the
studied courtesy he learned in civilised Italy. But again Pelayo is
passed over in silence, an affront which calls up a flush of anger on
his face, as he silently turns and leaves the hall. At last, singling
out Julian, Roderich moves aside under the range of the low pillars
which divide the hall.
“This judgment,” says he, speaking with caution, “relieves my mind of
much care. Witica has been condemned by those of his own blood. Brother,
brother-in-law, and kinsmen have joined together to make secure my
position on the throne. The dam indeed is scotched, but what of the
lambkins? Witica will be executed forthwith, but his sons remain. Where
are they? While they live the kingdom will never be safe from traitors.”
“Have no fear, my lord,” answered Julian, who, through all this painful
scene seemed to be lost in the contemplation of the expression of the
king, as a student pores over the page of a precious manuscript, the
sense of which may escape him by its obscurity. What manner of man is
this they have chosen, he was asking himself? Was Roderich as ferocious
as he seemed? Or was his conduct but the effort of a vacillating mind to
play the tyrant to excess, conscious of an inherent weakness? And as he
watched him, a feeling of deadly hatred came over him for the commission
of the very act of cruelty he had just sanctioned. But his answer to
Roderich’s question was as unmoved as though no hostile sentiments were
warring within him.
“The youths are already fled to Africa, my lord, where the Spanish
Governor of Tangiers
[Illustration: The Alhambra, Granada, and the Vega from the
Generalife.]
harbours them out of gratitude to their father. Let them rest, they will
not trouble you.”
“You say well, count,” answers Roderich in a light tone; “vengeance for
my father is a duty. For awhile we will grant them life, but later they
must pay the forfeit of Witica’s crimes. But now to other matters. How
fares the Lady Frandina, your virtuous consort, and the young Florinda,
whom report extols as beautiful beyond measure?”
The manners of the king were frank and soldierly, and history records
that he possessed to a great degree that winning demeanour which charms
in the high ones of the earth. To Julian, whose powerful aid had mainly
helped him to the possession of the crown, he had hitherto shown a
deference that flattered while it controlled. To Don Roderich’s question
Julian answered with a smile: “It is well with my consort, who is at our
castle of Algeciras; she bade me greet your grace. As to my daughter, it
was of her I was about to speak. Florinda is with me in Cordoba. I have
brought her as a fair present and hostage to your bride, Queen Egilona,
to attend on her, along with the other noble damsels of the court, and
to learn those lessons of virtue and excellence in which she is
paramount. Will you, my lord, be my surety with the queen?”
“That will I, gladly,” answers Don Roderich, his countenance lighting up
with a gracious smile. “The confidence which you repose in me is of all
else the crown and proof of your loyalty. As such I accept it. To me
Florinda shall be as a daughter. I will watch over her as yourself, and
see that she is trained in the same rigid principles of piety which
honour her mother’s name.”
Julian, his pale, olive-skinned face flushed with the gratification
these words afford, bows low. “Florinda,” he replies, “is but a timid
girl brought up by her mother’s side, as yet unacquainted with the state
which fittingly surrounds Queen Egilona. You will pardon her
inexperience; she is quick and sensitive of nature, and keen to
appreciate kindness. It is by her wish that she will attend the queen; I
have but followed her own desire. Her mother indeed consented, but
unwillingly, to part with her.”
“This is welcome news. It is as a shaft which tells both ways, in the
sentiment of attachment in which she has been reared, and of the mind of
the fair maid herself. No parents shall be tenderer or more careful than
we to her. Would that I had a son to match with her in marriage.”
“And now,” says Julian, making a low obeisance, “I will crave to be
permitted to withdraw; my presence is demanded in my government. The
Moors have received considerable reinforcements, and advance upon Ceuta
from the neighbouring hills. By way of Damascus they come, despatched by
Almanzor from Bagdad, called by those unbelievers ‘The sword of God.’
Our Gothic province on the margin of the Straits needs vigorous and
constant watching.”
“And it is for that reason,” is Roderich’s reply, “that I have placed
the government in your hands, valiant Espatorios, first and most trusted
of all my Gothic chiefs.”
“I will do my duty, my lord,” is the rejoinder. “You need, I trust, no
assurance of this; but, spite of precautions, I fear greatly that a
battle or a siege is imminent. The Moslems are gathered in such numbers,
savage tribes of Arabs and Berbers, under the Moorish general, Mousa ben
Nozier of Damascus, and his son Abd-el-asis, that it will need all our
resources to baffle. Mousa swears that he will drive the Cross from the
confines of Africa, and raise the Crescent on every Christian fortress
we hold in Tingitana.”
“This is a confirmation of evil news,” replies Don Roderich, whose
beaming countenance had darkened as Julian gave these details. “I am
well advised of the concentration of the Arabs in the north of Africa. I
but awaited your coming to confirm it. But had you not been present with
the archbishop it would have been argued in the nation that as his
relative you disapproved my sentence. Now we are hand in hand. Command
all the resources of the mainland to drive the invaders back. Light
sloops can be run from Algeciras to Ceuta with soldiers and arms.”
“My lord, I have enough; should a siege be threatened every mouth has to
be fed. But it is to me, the leader, that the Christians look. It is I
who am needed on the coast of Barbary. I have personally, too, great
credit with the Moors; they are noble enemies.”
“I doubt it not,” is Roderich’s answer. “Wherever my trusty Espatorios
draws the sword, victory follows.”
“My lord, it was but to excuse my hasty parting, not to ask for more
supplies, that I spoke. To know that my daughter is well disposed of in
a safe asylum is a balm to me greater than any boon you could bestow. My
wife, Frandina, fights by my side. I have no fear for her, and our son
is consigned to the care of the Archbishop Opas. Now, thanks to you, my
lord, I am free-handed to face the Moors. I have but to settle more
matters connected with Florinda, and to depart. The queen is at Toledo;
I must accompany her thither.”
“By no means,” cries Don Roderich, “unless such is your wish. She shall
go with me, accompanied by suitable attendants. I myself will present
her to Egilona as our child.”
Meanwhile, the assemblage had gradually diminished. Each chief was in
haste to depart, for the country was full of enemies, more especially in
the south and east, where the vessels of the Moors continually landed
Berbers and Arabs to plunder and carry off the inhabitants as slaves.
That serious invasion was near at hand all understood, except perhaps
Roderich and the idle young Goths who formed his court. As yet, it is
true, Don Julian held the enemy at bay in Africa, but, his presence or
his support withdrawn, the Moors would pour like a torrent on the land,
and, save for a few of the old leaders who had survived the disastrous
reign of Witica, and the enervating atmosphere spreading everywhere from
the court into all ranks, _who_ was there to oppose them?