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.”
Challenged by the Christian sentinels, he spoke the words Julian had
taught him, and passed through to the tent of the archbishop.
Opas, as one of those militant churchmen so common in that age, having
doffed his suit of mail, was resting after the fight. When his own
brother had fallen, without remorse he turned to Roderich. Now Roderich
in his turn was betrayed and he bethought himself of his kinsfolk.
A stern, high-featured man, with a ready smile, like winter sunshine
upon snow, merciless and hypocritical, he had steered his way through
two stormy reigns, and was now believed by Roderich to be as devoted to
his cause as he had seemed to be to the unhappy Witica. When he saw the
ring his brother-in-law had sent him, he made no reply. For awhile he
contemplated the page curiously, slowly passing his jewelled fingers
over his clean-shaven chin, lost in thought; then he broke silence:
“Doubtless,” said the hypocrite, “the message is from God. Your master
Julian is but the mouthpiece of the Most High. Since the divine voice
has spoken, and given us time to consider its judgment, it behoves me,
his servant in all things, to accomplish his will. Hasten back to your
lord, good page, and tell him to have faith in his wife’s brother. As
yet my own troops have not unsheathed the sword, but are fresh and
ready. At the hour of noon to-morrow, when both armies are engaged, let
him look out; I will pass over to the Moslem.”
With this treacherous message the page departed, making no noise, and as
he guided his black horse along the lines of the river as he had come,
the sound of an arrow whistled by his ear, a random shot which did not
harm him.