The Moors at Seville--Mousa and Abdul-asis
Meanwhile the great Emir Mousa is moved by fierce jealousy of the
success of Tháryk of the one-eye. Not only had he overrun the mountains
of the Moon and conquered Granada, but the city of Toledo, the capital
of Northern Spain, was opened to him by the Jews.
This is too much to bear from an inferior. Swift messengers are
despatched across the Straits to bid him wait until Mousa arrives. He
laughs to scorn the message, and battles as before, his light squadrons
penetrating farther and farther into the north of Spain.
Mousa had many sons, but history concerns itself with one only, by name
Abdul-asis, pale-skinned, with large romantic eyes and a too tender
heart. Abdul-asis sailed with his father across the Straits, and a great
army of Moors and illustrious emirs accompanied them.
“By the head of the Prophet,” quoth Mousa, as he consulted the map of
Spain, “that hireling of the one-eye has left us no land to conquer. He
is a glutton, who eateth all.” But on a more minute examination, it was
found that there was still room in the vast country of Spain for earning
further laurels. Tháryk had as yet left Andalusia unconquered.
Andalusia! the very name is poetry--mystic, unfathomed, vague! Reaching
far back into fabulous ages where history cannot follow! The home of
_jonglerie_, magic, and song! Would that I could paint the turquoise of
its skies, the endless purple of its boundless plains, the dusky shade
of orange and myrtle woods dashed with the vivid green!
What art! what knowledge! And the sensuous charm of a heavenly climate,
where winter is never known, and spring passes into summer without a
struggle; a land loved by the veiled beauties of the East, looking down
through shadows of the fretted _miradores_, marble galleries, and
_patios_, on barbican towers and Roman walls!
And what a people, cloudless in temper as the heavens! To love flowers,
to dance _seguidillas_, and _oles_, and to tell tales, that is your
Andalusian--grouped in circles anywhere, under a hedge or a plane-tree,
on a grassy knoll, in gilded halls, or beneath painted arches. A happy,
thoughtless race at all times, taking life and conquest as it comes.
If Andalusia is left to Mousa, Tháryk has lost the fairest jewel of
Spain.
* * * * *
Abdul-asis spoke to his father.
“My lord and father,” he said, “as yet I have done nothing to deserve a
sword. Behold, when my service is over, and I return to Egypt and appear
before the Sultan, what will he say when I answer that I have gained no
battle, and taken no city or castle? Good my father, if you love me,
grant me some command, and let me gain a name worthy of your son.”
To this Mousa answered: “Allah be praised! The heart of Abdul-asis beats
in the right place. Your desire, my son, shall be granted. While I go
north, to besiege Merida, you shall march southwards. Seville has
defeated the Moors, and quartered Christian troops in the barbican. Be
it your care to drive out these unbelieving dogs, and plant once more
the Crescent on the Giralda tower. Reduce the city, and spoil the land.
Then pass southward, and conquer the province of Murcia, where the
Gothic Teodomir defends himself with a handful of troops.”
* * * * *
When Abdul-asis, who read the Persian poets and had himself tried his
hand at verse, came in sight of beautiful Seville, lying like a white
lily surrounded by the shadows of dark woods, he sighed:
“Alas! is it for me,” he said, “to bring destruction upon so fair a
scene? Why am I come to dye with blood those flowery groves, and burden
the tide of the Guadalquivir with corpses? Alas! why did not my father
choose some place less lovely on which to bring ruin than this the
palm-crowned queen of cities!”
Thus mourned Abdul-asis, but not so the fiery Africans whom he
commanded. They gazed on the walls with wrath, and longed to flesh their
scimitars in Christian blood.
It was with the utmost difficulty that the merciful Abdul-asis stopped
the massacre when the city fell. It pained his gentle heart, for its
many beauties, especially the palm-planted gardens of the Alcazar, vocal
with purling streams and bubbling fountains, so dear to the Arab fancy.
“Here,” thought Abdul-asis, as he wandered among the myrtle-bordered
paths, fragrant with jasmine and violet, “is the paradise promised to
the faithful, but where are the houris, whose white embraces are to make
it sweet?” Neither did the voluptuous movements of the dancing girls
(for Seville in all ages has been famed for the _baile_), moving with
uplifted arms and quivering limbs in the _vito_ or the _zapateado_,
intoxicate his senses; nor did the voices of the young _niñas_, chanting
the _malagueñas_ to cither and lute, draw him from the poetic melancholy
which possessed his soul, as he turned his steps from alley to alley,
not having yet found the ideal of which he was in search.
But the son of Mousa was a warrior, though the gods had made him
poetical. He could not long be idle, and hastened to fulfil the second
mission confided to him by Mousa--to overcome the far-off province of
Murcia.
Another faithful knight who had survived the battle of the Guadalete was
Teodomir, who, by skilful management had entrenched himself in Murcia.
Not only brave, but singularly prudent, Teodomir had observed that to
oppose the Moors openly in the field was to ensure defeat, therefore he
had fortified as best he could, every wild recess of the rocky hills
lying toward the coast, and every rise and knoll whence he could shoot
down arrows and missiles. So that when Abdul-asis appeared in the land,
cleft asunder by wide rivers and divided by swamps and flats, he
encountered no enemy.
“This is a blind warfare,” he cried, “a war without a foe. What manner
of man is this Goth who wages war in the clouds, and with a few raw
troops holds my army in check?”
With a grim smile Teodomir marked the success of his tactics. Spies told
him that, in the council of Abdul-asis, retreat had already been mooted,
and more and more he insisted upon giving his enemy no chance in the
open.
Not so his sons. “What glory is there here?” say these youths. “Let us
go forth and face him. We are as good as he. If our men are less
disciplined, courage makes up the balance.”
“Fools,” answered old Teodomir, laying his wrinkled hands upon them, and
drawing them to him, that he might make them if possible understand his
counsels. “Glory dazzles from afar, but safety is the best when a foe
knocks at the door.”
Continued dropping wears a stone. To his great joy, as the sun rose and
the weary eyes of handsome Abdul-asis turned towards the marshy plains,
he beheld Teodomir riding onwards towards the camp at the head of his
troops, a son on either hand, the old Goth in the centre in shining
armour, with nodding plumes, preceded by flags and horsemen.
“Now Allah be praised!” he exclaims. “At last! Saddle my war-horse
Suleiman, and let all the sheikhs follow me, for it is written in the
book of fate that these dogs of Christians are given into our hands.”
“Alas! my sons,” said Teodomir, reining up his steed, as his practised
eye showed him the purpose of the dark body of advancing Arabs, with the
green flags, galloping rapidly in the rear, under the cover of the
heights. “Alas! it has happened as I said. We are cut off. What can our
raw troops do against these well-armed Arabs? Let us make for the
fastness of Orihuela while we can.”
The sons, however, would not listen, but like vain youths opposed their
father’s counsel, as did also the captains. The Moor asked for nothing
better. He attacked then fiercely in the open plain, cut down the two
presumptuous boys before their father’s eyes, and beat his troops, who
fled on all sides.
Nor could Teodomir stay the flight. Seeing that all was lost, and his
sons dead, he seized the bridle of a horse ridden for him by a little
page, who tended him in his tent, and who like the rest was spurring
onward in full flight.
“Tarry a moment, my son,” says Teodomir, grasping the bridle with an
iron grip. “Mount behind and part not from me, for I will save thy
life!”
So digging his huge spurs into his horse’s flanks, at which the
well-trained animal, used to his practised touch, reared indignantly on
its hind legs and pawed the air, then started off in a wild gallop,
swift as the rushing wind. Nor did they pause until, mounting the steep
zig-zag path, they were both safe within the fortress of Orihuela.
There it still stands, a castle of defence, crowned by dark bulwarks on
a mountain chain, an outlook for scores of miles over a flat country
towards Granada and the sea. Round and round the base winds the road
from Alicante, through overhanging lanes, under palm-trees and
embowering citron woods, broken by red earthed _barrancas_. The town
itself (Auri-welah) is still very Eastern, with domed church and
castellated towers, the whole district with great tidal rivers cutting
through, fertile beyond words.
As the day fell, and the sun went down in lemon-coloured clouds,
Abdul-asis approached, thinking to find an easy conquest. But to his
amazement the walls appeared fully garrisoned, and from the keep a proud
flag floated, bearing the colours of the Goths.
“How is this?” said the son of Mousa. “Is it a necromancy? Or have these
men risen from the
[Illustration: THE CHURCH OF SAN ISIDORA.
(Leon.)]
earth? With my own eyes I saw Teodomir flying alone, a page riding
behind him. His sons are dead, his forces scattered. Who are these but
fiends he has summoned by magic to his aid?”
And fear fell upon him as he gazed, and he commanded that no attack be
ventured, but that the camp should be formed at the base of the rock
until morning.
Upon which Teodomir, who was looking out, took a flag of truce, fastened
it to a lance, put a herald’s tabard on the back of the page who had
fled with him, and a high-crowned hat on his head, and went down to
where the purple tent and the Crescent standard marked the spot where
Abdul-asis was to be found.
“I come,” said Teodomir, in a tone of lofty courtesy, raising his iron
vizor, and showing the stern face of a warrior, the young page behind
him, proud of the particoloured dress, and swaying the flag of truce in
cadence to his words, “I come as a Gothic knight into your presence,
most magnanimous son of Mousa, whom men call ‘the merciful,’ to treat of
the surrender of the castle. As you see, our walls are fully manned, and
we have food for a lengthened siege. But much blood has flowed. I have
lost my sons, and fain would spare the lives of my people. Promise that
we may pass unmolested, and when the rising sun tips the circle of
mountains towards the east, we will surrender. Otherwise, we will fight
until none are left.”
Abdul-asis, young in craft and unsuspecting, as became the poetic
quality of his soul, was greatly struck with the bold words of the
veteran, who stood his ground so valiantly alone against an army. The
castle, too, was strong, and appeared amply defended. Generosity in this
case was policy. He consented gladly, standing forth alone, a crimson
caftan thrown over his armour, the folds of his turban shading his
massive Egyptian features and his lustrous eyes. To the articles of
capitulation, he hastened to affix his seal. Then he addressed Teodomir:
“Tell me, bold Christian,” said he, “you who have ventured alone into
the Moorish camp, now that we are friends, of what force is the garrison
of Orihuela?”
A grim smile spread over the face of the veteran. “Wait and see,” was
his answer. “With the morning light we will evacuate the place.”
* * * * *
As the sun rises in glory behind the eastern mountain tips, and its
first rays strike upon the battlements, Teodomir appears, followed by a
motley crowd of old women, greybeards, and children tottering down the
descent.
Abdul-asis waited with wondering eyes until they had reached the plain.
“Where,” he said, “O Teodomir, are the valiant soldiers who lined the
walls, and have so well maintained the honour of the Goths?”
“Soldiers,” answers Teodomir; “by the Lord, I have none. My garrison is
before you. These manned the walls. My page”--here he pointed to the
stripling disguised in the habit of a herald, the heavy coat dragging
after him upon the ground, the helmet falling over his face--“is my
herald, guard, and army.”
Ere Teodomir had finished speaking, a great uproar arose among the
Moors.
“Tear him limb from limb,” cry the sheikhs. “Cut the throat of the
Christian dog. Let him not live who deceives the Moslems of Islam!” But
with a stern gesture Abdul-asis interposed: “Let no man dare to touch
the Christian knight,” he orders. “By righteous fraud he has defended
his castle. I command that the rights of war are granted him.”
Then, taking Teodomir by the hand he led him to his tent, and ordered
wine and meat to be served to him as to himself. And in memory of this
defence the provinces of Murcia and Valencia, all through the Moorish
occupation, were known as “the Land of _Tadmir_” or “_Teodomir_.”
Thanks to the rivalry between these two commanders, Mousa and Tháryk,
Gothic Spain had fallen to the Moors in an incredibly short space of
time: the banners of the Crescent waved from Pelayo’s country in the
mountains of the Asturias in the north, to Calpe and the Pillars of
Hercules in the south; from the borders of Lusitania (Estremadura) in
the west, to the coast of Tarragona and Valencia in the east; and the
mighty city of Saragossa, where so many Christians had taken refuge,
also yielded.
At length a summons came from Sultan Suleiman, at Damascus, to both
leaders, to appear before him, to render an account of their conquests
and their spoils, as well as to settle the justice of those dissensions
which raged so fiercely between them.
Before he left Spain, Mousa addressed a letter to his son, at Seville.
“Son of my heart,” he wrote, “may Allah guard thee! Thou art of too
tender and confiding a nature. Listen to thy father’s words. Avoid all
treachery, for, being in thyself loyal, thou mayest be caught by it.
Trust no one who counsels it. I have placed with thee at Seville,
according to the inexperience of thy age, our kinsman, the discreet
Ayub. Listen to his counsels in all things, as thou wouldst to myself.
Beware, too, O my son, of the seductions of love. As yet thy heart is
untouched. May Allah so preserve it! Love is an idle passion, which
enfeebles the soul and blinds the judgment. Love renders the mighty
weak, and makes slaves of princes. Farewell. May Allah guard thee and
lengthen thy days.”