LAST DAY OF THE BATTLE.
A light had burned throughout the night in the tent of the king, and
anxious thoughts and dismal visions troubled his repose. If he fell
into a slumber, he beheld in his dreams the shadowy phantoms of the
necromantic tower, or the injured Florinda, pale and dishevelled,
imprecating the vengeance of Heaven upon his head. In the mid-watches
of the night, when all was silent except the footstep of the sentinel,
pacing before his tent, the king rose from his couch, and walking forth
looked thoughtfully upon the martial scene before him. The pale crescent
of the moon hung over the Moorish camp, and dimly lighted up the windings
of the Guadalete. The heart of the king was heavy and oppressed; but
he felt only for himself, says Antonio Agapida, he thought nothing of
the perils impending over the thousands of devoted subjects in the camp
below him; sleeping, as it were, on the margin of their graves. The faint
clatter of distant hoofs, as if in rapid flight, reached the monarch’s
ear, but the horsemen were not to be descried. At that very hour, and
along the shadowy banks of that river, here and there gleaming with the
scanty moonlight, passed the fugitive messenger of Count Julian, with the
plan of the next day’s treason.
The day had not yet dawned, when the sleepless and impatient monarch
summoned his attendants and arrayed himself for the field. He then
sent for the venerable Bishop Urbino, who had accompanied him to the
camp, and, laying aside his regal crown, he knelt with head uncovered,
and confessed his sins before the holy man. After this a solemn mass
was performed in the royal tent, and the eucharist administered to the
monarch. When these ceremonies were concluded, he besought the archbishop
to depart forthwith for Cordova, there to await the issue of the
battle, and to be ready to bring forward reinforcements and supplies.
The archbishop saddled his mule and departed just as the faint blush of
morning began to kindle in the east. Already the camp resounded with the
thrilling call of the trumpet, the clank of armour, and the tramp and
neigh of steeds. As the archbishop passed through the camp, he looked
with a compassionate heart on this vast multitude, of whom so many
were soon to perish. The warriors pressed to kiss his hand, and many a
cavalier full of youth and fire received his benediction, who was to lie
stiff and cold before the evening.
When the troops were marshalled for the field, Don Roderick prepared to
sally forth in the state and pomp with which the Gothic kings were wont
to go to battle. He was arrayed in robes of gold brocade; his sandals
were embroidered with pearls and diamonds; he had a sceptre in his
hand, and he wore a regal crown resplendent with inestimable jewels.
Thus gorgeously apparelled, he ascended a lofty chariot of ivory, the
axle-trees of which were of silver, and the wheels and pole covered with
plates of burnished gold. Above his head was a canopy of cloth of gold
embossed with armorial devices, and studded with precious stones.[25]
This sumptuous chariot was drawn by milk-white horses, with caparisons of
crimson velvet, embroidered with pearls. A thousand youthful cavaliers
surrounded the car; all of the noblest blood and bravest spirit; all
knighted by the king’s own hand, and sworn to defend him to the last.
When Roderick issued forth in this resplendent state, says an Arabian
writer, surrounded by his guards in gilded armour and waving plumes
and scarfs and surcoats of a thousand dyes, it was as if the sun were
emerging in the dazzling chariot of the day from amidst the glorious
clouds of morning.
As the royal car rolled along in front of the squadrons, the soldiers
shouted with admiration. Don Roderick waved his sceptre, and addressed
them from his lofty throne, reminding them of the horror and desolation
which had already been spread through the land by the invaders. He called
upon them to summon up the ancient valour of their race, and avenge the
blood of their brethren. “One day of glorious fighting,” said he, “and
this infidel horde will be driven into the sea, or will perish beneath
your swords. Forward bravely to the fight; your families are behind you
praying for your success; the invaders of your country are before you;
God is above to bless his holy cause, and your king leads you to the
field.” The army shouted with one accord, “Forward to the foe, and death
be his portion who shuns the encounter!”
The rising sun began to shine along the glistening waters of the
Guadalete as the Moorish army, squadron after squadron, came sweeping
down a gentle declivity to the sound of martial music. Their turbans and
robes, of various dyes and fashions, gave a splendid appearance to their
host; as they marched, a cloud of dust arose and partly hid them from
the sight, but still there would break forth flashes of steel and gleams
of burnished gold, like rays of vivid lightning; while the sound of drum
and trumpet, and the clash of Moorish cymbal, were as the warlike thunder
within that stormy cloud of battle.
As the armies drew near each other the sun disappeared among gathering
clouds, and the gloom of the day was increased by the columns of dust
which rose from either host. At length the trumpet sounded for the
encounter. The battle commenced with showers of arrows, stones, and
javelins. The Christian foot-soldiers fought to disadvantage, the greater
part being destitute of helm or buckler. A battalion of light Arabian
horsemen, led by a Greek renegado named Magued el Rumi, careered in
front of the Christian line, launching their darts, and then wheeling
off beyond the reach of the missiles hurled after them. Theodomir
now brought up his seasoned troops into the action, seconded by the
veteran Pelistes, and in a little while the battle became furious and
promiscuous. It was glorious to behold the old Gothic valour shining
forth in this hour of fearful trial. Wherever the Moslems fell, the
Christians rushed forward, seized upon their horses, and stripped them of
their armour and their weapons. They fought desperately and successfully,
for they fought for their country and their faith. The battle raged for
several hours; the field was strown with slain, and the Moors, overcome
by the multitude and fury of their foes, began to falter.
When Taric beheld his troops retreating before the enemy, he threw
himself before them, and, rising in his stirrups, “Oh, Moslems!
conquerors of Africa!” cried he, “whither would you fly? The sea is
behind you, the enemy before; you have no hope but in your valour and the
help of God. Do as I do, and the day is ours!”
With these words he put spurs to his horse and sprang among the enemy,
striking to right and left, cutting down and destroying, while his steed,
fierce as himself, trampled upon the foot-soldiers, and tore them with
his teeth. At this moment a mighty shout arose in various parts of the
field; the noontide hour had arrived. The Bishop Oppas with the two
princes, who had hitherto kept their bands out of the fight, suddenly
went over to the enemy, and turned their weapons upon their astonished
countrymen. From that moment the fortune of the day was changed, and the
field of battle became a scene of wild confusion and bloody massacre. The
Christians knew not whom to contend with, or whom to trust. It seemed
as if madness had seized upon their friends and kinsmen, and that their
worst enemies were among themselves.
The courage of Don Roderick rose with his danger. Throwing off the
cumbrous robes of royalty, and descending from his car, he sprang upon
his steed Orelia, grasped his lance and buckler, and endeavoured
to rally his retreating troops. He was surrounded and assailed by a
multitude of his own traitorous subjects, but defended himself with
wondrous prowess. The enemy thickened around him; his loyal band of
cavaliers were slain, bravely fighting in his defence; the last that was
seen of the king was in the midst of the enemy, dealing death at every
blow.
A complete panic fell upon the Christians; they threw away their arms and
fled in all directions. They were pursued with dreadful slaughter, until
the darkness of the night rendered it impossible to distinguish friend
from foe. Taric then called off his troops from the pursuit, and took
possession of the royal camp; and the couch which had been pressed so
uneasily on the preceding night by Don Roderick, now yielded sound repose
to his conqueror.[26]