An opportunity at that very time presented itself, to prove the prowess

and discretion of the youth. During the siege of Merida, the Christian

troops which had taken refuge at Beja had reinforced themselves from

Penaflor, and, suddenly returning, had presented themselves before the

gates of the city of Seville.[45] Certain of the Christian inhabitants

threw open the gates and admitted them. The troops rushed to the alcazar,

took it by surprise, and put many of the Moslem garrison to the sword:

the residue made their escape, and fled to the Arab camp before Merida,

leaving Seville in the hands of the Christians.

The veteran Muza, now that the siege of Merida was at an end, was

meditating the recapture and punishment of Seville at the very time when

Abdalasis addressed him. “Behold, my son,” exclaimed he, “an enterprise

worthy of thy ambition! Take with thee all the troops thou hast brought

from Africa; reduce the city of Seville again to subjection, and plant

thy standard upon its alcazar. But stop not there: carry thy conquering

sword into the southern parts of Spain: thou wilt find there a harvest of

glory yet to be reaped.”

Abdalasis lost no time in departing upon this enterprise. He took with

him Count Julian, Magued el Rumi, and the Bishop Oppas, that he might

benefit by their knowledge of the country. When he came in sight of the

fair city of Seville, seated like a queen in the midst of its golden

plain, with the Guadalquivir flowing beneath its walls, he gazed upon it

with the admiration of a lover, and lamented in his soul that he had to

visit it as an avenger. His troops, however, regarded it with wrathful

eyes, thinking only of its rebellion and of the massacre of their

countrymen in the alcazar.

The principal people of the city had taken no part in this gallant but

fruitless insurrection; and now, when they beheld the army of Abdalasis

encamped upon the banks of the Guadalquivir, would fain have gone forth

to make explanations, and intercede for mercy. The populace, however,

forbade any one to leave the city, and, barring the gates, prepared to

defend themselves to the last.

The place was attacked with resistless fury. The gates were soon burst

open; the Moslems rushed in, panting for revenge. They confined not

their slaughter to the soldiery in the alcazar, but roamed through every

street, confounding the innocent with the guilty in one bloody massacre,

and it was with the utmost difficulty that Abdalasis could at length

succeed in staying their sanguinary career.[46]

The son of Muza proved himself as mild in conquest as he had been

intrepid in assault. The moderation and benignity of his conduct soothed

the terrors of the vanquished, and his wise precautions restored

tranquillity. Having made proper regulations for the protection of the

inhabitants, he left a strong garrison in the place to prevent any

future insurrection, and then departed on the further prosecution of his

enterprise.

Wherever he went his arms were victorious; and his victories were

always characterised by the same magnanimity. At length he arrived on

the confines of that beautiful region comprising lofty and precipitous

mountains and rich and delicious plains, afterwards known by the name of

the kingdom of Murcia. All this part of the country was defended by the

veteran Theodomir, who, by skilful management, had saved a remnant of his

forces after the defeat on the banks of the Guadalete.

Theodomir was a stanch warrior, but a wary and prudent man. He had

experienced the folly of opposing the Arabs in open field, where their

cavalry and armour gave them such superiority; on their approach,

therefore, he assembled all his people capable of bearing arms, and took

possession of the cliffs and mountain passes. “Here,” said he, “a simple

goatherd, who can hurl down rocks and stones, is as good as a warrior

armed in proof.” In this way be checked and harassed the Moslem army

in all its movements; showering down missiles upon it from overhanging

precipices, and waylaying it in narrow and rugged defiles, where a few

raw troops could make stand against a host.

Theodomir was in a fair way to baffle his foes and oblige them to

withdraw from his territories; unfortunately, however, the wary veteran

had two sons with him, young men of hot and heady valour, who considered

all this prudence of their father as savouring of cowardice, and who were

anxious to try their prowess in the open field. “What glory,” said they,

“is to be gained by destroying an enemy in this way, from the covert of

rocks and thickets?”

“You talk like young men,” replied the veteran. “Glory is a prize one may

fight for abroad, but safety is the object when the enemy is at the door.”

One day, however, the young men succeeded in drawing down their father

into the plain. Abdalasis immediately seized on the opportunity, and

threw himself between the Goths and their mountain fastnesses. Theodomir

saw too late the danger into which he was betrayed. “What can our raw

troops do,” said he, “against those squadrons of horse that move like

castles? Let us make a rapid retreat to Orihuela, and defend ourselves

from behind its walls.”

“Father,” said the eldest son, “it is too late to retreat; remain here

with the reserve, while my brother and I advance. Fear nothing; am not I

your son, and would I not die to defend you?”

“In truth,” replied the veteran, “I have my doubts whether you are my

son. But if I remain here, and you should all be killed, where then would

be my protection? Come,” added he, turning to the second son. “I trust

that thou art virtually my son; let us hasten to retreat before it is too

late.”

“Father,” replied the youngest, “I have not a doubt that I am honestly

and thoroughly your son, and as such I honour you; but I owe duty

likewise to my mother, and when I sallied to the war she gave me her

blessing as long as I should act with valour, but her curse should I

prove craven and fly the field. Fear nothing, Father; I will defend you

while living, and even after you are dead. You shall never fail of an

honourable sepulture among your kindred.”

“A pestilence on ye both,” cried Theodomir, “for a brace of misbegotten

madmen! What care I, think ye, where ye lay my body when I am dead?

One day’s existence in a hovel is worth an age of interment in a

marble sepulchre. Come, my friends,” said he, turning to his principal

cavaliers, “let us leave these hot-headed striplings and make our

retreat; if we tarry any longer, the enemy will be upon us.”

Upon this the cavaliers and proud hidalgoes drew up scornfully and tossed

their heads: “What do you see in us,” said they, “that you think we

will show our backs to the enemy? Forward! was ever the good old Gothic

watchword, and with that will we live and die!”

While time was lost in these disputes, the Moslem army kept advancing,

until retreat was no longer practicable. The battle was tumultuous and

bloody. Theodomir fought like a lion, but it was all in vain: he saw his

two sons cut down, and the greater part of their rash companions, while

his raw mountain troops fled in all directions.

Seeing there was no longer any hope, he seized the bridle of a favourite

page who was near him, and who was about spurring for the mountains.

“Part not from me,” said he, “but do thou at least attend to my counsel,

my son; and, of a truth, I believe thou art my son, for thou art the

offspring of one of my handmaids who was kind unto me.” And indeed the

youth marvellously resembled him. Turning then the reins of his own

steed, and giving him the spur, he fled amain from the field, followed by

the page; nor did he stop until he arrived within the walls of Orihuela.

Ordering the gates to be barred and bolted, he prepared to receive the

enemy. There were but few men in the city capable of bearing arms, most

of the youth having fallen in the field. He caused the women, therefore,

to clothe themselves in male attire, to put on hats and helmets, to take

long reeds in their hands instead of lances, and to cross their hair

upon their chins in semblance of beards. With these troops he lined the

walls and towers.

It was about the hour of twilight that Abdalasis approached with his

army, but he paused when he saw the walls so numerously garrisoned. Then

Theodomir took a flag of truce in his hand, and put a herald’s tabard on

the page, and they two sallied forth to capitulate, and were graciously

received by Abdalasis.

“I come,” said Theodomir, “on the behalf of the commander of this city,

to treat for terms worthy of your magnanimity and of his dignity. You

perceive that the city is capable of withstanding a long siege, but

he is desirous of sparing the lives of his soldiers. Promise that the

inhabitants shall be at liberty to depart unmolested with their property,

and the city will be delivered up to you to-morrow morning without a

blow; otherwise we are prepared to fight until not a man be left.”

Abdalasis was well pleased to get so powerful a place upon such easy

terms, but stipulated that the garrison should lay down their arms. To

this Theodomir readily assented; with the exception, however, of the

governor and his retinue, which was granted out of consideration for his

dignity. The articles of capitulation were then drawn out; and, when

Abdalasis had affixed his name and seal, Theodomir took the pen and wrote

his signature. “Behold in me,” said he, “the governor of the city!”

Abdalasis was pleased with the hardihood of the commander of the place

in thus venturing personally into his power, and entertained the veteran

with still greater honour. When Theodomir returned to the city, he made

known the capitulation, and charged the inhabitants to pack up their

effects during the night, and be ready to sally forth in the morning.

At the dawn of day the gates were thrown open, and Abdalasis looked to

see a great force issuing forth; but, to his surprise, beheld merely

Theodomir and his page in battered armour, followed by a multitude of old

men, women, and children.

Abdalasis waited until the whole had come forth; then, turning to

Theodomir, “Where,” cried he, “are the soldiers whom I saw last evening,

lining the walls and towers?”

“Soldiers have I none,” replied the veteran. “As to my garrison, behold

it before you. With these women did I man my walls; and this, my page, is

my herald, guard, and retinue.”

Upon this the Bishop Oppas and Count Julian exclaimed that the

capitulation was a base fraud, and ought not to be complied with; but

Abdalasis relished the stratagem of the old soldier, and ordered that the

stipulations of the treaty should be faithfully performed. Nay, so high

an opinion did he conceive of the subtle wisdom of this commander, that

he permitted him to remain in authority over the surrounding country, on

his acknowledging allegiance and engaging to pay tribute to the caliph;

and all that part of Spain, comprising the beautiful provinces of Murcia

and Valencia, was long after known by the Arabic name of its defender,

and is still recorded in Arabian chronicles as “The land of Tadmir.”

Having succeeded in subduing this rich and fruitful region, and having

gained great renown for his generosity as well as valour, Abdalasis

returned with the chief part of his army to the city of Seville.[47]

CHAPTER XI.

MUZA ARRIVES AT TOLEDO.—INTERVIEW BETWEEN HIM AND TARIC.

When Muza ben Nozier had sent his son Abdalasis to subdue Seville, he

departed for Toledo, to call Taric to account for his disobedience to

his orders; for, amidst all his own successes, the prosperous career

of that commander preyed upon his mind. What can content the jealous

and ambitious heart? As Muza passed through the land, towns and cities

submitted to him without resistance; he was lost in wonder at the riches

of the country, and the noble monuments of art with which it was adorned:

when he beheld the bridges, constructed in ancient times by the Romans,

they seemed to him the work, not of men, but of genii. Yet all these

admirable objects only made him repine the more, that he had not had the

exclusive glory of invading and subduing the land; and exasperated him

the more against Taric, for having apparently endeavoured to monopolise

the conquest.

Taric heard of his approach, and came forth to meet him at Talavera,

accompanied by many of the most distinguished companions of his

victories, and with a train of horses and mules laden with spoils, with

which he trusted to propitiate the favour of his commander. Their meeting

took place on the banks of the rapid river Tietar, which rises in the

mountains of Placencia, and throws itself into the Tagus. Muza, in former

days, while Taric had acted as his subordinate and indefatigable officer,

had cherished and considered him as a second self; but now that he had

started up to be a rival, he could not conceal his jealousy. When the

veteran came into his presence, he regarded him for a moment with a stern

and indignant aspect. “Why hast thou disobeyed my orders?” said he. “I

commanded thee to await my arrival with reinforcements, but thou hast

rashly overrun the country, endangering the loss of our armies and the

ruin of our cause.”

“I have acted,” replied Taric, “in such manner as I thought would best

serve the cause of Islam; and in so doing I thought to fulfil the wishes

of Muza. Whatever I have done has been as your servant. Behold your

share, as commander-in-chief, of the spoils which I have collected.” So

saying, he produced an immense treasure in silver and gold, and costly

stuffs, and precious stones, and spread it before Muza.

The anger of the Arab commander was still more kindled at the sight of

this booty, for it proved how splendid had been the victories of Taric;

but he restrained his wrath for the present, and they proceeded together

in moody silence to Toledo. When he entered this royal city, however, and

ascended to the ancient palace of the Gothic kings, and reflected that

all this had been a scene of triumph to his rival, he could no longer

repress his indignation. He demanded of Taric a strict account of all

the riches he had gathered in Spain, even of the presents he had reserved

for the caliph; and, above all, he made him yield up his favourite

trophy, the talismanic table of Solomon. When all this was done, he

again upbraided him bitterly with his disobedience of orders, and with

the rashness of his conduct. “What blind confidence in fortune hast thou

shown,” said he, “in overrunning such a country, and assailing such

powerful cities with thy scanty force! What madness, to venture every

thing upon a desperate chance, when thou knewest I was coming with a

force to make the victory secure! All thy success has been owing to mere

luck, not to judgment nor generalship.”

He then bestowed high praises upon the other chieftains for their

services in the cause of Islam; but they answered not a word, and their

countenances were gloomy and discontented, for they felt the injustice

done to their favourite leader. As to Taric, though his eye burned like

fire, he kept his passion within bounds. “I have done the best I could

to serve God and the caliph,” said he, emphatically; “my conscience

acquits me, and I trust my sovereign will do the same.”

“Perhaps he may,” replied Muza bitterly; “but, in the meantime, I cannot

confide his interests to a desperado, who is heedless of orders and

throws every thing at hazard. Such a general is unworthy to be intrusted

with the fate of armies.”

So saying, he divested Taric of his command, and gave it to Magued the

renegado. The gaunt Taric still maintained an air of stern composure. His

only words were, “The caliph will do me justice!” Muza was so transported

with passion at this laconic defiance that he ordered him to be thrown

into prison, and even threatened his life.

Upon this, Magued el Rumi, though he had risen by the disgrace of Taric,

had the generosity to speak out warmly in his favour. “Consider,” said

he, to Muza, “what may be the consequences of this severity. Taric

has many friends in the army; his actions, too, have been signal and

illustrious, and entitle him to the highest honours and rewards, instead

of disgrace and imprisonment.”

The anger of Muza, however, was not to be appeased; and he trusted to

justify his measures by despatching missives to the caliph, complaining

of the insubordination of Taric, and his rash and headlong conduct. The

result proved the wisdom of the caution given by Magued. In the course

of a little while Muza received a humiliating letter from the caliph,

ordering him to restore Taric to the command of the soldiers “whom he

had so gloriously conducted;” and not to render useless “one of the best

swords in Islam!”[48]

It is thus the envious man brings humiliation and reproach upon himself,

in endeavouring to degrade a meritorious rival. When the tidings came

of the justice rendered by the caliph to the merits of the veteran,

there was general joy throughout the army; and Muza read, in the smiling

countenances of every one around him, a severe censure upon his conduct.

He concealed, however, his deep humiliation, and affected to obey the

orders of his sovereign with great alacrity: he released Taric from

prison, feasted him at his own table, and then publicly replaced him at

the head of his troops. The army received its favourite veteran with

shouts of joy, and celebrated with rejoicings the reconciliation of the

commanders: but the shouts of the soldiery were abhorrent to the ears of

Muza.

CHAPTER XII.

MUZA PROSECUTES THE SCHEME OF CONQUEST.—SIEGE OF SARAGOSSA.—COMPLETE

SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN.

The dissensions, which for a time had distracted the conquering

army, being appeased, and the Arabian generals being apparently once

more reconciled, Muza, as commander-in-chief, proceeded to complete

the enterprise by subjugating the northern parts of Spain. The same

expeditious mode of conquest that had been sagaciously adopted by Taric

was still pursued. The troops were lightly armed, and freed from every

superfluous incumbrance. Each horseman, beside his arms, carried a

small sack of provisions, a copper vessel in which to cook them, and

a skin which served him for surcoat and for bed. The infantry carried

nothing but their arms. To each regiment or squadron was allowed a

limited number of sumpter mules and attendants; barely enough to carry

their necessary baggage and supplies: nothing was permitted that could

needlessly diminish the number of fighting men, delay their rapid

movements, or consume their provisions. Strict orders were again issued,

prohibiting, on pain of death, all plunder excepting the camp of an

enemy, or cities given up to pillage.[49]

The armies now took their several lines of march. That under Taric

departed towards the north-east; beating up the country towards the

source of the Tagus, traversing the chain of Iberian or Arragonian

mountains, and pouring down into the plains and valleys watered by the

Ebro. It was wonderful to see, in so brief a space of time, such a vast

and difficult country penetrated and subdued; and the invading army, like

an inundating flood, pouring its streams into the most remote recesses.

While Taric was thus sweeping the country to the north-east, Muza

departed in an opposite direction; yet purposing to meet him, and to

join their forces in the north. Bending his course westwardly, he made a

circuit behind the mountains, and then, advancing into the open country,

displayed his banners before Salamanca, which surrendered without

resistance. From hence he continued on towards Astorga, receiving the

terrified submission of the land; then turning up the valley of the

Douro, he ascended the course of that famous river towards the east;

crossed the Sierra de Moncayo, and, arriving on the banks of the Ebro,

marched down along its stream, until he approached the strong city of

Saragossa, the citadel of all that part of Spain. In this place had taken

refuge many of the most valiant of the Gothic warriors; the remnants

of armies, and fugitives from conquered cities. It was one of the last

rallying points of the land. When Muza arrived, Taric had already been

for some time before the place, laying close siege: the inhabitants were

pressed by famine, and had suffered great losses in repeated combats;

but there was a spirit and obstinacy in their resistance surpassing any

thing that had yet been witnessed by the invaders.

Muza now took command of the siege, and ordered a general assault upon

the walls. The Moslems planted their scaling ladders, and mounted with

their accustomed intrepidity, but were vigorously resisted; nor could all

their efforts obtain them a footing upon the battlements. While they were

thus assailing the walls, Count Julian ordered a heap of combustibles

to be placed against one of the gates, and set on fire. The inhabitants

attempted in vain from the barbican to extinguish the flames. They burnt

so fiercely, that in a little while the gate fell from the hinges. Count

Julian galloped into the city mounted upon a powerful charger, himself

and his steed all covered with mail. He was followed by three hundred of

his partisans, and supported by Magued, the renegado, with a troop of

horse.

The inhabitants disputed every street and public square; they made

barriers of dead bodies, fighting behind these ramparts of their

slaughtered countrymen. Every window and roof was filled with combatants:

the very women and children joined in the desperate fight, throwing down

stones and missiles of all kinds, and scalding water, upon the enemy.

The battle raged until the hour of vespers, when the principal

inhabitants held a parley, and capitulated for a surrender. Muza had been

incensed at their obstinate resistance, which had cost the lives of so

many of his soldiers; he knew also that in the city were collected the

riches of many of the towns of eastern Spain. He demanded, therefore,

beside the usual terms, a heavy sum to be paid down by the citizens,

called the contribution of blood; as by this they redeemed themselves

from the edge of the sword. The people were obliged to comply. They

collected all the jewels of their richest families, and all the ornaments

of their temples, and laid them at the feet of Muza; and placed in his

power many of their noblest youths as hostages. A strong garrison was

then appointed; and thus the fierce city of Saragossa was subdued to the

yoke of the conqueror.

The Arab generals pursued their conquests even to the foot of the

Pyrenees: Taric then descended along the course of the Ebro, and

continued along the Mediterranean coast; subduing the famous city of

Valencia, with its rich and beautiful domains, and carrying the success

of his arms even to Denia.

Muza undertook with his host a wider range of conquest. He overcame the

cities of Barcelona, Gerona, and others that lay on the skirts of the

eastern mountains: then crossing into the land of the Franks, he captured

the city of Narbonne; in a temple of which he found seven equestrian

images of silver, which he brought off as trophies of his victory.[50]

Returning into Spain, he scoured its northern regions along Gallicia and

the Asturias; passed triumphantly through Lusitania, and arrived once

more in Andalusia, covered with laurels, and enriched with immense spoils.

Thus was completed the subjugation of unhappy Spain. All its cities

and fortresses, and strong holds, were in the hands of the Saracens,

excepting some of the wild mountain tracts that bordered the Atlantic,

and extended towards the north. Here, then, the story of the conquest

might conclude, but that the indefatigable chronicler, Fray Antonio

Agapida, goes on to record the fate of those persons who were most

renowned in the enterprise. We shall follow his steps, and avail

ourselves of his information, laboriously collected from various sources;

and, truly, the story of each of the actors in this great historical

drama bears with it its striking moral, and is full of admonition and

instruction.

CHAPTER XIII.

FEUD BETWEEN THE ARAB GENERALS.—THEY ARE SUMMONED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE

CALIPH AT DAMASCUS.—RECEPTION OF TARIC.

The heart of Muza ben Nozier was now lifted up, for he considered his

glory complete. He held a sway that might have gratified the ambition of

the proudest sovereign, for all western Africa and the newly acquired

peninsula of Spain were obedient to his rule; and he was renowned

throughout all the lands of Islam as the great conqueror of the west. But

sudden humiliation awaited him in the very moment of his highest triumph.

Notwithstanding the outward reconciliation of Muza and Taric, a deep

and implacable hostility continued to exist between them; and each had

busy partisans who distracted the armies by their feuds. Letters were

incessantly despatched to Damascus by either party, exalting the merits

of their own leader and decrying his rival. Taric was represented as

rash, arbitrary, and prodigal, and as injuring the discipline of the

army, by sometimes treating it with extreme rigour, and at other times

giving way to licentiousness and profusion. Muza was lauded as prudent,

sagacious, dignified, and systematic in his dealings. The friends of

Taric, on the other hand, represented him as brave, generous, and

high-minded; scrupulous in reserving to his sovereign his rightful share

of the spoils, but distributing the rest bounteously among his soldiers,

and thus increasing their alacrity in the service. “Muza, on the

contrary,” said they, “is grasping and insatiable: he levies intolerable

contributions, and collects immense treasure, but sweeps it all into his

own coffers.”

The caliph was at length wearied out by these complaints, and feared

that the safety of the cause might be endangered by the dissensions

of the rival generals. He sent letters, therefore, ordering them to

leave suitable persons in charge of their several commands, and appear,

forthwith, before him at Damascus.

Such was the greeting from his sovereign that awaited Muza on his return

from the conquest of northern Spain. It was a grievous blow to a man of

his pride and ambition; but he prepared instantly to obey. He returned

to Cordova, collecting by the way all the treasures he had deposited

in various places. At that city he called a meeting of his principal

officers, and of the leaders of the faction of apostate Christians, and

made them all do homage to his son Abdalasis, as emir or governor of

Spain. He gave this favourite son much sage advice for the regulation of

his conduct, and left with him his nephew Ayub, a man greatly honoured by

the Moslems for his wisdom and discretion; exhorting Abdalasis to consult

him on all occasions, and consider him as his bosom counsellor. He made

a parting address to his adherents, full of cheerful confidence; assuring

them that he would soon return, loaded with new favours and honours by

his sovereign, and enabled to reward them all for their faithful services.

When Muza sallied forth from Cordova to repair to Damascus, his cavalgada

appeared like the sumptuous pageant of some Oriental potentate; for

he had numerous guards and attendants splendidly armed and arrayed,

together with four hundred hostages, who were youthful cavaliers of the

noblest families of the Goths, and a great number of captives of both

sexes, chosen for their beauty, and intended as presents for the caliph.

Then there was a vast train of beasts of burden, laden with the plunder

of Spain; for he took with him all the wealth he had collected in his

conquests, and all the share that had been set apart for his sovereign.

With this display of trophies and spoils, showing the magnificence of the

land he had conquered, he looked forward with confidence to silence the

calumnies of his foes.

As he traversed the valley of the Guadalquivir, he often turned and

looked back wistfully upon Cordova; and, at the distance of a league,

when about to lose sight of it, he checked his steed upon the summit of a

hill, and gazed for a long time upon its palaces and towers. “O Cordova!”

exclaimed he, “great and glorious art thou among cities, and abundant

in all delights. With grief and sorrow do I part from thee; for sure I

am it would give me length of days to abide within thy pleasant walls!”

When he had uttered these words, say the Arabian chronicles, he resumed

his wayfaring; but his eyes were bent upon the ground, and frequent sighs

bespoke the heaviness of his heart.

Embarking at Cadiz, he passed over to Africa with all his people and

effects, to regulate his government in that country. He divided the

command between his sons Abdelola and Meruan, leaving the former in

Tangier, and the latter in Cairvan. Thus having secured, as he thought,

the power and prosperity of his family, by placing all his sons as his

lieutenants in the country he had conquered, he departed for Syria,

bearing with him the sumptuous spoils of the west.

While Muza was thus disposing of his commands, and moving cumbrously

under the weight of wealth, the veteran Taric was more speedy and alert

in obeying the summons of the caliph. He knew the importance, where

complaints were to be heard, of being first in presence of the judge;

beside, he was ever ready to march at a moment’s warning, and had nothing

to impede him in his movements. The spoils he had made in his conquests

had either been shared among his soldiers, or yielded up to Muza, or

squandered away with open-handed profusion. He appeared in Syria with

a small train of war-worn followers, and had no other trophies to show

than his battered armour, and a body seamed with scars. He was received,

however, with rapture by the multitude, who crowded to behold one of

those conquerors of the west, whose wonderful achievements were the

theme of every tongue. They were charmed with his gaunt and martial air,

his hard sunburnt features, and his scathed eye. “All hail,” cried they,

“to the sword of Islam, the terror of the unbelievers! Behold the true

model of a warrior, who despises gain, and seeks for nought but glory!”

Taric was graciously received by the caliph, who asked tidings of his

victories. He gave a soldier-like account of his actions, frank and

full, without any feigned modesty, yet without vainglory. “Commander of

the faithful,” said he, “I bring thee no silver, nor gold, nor precious

stones, nor captives; for what spoils I did not share with my soldiers

I gave up to Muza as my commander. How I have conducted myself, the

honourable warriors of thy host will tell thee; nay, let our enemies, the

Christians, be asked if I have ever shown myself cowardly, or cruel, or

rapacious.”

“What kind of people are these Christians?” demanded the caliph.

“The Spaniards,” replied Taric, “are lions in their castles, eagles in

their saddles, but mere women when on foot. When vanquished they escape

like goats to the mountains, for they need not see the ground they tread

on.”

“And tell me of the Moors of Barbary.”

“They are like Arabs in the fierceness and dexterity of their attacks,

and in their knowledge of the stratagems of war; they resemble them,

too, in feature, in fortitude, and hospitality; but they are the most

perfidious people upon earth, and never regard promise or plighted faith.”

“And the people of Afranc; what sayest thou of them?”

“They are infinite in number, rapid in the onset, fierce in battle, but

confused and headlong in flight.”

“And how fared it with thee among these people? Did they sometimes

vanquish thee?”

“Never, by Allah!” cried Taric with honest warmth, “never did a banner of

mine fly the field. Though the enemy were two to one, my Moslems never

shunned the combat!”

The caliph was well pleased with the martial bluntness of the veteran,

and showed him great honour; and wherever Taric appeared he was the idol

of the populace.

CHAPTER XIV.

MUZA ARRIVES AT DAMASCUS.—HIS INTERVIEW WITH THE CALIPH.—THE TABLE OF

SOLOMON.—A RIGOROUS SENTENCE.

Shortly after the arrival of Taric el Tuerto at Damascus the caliph fell

dangerously ill, insomuch that his life was despaired of. During his

illness, tidings were brought that Muza ben Nozier had entered Syria

with a vast cavalcade, bearing all the riches and trophies gained in the

western conquests. Now Suleiman ben Abdelmelec, brother to the caliph,

was successor to the throne; and he saw that his brother had not long

to live, and wished to grace the commencement of his reign by this

triumphant display of the spoils of Christendom: he sent messengers,

therefore, to Muza, saying, “The caliph is ill, and cannot receive thee

at present; I pray thee tarry on the road until his recovery.” Muza,

however, paid no attention to the messages of Suleiman, but rather

hastened his march to arrive before the death of the caliph. And Suleiman

treasured up his conduct in his heart.

Muza entered the city in a kind of triumph, with a long train of horses

and mules and camels laden with treasure, and with the four hundred sons

of Gothic nobles as hostages, each decorated with a diadem and a girdle

of gold; and with one hundred Christian damsels, whose beauty dazzled all

beholders. As he passed through the streets he ordered purses of gold

to be thrown among the populace, who rent the air with acclamations.

“Behold,” cried they, “the veritable conqueror of the unbelievers! Behold

the true model of a conqueror, who brings home wealth to his country!”

And they heaped benedictions on the head of Muza.

The caliph Walid Almanzor rose from his couch of illness to receive the

emir; who, when he repaired to the palace, filled one of its great

courts with treasures of all kinds: the halls, too, were thronged

with the youthful hostages, magnificently attired, and with Christian

damsels, lovely as the houries of Paradise. When the caliph demanded an

account of the conquest of Spain, he gave it with great eloquence; but,

in describing the various victories, he made no mention of the name of

Taric, but spoke as if every thing had been effected by himself. He then

presented the spoils of the Christians as if they had been all taken by

his own hands; and when he delivered to the caliph the miraculous table

of Solomon, he dwelt with animation on the virtues of that inestimable

talisman.

Upon this Taric, who was present, could no longer hold his peace.

“Commander of the faithful!” said he, “examine this precious table, if

any part be wanting.” The caliph examined the table, which was composed

of a single emerald, and he found that one foot was supplied by a foot

of gold. The caliph turned to Muza and said, “Where is the other foot

of the table?” Muza answered, “I know not; one foot was wanting when it

came into my hands.” Upon this, Taric drew from beneath his robe a foot

of emerald of like workmanship to the others, and fitting exactly to

the table. “Behold, O commander of the faithful!” cried he, “a proof of

the real finder of the table; and so is it with the greater part of the

spoils exhibited by Muza as trophies of his achievements. It was I who

gained them, and who captured the cities in which they were found. If

you want proof, demand of these Christian cavaliers here present, most

of whom I captured; demand of those Moslem warriors who aided me in my

battles.”

Muza was confounded for a moment, but attempted to vindicate himself. “I

spake,” said he, “as the chief of your armies, under whose orders and

banners this conquest was achieved. The actions of the soldier are the

actions of the commander. In a great victory, it is not supposed that

the chief of the army takes all the captives, or kills all the slain,

or gathers all the booty, though all are enumerated in the records of

his triumph.” The caliph, however, was wroth, and heeded not his words.

“You have vaunted your own deserts,” said he, “and have forgotten the

deserts of others; nay, you have sought to debase another who has loyally

served his sovereign: the reward of your envy and covetousness be upon

your head!” So saying, he bestowed a great part of the spoils upon Taric

and the other chiefs, but gave nothing to Muza; and the veteran retired

amidst the sneers and murmurs of those present.

In a few days the Caliph Walid died, and was succeeded by his brother

Suleiman. The new sovereign cherished deep resentment against Muza

for having presented himself at court contrary to his command, and he

listened readily to the calumnies of his enemies; for Muza had been too

illustrious in his deeds not to have many enemies. All now took courage

when they found he was out of favour, and they heaped slanders on

his head; charging him with embezzling much of the share of the booty

belonging to the sovereign. The new caliph lent a willing ear to the

accusation, and commanded him to render up all that he had pillaged from

Spain. The loss of his riches might have been borne with fortitude by

Muza, but the stigma upon his fame filled his heart with bitterness. “I

have been a faithful servant to the throne from my youth upwards,” said

he, “and now am I degraded in my old age. I care not for wealth, I care

not for life, but let me not be deprived of that honour which God has

bestowed upon me!”

The caliph was still more exasperated at his repining, and stripped him

of his commands; confiscated his effects; fined him two hundred thousand

pesants of gold, and ordered that he should be scourged and exposed to

the noontide sun, and afterwards thrown into prison.[51] The populace,

also, reviled and scoffed at him in his misery; and as they beheld him

led forth to the public gaze, and fainting in the sun, they pointed

at him with derision, and exclaimed—“Behold the envious man and the

impostor: this is he who pretended to have conquered the land of the

unbelievers!”

CHAPTER XV.

CONDUCT OF ABDALASIS AS EMIR OF SPAIN.

While these events were happening in Syria, the youthful Abdalasis, the

son of Muza, remained as emir or governor of Spain. He was of a generous

and benignant disposition, but he was open and confiding, and easily led

away by the opinions of those he loved. Fortunately his father had left

with him, as a bosom counsellor, the discreet Ayub, the nephew of Muza:

aided by his advice, he for some time administered the public affairs

prudently and prosperously.

Not long after the departure of his father, he received a letter from

him, written while on his journey to Syria; it was to the following

purport:—

“Beloved son; honour of thy lineage; Allah guard thee from all harm and

peril! Listen to the words of thy father. Avoid all treachery, though

it should promise great advantage; and trust not in him who counsels

it, even though he should be a brother. The company of traitors put far

from thee; for how canst thou be certain that he who has proved false

to others will prove true to thee? Beware, O my son, of the seductions

of love. It is an idle passion which enfeebles the heart, and blinds

the judgment: it renders the mighty weak, and makes slaves of princes.

If thou shouldst discover any foible of a vicious kind springing up in

thy nature, pluck it forth, whatever pang it cost thee. Every error,

while new, may easily be weeded out; but if suffered to take root, it

flourishes, and bears seed, and produces fruit an hundred fold. Follow

these counsels, O son of my affections, and thou shalt live secure.”

Abdalasis meditated upon this letter; for some part of it seemed to

contain a mystery which he could not comprehend. He called to him his

cousin and counsellor, the discreet Ayub. “What means my father,” said

he, “in cautioning me against treachery and treason? Does he think my

nature so base that it could descend to such means?”

Ayub read the letter attentively. “Thy father,” said he, “would put thee

on thy guard against the traitors Julian and Oppas, and those of their

party who surround thee. What love canst thou expect from men who have

been unnatural to their kindred; and what loyalty from wretches who have

betrayed their country?”

Abdalasis was satisfied with the interpretation, and he acted

accordingly. He had long loathed all communion with these men; for there

is nothing which the open, ingenuous nature so much abhors as duplicity

and treason. Policy, too, no longer required their agency; they had

rendered their infamous service, and had no longer a country to betray:

but they might turn and betray their employers. Abdalasis, therefore,

removed them to a distance from his court, and placed them in situations

where they could do no harm; and he warned his commanders from being in

any wise influenced by their counsels, or aided by their arms.

He now confided entirely in his Arabian troops, and in the Moorish

squadrons from Africa, and with their aid he completed the conquest of

Lusitania to the ultimate parts of the Algarbe, or west, even to the

shores of the great Ocean sea.[52] From hence, he sent his generals to

overrun all those vast and rugged sierras, which rise like ramparts along

the ocean borders of the peninsula; and they carried the standard of

Islam in triumph even to the mountains of Biscay, collecting all manner

of precious spoil.

“It is not enough, O Abdalasis,” said Ayub, “that we conquer and rule

this country with the sword: if we wish our dominion to be secure, we

must cultivate the arts of peace, and study to secure the confidence

and promote the welfare of the people we have conquered.” Abdalasis

relished counsel which accorded so well with his own beneficent nature.

He endeavoured, therefore, to allay the ferment and confusion of the

conquest; forbade, under rigorous punishment, all wanton spoil or

oppression, and protected the native inhabitants in the enjoyment and

cultivation of their lands, and the pursuit of all useful occupations. By

the advice of Ayub also, he encouraged great numbers of industrious Moors

and Arabs to emigrate from Africa, and gave them houses and lands; thus

introducing a peaceful Mahometan population into the conquered provinces.

The good effect of the counsels of Ayub were soon apparent. Instead of

a sudden but transient influx of wealth, made by the ruin of the land,

which left the country desolate, a regular and permanent revenue sprang

up, produced by reviving prosperity, and gathered without violence.

Abdalasis ordered it to be faithfully collected, and deposited in

coffers by public officers appointed in each province for the purpose;

and the whole was sent by ten deputies to Damascus, to be laid at the

feet of the caliph,—not as the spoils of a vanquished country, but as the

peaceful trophies of a wisely administered government.

The common herd of warlike adventurers, the mere men of the sword,

who had thronged to Spain for the purpose of ravage and rapine, were

disappointed at being thus checked in their career, and at seeing the

reign of terror and violence drawing to a close. “What manner of leader

is this,” said they, “who forbids us to make spoil of the enemies of

Islam, and to enjoy the land we have wrested from the unbelievers?”

The partisans of Julian also whispered their calumnies. “Behold,” said

they, “with what kindness he treats the enemies of your faith: all the

Christians who have borne arms against you, and withstood your entrance

into the land, are favoured and protected; but it is enough for a

Christian to have befriended the cause of the Moslems to be singled

out by Abdalasis for persecution, and to be driven with scorn from his

presence.”

These insinuations fermented the discontent of the turbulent and

rapacious among the Moslems; but all the friends of peace and order and

good government applauded the moderation of the youthful emir.

CHAPTER XVI.

LOVES OF ABDALASIS AND EXILONA.

Abdalasis had fixed his seat of government at Seville, as permitting easy

and frequent communications with the coast of Africa. His palace was of

noble architecture, with delightful gardens extending to the banks of the

Guadalquivir. In a part of this palace resided many of the most beautiful

Christian females, who were detained as captives, or rather hostages, to

ensure the tranquillity of the country. Those who were of noble rank were

entertained in luxury and magnificence; slaves were appointed to attend

upon them, and they were arrayed in the richest apparel and decorated

with the most precious jewels. Those of tender age were taught all

graceful accomplishments; and even where tasks were imposed, they were of

the most elegant and agreeable kind. They embroidered, they sang, they

danced, and passed their times in pleasing revelry. Many were lulled by

this easy and voluptuous existence; the scenes of horror through which

they had passed were gradually effaced from their minds, and a desire

was often awakened of rendering themselves pleasing in the eyes of their

conquerors.

After his return from his campaign in Lusitania, and during the intervals

of public duty, Abdalasis solaced himself in the repose of this palace,

and in the society of these Christian captives. He remarked one among

them who ever sat apart; and neither joined in the labours nor sports of

her companions. She was lofty in her demeanour, and the others always

paid her reverence; yet sorrow had given a softness to her charms, and

rendered her beauty touching to the heart. Abdalasis found her one day

in the garden with her companions: they had adorned their heads with

flowers, and were singing the songs of their country; but she sat by

herself and wept. The youthful emir was moved by her tears, and accosted

her in gentle accents. “O fairest of women!” said he, “why dost thou

weep, and why is thy heart troubled?” “Alas!” replied she, “have I not

cause to weep, seeing how sad is my condition, and how great the height

from which I have fallen? In me you behold the wretched Exilona, but

lately the wife of Roderick, and the Queen of Spain, now a captive and a

slave!” And, having said these words, she cast her eyes upon the earth,

and her tears began to flow afresh.

The generous feelings of Abdalasis were aroused at the sight of beauty

and royalty in tears. He gave orders that Exilona should be entertained

in a style befitting her former rank; he appointed a train of female

attendants to wait upon her, and a guard of honour to protect her from

all intrusion. All the time that he could spare from public concerns was

passed in her society; and he even neglected his divan, and suffered his

counsellors to attend in vain, while he lingered in the apartments and

gardens of the palace, listening to the voice of Exilona.

The discreet Ayub saw the danger into which he was falling. “Oh

Abdalasis!” said he, “remember the words of thy father. ‘Beware, my son,’

said he, ‘of the seductions of love. It renders the mighty weak, and

makes slaves of princes!’” A blush kindled on the cheek of Abdalasis,

and he was silent for a moment. “Why,” said he, at length, “do you seek

to charge me with such weakness? It is one thing to be infatuated by the

charms of a woman, and another to be touched by her misfortunes. It is

the duty of my station to console a princess who has been reduced to the

lowest humiliation by the triumphs of our arms. In doing so, I do but

listen to the dictates of true magnanimity.”

Ayub was silent, but his brow was clouded; and for once Abdalasis parted

in discontent from his counsellor. In proportion as he was dissatisfied

with others or with himself, he sought the society of Exilona; for there

was a charm in her conversation that banished every care. He daily

became more and more enamoured; and Exilona gradually ceased to weep,

and began to listen with secret pleasure to the words of her Arab lover.

When, however, he sought to urge his passion, she recollected the light

estimation in which her sex was held by the followers of Mahomet, and

assumed a countenance grave and severe.

“Fortune,” said she, “has cast me at thy feet: behold I am thy captive

and thy spoil. But though my person is in thy power, my soul is

unsubdued; and know that, should I lack force to defend my honour, I have

resolution to wash out all stain upon it with my blood. I trust, however,

in thy courtesy as a cavalier to respect me in my reverses, remembering

what I have been; and that, though the crown has been wrested from my

brow, the royal blood still warms within my veins.”[53]

The lofty spirit of Exilona, and her proud repulse, served but to

increase the passion of Abdalasis. He besought her to unite her destiny

with his, and share his state and power, promising that she should have

no rival nor co-partner in his heart. Whatever scruples the captive queen

might originally have felt to a union with one of the conquerors of her

lord, and an enemy of her adopted faith, they were easily vanquished;

and she became the bride of Abdalasis. He would fain have persuaded her

to return to the faith of her fathers; but though of Moorish origin, and

brought up in the doctrines of Islam, she was too thorough a convert to

Christianity to consent, and looked back with disgust upon a religion

that admitted a plurality of wives.

When the sage Ayub heard of the resolution of Abdalasis to espouse

Exilona he was in despair. “Alas, my cousin!” said he, “what infatuation

possesses thee? Hast thou then entirely forgotten the letter of thy

father? ‘Beware my son,’ said he, ‘of love: it is an idle passion,

which enfeebles the heart and blinds the judgment.’” But Abdalasis

interrupted him with impatience. “My father,” said he, “spake but of the

blandishments of wanton love; against these I am secured by my virtuous

passion for Exilona.”

Ayub would fain have impressed upon him the dangers he ran of awakening

suspicion in the caliph, and discontent among the Moslems, by wedding

the queen of the conquered Roderick, and one who was an enemy to the

religion of Mahomet; but the youthful lover only listened to his passion.

Their nuptials were celebrated at Seville with great pomp and rejoicings,

and he gave his bride the name of Omalisam; that is to say, she of the

precious jewels[54]; but she continued to be known among the Christians

by the name of Exilona.

CHAPTER XVII.

FATE OF ABDALASIS AND EXILONA.—DEATH OF MUZA.

Possession, instead of cooling the passion of Abdalasis, only added

to its force; he became blindly enamoured of his beautiful bride, and

consulted her will in all things; nay, having lost all relish for the

advice of the discreet Ayub, he was even guided by the counsels of his

wife in the affairs of government. Exilona, unfortunately, had once been

a queen, and she could not remember her regal glories without regret. She

saw that Abdalasis had great power in the land; greater even than had

been possessed by the Gothic kings; but she considered it as wanting in

true splendour until his brows should be encircled with the outward badge

of royalty. One day, when they were alone in the palace of Seville, and

the heart of Abdalasis was given up to tenderness, she addressed him

in fond yet timid accents. “Will not my lord be offended,” said she,

“if I make an unwelcome request?” Abdalasis regarded her with a smile.

“What canst thou ask of me, Exilona,” said he, “that it would not be

a happiness for me to grant?” Then Exilona produced a crown of gold,

sparkling with jewels, which had belonged to the king, Don Roderick, and

said, “Behold, thou art king in authority, be so in thy outward state.

There is majesty and glory in a crown; it gives a sanctity to power.”

Then putting the crown upon his head, she held a mirror before him that

he might behold the majesty of his appearance. Abdalasis chid her fondly,

and put the crown away from him; but Exilona persisted in her prayer.

“Never,” said she, “has there been a king in Spain that did not wear a

crown.” So Abdalasis suffered himself to be beguiled by the blandishments

of his wife, and to be invested with the crown and sceptre and other

signs of royalty.[55]

It is affirmed by ancient and discreet chroniclers, that Abdalasis only

assumed this royal state in the privacy of his palace, and to gratify

the eye of his youthful bride: but where was a secret ever confined

within the walls of a palace? The assumption of the insignia of the

ancient Gothic kings was soon rumoured about, and caused the most violent

suspicions. The Moslems had already felt jealous of the ascendancy of

this beautiful woman; and it was now confidently asserted that Abdalasis,

won by her persuasions, had secretly turned Christian.

The enemies of Abdalasis, those whose rapacious spirits had been kept

in check by the beneficence of his rule, seized upon this occasion to

ruin him. They sent letters to Damascus accusing him of apostacy, and of

an intention to seize upon the throne in right of his wife, Exilona,

as widow of the late King Roderick. It was added, that the Christians

were prepared to flock to his standard, as the only means of regaining

ascendancy in their country.

These accusations arrived at Damascus just after the accession of the

sanguinary Suleiman to the throne, and in the height of his persecution

of the unfortunate Muza. The caliph waited for no proofs in confirmation;

he immediately sent private orders that Abdalasis should be put to death,

and that the same fate should be dealt to his two brothers who governed

in Africa, as a sure means of crushing the conspiracy of this ambitious

family.

The mandate for the death of Abdalasis was sent to Abhilbar ben Obeidah

and Zeyd ben Nabegat, both of whom had been cherished friends of Muza,

and had lived in intimate favour and companionship with his son. When

they read the fatal parchment, the scroll fell from their trembling

hands. “Can such hostility exist against the family of Muza?” exclaimed

they. “Is this the reward for such great and glorious services?” The

cavaliers remained for some time plunged in horror and consternation.

The order, however, was absolute, and left them no discretion. “Allah

is great,” said they, “and commands us to obey our sovereign.” So they

prepared to execute the bloody mandate with the blind fidelity of Moslems.

It was necessary to proceed with caution. The open and magnanimous

character of Abdalasis had won the hearts of a great part of the

soldiery, and his magnificence pleased the cavaliers who formed his

guard: it was feared, therefore, that a sanguinary opposition would

be made to any attempt upon his person. The rabble, however, had been

embittered against him from his having restrained their depredations, and

because they thought him an apostate in his heart, secretly bent upon

betraying them to the Christians. While, therefore, the two officers made

vigilant dispositions to check any movement on the part of the soldiery,

they let loose the blind fury of the populace, by publishing the fatal

mandate. In a moment the city was in a ferment, and there was a ferocious

emulation who should be first to execute the orders of the caliph.

Abdalasis was at this time at a palace in the country not far from

Seville, commanding a delightful view of the fertile plain of the

Guadalquivir. Hither he was accustomed to retire from the tumult of the

court, and to pass his time among groves and fountains, and the sweet

repose of gardens, in the society of Exilona. It was the dawn of day,

the hour of early prayer, when the furious populace arrived at this

retreat. Abdalasis was offering up his orisons in a small mosque which he

had erected for the use of the neighbouring peasantry. Exilona was in a

chapel in the interior of the palace, where her confessor, a holy friar,

was performing mass. They were both surprised at their devotions, and

dragged forth by the hands of the rabble. A few guards, who attended at

the palace, would have made defence; but they were overawed by the sight

of the written mandate of the caliph.

The captives were borne in triumph to Seville. All the beneficent virtues

of Abdalasis were forgotten; nor had the charms of Exilona any effect

in softening the hearts of the populace. The brutal eagerness to shed

blood, which seems inherent in human nature, was awakened; and woe to

the victims when that eagerness is quickened by religious hate! The

illustrious couple, adorned with all the graces of youth and beauty, were

hurried to a scaffold in the great square of Seville, and there beheaded,

amidst the shouts and execrations of an infatuated multitude. Their

bodies were left exposed upon the ground, and would have been devoured

by dogs, had they not been gathered at night by some friendly hand, and

poorly interred in one of the courts of their late dwelling.

Thus terminated the loves and lives of Abdalasis and Exilona, in the year

of the Incarnation seven hundred and fourteen. Their names were held

sacred as martyrs to the Christian faith: but many read in their untimely

fate a lesson against ambition and vainglory; having sacrificed real

power and substantial rule to the glittering bauble of a crown.

The head of Abdalasis was embalmed, and enclosed in a casket, and sent

to Syria to the cruel Suleiman. The messenger who bore it overtook the

caliph as he was performing a pilgrimage to Mecca. Muza was among the

courtiers in his train, having been released from prison. On opening the

casket, and regarding its contents, the eyes of the tyrant sparkled with

malignant satisfaction. Calling the unhappy father to his side: “Muza,”

said he, “dost thou know this head?” The veteran recognised the features

of his beloved son, and turned his face away with anguish. “Yes! well do

I know it,” replied he; “and may the curse of God light upon him who has

destroyed a better man than himself.”

Without adding another word, he retired to Mount Deran, a prey to

devouring melancholy. He shortly after received tidings of the death

of his two sons, whom he had left in the government of western Africa,

and who had fallen victims to the jealous suspicions of the caliph. His

advanced age was not proof against these repeated blows, and this utter

ruin of his late prosperous family; and he sank into his grave, sorrowing

and broken-hearted.

Such was the lamentable end of the conqueror of Spain; whose great

achievements were not sufficient to atone, in the eye of his sovereign,

for a weakness to which all men ambitious of renown are subject; and

whose triumphs eventually brought persecution upon himself, and untimely

death upon his children.

* * * * *

Here ends the legend of the Subjugation of Spain.

FOOTNOTES

[31] In this legend most of the facts respecting the Arab inroads into

Spain are on the authority of Arabian writers; who had the most accurate

means of information. Those relative to the Spaniards are chiefly from

old Spanish chronicles. It is to be remarked that the Arab accounts have

most the air of verity, and the events, as they relate them, are in the

ordinary course of common life. The Spanish accounts, on the contrary,

are full of the marvellous; for there were no greater romancers than the

monkish chroniclers.

[32] Conde, p. i. c. 10.

[33] Cronica de España, de Alonzo el Sabio, p. iii. c. 1.

[34] The house shown as the ancient residence of Aben Habuz is called _La

Casa del Gallo_, or the house of the weathercock; so named, says Pedraza,

in his History of Granada, from a bronze figure of an Arab horseman,

armed with lance and buckler, which once surmounted it, and which varied

with every wind. On this warlike weathercock was inscribed, in Arabic

characters,—

“Dice el sabio Aben Habuz

Que asi se defiende el Andaluz.”

“In this way, says Aben Habuz the wise,

The Andalusian his foe defies.”

The Casa del Gallo, even until within twenty years, possessed two great

halls beautifully decorated with Morisco reliefs. It then caught fire,

and was so damaged as to require to be nearly rebuilt. It is now a

manufactory of coarse canvas, and has nothing of the Moorish character

remaining. It commands a beautiful view of the city and the Vega.

[35] Pedraza, Hist. Granada, p. iii. c. 2. Bleda, Cronica, lib. ii. c. 10.

[36] Conde, Hist. de las Arabes en España, c. 12.

[37] The stratagem of the Jews of Toledo is recorded briefly by Bishop

Lucas de Tuy, in his chronicle, but is related at large in the chronicle

of the Moor Rasis.

[38] According to Arabian legends, this table was a mirror revealing all

great events; insomuch that by looking on it the possessor might behold

battles and sieges and feats of chivalry, and all actions worthy of

renown; and might thus ascertain the truth of all historic transactions.

It was a mirror of history, therefore, and had very probably aided King

Solomon in acquiring that prodigious knowledge and wisdom for which he

was renowned.

[39] Abulcasim. Perdita de España, lib. i. c. 13.

[40] Cron. Gen. de España, por Alonzo el Sabio, p. iii. c. 1.

[41] Bleda, Cronica, lib. ii. c. 11.

[42] Conde, p. i. c. 13. Ambrosio de Morales.—N.B. In the Chronicle of

Spain, composed by order of Alonzo the Wise, this anecdote is given as

having happened at the siege of Seville.

[43] Marmol. Descrip. de Africa, t. i. l. 2.

[44] Abulcasim, Perdida de España, l. i. c. 13.

[45] Espinosa. Antq. y Grand. de Seville, lib. ii c. 3.

[46] Conde, p. i. c. 14.

[47] Conde, p. i. Cronica del moro Rasis. Cron. Gen. España, por Alonzo

el Sabio, p. iii. c. 1.

[48] Conde, p. i. c. 15.

[49] Conde, p. i. c. 15.

[50] Conde, p. i. c. 16.

[51] Conde, p. i. c. 17.

[52] Algarbe, or Algarbia, in Arabic signifies the west, as Axarkia is

the east, Algufia the north, and Aquibla the south. This will serve to

explain some of the geographical names on the peninsula which are of

Arabian origin.

[53] Faxardo, Corona, Gothica, t. i. p. 492. Joan. Mar. de Reb. Hisp. l.

vi. c. 27.

[54] Conde, p. i. c. 17.

[55] Cron. Gen. de Alonzo el Sabio, p. 3. Joan. Mar. de Reb. Hisp. lib.

vi. c. 27. Conde, p. i. cap. 19.

LEGEND OF COUNT JULIAN AND HIS FAMILY.

LEGEND OF COUNT JULIAN AND HIS FAMILY.

In the preceding legends is darkly shadowed out a true story of the

woes of Spain. It is a story full of wholesome admonition, rebuking the

insolence of human pride, and the vanity of human ambition, and showing

the futility of all greatness that is not strongly based on virtue. We

have seen, in brief space of time, most of the actors in this historic

drama disappearing, one by one, from the scene, and going down, conqueror

and conquered, to gloomy and unhonoured graves. It remains to close this

eventful history, by holding up as a signal warning the fate of the

traitor, whose perfidious scheme of vengeance brought ruin on his native

land.

Many and various are the accounts given in ancient chronicles of the

fortunes of Count Julian and his family; and many are the traditions on

the subject still extant among the populace of Spain, and perpetuated in

those countless ballads sung by peasants and muleteers, which spread a

singular charm over the whole of this romantic land.

He who has travelled in Spain in the true way in which the country ought

to be travelled; sojourning in its remote provinces; rambling among the

rugged defiles and secluded valleys of its mountains; and making himself

familiar with the people in their out-of-the-way hamlets, and rarely

visited neighbourhoods, will remember many a group of travellers and

muleteers, gathered of an evening around the door or the spacious hearth

of a mountain venta, wrapped in their brown cloaks, and listening with

grave and profound attention to the long historic ballad of some rustic

troubadour, either recited with the true _ore rotundo_ and modulated

cadences of Spanish elocution, or chanted to the tinkling of a guitar.

In this way, he may have heard the doleful end of Count Julian and his

family recounted in traditionary rhymes, that have been handed down from

generation to generation. The particulars, however, of the following wild

legend are chiefly gathered from the writings of the pseudo Moor, Rasis:

how far they may be safely taken as historic facts, it is impossible now

to ascertain; we must content ourselves, therefore, with their answering

to the exactions of poetic justice.

As yet every thing had prospered with Count Julian. He had gratified

his vengeance; he had been successful in his treason, and had acquired

countless riches from the ruin of his country. But it is not outward

success that constitutes prosperity. The tree flourishes with fruit and

foliage while blasted and withering at the heart. Wherever he went, Count

Julian read hatred in every eye. The Christians cursed him as the cause

of all their woe; the Moslems despised and distrusted him as a traitor.

Men whispered together as he approached, and then turned away in scorn;

and mothers snatched away their children with horror if he offered to

caress them. He withered under the execration of his fellow men; and

last, and worst of all, he began to loathe himself. He tried in vain to

persuade himself that he had but taken a justifiable vengeance: he felt

that no personal wrong can justify the crime of treason to one’s country.

For a time, he sought in luxurious indulgence to soothe, or forget,

the miseries of the mind. He assembled round him every pleasure and

gratification that boundless wealth could purchase; but all in vain. He

had no relish for the dainties of his board; music had no charm wherewith

to lull his soul, and remorse drove slumber from his pillow. He sent to

Ceuta for his wife Frandina, his daughter Florinda, and his youthful

son Alarbot; hoping in the bosom of his family to find that sympathy

and kindness which he could no longer meet with in the world. Their

presence, however, brought him no alleviation. Florinda, the daughter of

his heart, for whose sake he had undertaken this signal vengeance, was

sinking a victim to its effects. Wherever she went, she found herself a

bye-word of shame and reproach. The outrage she had suffered was imputed

to her as wantonness, and her calamity was magnified into a crime. The

Christians never mentioned her name without a curse, and the Moslems, the

gainers by her misfortune, spake of her only by the appellation of Cava,

the vilest epithet they could apply to woman.

But the opprobrium of the world was nothing to the upbraiding of her own

heart. She charged herself with all the miseries of these disastrous

wars; the deaths of so many gallant cavaliers; the conquest and perdition

of her country. The anguish of her mind preyed upon the beauty of her

person. Her eye, once soft and tender in its expression, became wild

and haggard; her cheek lost its bloom, and became hollow and pallid;

and at times there was desperation in her words. When her father sought

to embrace her, she withdrew with shuddering from his arms; for she

thought of his treason, and the ruin it had brought upon Spain. Her

wretchedness increased after her return to her native country, until it

rose to a degree of frenzy. One day when she was walking with her parents

in the garden of their palace, she entered a tower, and, having barred

the door, ascended to the battlements. From thence she called to them in

piercing accents, expressive of her insupportable anguish and desperate

determination. “Let this city,” said she, “be henceforth called Malacca,

in memorial of the most wretched of women, who therein put an end to her

days.” So saying, she threw herself headlong from the tower, and was

dashed to pieces. The city, adds the ancient chronicler, received the

name thus given it, though afterwards softened to Malaga, which it still

retains, in memory of the tragical end of Florinda.

The Countess Frandina abandoned this scene of woe, and returned to Ceuta,

accompanied by her infant son. She took with her the remains of her

unfortunate daughter, and gave them honourable sepulture in a mausoleum

of the chapel belonging to the citadel. Count Julian departed for

Carthagena, where he remained plunged in horror at this doleful event.

About this time, the cruel Suleiman, having destroyed the family of Muza,

had sent an Arab general, named Alahor, to succeed Abdalasis as emir or

governor of Spain. The new emir was of a cruel and suspicious nature,

and commenced his sway with a stern severity that soon made those under

his command look back with regret to the easy rule of Abdalasis. He

regarded with an eye of distrust the renegado Christians who had aided

in the conquest, and who bore arms in the service of the Moslems; but

his deepest suspicions fell upon Count Julian. “He has been a traitor to

his own countrymen,” said he: “how can we be sure that he will not prove

traitor to us?”

A sudden insurrection of the Christians who had taken refuge in the

Asturian mountains quickened his suspicions, and inspired him with

fears of some dangerous conspiracy against his power. In the height of

his anxiety, he bethought him of an Arabian sage named Yuza, who had

accompanied him from Africa. This son of science was withered in form,

and looked as if he had outlived the usual term of mortal life. In the

course of his studies and travels in the East, he had collected the

knowledge and experience of ages; being skilled in astrology and, it

is said, in necromancy, and possessing the marvellous gift of prophecy

or divination. To this expounder of mysteries Alahor applied, to learn

whether any secret treason menaced his safety.

The astrologer listened with deep attention and overwhelming brow to

all the surmises and suspicions of the emir; then shut himself up to

consult his books, and commune with those supernatural intelligences

subservient to his wisdom. At an appointed hour, the emir sought him in

his cell. It was filled with the smoke of perfumes: squares and circles

and various diagrams were described upon the floor; and the astrologer

was poring over a scroll of parchment covered with cabalistic characters.

He received Alahor with a gloomy and sinister aspect; pretending to have

discovered fearful portents in the heavens, and to have had strange

dreams and mystic visions.

“O emir,” said he, “be on your guard! Treason is around you, and in your

path: your life is in peril. Beware of Count Julian and his family.”

“Enough,” said the emir. “They shall all die! Parents and children—all

shall die!”

He forthwith sent a summons to Count Julian to attend him in Cordova.

The messenger found him plunged in affliction for the recent death of

his daughter. The count excused himself, on account of this misfortune,

from obeying the commands of the emir in person, but sent several of

his adherents. His hesitation, and the circumstance of his having sent

his family across the straits to Africa, were construed by the jealous

mind of the emir into proofs of guilt. He no longer doubted his being

concerned in the recent insurrections, and that he had sent his family

away, preparatory to an attempt, by force of arms, to subvert the Moslem

domination. In his fury, he put to death Siseburto and Evan, the nephews

of Bishop Oppas, and sons of the former king, Witiza, suspecting them

of taking part in the treason. Thus did they expiate their treachery to

their country in the fatal battle of the Gaudalete.

Alahor next hastened to Carthagena, to seize upon Count Julian. So rapid

were his movements that the count had barely time to escape with fifteen

cavaliers, with whom he took refuge in the strong castle of Marcuello,

among the mountains of Arragon. The emir, enraged to be disappointed of

his prey, embarked at Carthagena, and crossed the straits to Ceuta, to

make captives of the Countess Frandina and her son.

The old chronicle from which we take this part of our legend presents a

gloomy picture of the countess in the stern fortress to which she had

fled for refuge; a picture heightened by supernatural horrors. These

latter the sagacious reader will admit or reject, according to the

measure of his faith and judgment; always remembering, that in dark

and eventful times, like those in question, involving the destinies of

nations, the downfall of kingdoms, and the crimes of rulers and mighty

men, the hand of fate is sometimes strangely visible, and confounds

the wisdom of the worldly wise, by intimations and portents above the

ordinary course of things. With this proviso, we make no scruple to

follow the venerable chronicler in his narration.

Now so it happened, that the Countess Frandina was seated late at night

in her chamber in the city of Ceuta, which stands on a lofty rock,

overlooking the sea. She was revolving, in gloomy thought, the late

disasters of her family, when she heard a mournful noise, like that of

the sea breeze, moaning about the castle walls. Raising her eyes, she

beheld her brother, the Bishop Oppas, at the entrance of the chamber. She

advanced to embrace him, but he forbade her with a motion of his hand;

and she observed that he was ghastly pale, and that his eyes glared as

with lambent flames.

“Touch me not, sister,” said he with a mournful voice, “lest thou be

consumed by the fire which rages within me. Guard well thy son, for

blood-hounds are upon his track. His innocence might have secured him

the protection of Heaven, but our crimes have involved him in our common

ruin.” He ceased to speak, and was no longer to be seen. His coming and

going were alike without noise, and the door of the chamber remained fast

bolted.

On the following morning, a messenger arrived with tidings that the

Bishop Oppas had been made prisoner in battle by the insurgent

Christians of the Asturias, and had died in fetters in a tower of the

mountains. The same messenger brought word that the Emir Alahor had put

to death several of the friends of Count Julian; had obliged him to fly

for his life to a castle in Arragon; and was embarking with a formidable

force for Ceuta.

The Countess Frandina, as has already been shown, was of courageous

heart; and danger made her desperate. There were fifty Moorish soldiers

in the garrison; she feared that they would prove treacherous, and take

part with their countrymen. Summoning her officers, therefore, she

informed them of their danger, and commanded them to put those Moors to

death. The guards sallied forth to obey her orders. Thirty-five of the

Moors were in the great square, unsuspicious of any danger, when they

were severally singled out by their executioners, and, at a concerted

signal, killed on the spot. The remaining fifteen took refuge in a tower.

They saw the armada of the emir at a distance, and hoped to be able to

hold out until its arrival. The soldiers of the countess saw it also,

and made extraordinary efforts to destroy these internal enemies, before

they should be attacked from without. They made repeated attempts to

storm the tower, but were as often repulsed with severe loss. They then

undermined it, supporting its foundations by stanchions of wood. To these

they set fire, and withdrew to a distance, keeping up a constant shower

of missiles to prevent the Moors from sallying forth to extinguish the

flames. The stanchions were rapidly consumed; and when they gave way the

tower fell to the ground. Some of the Moors were crushed among the ruins;

others were flung to a distance, and dashed among the rocks: those who

survived were instantly put to the sword.

The fleet of the emir arrived at Ceuta about the hour of vespers. He

landed, but found the gates closed against him. The countess herself

spoke to him from a tower, and set him at defiance. The emir immediately

laid siege to the city. He consulted the astrologer Yuza, who told him

that, for seven days, his star would have the ascendant over that of

the youth Alarbot; but after that time the youth would be safe from his

power, and would effect his ruin.

Alahor immediately ordered the city to be assailed on every side, and

at length carried it by storm. The countess took refuge with her forces

in the citadel, and made a desperate defence; but the walls were sapped

and mined, and she saw that all resistance would soon be unavailing. Her

only thoughts now were to conceal her child. “Surely,” said she, “they

will not think of seeking him among the dead.” She led him, therefore,

into the dark and dismal chapel. “Thou art not afraid to be alone in this

darkness, my child?” said she.

“No, mother,” replied the boy, “darkness gives silence and sleep.” She

conducted him to the tomb of Florinda. “Fearest thou the dead, my child?”

“No, mother, the dead can do no harm,—and what should I fear from my

sister?”

The countess opened the sepulchre. “Listen, my son,” said she. “There are

fierce and cruel people who have come hither to murder thee. Stay here in

company with thy sister, and be quiet as thou dost value thy life!” The

boy, who was of a courageous nature, did as he was bidden, and remained

there all that day, and all the night, and the next day until the third

hour.

In the mean time the walls of the citadel were sapped, the troops of the

emir poured in at the breach, and a great part of the garrison was put to

the sword. The countess was taken prisoner and brought before the emir.

She appeared in his presence with a haughty demeanour, as if she had been

a queen receiving homage; but when he demanded her son, she faltered, and

turned pale, and replied, “My son is with the dead.”

“Countess,” said the emir, “I am not to be deceived; tell me where you

have concealed the boy, or tortures shall wring from you the secret.”

“Emir,” replied the countess, “may the greatest torments be my portion,

both here and hereafter, if what I speak be not the truth! My darling

child lies buried with the dead.”

The emir was confounded by the solemnity of her words; but the withered

astrologer, Yuza, who stood by his side regarding the countess from

beneath his bushed eyebrows, perceived trouble in her countenance and

equivocation in her words. “Leave this matter to me,” whispered he to

Alahor; “I will produce the child.”

He ordered strict search to be made by the soldiery, and he obliged the

countess to be always present. When they came to the chapel, her cheek

turned pale and her lip quivered. “This,” said the subtle astrologer, “is

the place of concealment.”

The search throughout the chapel, however, was equally vain, and the

soldiers were about to depart, when Yuza remarked a slight gleam of joy

in the eye of the countess. “We are leaving our prey behind,” thought he;

“the countess is exulting.”

He now called to mind the words of her asseveration, that her child

was with the dead. Turning suddenly to the soldiers, he ordered them

to search the sepulchres. “If you find him not,” said he, “drag forth

the bones of that wanton Cava, that they may be burnt, and the ashes

scattered to the winds.”

The soldiers searched among the tombs, and found that of Florinda partly

open. Within lay the boy in the sound sleep of childhood, and one of the

soldiers took him gently in his arms to bear him to the emir.

When the countess beheld that her child was discovered, she rushed into

the presence of Alahor, and, forgetting all her pride, threw herself upon

her knees before him.

“Mercy! mercy!” cried she, in piercing accents, “mercy on my son—my only

child! O emir! listen to a mother’s prayer, and my lips shall kiss thy

feet. As thou art merciful to him, so may the most high God have mercy

upon thee, and heap blessings on thy head!”

“Bear that frantic women hence,” said the emir; “but guard her well.”

The countess was dragged away by the soldiery, without regard to her

struggles and her cries, and confined in a dungeon of the citadel.

The child was now brought to the emir. He had been awakened by the

tumult, but gazed fearlessly on the stern countenances of the soldiers.

Had the heart of the emir been capable of pity, it would have been

touched by the tender youth and innocent beauty of the child; but his

heart was as the nether millstone, and he was bent upon the destruction

of the whole family of Julian. Calling to him the astrologer, he gave

the child into his charge with a secret command. The withered son of the

desert took the boy by the hand, and led him up the winding staircase of

a tower. When they reached the summit, Yuza placed him on the battlements.

“Cling not to me, my child,” said he; “there is no danger.” “Father, I

fear not,” said the undaunted boy; “yet it is a wondrous height!”

The child looked around with delighted eyes. The breeze blew his curling

locks from about his face, and his cheek glowed at the boundless

prospect; for the tower was reared upon that lofty promontory on which

Hercules founded one of his pillars. The surges of the sea were heard far

below beating upon the rocks, the sea-gull screamed and wheeled about the

foundations of the tower, and the sails of lofty caraccas were as mere

specks on the bosom of the deep.

“Dost thou know yonder land beyond the blue water?” said Yuza.

“It is Spain,” replied the boy; “it is the land of my father and my

mother.”

“Then stretch forth thy hands and bless it, my child,” said the

astrologer.

The boy let go his hold of the wall, and, as he stretched forth his

hands, the aged son of Ishmael, exerting all the strength of his

withered limbs, suddenly pushed him over the battlements. He fell

headlong from the top of that tall tower, and not a bone in his tender

frame but was crushed upon the rocks beneath.

Alahor came to the foot of the winding stairs.

“Is the boy safe?” cried he.

“He is safe,” replied Yuza; “come and behold the truth with thine own

eyes.”

The emir ascended the tower and looked over the battlements, and beheld

the body of the child, a shapeless mass, on the rocks far below, and the

sea-gulls hovering about it; and he gave orders that it should be thrown

into the sea, which was done.

On the following morning, the countess was led forth from her dungeon

into the public square. She knew of the death of her child, and that her

own death was at hand; but she neither wept nor supplicated. Her hair was

dishevelled, her eyes were haggard with watching, and her cheek was as

the monumental stone; but there were the remains of commanding beauty

in her countenance; and the majesty of her presence awed even the rabble

into respect.

A multitude of Christian prisoners were then brought forth; and Alahor

cried out—“Behold the wife of Count Julian; behold one of that traitorous

family which has brought ruin upon yourselves and upon your country.”

And he ordered that they should stone her to death. But the Christians

drew back with horror from the deed, and said—“In the hand of God is

vengeance, let not her blood be upon our heads.” Upon this the emir

swore, with horrid imprecations, that whoever of the captives refused

should himself be stoned to death. So the cruel order was executed, and

the Countess Frandina perished by the hands of her countrymen. Having

thus accomplished his barbarous errand, the emir embarked for Spain, and

ordered the citadel of Ceuta to be set on fire, and crossed the straights

at night by the light of its towering flames.

The death of Count Julian, which took place not long after, closed

the tragic story of his family. How he died remains involved in doubt.

Some assert that the cruel Alahor pursued him to his retreat among the

mountains, and, having taken him prisoner, beheaded him; others that

the Moors confined him in a dungeon, and put an end to his life with

lingering torments; while others affirm that the tower of the castle of

Marcuello, near Huesca, in Arragon, in which he took refuge, fell on him

and crushed him to pieces. All agree that his latter end was miserable in

the extreme, and his death violent. The curse of Heaven, which had thus

pursued him to the grave, was extended to the very place which had given

him shelter: for we are told that the castle is no longer inhabited, on

account of the strange and horrible noises that are heard in it; and that

visions of armed men are seen above it in the air; which are supposed to

be the troubled spirits of the apostate Christians who favoured the cause

of the traitor.

In after times a stone sepulchre was shown, outside of the chapel of the

castle, as the tomb of Count Julian: but the traveller and the pilgrim

avoided it, or bestowed upon it a malediction; and the name of Julian

has remained a by-word and a scorn in the land for the warning of all

generations. Such ever be the lot of him who betrays his country!

* * * * *

Here end the legends of the conquest of Spain.

_Written in the Alhambra, June 10. 1829._

NOTE TO THE PRECEDING LEGEND.

El licenciado Ardevines (Lib. ii. c. 8.) dize que dichos Duendos caseros,

o los del aire, hazen aparacer exercitos y peleas, como lo que se cuenta

por tradición (y aun algunos personas lo deponen como testigos de vista)

de la torre y castello de Marcuello, lugar al pie de las montañas de

Aragon (aora inhabitable, por las grandes y espantables ruidos que en el

se oyen) donde se retraxo el Conde Don Julian, causa de la perdicion de

España; sobre el qual castillo, deze se ven en el aire ciertas visiones,

como de soldados, que el vulgo dize son los cavalleros y gente que le

favorecian.

Vide “el Ente Dislucidado”, por Fray Antonio de Fuentalapeña capuchin.

Seccion 3. Subseccion 5. Instancia 8. Num. 644.

As readers unversed in the Spanish language may wish to know the

testimony of the worthy and discreet capuchin friar, Antonio de

Fuentalapeña, we subjoin a translation of it.

“The licentiate Ardevines (Book II. chap. 8.) says, that the said house

fairies (or familiar spirits), or those of the air, cause the apparitions

of armies and battles; such as those which are related in tradition (and

some persons even depose to the truth of them as eye-witnesses) of the

town and castle of Marcuello, a fortress at the foot of the mountains of

Arragon (at present uninhabitable, on account of the great and frightful

noises heard in it), the place of retreat of Count Don Julian, the

cause of the perdition of Spain. It is said that certain apparitions

of soldiers are seen in the air, which the vulgar say are those of the

courtiers and people who aided him.”

THE END.

LONDON:

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