THE MOORISH WAR
1481–1483
“A people that for generations had lived to fight.” This summary of the
Castilian race explains the fervour of enthusiasm with which the project
of renewed war against Granada was greeted. Other nations, similarly
exhausted by misgovernment and internal strife, might have welcomed a
period of peace, which would enable them to pursue industry and commerce
undisturbed; but neither Isabel nor her subjects regarded the matter in
this light.
To them, the establishment of justice and order and the restoration of
the royal finances were but a prelude to the great crusade, that every
Castilian king inherited from his ancestors. It was a duty no true son
of the Church would dare to neglect; and even the sluggish Henry IV. had
made a pretence of raising the Christian banners. No less than three
incursions into Moorish territory had been organized at the beginning of
his reign; though by royal orders the army confined its attention to a
work of pillage and robbery amongst the villages scattered over the
fruitful “Vega.”
“The King was pitiful and not cruel,” says Enriquez del Castillo in
excuse. “He said that life has no price nor equivalent ... and thus it
did not please him that his men should take part in skirmishes or open
battles.”
Such a policy awoke anger and derision in Castilian hearts, the more so
that large quantities of money had been raised by means of a bull of
indulgence, especially granted by the Pope for the purposes of a holy
crusade. According to one of the chronicles, the sum realized was over a
hundred million maravedis, of which very little went to its professed
object. Henry quickly wearied of the display and pageantry that had
alone reconciled him to camp life; and he had neither the fanaticism nor
love of glory that could have held him to his task when this outward
glamour faded.
Moreover he soon began to suspect that his worst enemies were amongst
his own followers; and the picked Moorish guard that he adopted for his
protection became the scandal of all the faithful. “He eats, drinks, and
clothes himself after Moorish fashion,” wrote a Bohemian who visited his
Court; and we have already noticed that the conspirators of Burgos began
their complaints by censuring the open infidelity of those nearest to
the royal person. Orthodoxy proved a convenient weapon for rebellious
nobles; but it did not prevent the chivalry of Murcia and Andalusia from
accepting the hospitality of the Sultan of Granada, when they wished to
settle their private quarrels undisturbed.
The kingdom of the Moors which had once embraced the whole peninsula,
save the mountains in the north-west, had shrunk to somewhat less than
two hundred leagues; but this area comprised all that was best in soil
and atmosphere. In its fertile valleys was ample pasturage for flocks of
sheep; in the depths of its mountains, no lack of the ore and metals
that its furnaces converted with unrivalled skill into ornaments and
weapons. Its plains, protected from the northern winds by snow-capped
mountain peaks, and preserved from the ill effects of the sun by a
careful system of irrigation, were covered with maize and other grains,
producing between them a perpetual harvest. Its villages nestled amidst
vineyards and olive-groves; oranges, citrons, and figs grew in its
orchards; here and there were plantations of mulberry trees. The silk
woven in the looms of Granada could stand comparison with the coveted
fabrics of Bagdad and the Orient, and with Moorish tissues, velvets, and
brocades, found ready purchasers in Venetian markets, through the medium
of thriving ports on the Mediterranean, such as Velez-Malaga and
Almeria.
By these same ports, the rulers of Granada could receive assistance from
their Mahometan allies on the African coast, whether in the shape of
provisions or of men, though of the latter they possessed sufficient for
any ordinary campaign. Not only did the healthy climate and abundance of
food tend to a natural increase of the population, but for centuries
there had been a steady influx of Mahometan refugees from the provinces
reconquered by the Spaniards.
It has been estimated that towards the end of the fifteenth century, the
population of Granada was between three or four millions, and was
capable of sending into the field a force of 8000 horse and 25,000 foot.
The Moors, whether supple Arab or hardy Berber, were as fine soldiers as
they were skilful artisans and traders. Trained to shoot from early
boyhood, their archers had no match with the cross-bow; while their
lightly armed cavalry could manœuvre on the wide plains, or make their
way by narrow mountain paths, to the utter discomfiture of the crusader
in his heavy mail.
These were facts the Christian army was to learn to its cost during ten
years of unceasing war. They were not unknown beforehand to the more
seasoned warriors; but the peaceful character of the old Sultan Ismail,
and his readiness to pay the yearly tribute to Castile of 20,000 doblas
of gold rather than take advantage of Henry IV.’s weakness, had aroused
the latent scorn felt for the Infidel by a hot-headed younger
generation.
In 1476, Aben Ismail died; and his successor, Muley Abul Hacen, a
chieftain already famous in his own land for various daring raids into
Christian territory, ceased to send the required tribute to Castile.
When the ambassadors of Ferdinand and Isabel came before him to
remonstrate, he replied haughtily:
“Go, tell your sovereigns that the kings of Granada, who were wont to
pay tribute, are dead. In my kingdom there is no coin minted save
scimitars and iron-tipped lances.”
[Illustration:
SPANISH HALBERDIER, FIFTEENTH CENTURY
FROM “SPANISH ARMS AND ARMOUR”
REPRODUCED BY COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR, MR. A. F. CALVERT
]
The sovereigns, who were in Seville at the time delivering justice,
received his message with indignation. “I will tear the seeds from this
pomegranate one by one,” exclaimed Ferdinand, punning on the meaning of
the word “granada.” But he and Isabel were still busy with the
Portuguese war and the task of restoring order in Andalusia. They
therefore dissembled their real feelings, and consented to a temporary
treaty, in which there was no mention of the disputed tribute; but they
did not cease from this time to redouble their preparations for the
inevitable crusade. In the end it was Muley Hacen who was to set the
spark to the mine.
Just over the Andalusian border, not many leagues distant from the
Moorish stronghold of Ronda, stood the fortress of Zahara, which had
been stormed in old days by the King’s grandfather and namesake “Don
Fernando de Antequera.” Raised on a height, surmounted by a fortress,
and approached only by slippery mountain paths, its Christian defenders
believed it almost impregnable, and had allowed themselves to grow
careless in their outpost duty. One night in the year 1481, when the
truce between Castile and Granada still held good, a band of Moors led
by Muley Hacen himself drew near under cover of the darkness. The wind
and rain were blowing in a hurricane across the mountain peaks, but the
Moors, heedless of its violence, placed their ladders against the rocks
above them, and scaled the ill-protected walls. Then they poured into
the town. The sound of their trumpets, as scimitar in hand they cleared
the narrow streets, was the first warning of their presence; and the
inhabitants of Zahara awoke to find themselves faced by death or
slavery.
It seemed to the affrighted inhabitants [says Washington Irving in his
vivid _Conquest of Granada_] as if the fiends of the air had come upon
the wings of the wind, and possessed themselves of tower and turret.
The war-cry resounded on every side, shout answering shout, above,
below, on the battlements of the castle, in the streets of the town;
the foe was in all parts, wrapped in obscurity but acting in concert
by the aid of preconcerted signals. Starting from sleep, the soldiers
were intercepted, and cut down, as they rushed from their quarters,
or, if they escaped, they knew not where to assemble or where to
strike. Wherever lights appeared, the flashing scimitar was at its
deadly work, and all who attempted resistance fell beneath its edge.
In a little while the struggle was at an end.... When the day dawned
it was piteous to behold this once prosperous community, which had
lain down to rest in peaceful security, now crowded together without
distinction of age, or rank, or sex, and almost without raiment during
the severity of a winter storm.
The next day the unhappy prisoners, first fruits of the Moorish
triumphs, were led back in chains to the capital; but the sight of their
misery aroused not so much rejoicing amongst the people as pity and
dismay. Courtiers might crowd to the palace of the Alhambra to
congratulate their warrior sovereign, but the general feeling of
foreboding found vent in the cries of an old dervish, as he wandered
through the streets wringing his hands:
Woe to Granada! Its fall is at hand. Desolation shall dwell in its
palaces, its strong men shall fall beneath the sword, its children and
its maidens shall be led into captivity. Zahara is but a type of
Granada.
In Medina del Campo, where the news of the disaster reached Ferdinand
and Isabel, there was burning indignation, and demands on all sides for
instant revenge. The gallant Don Rodrigo Ponce de Leon, Marquis of
Cadiz, took upon himself the task of retaliation. Having learned from
the “Asistente” of Seville, Don Diego de Merlo, that the town of Alhama,
only eight leagues from the Moorish capital and a regular granary and
storehouse for the neighbourhood, was ill-defended and quite unprepared
for any attack, he collected a considerable force both of horse and
foot, and set off at their head to effect its capture. Pushing forward
by night, and hiding at daybreak in whatever cover was afforded by
ravines and woods, on March 1, 1482, he arrived at his destination,
unperceived. He then selected some picked men; and these under the
command of Diego de Merlo, placed their ladders against the steepest
part of the citadel, from which attack would be least expected, and
scaling the walls slew the sentries whom they found on guard. Soon they
had opened the gates to admit the Marquis and their companions, and all
within Alhama was in confusion.
The Moors, waked from their sleep, fought desperately to preserve the
town itself from the fate of the citadel, throwing up barriers in the
streets, and maintaining a heavy cross-bow fire upon their assailants,
whenever they tried to emerge from the shelter of the gates. It seemed
for a time as if the Christian forces could make no headway; and some of
the captains counselled that the citadel and all the houses within reach
should be fired and the order for retreat should be sounded.
To this the Marquis replied with a stern negative. They had not made
such a splendid capture merely to reduce it to ashes; and he promised
his soldiers that once the city was taken he would allow them to put it
to the sack and keep what booty fell to their swords. Encouraged by this
prospect his troops made a breach in the wall of the citadel on the side
towards Alhama, and swarming through this opening and the main gateway
in great numbers, they succeeded in beating back their enemies and
destroying the barriers.
[Illustration:
SPANISH CROSSBOWMAN, FIFTEENTH CENTURY
FROM “SPANISH ARMS AND ARMOUR”
REPRODUCED BY COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR, MR. A. F. CALVERT
]
_Ay de mi Alhama!_ “Woe is me Alhama!” was the cry in Granada, when
wounded fugitives brought news of the fate that had overtaken their
town. Muley Abul Hacen said little, but, putting himself at the head of
some 3000 horse and 50,000 infantry, advanced on Alhama to exact
vengeance on the Christians who had so daringly crossed his frontier. As
he approached the walls, his troops uttered groans of mingled fury and
horror, for the ground lay strewn with the dead bodies of their
countrymen, thrown out by those within the walls to the mercy of
vultures and pariah dogs.
The Marquis had made what preparations for defence he could, but he had
begun to realize that his situation was rather desperate. Not only was
he separated from his country by a wide stretch of hostile territory,
from which he could expect no provisions, but the food stored within the
town had been much of it squandered or destroyed during the sack. Large
quantities of grain had been deliberately burned by the Castilian
soldiery who, hearing it rumoured that they were about to retreat,
determined to leave nothing intact for their enemies. In the weeks that
followed, when the forces of Muley Hacen ranged themselves round the
walls, and his engineers turned aside the stream that supplied Alhama
with water, the Christians, fighting by day and night, half-starved and
tortured with thirst, were to pay dearly for their recklessness.
Messengers had been dispatched at once to Andalusia and Medina del
Campo, bearing news of the victory but demanding instant succour, lest
glory should be dimmed in even more signal defeat. Leaving Isabel to
send out letters and enroll captains and troops throughout Castile,
Ferdinand hastened south to Cordova; but it was only to find that he
came too late, and that help was already well on its way to the
beleaguered city. This prompt action was due to no less a person than
the Duke of Medina-Sidonia who, having received a piteous letter from
the Marquesa de Cadiz in which she described her husband’s plight,
generously put his old enmity aside and went to his rival’s assistance.
Bernaldez the chronicler, more often called the Curate of Los Palacios,
who was an eye-witness of much of the Moorish war and knew Andalusia
well, once described the Duke and Marquis as “the two columns on which
the province rested.” Their combined retinues provided an army that
Muley Hacen, with his hastily collected troops, dared not face; and the
Duke arrived before the gates of Alhama, as the last of the Moorish
banners dipped below the far horizon. It was a meeting worthy of a
chronicler’s pen, when with hands clasped the gallant young Marquis and
his former enemy pledged eternal friendship amid the applause and
shouting of their troops. Alhama was saved.
Its maintenance was a different matter, for hardly had the Duke and the
Marquis of Cadiz, leaving Diego de Merlo and a strong garrison behind
them, departed for Cordova, than Muley Abul Hacen made a new and more
strenuous attack on his old fortress. From every side the Moors swarmed
up by ladders or projecting masonry and hurled themselves upon the
ramparts. The Christians thrust them back only to face a fresh
avalanche; and when at length, after a prolonged struggle, some seventy
warriors who had made their entrance unnoticed were hemmed in and cut
down, the garrison although victorious was both exhausted and dismayed.
Fresh help must come from Cordova or they were lost.
The advisability of burning and deserting Alhama, as a too costly
capture, was warmly advocated in the royal councils; but Isabel who had
arrived at Cordova would not hear of it. Every war, she declared, must
have its heavy expenses; and, since she and the King were determined on
the conquest of Granada at all costs, the surrender of the first city
they had gained could appear nothing but cowardice.
Then the King [we are told] and the Cardinal of Spain and all his host
came to the city of Alhama, and they built up the fortifications and
supplied it with all things necessary for its defence.
It was not the last time that Isabel was to spur the lagging energies of
the Christian army to fresh enthusiasm and endeavours.
In the meantime Muley Abul Hacen was called on to cope with serious
trouble at home, as well as a campaign against foreign invaders. For
this the mixed character of the Moorish population could partly account.
The haughty Arab, with his sense of racial and mental superiority, had
not after centuries amalgamated well either with his Berber ally of
African origin, or with the Spanish _muladies_, that suspected sect
whose ancestors had changed their religion with their masters in the old
days of Moorish conquest, thus cutting off their descendants from their
natural kith and kin.
Belief in “one God and Mahomet as His Prophet,” alone held together
these heterogeneous peoples, whose mutual suspicion proved ever fertile
soil for plots and rebellions. Had the latter depended for their source
only on race hatred, Muley Hacen, prompt, cunning, and pitiless, might
have proved their match. It was that curse of Eastern politics, the
quarrels of the harem, that acting on his sensual nature betrayed his
statesmanship.
When well advanced in middle age, the Sultan had fallen a victim to a
slave girl of Christian origin and had raised her to the position of his
favourite wife, the Arabs calling her for her beauty “Zoraya,” or “Light
of the Morning.” This woman, who was as ambitious and unscrupulous as
she was fair, made common cause with a certain Emir, Cacim Venegas, a
descendant of an old Cordovan family, to ruin all who opposed their
power; and to their machinations had been due the horrible massacre of
the Abencerrages in the Alhambra, whose name still marks the scene of
the crime.
Chief of Zoraya’s enemies was the deposed favourite of the harem,
“Aixa,” “the Pure,” a Moorish lady of high birth and spotless character,
whose son, Abu Abdallah, more often alluded to by the chroniclers as
“Boabdil,” was universally regarded as his father’s heir. To bring about
his death and thus prevent his accession was the main object of Zoraya’s
life; but her rival was well aware of this and, taking advantage of the
fall of Alhama and the consequent loss of Muley Hacen’s reputation as a
general, she laid her schemes for placing the sceptre in Boabdil’s
hands.
The Sultan learnt of the plot on his return to Granada; and, determining
to exact vengeance at his leisure, he imprisoned his wife and son in one
of the strong towers of the Alhambra. All seemed lost; but Aixa,
inspired by the courage of despair, knotted together the gaily coloured
scarves that she and her ladies were wont to wear, and by this rope let
down Boabdil from her window to the banks of the Darro. Here some
attendants, who had been secretly warned, awaited him; and the Moorish
prince, setting spurs to his horse, went swiftly to Guadix, a town
perched amid the mountains of the Alpujarras.
[Illustration:
ARMS BELONGING TO BOABDIL
FROM LAFUENTE’S “HISTORIA GENERAL DE ESPAÑOLA,” VOL. VII.
]
The standard of rebellion was raised; and Muley Hacen, returning one day
from the gardens beyond the city walls, where he had been dallying in
idleness with Zoraya, found the gates closed against him. The people,
who had secretly hated him for his tyranny, now despised him, and had
therefore readily welcomed Boabdil, when he came riding from Guadix to
usurp the throne. The old Sultan was forced to fly, but his spirit was
far from broken; and, being joined not only by Cacim Venegas and all his
clan of relations and followers, but also by his brother, the renowned
warrior, Abdallah “El Zagal,” “the Bold,” he determined to have his
revenge.
One night, soon after dark, he appeared unexpectedly before the city,
and, scaling with his men the walls of the Alhambra, fell upon the
sleeping inhabitants sword in hand, sparing in his rage neither
grey-beards, women, nor children. For hours the fight raged through the
narrow streets, dimly lit from the windows above by hanging lanterns and
guttering torches. It was war to the death and no quarter was given; but
though Muley Hacen and his brother fought with a courage that equalled
their ferocity, the sympathy of the people was with their enemies, and
with difficulty at last they made their escape. Malaga, on the shores of
the Mediterranean, became their new capital; and thus, just at a time
when union was most needed, the kingdom of Granada was divided against
itself.
The final triumph of the Christian forces, though undoubtedly hastened
by the divisions amongst their enemies, was not to prove an easy
achievement; for the capture of Alhama and its subsequent successful
defence were soon counterbalanced by two disasters. In both cases the
cause was a self-confidence on the part of the Castilian commanders,
that blinded them to the ordinary precautions of warfare.
Ferdinand, in the later years of his life, was regarded by his fellow
sovereigns as a model of sagacity and caution; but we have already
noticed the strain of romance and daring that rendered his youth the
less responsible if the more attractive. Nothing exasperated him so much
as to be told it was a king’s place to remain in safety and to allow his
generals to fight for him; and it had been a bitter moment when he
arrived at Cordova and found his intended relief-expedition had been
forestalled by the Duke of Medina-Sidonia. He had perforce contented
himself with meeting the party on their return at the border town of
Antequera; but he waited impatiently for a response to the Queen’s
letters that would enable him to take the initiative on his own account.
In time it came, and the sturdy mountaineers of Biscay and Guizpucoa, to
whose help he had once gone against the French, now joined his banner
along with the levies of Galicia and Estremadura, and cavaliers from New
and Old Castile.
Having collected his army, Ferdinand crossed the Moorish border late in
June, 1482, while Isabel dispatched a fleet to patrol the Western
Mediterranean and prevent assistance from Africa reaching Muley Hacen in
his retreat at Malaga. The objective of the Christian army was the town
of Loja, whose capture would ensure safe communication with Alhama. It
lay to the north-west of that outpost in a deep valley traversed by the
river Genil, almost like a gateway to the Vega of Granada; and its
wealth and natural beauty of situation in the midst of frowning
mountains had won for it the name of “the flower amongst the thorns.”
The Christian forces, eager to pluck this flower and heedless of the
dangers in the path, advanced with rash haste between the ridges.
Ferdinand in his anxiety to approach the city pitched his camp on uneven
ground amid the surrounding olive-groves, in a position wholly to the
disadvantage of either his cavalry or artillery. At the earnest
entreaties of the Marquis of Cadiz and the Duke of Villahermosa, who had
preached caution from the first, an attempt was made to rectify these
mistakes, but it proved too late.
Aliator, the Governor of Loja, who was father-in-law of the young Sultan
Boabdil, had been on the watch from the first for any opportunity of
throwing the besiegers into confusion. He therefore skilfully arranged
an ambush; and, some of the Christians falling into it, a sudden panic
spread through the camp, that had begun to realize the perils of its
locality. Only a hasty retreat saved Castile from a general massacre of
her leading chivalry, nay even the loss of the King himself; while many
a gallant warrior, such as the Master of Calatrava, came by his death.
Ferdinand, in disgust at his ignominious five days’ siege and the
failure of his tactics, departed to Cordova, leaving the command of the
frontier in other hands.
Early in February, 1483, the Christians once more took the offensive,
hoping to wipe out their previous defeat by some victory of
unprecedented magnitude. Alonso de Cardenas, the Master of Santiago, who
had been placed in command of the border country in the neighbourhood of
Ecija, had learned through certain of his scouts that, once an army had
pierced the mountains near Ajarquia, it would find itself in a fertile
plain, not far removed from the city of Malaga. Here would be a new
_vega_, stocked with fat herds and with opulent towns and villages,
providing spoils for its conquerors even more alluring than the riches
of Alhama. In vain the Marquis of Cadiz protested that these scouts were
renegade Moors and should not be trusted; the daring of the enterprise
had won the assent of Alonso de Cardenas and the other commanders
against their better judgment, while the bait of pillage was eagerly
swallowed by the ordinary soldiery.
From Antequera the army set out on its journey through the mountains,
more than three thousand horse and a thousand foot with the banners of
Seville, Cordova, Jerez, and other principal cities of Andalusia, waving
in their midst. Rarely had more famous names graced a military
enterprise: the Master of Santiago, hero of the Portuguese war; the
Marquis of Cadiz, victor of Alhama, with some five more of the warlike
house of Ponce de Leon; the Count of Cifuentes now Asistente of Seville;
and Don Alonso de Aguilar, a renowned general whose star has somewhat
paled before the brilliance of his younger brother’s fame, Gonsalvo de
Cordova—the “Great Captain.” Behind these warriors and their troops came
a heterogeneous crowd of merchants and adventurers, their pockets well
stocked with gold for barter, and their hands ready for any robbery that
would bring them profit so long as the swords of those in front had
cleared a way to it in safety.
The selfish motives, that in most hearts prompted the undertaking, were
clearly shown on the first day’s march through the mountains. High above
them, ridge on ridge, stretched ragged peaks bare of all save the most
meagre vegetation; the roadway on the slope below became a mere track,
winding through ravines and stony river-beds. Here and there were human
habitations; but the peasantry, warned by the glitter of spear and
helmet, had long climbed to distant heights or hidden with their cattle
in secret caves. The Castilians, picking their way in disorderly fashion
between marsh and boulder, revenged themselves for the lack of booty by
firing the deserted villages and huts until night fell; for of easy
ground or promised _vega_ there was no sign. Then in the darkness came
the sound of stones and rocks clattering down the mountainside. Some of
the horses were struck and, with others frightened by the noise, bolted
or stumbled; lights began to appear along the ridge; and showers of
poisoned arrows to descend; missiles from which the Christians, unable
to retaliate, could find no adequate protection. A crowning touch was
put to the ever-growing horror, when it was discovered that Muley Hacen,
having learned of the invasion by means of beacon fires, had sent his
brother “El Zagal” and Abul Cacim Venegas to the assistance of the
mountaineers.
[Illustration:
ALHAMBRA, COURT OF LIONS
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY ANDERSON, ROME
]
Conscious of their helpless plight, the Castilians turned and fled.
“Into such evil case were they fallen,” says the chronicler, “that none
listened to the sound of the trumpet, nor followed a banner, nor paid
attention to those who were his leaders.”
The Moors, hanging on their rear, and descending in swarms from the
ridges above, broke between the lines, preventing one commander from
assisting another; while many of the scouts, either of evil intention or
from sheer terror, advised ways of escape that ended in impassable
ravines or mere goat-tracks across the peaks. But a small portion of the
gallant army that had set out with such self-confidence from Antequera
returned safe from the “Heights of Slaughter,” as these mountains were
ever afterwards known.
The Master of Santiago, finding it impossible to rally his forces,
borrowed a horse from his servants, and in the darkness escaped by
secret footpaths.
“I turn my back not on the Moors,” he exclaimed, “but on a country that
for our sins has shown itself hostile.”
The Marquis of Cadiz and Don Alonso de Aguilar, after many detours and
wanderings, also found their way to Antequera; but the former had lost
his three brothers and two nephews; while the Count of Cifuentes, and
others of the Christian army, almost to the number of a thousand, were
captured and led to Malaga.
This defeat [says the Curate of Los Palacios] was marvellous for the
small band of Moors by whom it was inflicted. It would seem that Our
Lord consented, because robbery or merchandise rather than His service
had been the thought of the majority. For many of the same
acknowledged that they went not to fight against the Infidels, as good
Christians who had confessed their sins and received the Sacrament,
and made their will, and wished to fight against their enemies and
conquer them for the sake of the Holy Catholic Faith;—for but few of
them had this desire.
The shame and sorrow, aroused by the retreat from Loja, was as nothing
to the lamentations over this new disaster. There was scarcely a man or
a woman in Andalusia, it was said, who had not cause to weep; but
Castilian fortunes had touched their lowest depth.
“The good are punished for a time,” says the Curate of Los Palacios,
“because they have neglected God; but always He returns to succour and
console them.”
The victory of Ajarquia had redounded to the credit of Muley Hacen, and
still more to that of his brother “El Zagal,” with the result that the
popularity of Boabdil began to wane. Necessity demanded that the young
Sultan should take some steps to show his ability as a general; and,
since he was neither devoid of courage nor ambition, in April, 1483, the
gates of Granada were opened to permit the exodus of himself and the
flower of his nobility at the head of a picked army of horse and foot.
His plan of campaign was, marching through the _vega_, to cross the
Genil near Loja, where he would be reinforced by his father-in-law,
Aliator, and then on again beyond the Christian frontier, till he
arrived at Lucena in Andalusia, the object of his attack.
So much he achieved without difficulty; but the more superstitious of
his following shook their heads. Had not the King’s horse stumbled in
the very gateway of Granada, causing his master to shiver his lance
against the arch above? Had not a fox, also, rushed scatheless through
the army, almost in front of Boabdil himself, without suffering hurt
from the many arrows aimed at her? These were ill omens.
More disconcerting for military minds was the bold defiance of Don Diego
Fernandez de Cordova, the youthful Governor of Lucena. The Moors had
hoped to surprise the town, but it was obvious news of their coming had
preceded them; for hardly had they spread through the immediate
neighbourhood, burning and pillaging, than Don Diego and a small force
of Christians flung open the gates and began to attack them. This they
would hardly have dared to do, had they believed themselves unsupported;
and Boabdil and Aliator, looking behind them to account for this
temerity, saw to their horror the sun glittering on Christian spears and
banners.
It was the Count of Cabra, uncle of Don Fernandez, with a troop of not
more than two hundred horse and double that number of foot; but the
sound of his trumpets re-echoing in the hills, and the curve of the road
by which he came, as it descended to the plain, lent to his host a
phantom size. The Moors at any rate believed it the whole Christian
army, and at the first onslaught their infantry broke and fled. The
cavalry still continued the battle fiercely, till the arrival of Don
Alonso de Aguilar with reinforcements from Antequera, and the death of
Aliator deprived them of the last hope of victory. Then defeat became a
rout; and some, surrendering, begged for mercy, while others, missing
the ford across the river in their hurry to escape, were drowned in the
heavy flood. A few returned to Loja, but their king was not amongst
them. Crouching amongst the low bushes by the waterside, his scimitar
struck from his hand, Boabdil, “the Unfortunate” as astrologers had
proclaimed him at his birth, was forced to surrender, and led a captive
to the city he had meant to conquer.
The question of his fate was a matter for profound discussion in
Castilian councils. At first it was suggested that he should be placed
under lock and key in some inaccessible fortress; but the Marquis of
Cadiz pointed out that no decision could give Muley Hacen greater
pleasure. Better far than to remove Boabdil from Granada was to send him
back to his kingdom as a vassal of the Christian sovereigns, that he
might continue to foment discord amongst his own nation.
This advice pleased Ferdinand and Isabel, and soon the humiliating
terms, on which the Prince should receive his liberty, were drawn up and
signed. Boabdil did homage to the rulers of Castile, consenting to pay
an annual tribute of twelve thousand doblas of gold, and to surrender
four hundred Christian captives. Most galling of all, he publicly
promised to appear at the Castilian Court, whenever summoned, and to
allow the Christian armies free passage through his territory, in their
campaigns against Muley Hacen and “El Zagal.” Having surrendered his own
son and those of his principal nobles as hostages for his good faith, he
returned to his own kingdom, free; yet bound by chains that were to cost
him his kingdom and hold him in perpetual bondage.