Last night I was a King of Spain--to-day no King am I.
Last night fair castles held my train, to-night where shall I lie?
Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee,
To-night not one I call my own; not one pertains to me.
Lockhart, Spanish Ballads
The tragic and tumultuous story of the manner in which Spain was
delivered into the hands of the Moors is surely a theme worthy of
treatment by the highest genius. But either because it offended the
national pride or otherwise failed to make an appeal to the Castilian
temperament, its epic remains unwritten. Few passages in history
afford such an opportunity for the delineation of the deeper human
passions as the episode which resulted in the betrayal of an entire
country for the gratification of a private wrong. It presents such a
catastrophe as urged Æschylus to compose the moving and majestic drama
of Electra. Yet it has found no more potent expression than in the
dreary parchment of the latest Spanish chronicle and the pedestrian
verse of Southey's Roderick, the Last of the Goths, which draws its
inspiration from the pseudo-history of that account. [49]
Before we examine the romantic material embedded in The Chronicle of
Don Roderic, with the Destruction of Spain, it will be well to trace
the story of the downfall of the Gothic empire in Spain by the aid
of such materials as we can trust to supply us with a more or less
accurate account of it. These are to be found in the General Chronicle
of Spain and in the pages of the Moorish historians. Summarized,
the facts relating to the incident are probably as follows:
From the period of the settlement of the Mohammedan Arabs in Mauretania
their fleets had frequently ravaged the coasts of Andalusia, by which
name the entire Spanish peninsula was known to them. An enmity arose
between Spanish Goth and Moorish Arab which was heightened not only
by the difference in their religion but by the circumstance that the
fortress of Ceuta in Mauretania still remained in Gothic hands. This
outpost of the Gothic empire was held by the vigilance and courage
of Count Julian, a leader of experience, who retained the fortress
against tremendous odds.
The ruler of Spain at this period was one Don Roderic, who does
not appear to have held the throne by hereditary right. Witiza,
his predecessor, had slain Roderic's father, the governor of a
province, and, whether to gratify his revenge or purely because of
his ambitions, Roderic succeeded in having the claims of Witiza's
two sons set aside and in securing the crown for himself. But the
monarchy among the Goths of Spain was still elective, and it may be
that Roderic had been legally placed on the throne by the suffrages
of his fellow-peers. It is probable that Count Julian was a member
of the unsuccessful faction headed by the royal brothers, and that,
in despair of displacing Roderic by force of arms, he sought the
assistance of his Moorish enemies to accomplish his downfall.
But tradition, whether rightly or otherwise, disdains to accept the
circumstances of a cold political issue as an adequate reason for
Count Julian's defection from loyalty, and has a much more romantic
explanation to advance for his traitorous act. Roderic, we are told,
was a ruler of evil and scandalous character. He conceived a violent
passion for Cava, the young and beautiful daughter of Count Julian,
whom he abducted and dishonoured. Roused to fury and despair at
Roderic's act, Julian instantly resolved upon a terrible revenge,
and, not content with handing over the fortress which he had so
long maintained against a powerful enemy, he suggested to Musa,
the Moorish king or satrap, the invasion of Spain, binding himself
even more closely to the infidels by accepting their religion and
conforming to their customs. He impressed upon Musa the natural
advantages of his native land, and laid stress upon its distracted and
defenceless condition, the effeminacy and degeneracy of its warriors,
and the unprotected state of its cities. Musa recognized that an
opportunity offered itself to extend the Arab dominions, and sent
an embassy to Walid, the Caliph, his suzerain, asking his opinion
of such an enterprise. Walid encouraged him to proceed with it. But
Musa, although a brave and active leader, was shrewd and cautious,
and instead of launching a great armada against a country of whose
defensive capacity he knew little, contented himself in the first
instance by making a raid, in July a.d. 710, on the Spanish coast,
as if to test the fighting qualities of its defenders. The expedition
consisted of only five hundred men, who, landing at Tarifa, marched
some eighteen miles through Spanish territory to the castle and town
of Julian. There they were joined by the disaffected adherents of
that nobleman, and, meeting with no opposition, returned to Africa
with an abundance of spoil.
Encouraged by the success of their preliminary enterprise, the Saracens
now levied an army of five thousand men, and in the spring of 711,
under the leadership of a certain Tarik, landed upon Spanish soil
at a spot which still bears the name of their commander, Gibraltar,
for Gebel al Tarik signifies 'the Mountain of Tarik.' They speedily
defeated a Spanish force under Edeco, but Roderic, now fully aroused
to the danger by which his rule was threatened, summoned his vassals to
the royal standard, their number, we are told, amounting to nearly one
hundred thousand men. Tarik had by this time been reinforced, but could
muster only some twelve thousand troops of Moorish race, though these
were augmented by a host of Africans and disaffected Goths. The armies
met near Cadiz, Roderic himself leading the Gothic host, resplendent
in his princely robes of silk and gold embroidery, and reclining in a
car drawn by white mules. The Gothic attack almost succeeded by sheer
weight of numbers, and sixteen thousand of the Moorish army were slain
in the first encounter. But Tarik encouraged his flagging forces by
pointing out to them that retreat was impossible. "The enemy is before
you," he said, "the sea behind you. Whither would ye fly? Follow me,
my brethren. I shall trample on yon King of the Romans or perish."
Roderic's Fate
But assistance for the Moors was at hand, for the two sons of
Witiza, who occupied the most important posts in the Spanish army,
suddenly broke away from the main body. This brought about a general
panic. Roderic, mounting his fleet charger Orelia, was drowned while
attempting to swim the Guadalquivir, leaving his diadem and robes
on the bank. At the instigation of Count Julian, Tarik pressed on to
Toledo, which, however, held out for three months, and dispatched a
force to reduce the kingdom of Granada. This was duly accomplished,
and Toledo surrendered on the Moor's assurance that its inhabitants
would be permitted to leave with their possessions, a promise which
was faithfully kept. The Jews, who had especially assisted the
pagan invaders, were richly rewarded by them, and, indeed, formed an
alliance with them which lasted until both were eventually and happily
expelled from the country. From Toledo Tarik spread his conquests over
Castile and Leon, penetrating north as far as the town of Gijon in
Asturias, where further progress was barred by the waters of the Bay
of Biscay. In a few months practically the whole of Spain had become
a Mohammedan province, and only a handful of Gothic warriors were able
to hold out in the valleys of Asturias against the conquering Moor.
We may now leave the path of definite history for the more picturesque
if also more uncertain road of romance. The chronicles recount Don
Roderic's abandoned wickedness, and tell how the invasion of the Moors,
instigated by Julian, broke as a thunderclap upon the unprincipled
ruler. The strife with the Saracens is described, and Roderic's flight
is painted in gloomy colours. But just as popular legend refused to
credit the death of Arthur on that day at Camelot, or the fate of James
IV of Scotland on Flodden Field, or the death of Harold at Hastings,
so it refused to believe in that of Roderic. Racial sentiment refuses
to admit the death of a popular leader, and have not legends been
afloat even in our own day concerning the lamented Lord Kitchener?
Tradition [50] has it, then, that as Roderic was about to plunge
into the waters of the Guadalquivir a divine light burst upon him,
and a secret voice adjured him to repent of his sins and live. Acting
upon the advice of this inward counsellor, he divested himself of
his royal insignia, and taking from the dead the garment of a humble
peasant, stole from the field. All night he fled, haunted by fearful
visions of the wrath to come. On all sides he beheld the dreadful
consequences of his defeat. Staggering on through scenes of misery
and ruin which wrung his heart, he came at length, after seven days'
travel, to the monastery of Canlin, on the banks of the river Ana,
near Minda. The place was deserted, but the wretched fugitive cast
himself down beside the altar to await his doom in prayer, for he
fully believed that sooner or later the infidels would trace him
to this retreat and dispatch him. He fed the lamps with oil, only
leaving the holy shrine from time to time to see if the Saracens
approached. Beneath the crucifix he lay, clasping the feet of the
Redeemer's image, and weeping icy tears of penitence. As he grovelled
there he became aware that some one had entered the chapel, and,
raising his eyes in hope of a speedy death by the scimitar of a Moorish
soldier, to his surprise he beheld a monk, who gently addressed him,
and explained that he had returned to the place which for threescore
years and five he had called home, trusting to die there by the hand
of an infidel and thus to gain the crown of a martyr.
Roderic revealed his name to the father, who, deeply impressed by the
tone of penitence in his voice, knelt beside him and ministered to
the stricken monarch throughout the long night hours. He assured him
that he must live to work out his salvation, and when morning broke
the aged priest and he who yesterday had been one of the proudest
kings in Christendom quitted the chapel and went on their way.
The holy father led the crownless King to a hermitage, where he gave
him further ghostly counsel, enjoining him to remain in that place so
long as it should please God. "As for me," he said, "on the third day
from hence I shall pass out of this world, and thou shalt bury me and
take my garments and remain here for the space of a year at least,
that thou mayst endure hunger and cold and thirst in the love of our
Lord, that He may have compassion on thee."
On the third day, as he had prophesied, the hermit expired. Deeply
grieved at his death, Roderic busied himself in carrying out his
last wishes, and with an oaken staff and his bare hands dug a grave
for the holy man's body. When he was in the act of laying him in the
ground he found a scroll in his hand covered with writing, addressed
to himself, and containing advice concerning the life he should lead
while an inmate of the hermitage. This Roderic reverently perused,
and resolved to follow its injunctions to the letter.
But the Father of Evil was not minded that the King should proceed
undisturbed in his quest for salvation, and that night appeared to him
as he was in the act of committing the hermit to the grave. He came
in monkish garb, his features hooded by a great cowl, and further
disguised by a beard of venerable length and silvery whiteness,
supporting himself by a staff as if he were lame. Roderic took him
for a friend of the dead hermit, and would have kissed his hand, but
the Fiend drew back, saying: "It is not meet that a king should kiss
the hand of a poor servant of God." The King, hearing his identity
thus revealed, believed the Devil to be a holy man, speaking by aid
of a revelation. "Alas!" he said, "I am not a king, but a miserable
sinner, who had better never have been born, so much woe has visited
the land through my misdoing."
"Thou hast not so much fault as thou thinkest," replied Satan,
"for the calamity of which thou speakest would have occurred in any
case. It was ordained, and the fault was not thine. My words are those
of a spirit created by the will of God, and not mine own." The Evil
One then pretended that he had journeyed all the way from Rome to
help Roderic in his distress, and hearing this the King rejoiced,
and listened reverently as the Devil attempted to controvert the
teaching of the dead hermit by specious arguments. But when the King
requested the seeming holy man to assist him in burying the anchorite's
remains he was surprised to see him turn and make off at a good speed,
despite his alleged lameness.
At the hour of noon next day the Devil returned with a basket
full of savoury food. But the dead hermit had enjoined Roderic to
eat of nothing but the rye bread which the shepherds would bring
him once a week, and obedient to this, he withstood the tempter's
proffered meat and wine. The argument betwixt the King and Satan
is then elaborated with medieval prolixity and due regard to the
hair-splitting, logic-chopping theology of the time. Even a medieval
sense of decency might have prompted the writer to omit the King's
interview with the Holy Ghost, as to which I will only say here that
at the word of the Holy Spirit the foul fiend fled in the shape of
a horrid devil, bristling with the insignia of hell.
Satan's Stratagem
But the Enemy was not yet finished with Don Roderic, for one evening
at set of sun the hermit King saw one approach with a great power of
armed men and every display of pomp and circumstance. As the train
drew nearer, Roderic, to his amazement, beheld in its leader Count
Julian, who came to him and would have kissed his hand with every
sign of homage, offering himself up to the King's vengeance and
justice, and freely acknowledging his treason. The seeming Julian
begged him to rise up and take once more his proper place at the
head of the Spanish forces, so that the infidel might be thrust
out of Spain. But Roderic, suspecting another fiendish stratagem,
shook his head, and requested Julian to accept the leadership of the
Gothic army himself, as his vows did not permit him to engage any
longer in worldly affairs. Julian turned to the great company behind
him, among whom Roderic beheld many whom he had thought to have been
slain in battle, and these enthusiastically seconded their leader's
arguments. But when the fiendish crew saw that their pleading was
without avail they withdrew to the plain below, where they formed
themselves in battle array, as if awaiting the onset of an enemy. And
lo! against them came a multitude of seeming pagans, so that a great
and fierce carnage followed. To the anxious eyes of the King, those who
represented the Christian host seemed to put the paynim to the rout,
and messengers spurred to the hermitage, announcing to him that his
people had gained a glorious victory. But as the cock crowed the whole
pageant of battle passed away like smoke borne before the breeze, and
the King knew that he had once more withstood the wiles of the Enemy.
Now for three months the Devil refrained from tormenting Don Roderic,
but at the end of that time he sent upon him a more grievous trial
than any that had gone before. As he was saying his prayers at
the hour of vespers, he beheld a train of cavaliers ride up to the
hermitage, and when they halted and alighted there came toward him
a damsel in the guise of that Cava, the daughter of Count Julian,
whom he had so foully wronged. At sight of her the wretched man's
heart almost ceased to beat, but ere he could speak she told him that
her father had turned his sword on the Moors and had conquered them,
that Eliaca, his Queen, was no more, and that a holy man had told
her that she must forthwith find Don Roderic and wed with him, and
that she should bring forth a son called Elbersan, who should bring
the whole world under the sceptre of Spain.
When Roderic heard these words he trembled exceedingly, for greatly had
he loved Cava. She ordered a pavilion to be pitched near the hermitage,
and her train set out a sumptuous repast. Seeing how beautiful she
was, the King shook as with a palsy. But he clasped his hands and,
commending himself to God, begged to be delivered from temptation. As
he made the sign of the Cross the false Cava fled shrieking, and her
infernal train followed with such a rout and noise that the whole world
seemed to be falling to pieces. Once more the Holy Spirit admonished
Roderic to guard against such stratagems of the Devil, and far into
the day the repentant but victorious King prayed without ceasing in
thanksgiving for his deliverance from the snares of hell.
The Death of Roderic
The time now came when it was appointed that the King should leave the
retreat where he had passed through trials so many and so terrible,
and, following a cloud appointed for his guidance, he girded up his
loins and set forth on his journey. Before nightfall of the first
day he came to another hermitage, where he lodged during the hours
of darkness. After two days' journeying he came to a place unnamed,
which was destined to be that of his burial. The Elder of this place
told him that he must go to a fountain below the hermitage in which
he had taken up his abode, and that he should there find a smooth
stone. This he was instructed to raise, when he would find below it
three little serpents, one having two heads. This two-headed serpent
he must place in a jar and nourish secretly, so that none should know
of its existence, and so hide it until it grew large enough to wind
its coils three times within the jar and put its head out. Then he
must place it in a tomb and lie down himself with it, naked, for such,
it pleased God, should be his penance, according to a voice the Elder
had heard speaking in the church of that place.
Roderic scrupulously followed the Elder's injunctions, found the
reptile, and waited patiently till the two-headed serpent had waxed
great within the jar. Then, in company with the Elder, he divested
himself of his raiment and sought the tomb, wherein he laid himself
down. And when he had done so the Elder took a lever and laid a great
stone upon the top. Having lain there three days, during which the
Elder prayed and watched devoutly, the serpent raised its heads and
began with one head to devour his sinful nature and with the other to
eat his heart. In great torment did Roderic lie in that place. But
at length the serpent broke through the web of the heart, so that
incontinently the King gave up his spirit to God, Who by His holy
mercy took him into His glory. And at the hour when he expired all
the bells of the place rang of themselves, as if they had been rung
by the hands of men.
So, in the strange spirit of medieval mysticism, ends the piteous
legend of Don Roderic of Spain. Who shall unriddle the weird
significance of its close, unless, like old Thomas Newton in his
Notable History of the Saracens, they believe "that the serpent with
two heads signifieth his sinful and gylty conscience"? Requiescas in
pace, Domine Roderice!