University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The night, according to the Arabian and Spanish historians, was one of auguries
and omens to both armies. Those which occurred in the tents of the Arabian were
all friendly and auspicious. Taric was cheered by a vision of the prophet, who
promised him success, and a prolonged triumph; while, in the tent of Roderick, as
he sate quaffing the red wine with some of his favorite nobles, a bearded pilgrim
suddenly appeared at the entrance of the tent, and spoke to him, in words, terrible
like those which appeared to Belshazzar, written at his fatal feast on the walls of
the chamber: “Thy sway hath departed from thee, Roderick! thy hours are
numbered! The Arabian sits within thy palace, and looks out upon thy people
for his own! He who would save himself must abandon thee! Wo! wo! to
thee and Spain!” Before the king could recover from his consternation at this sudden
vision and these awful words, the venerable stranger had disappeared. There
are those who assert that the speaker was no other than a Caulian monk, whom
the archbishop had suborned for this purpose, and thus tutored, that he might alarm
with new fears, and move to treachery like his own, certain of the nobles who sate
with Roderick that night. One with such an aspect was known to follow in the
army of the archbishop. This event was followed by another of even more inauspicious
omen. Going forth with the dawn of day, Roderick summoned to him a
noble called Ramiro, to whom he delivered the royal standard, charging him in the
usual language, to maintain it faithfully and at the peril of his life. Ramiro received
the standard, and as he waved it aloft with a triumphant grace, and a bold
delighted spirit, his horse grew unmanageable, and darting away beneath it, flung
him under his feet and trampled the royal standard in the dust. When the good
knight was lifted from the ground he was round to be dead. His neck was broken.
He never stirred once from the moment that he fell. This fatal event, which took
place in sight of both armies, was well calculated to encourage the one and to depress
the other. But the soul of Roderick seemed to grow stronger because of
these sinister aspects in his fortunes. The really brave man is always true to himself:
and a prouder feeling, the growth of a noble self-reliance, was kindled in his
heart, as, lifting the standard from the ground, he himself rode with it along the
plain of Xeres, waving it proudly aloft in the eyes of his assembled legions. The
sacrament was administered to Roderick, kneeling in his tent, by the hand of the
Bishop Urbino, the Lord Oppas being busy at the time making his own preparations
for the battle. “I have sinned before heaven and the sight of man, venerable father!”
said the usurper. “I have done cruel wrong to Julian, and my heart
shrinks from the meeting with him, alone, of all in the ranks of mine enemy!”

“Be of good cheer, my son,” replied the Urbino. “Remember thou goest forth
to battle in defence of thy faith and thy country. Thou goest forth representing

thy people and thy church, and art not simply the man whom men call Roderick.
Forget thyself in thy people and thy God, and holy mother will strengthen thee
against thy fear!”

“I repent me from that neavy sin, my father,” said the royal criminal, while a
deep tremor overspread his frame and grew apparent in the sound of his voice.

“And of all others, my son?”

“I would repent me. I would forswear them, but I am feeble and erring,
vicious by blood, and quickly led astray from better resolutions.”

“Be thou firm in thy desire for good; be thou faithful to thy fears and sorrows
for the evil done, and I grant thee the dispensation which flows abundantly with
grace. I assoil thee, Roderick, as thou art thus repentant, from past and present
sin. Go forth, for thy God and people, and the strength of thy God and thy people,
bring thee safely through the terrors of the foughten field.”

Urbino left the camp for a place of safety, while Roderick proceeded to take his
last farewell of Egilona. She, with the ladies of the court, had tents assigned her
contiguous to that of her husband. It was now the purpose of Roderick to send
her with Urbino to some distance from the field. But she refused with a stubbornness
of will which had not often been exhibited to her lord, to retire at his bidding.
For this resistance she had the secret counsel of the Archbishop Oppas. To afford
her husband the succor which he might need, it was essential that she should be
near him, and to this desire she religiously adhered. And Roderick's resolution
yielded to hers. In truth he had no apprehensions of the issue. He could not
doubt the capacity of his numerous masses to overwhelm the inferior armies of his
foe. He had no reason to doubt the courage of his people. He did not suspect the
treachery in his ranks. The auguries of the night had affected him much less than
his nobles, and those of the morning already recited—the death of Ramiro, and the
trampling of the consecrated standard in the dust—had not yet taken place. He
yielded to the loving and earnest entreaties of his wife, and left her, tearful and full
of fears, but glad that she had been permitted to remain in compliance with the
calls of duty near the person of her lord. His place in the tent was supplied by
the person of Lord Oppas. The last kiss of her husband was yet warm upon her
cheeks, when it was removed by the “holy” pressure of other lips. The patriarchal
blessing of the archbishop was to be enforced by the imposition of hands,
and the mailed glove removed from his fingers—for he was in full armor—they
once more wandered in forbidden places. And the pious and unsuspecting woman
looked up to the reverend father, and fancied she beheld before her one of those
mighty kings among the Jews, who, serving now before the altars of the Lord, and
now leading his armies forth to battle, were commissioned with a sort of universal
power, in correspondence with the great variety and compass of their moral endowments.
And, truly, the Lord Oppas was a person to impose this conviction
upon any spectator. We have already spoken of the nobleness and majesty of his
frame. He was not wanting in that solicitude which takes care that its habits and
ornaments shall properly correspond with what nature has done in his behalf. He was
clad from head to foot in armor of jet black, with a noble polish; on his left breast
was a cross in gold, and another glittering in blood-red rubies, was above his helmet.
He carried himself with the port of a prince. A person more noble moved not that
day in all the gorgeous ranks of the Gothic monarch; and it was with a sentiment
of delight and exultation that the secret glance of the archbishop detected the eyes
of Egilona as they followed the movements of his majestic form, with an expression
of admiration, the perfect innocence of which, founded as it was upon her
belief in his christian and spotless character, it did not enter his impure spirit to

conceive. He left her, with all his loathsome appetites and foul desires and purposes
more than ever active, with the secret hope that the events of the day, already
begun, were to gratify them with the fullest triumph. Of this we shall see
hereafter.

Roderick, destined to be the last king of the Goths, went forth to battle in the
luxurious state which had been so much affected by his predecessors. His robes
were of gold brocade, his sandals were embroidered with precious stones; he carried
the sceptre in his hand, and the royal crown, full of jewels of inestimable value,
upon his brows. The chariot in which he rode was of ivory, the axles of silver,
the wheels of burnished gold; the pole was plated with the same precious metal.
This sumptuous chariot was canopied with cloth of gold, embossed with armorial
devices, studded with jewels, and drawn by four milk white horses, caparisoned in
a style of like folly and magnificence. A body guard of a thousand youthful cavaliers
surrounded this precious car, which might well suggest the necessity of a far
greater force for its defence against a foe so eager and avaricious as the children of
Islam. These cavaliers were knighted for the occasion by the king's own hand,
and were sworn, as their especial charge, to defend his person to the last. This
spectacle of magnificence, according to Arabic historians, seemed to match the sun
in heaven. The hosts of Roderick shouted their wonder and delight as he passed
along their ranks and enjoined upon them to do their duty as became men fighting
for their country and their God. The sight of so much splendor had its effect upon
the Africans also. Old Taric, who knew them well, made it the occasion of a
speech appealing to their cupidity. “This Roderick,” said he, “would save us
the pains of looking after his treasure. Would he pay our soldiers or his own with
these precious jewels? Dreams he that we know not their value? Hear me, children
of the desert, and know, that, from this day, the brave man wears the jewel
that he wins!”

The rising of the sun was the signal for the conflict. The two armies drew nigh
to each other as his first smiles crimsoned the plain which they were soon to dye
in deeper colors. The forces of the Arabian descended in regular order, troop after
troop, from the gentle eminence which they occupied. Their advance was wild and
picturesque. Their long robes and turbans made their appearance equally majestic
and imposing in the sight of their enemies; while their several squadrons, each
habited after a fashion of its own, religiously preserving the custom of their homes
in the desert, rendered their exhibition quite as various and fanciful, though in a
less extravagant and expensive manner, as that of the gorgeous battallions of the
Goth. These, with sound of drum and trumpet—with equal show of valor, but
far less skill and order—bounded forward to the encounter. Their music was answered
by the clash of cymbals, and the wild, piercing cries of the distant horsemen.
The sun disappeared from sight as they rushed to the embrace of death;
clouds of dust enveloped them, through which could be seen the gleam of the
whizzing javelins and arrows, and could be heard the rattle of a thousand stones.
These were the missils of war in that period, and such a stony tempest as raged
that day, has left its trace upon the plain of Xeres even to the present. The troops
of Roderick, undefended in most part, by shield or buckler—for the criminal prudence
of Julian had despoiled the kingdom of the materials of war before his invasion
was begun—fought to manifest disadvantage. But their courage was equally
manifest, and their swarming multitudes more than compensated for the deficiency.
The old valor of the race shone out wondrously in the very moment of its extinction—even
as we are confounded at the sudden blazing up into brilliance of the
light which has long been dying in the socket. Their efforts promised to prevail.

The Moslems yielded before the reckless masses, as they flung themselves, troop by
troop, upon the ranks of the invader, and Taric el Tuerto, borne back by his own
legions, tore his beard in the agony of a conviction that the day had gone irretrievably
against him. It was at this moment—in the very crisis of his fortunes—that
Julian of Consuegra, who had hitherto employed his skirmishers rather than his
force, gave orders for the trumpet to sound thrice, a peculiar peal, which had been
agreed upon between himself and the archbishop. Scarcely had the sound subsided
upon the ear, when piercing and similar notes from the ranks of Roderick, gave
significant response from his accomplice.

“Now!” cried Count Julian, rising in his stirrups, and drawing the weapon of
vengeance from the sheathe—“Now, Roderick, thy hour has come!”

At the same moment, while the charge of Julian arrested the assailing and pursuing
Christians, now closely pressing on the heels of the flying Moslems, the
Archbishop Oppas, detaching his squadrons from the rest of the army, led them
suddenly against the centre of Roderick's array with a shock that was irresistible.
The rout followed—vain was the prowess of the monarch—vain the valor of his
nobles. They perished, man by man, fighting bravely to the last. Roderick himself
performed prodigies of valor. He had fought from his chariot, sending dart
and javelin, with fearful accuracy of direction, against every conspicuous foe; but
when, in the defection of Oppas and the terrible onslaught of Julian, the reverses of
the field began, he descended from the gorgeous car, and mounted his famous steed
Orelia, which had been kept in readiness for such emergencies. Thus mounted, his
sword made fearful havoc among the assailants. His valor maintained the fight,
and infused new courage into the hearts of his nobles. They emulated the reckless
and desperate strength and spirit which he displayed, and yielded themselves to
the slaughter, conscious rather that they were smiting as they fell, than of the fearful
pang and other trembling emotions of approaching death. Shouting a cheering
encouragement to such as survived, Roderick plunged forward to fresh encounters.
But a voice, wild and powerful, answered exultingly to his own, from a cloud of
combatants in front. It was the voice of Julian. It struck a deep terror to the
heart of Roderick. The reins fell upon the neck of his steed—then, as a second
time the fearful accents met his ear, he caught them up in his trembling hands,
wheeled the animal about, and plunging deeper than ever the rowel into his bleeding
sides, he fled from the battle, with a ghastly terror in the shape of the dishonored
Cava looking over his shoulders, and a prowling hate, in the aspect of her
gigantic father, close pursuing at his heels. He fled—fled wildly from his people—
and knew not in what direction his terror led.