University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I

The Arabs of the East, under the Caliph Almanzor, had swept, with the sword of
the prophet, the Oriental nations. The progress of conquest had brought them to
the shores of the Atlantic, and they already looked forth upon the narrow straits
which lie between the Pillars of Hercules, with the impatient yearnings of a desire
which was yet beyond their power to satisfy. To overpass this narrow limit, to
possess themselves of the fertile regions which lay beyond, was an appetite the more
keenly felt in consequence of the obstacles which opposed it. Of the wealth and
luxury of the Gothic empire of Spain, they had full assurance; of its feebleness,
however, they formed no adequate conjectures. It had been fortunate for Spain, that
the defence of Tingitania, or that small portion of Western Africa which still belonged
to the empire of Roderick, had been intrusted to a veteran soldier so renowned as
Julian of Consuegra. Julian was one of the greatest warriors of his time. With a
natural predilection for war, his experience had confirmed the tendencies of his
genius. Skilled in all the military arts of the period, he was beloved of the soldiery.
Ten thousand well-appointed warriors obeyed his paramount authority; and, placed
upon the borders of the kingdom, and constantly threatened by an active and imposing
enemy, they had preserved their courage and military vigilance. They suffered from
none of those enervating tastes and luxuries which enfeebled, in the heart of the
kingdom, the great body of the people to which they belonged. They knew nothing
of those vices which disgraced the court, and found their way from that polluted fount,
through all the arteries of the social system. They constituted, on the frontiers of
Tingitania, a powerful military colony. Their virtues, in times of comparative security,
were exercised by the labors of the field, and by those toils of the hunter and
the peasant by which men's muscles are rendered equally enduring and elastic. A
hardy simplicity of character made them heedless of luxuries, and the occasional demands
of war had no other effect than to increase the charm of their rude mode of
life, when a return of peace or quiet enabled them temporarily to enjoy it. Count
Julian, whom, for many years, they had known as their only leader, was, in some
sort, their patriarch. He regarded his followers with the friendly interest of one who
had always secured their fidelity; and his frankness of manner, great bravery, and
the even measure with which he administered justice among them, left him without
a competitor in their confidence and affections. They knew little of the Gothic kingdom—nothing

of Roderick or his predecessor; had little interest in the internal affairs of
the empire, and, as has been already in part intimated in our history, would have
been much more ready to follow their immediate military leader, at the expression of
his bare will, as absolute subjects, than they would have been to throw up their caps
in acknowledging the elevation to the throne of the sovereign born in the purple!
That such, indeed, had not been the case on the ascent of Roderick, was due rather
to the loyalty, or, it may be, to the prudence of Julian, than to any notion which his
followers entertained of what was due to legitimacy.

Contending with such a people only, the Arabs, whose otherwise victorious arms
had borne the crescent of Mahomet over the proudest cities of the East, could form
but an imperfect idea of the nation at large, whose interests they maintained in Tingitania.
Reasoning from what they know, of the valor of these men of the frontier,
they might very well entertain serious doubts of ever gaining foothold upon the
shores of Spain, to which their eager eyes were directed in equal hope and misgiving.
But, though this great conquest might yet appear beyond their grasp, the spirit of
Moslemism necessarily hurried on its warriors to the complete conquest of Western
Africa. The provence of Tingitania was too necessary to the integrity of Almagreb,
not to make it desirable that the military colony of Julian should be driven across
the straits. However brave and indomitable might be his ten thousand followers,
however skilful their commander, it was still beyond reasonable conjecture that they
should be able long to hold out against the mighty force which the standard of the
prophet could array for the completion of conquests. One hundred thousand veterans
were brought together for this purpose. From the seat of the caliphate, at Damascus,
Waled Almanzor, otherwise called by the Moslems, the “Sword of God,” had
issued his command to drive the Gothic Christians unto the waters of the sea. His
troops were free to this enterprise. His foes had sunk, in all other regions, before
the baleful influence of his prevailing star. Led by Muza Ben Nosier, one of the
most remarkable of all the warriors of the early ages, they were drawn together
from all parts of Almagreb. A mixed multitude, they sent up to the heavens the
separate cries of a thousand tribes of the great desert. A fiery race by nature, the
fanatic tenets of the prophet had given to their mood an intensity which, like the
famous artificial fire of the Greeks, was only heightened by the effort to extinguish
it. Impatient of opposition, as special instruments of eternal truth and vengeance,
they held life cheap in comparison with conquest. To perish in the prosecution of
their holy war, was to secure immunity for their sins and salvation for their souls; and
the pangs of a violent death, in this life, were more than compensated by the glowing
descriptions of sensual happiness, by which their prophet proposed to reward
them in their transition to the next. Light and vigorous, fearless and full of faith,
skilled in the use of their weapons, and rendered more so by actual conflict with a
thousand various tribes, they threw themselves forward upon the Goths of Tingitania,
with the reckless hardihood of men who had nothing to lose but all to gain, even
from the worst issues and results of battle.

Their great leader was a warrior after their own hearts. Muza Ben Nosier, when
summoned by the caliph to the command of Almagreb, was in his seventieth year;
but he had lost in age but little of the vigor and elasticity of youth. In several respects
he had undergone no change from the character which he had borne in youth.
Time, which subdues the blood in other veins, seemed only to have given a fresh
impetus to his. He was still the fiery warrior which he had been when he went
forth a humble follower in the armies of Mahomet. Religious fanaticism had
added to the force and fervor of his temper; and success, which, after a certain

space, seems to satisfy the cravings of most warriors, contributed only to the increase
of his desires in this respect. Fierce, yet cool and calm in his deportment—vindictive
and deceitful—impetuous in battle, but a most subtle politician—Muza was altogether
one of the most remarkable men of modern periods. That he was selfish,
mercenary, bloodthirsty and unjust, is probably natural enough to such a person.
This, perhaps, is to be understood as inevitable from his successful leadership of
such people as those who followed him to battle. There were veterans under him
not less remarkable—one of whom will become even more conspicuous than himself,
in the progress of this narrative.

The opening of the year seven hundred and ten, was an eventful period in the fortunes
of Gothic Spain. It found the fortresses of the Goths in Tingitania, everywhere
menaced by the power of the Moslems. Musa Ben Nosier led the assault
upon that of Ceuta, the most powerful, defended by Count Julian in person. The
forces of the latter, in Africa, were, as already said, about ten thousand men. Those
of the Arabs are said to have defied computation. The more cautious estimates of
the historian have placed them, however, at no less than ten times that number.
Confident in his strength and superiority, assured by continual success, Musa Ben
Nosier, disdaining the slow processes of siege, at once led his formidable array
against the Gothic towers. The genius of Mahommedanism has always preferred
to make its conquests by storm. From the rise of morn to the set of sun, his fierce
and active followers flung themselves with desperate hardihood against the ramparts
of Ceuta. They asked for no forbearance—they yielded none. The assailant who
looks not to his own danger, is not easily defeated. The swarthy sons of the desert
had never yet taken counsel from defeat. They disdained the cold considerations
of prudence. They went forward to conquer; and death, in this desire, was still a
conquest, sufficiently precious to reconcile them to all the danger. But, in this instance,
their fiery valor was in vain. The Goths of the frontier were worthy of the
old Romans, from whom it was their boast to have sprung. They were a stern and
stubborn people. If they lacked the peculiar fire of the Arab, they had a patient
doggedness of resolve which more than compensated for the deficiency. If they
were less lithe and active, they were more firm; and, with a power of resistance
such as the sullen rock opposes to the billows, on the edges of their own empire.
The children of the desert thus flung themselves upon the walls of Ceuta, only to
recoil, like broken billows of the sea, from the fast-rooted Pillars of Hercules. Their
fury, their numbers, their fanaticism; their rage of conquest, their scorn of death;
the wild cries with which they went into battle, the stormy clamor of the cymbal
and barbaric drum—were all fruitless. They were driven back, baffled and dispirited,
from the Gothic fortress; and, as they fled in confusion, Julian sallied forth, and a
terrible slaugher ensued among the flying columns. For once the Moslem despaired
of his prophet. The spell of his invincibility seemed broken. His progress was
fatally arrested, and even Muza, the fierce, the proud, the fanatic, trembled with the
conviction, that, in his defeat, the waves of Moslem conquest were to be stayed for
ever. Sore in spirit, discomfited, confounded, he sought the shelter of his camp,
and, in resolute seclusion from all his followers, declared to them the depth of his
affliction and disgrace.

Far different was the feeling within the walls of Ceuta. A natural, and not
unbecoming exultation filled the bosom of Count Julian. His followers gloried in
their successes, and boasted of their exploits. Gothic Tingitania rang with the
shouts of triumph, and the name of Julian was thrice honored with the grateful
applauses of his people. Gay lights shone from the house-tops, bonfires blazed
in the streets. Merry strains went up from terrace and balcony, and, in the general

impulse of rejoicing, beauty and innocence forgot that there were Moslem spoilers
in the land. If ever heart was satisfied with itself, it was that of Julian. He sat
within his chamber, meditating the victory which he had won, and the farther
duties which yet remained to his valor to perform. He thought with pride of the
applauses which he should win from Spain—the thanks of his sovereign, the shouts
of his people, of which these, that occasionally ascended to his ears, were so many
faint but expressive harbingers. Even at that moment the messenger was in the
court below, bearing the fatal missive from the dishonored Cava.

“In no hand but that of Julian of Consuegra, can I place the letter.”

Such was the answer of the courier to the attendant.

“Follow me.”

He did so, and stood in the presence of the warrior.

“From whence?” demanded the latter.

“From Spain—from the city of Toledo. I bring a letter from one who bade me
haste, and find my reward from Count Julian. The grass has not grown beneath
my feet.”

“'Tis well,” said Julian, slowly receiving the letter. Then addressing the attendant:
“Take him hence, and see him fed and comforted. Yet stay—remain!
From whom got you this missive?”

“I know not well. He was a Cambrian friar.”

“An evil race, methinks—a restless, troublesome—! The writing would seem
to be that of Cava!—of my child!”

Julian went aside, and with the letter still unopened within his grasp, trode slowly
the apartment. Pausing at the side opposite that where the messenger stood, he
contemplated the superscription of the letter with signs of emotion.

“I know not why, but something disturbs me. I feel a vague sense of evil.
This is the writing of my child, but how unlike! The line is uneven—the words
are interrupted. She writes not usually thus—and to me! The child has suffered—
she is sick! Jesu grant it be not worse! But this is a sorry weakness!”

He unfolded the missive as he spoke—drew near one of the cressets which burned
against the wall, and proceeded to read. On a sudden his cheek paled, then flushed—
a convulsion passed over his countenance and shook his frame. He looked round
him, and exclaimed:

“Ha! stay! where is this villain courier?”

Then, as his eye found him—the object which it sought—he crumpled the scrawl
in his hand, bounded forward, and before the astonished messenger was conscious
of his movements, he had grappled him about the neck. A simple effort sufficed
to bring him to the floor. The serf was as an infant in the clutches of the
strong man. He gasped—he could not speak—while the terrified attendant looked
on aghast, with horror and surprise. The scene lasted but an instant only.
As suddenly as he had taken hold upon his victim, did Julian release him from his
grasp. He rose slowly to an erect position, and, while the big veins stood out,
cord-like, upon his forehead, and big drops of sweat rose upon his brow, he moved
backward a few steps, seemingly, in the effort to recover himself. The courier
partly rose also, but, as if still apprehensive of danger, crouched once more upon
the floor.

“Rise!” said Julian.

The man obeyed him in silence.

“Hither—to me!”

He betrayed some reluctance to obey the farther command.

“Fear nothing! Nay, even though you prove false, fear nothing. Hither!”

The tones were hollow and strange. They did not assure the trembling messenger,
but he dared not hesitate. He approached; and, seizing one of the lights that
stood at hand, Julian thrust it close beside the countenance of the man, and steadily
gazed upon his features. The scrutiny lasted but an instant.

“He is, indeed, nothing but a courier. Take him hence.”

When he was gone, Julian once more unfolded the fatal letter, which had been
crushed in his grasp even before he had finished its perusal. Once more he took it
to the light, and with desperate determination proceeded to make himself master of
its contents. He did so. His hands fell at his side. The cruel paper escaped his
grasp. His eyes were lifted up in agony to heaven, and then closed as if in the
pangs of a death spasm. With the single words—

“My child! my child!”—

He sunk, in a convulsion, upon the floor of the aparment.