6. CHAPTER VI.
The unholy compact was at length accomplished, and Julian of Consuegra,
while the star of morning looked pale and ghastly down upon the uncovered faces
of the slain, retraced his way over the field of battle to the walls of Ceuta. In the
single hour which he had passed in the tents of the Arab, he had completed all
the plans by which to render his treachery to his country successful in her overthrow.
We need not dilate upon or detail the schemes in this object, devised between
himself and Musa Ben Nosier. Let it suffice that the latter wrote to his
caliph, Waled Almanzor, in all the exulting spirit of a newly acquired hope. He
reminded him of his past conquests, and begged permission to undertake the new.
Of this permission he had no doubt, and he suffered none to escape him of the entire
success of those designs which he meditated now. The assurances of Julian
were such as to remove all his fears of the powers of the Goth—fears which
might naturally enough be awakened by the terrible repulse which he had just received
before the walls of Ceuta. The apostate count had but too truly shown
him the weakness of his country—its wealth, its vices, and the emasculating sloth
and luxuries in which all ranks of her people indulged. Her strength lay chiefly in
the army of the frontier, and that army, veterans under Julian himself, were, as he
truly described them, faithful personal adherents of himself, rather than the subjects
of Roderick, or the sons of Spain. The aged, but fiery souled Emir, depicted
in his letter to the caliph, the empires already subdued, the spoils already won, and
pronounced the treasures and the charms of that now unveiled before his eyes, and
ripe for invasion, as superior to them all—equal to Syria in the serenity of its sky
and the fertility of its soil; Arabia Felix in its delightful climate; India in its spices
and fragrance; Cathay in its precious metals; Hegiaz in its fruits and
flowers, and Aden in its majestic cities seated by the sea. Shall such a land, he
asked, be left with the unbeliever, when we may so easily subdue it to the sceptre
of the faithful. The caliph's reply was immediate and favorable. `It is the will of
Allah!' was his answer; and the legions of Islam, twelve thousand in number, under
the conduct of Taric El Tuerto, were put in readiness, with the aid of Julian,
to attempt the conquest.
The apostate chieftain was not idle. But his passion did not lessen his policy.
He was one of those dark, proud spirits, who, with a soul shaken to the centre by
his own great griet, can, after the first terrible convulsions, conceal utterly all outward
commotion that is busy still within. Though a man of unbending and sleepless
passions, he was yet a politician. From the moment, when at midnight, he
left the tents of the Arabian, he devoted himself to the task of winning his soldiers
to his purpose. For this purpose his great wealth was distributed among them.
What was wealth and treasure to him who had first made the sacrifice of friends
and country to the desires of an unsparing vengeance. His officers were already
devoted to his will. His soldiers beheld in him their immediate sovereign, and
acknowledged, in the long relationship which they had maintained together, a
friend and leader, rather than a lord and master. It was not difficult to secure for
himself those affections which had long been withdrawn, upon the skirts of Barbary,
from any social affinities with their own people dwelling beyond the straits.
Julian was soon sure of his adherents.
He too had his correspondence. He wrote, by a trusty hand, to the Archbishop
Oppas, and adroitly insinuated such hopes in the bosom of that subtle priest, as reawakened
in full all of his ambitious projects for the princes, his nephews, and
himself. Of the fate of Egiza, Oppas knew nothing. Julian spared him that
portion of his knowledge, secret to all but himself, of which he had left such a
sudden and bloody record, at midnight, on the battle-field of Ceuta. But the archbishop
had learned to base no calculations on the spirit of this feeble prince. His
eye had gradually turned to Pelayo, as to the active hope of the royal family which
had been deposed; and the letter of Julian had scarcely been received and announced,
before his own mission, embodying the new hopes which he had imbibed
from Julian, were transmitted to the daring young chief, who continued to bring
together a little army in the secure passes of the Asturian mountains. The communication
made to Pelayo informed him only of the defect of Julian, with the
forces which he held at Ceuta. Of his own alliance with the Arabs, Julian had
withheld the information from the archbishop. That was his secret only, for he
dreaded lest the religious prejudices of the priest might render him reluctant, even
at successful revolution, sustained and brought about by infidel alliance. His caution
was unnecessary. Oppas was scarcely less corrigible, in this matter, though
a Christian teacher, than himself. To the king—to Roderick, he who had thus
driven him to the deepest desperation, and to the commission of the last of crimes
—he also wrote. He was able, in this letter—such was the strength of his will,
and the intense character of his hatred—to forbear all complaint, and every show
of passion. He spoke of his daughter as if he knew not of her death—as if he
entertained not the slightest notion of the brutal usage she had endured—and spoke
to the tyrant, as if still his warm and confiding adherent. Bitter was the pang of
suppression which the apostate felt, as he wrote this fraudulent epistle. Wild
was the shudder which shook his frame as he laid his pen aside, and gave freedom
to the emotions which he struggled successfully to keep down till the scroll was
written. He had his policy in this also. He could tell the monarch of his victory
—could dilate on its extent—its advantages, and the security which it had brought.
But this security was not yet complete. The Arab was not entirely subdued. He
was still in force in the pastural vallies which spread themselves in the sun, sheltered
by the distant range of the Atlas mountains; and drawing new warriors to
his thinned array from the numerous tribes of the desert, which had been subdued
by the sword of Islam. To crush effectually this enemy—to drive him far from
the neighborhood of Tingitania, and prevent the accumulation of powers which, at
a later period, it might not be so easy to overcome, it was necessary that new succors
should be sent to Ceuta. Arms and horses, in particular, were among the desired
supplies, und for these Julian wrote to Roderick in language of entreaty, the
earnestness of which was well calculated to make itself felt without provoking
suspicion. Remembering the awful vision which he had witnessed in the mysterious
cavern of Covadonga—the vision of these swarthy invaders, following in the
pale light of the baleful crescent—recalling the terrible prediction which he could
not drive from his senses, and which told him that, by infidels in this aspect, his
sceptre was to be wrested from his hands, the soul of Roderick was startled by its
fears, and he readily conceded to so brave a captain as Julian, all that he craved
for the defence of the frontier against this greatly threatening foe. In his anxiety
and apprehension, he stripped his kingdom of its means of defence, and, even as
the apostate count had desired, accumulated, ready for the use of the traitor, the
implements of war, and the steeds necessary for a mighty cavalry, conveniently at
the foot of the rock of Calpe, one of the great guardian mountains which keep the
entrance to the Mediterranean sea.
Circumstances continued to favor the progress of conspiracy. The temporary
suspension of hostilities, and the disappearance of the Arabs from the immediate
neighborhood of Ceuta, by withdrawing from sight the immediate danger, disarmed
the fears of the Gothic monarch. The preparations which he made and
the precautions which he had begun to take for the safety of his kingdom were
at once suspended, and satisfied with having furnished adequate means for its defence,
to the very person whom he had most reason in the world to fear, he again
surrendered himself to the heartless dissipation and the unwise tyrannies in which
he had so long indulged. But he was soon to waken from his dream of security
and the voluptuous languor of that life which had so enslaved his soul and subdued
his courage. The preparations of Julian being all complete, he summoned
the veteran Taric el Tuerto to his side. The banner of the Christian and of Islam
waved together in the ghastly starlight, as, darting across the narrow streight that
divides the shores of Spain from those of Africa, the prows of the Arabian, which
had been silently gathering along the coast preparatory to this event, shot into the
dark but sheltering shadows of the great mountain height of Calpe.
“Here,” said Julian the Apostate, to the gaunt and fiery veteran, Taric el Tuerto,
as they climbed the rugged elevation, and looked down upon the blue waters that
lay below sleeping in the serene starlight—“Here did Hercules the mighty set up
his pillar. This is the rock of Calpe.”
“And here,” said the ambitious and impatient Taric—“here will I set up mine,
and it shall be a mark forever, high above the sea. Calpe no longer! It is my
mountain now—`Gebir al Taric'—the pillar of Taric.”
Strange that the exulting and arrogant spirit of the Arabian should, in this moment,
have spoken in the voice of prophecy. His pillar has indeed overthrown
that of Hercules. To this day, Gibraltar—“Gebir-al-tar”—is the name of the mountain—perpetuating
the events of that night of import, and of the confident speech
of the Islam chieftain.
