Old Court Life in Spain (Vol.1&2). Frances Minto Elliot

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      THE CHURCH OF SAN ISIDORA.

       (Leon.)

      And fear fell upon him as he gazed, and he commanded that no attack be ventured, but that the camp should be formed at the base of the rock until morning.

      Upon which Teodomir, who was looking out, took a flag of truce, fastened it to a lance, put a herald’s tabard on the back of the page who had fled with him, and a high-crowned hat on his head, and went down to where the purple tent and the Crescent standard marked the spot where Abdul-asis was to be found.

      “I come,” said Teodomir, in a tone of lofty courtesy, raising his iron vizor, and showing the stern face of a warrior, the young page behind him, proud of the particoloured dress, and swaying the flag of truce in cadence to his words, “I come as a Gothic knight into your presence, most magnanimous son of Mousa, whom men call ‘the merciful,’ to treat of the surrender of the castle. As you see, our walls are fully manned, and we have food for a lengthened siege. But much blood has flowed. I have lost my sons, and fain would spare the lives of my people. Promise that we may pass unmolested, and when the rising sun tips the circle of mountains towards the east, we will surrender. Otherwise, we will fight until none are left.”

      Abdul-asis, young in craft and unsuspecting, as became the poetic quality of his soul, was greatly struck with the bold words of the veteran, who stood his ground so valiantly alone against an army. The castle, too, was strong, and appeared amply defended. Generosity in this case was policy. He consented gladly, standing forth alone, a crimson caftan thrown over his armour, the folds of his turban shading his massive Egyptian features and his lustrous eyes. To the articles of capitulation, he hastened to affix his seal. Then he addressed Teodomir:

      “Tell me, bold Christian,” said he, “you who have ventured alone into the Moorish camp, now that we are friends, of what force is the garrison of Orihuela?”

      A grim smile spread over the face of the veteran. “Wait and see,” was his answer. “With the morning light we will evacuate the place.”

      As the sun rises in glory behind the eastern mountain tips, and its first rays strike upon the battlements, Teodomir appears, followed by a motley crowd of old women, greybeards, and children tottering down the descent.

      Abdul-asis waited with wondering eyes until they had reached the plain. “Where,” he said, “O Teodomir, are the valiant soldiers who lined the walls, and have so well maintained the honour of the Goths?”

      “Soldiers,” answers Teodomir; “by the Lord, I have none. My garrison is before you. These manned the walls. My page”—here he pointed to the stripling disguised in the habit of a herald, the heavy coat dragging after him upon the ground, the helmet falling over his face—“is my herald, guard, and army.”

      Ere Teodomir had finished speaking, a great uproar arose among the Moors.

      “Tear him limb from limb,” cry the sheikhs. “Cut the throat of the Christian dog. Let him not live who deceives the Moslems of Islam!” But with a stern gesture Abdul-asis interposed: “Let no man dare to touch the Christian knight,” he orders. “By righteous fraud he has defended his castle. I command that the rights of war are granted him.”

      Then, taking Teodomir by the hand he led him to his tent, and ordered wine and meat to be served to him as to himself. And in memory of this defence the provinces of Murcia and Valencia, all through the Moorish occupation, were known as “the Land of Tadmir” or “Teodomir.”

      Thanks to the rivalry between these two commanders, Mousa and Tháryk, Gothic Spain had fallen to the Moors in an incredibly short space of time: the banners of the Crescent waved from Pelayo’s country in the mountains of the Asturias in the north, to Calpe and the Pillars of Hercules in the south; from the borders of Lusitania (Estremadura) in the west, to the coast of Tarragona and Valencia in the east; and the mighty city of Saragossa, where so many Christians had taken refuge, also yielded.

      At length a summons came from Sultan Suleiman, at Damascus, to both leaders, to appear before him, to render an account of their conquests and their spoils, as well as to settle the justice of those dissensions which raged so fiercely between them.

      Before he left Spain, Mousa addressed a letter to his son, at Seville. “Son of my heart,” he wrote, “may Allah guard thee! Thou art of too tender and confiding a nature. Listen to thy father’s words. Avoid all treachery, for, being in thyself loyal, thou mayest be caught by it. Trust no one who counsels it. I have placed with thee at Seville, according to the inexperience of thy age, our kinsman, the discreet Ayub. Listen to his counsels in all things, as thou wouldst to myself. Beware, too, O my son, of the seductions of love. As yet thy heart is untouched. May Allah so preserve it! Love is an idle passion, which enfeebles the soul and blinds the judgment. Love renders the mighty weak, and makes slaves of princes. Farewell. May Allah guard thee and lengthen thy days.”