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

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      A VIEW IN TOLEDO.

      Julianus is the foremost prelate in learning and power the Goths ever had. Next, indeed, in historical importance to Isidor of Seville, though much earlier in point of date; his influence and preponderance are at this time supreme. Possibly he was by birth a Jew, though early attached to the Chapter of Toledo. A churchman of great literary gifts, restless, unscrupulous, ambitious; the very Hildebrand of those early times, who raised the see of Toledo to a position of unparallelled supremacy, presiding during his life at various councils most important in the history of the mediæval church.

      The archbishop is attended by his secretary, a lay brother, habited in black, carrying papers, who (as reflecting the tyranny of his master) stands, without daring to raise his eyes, more like an automaton than a living man.

      The only one whom the archbishop condescends to notice among the assembly is Wamba, who holds himself somewhat apart from the rest. He at once singles him out and salutes him with a profound obeisance which Wamba, without evincing any surprise, returns in silence.

      To look on the face of the dead is a duty among these savage races, who believe that the soul of the departed lingers for awhile about its tenement of clay. But there is another and more powerful incentive which has assembled these chiefs from the far-off provinces of the kingdom.

      Round the bed of the dead king they stand to choose his successor. Absolute silence reigns. Each man is jealous of his neighbour, and convinced that his own claims will prevail. Especially is this the case with Hilderic, who has a secret compact with the Jews who fled from oppression in the south of Spain to his government of Narbonne, and he knows that they will gladly furnish him with funds to harass the Christian nobles.

      At last the voice of the archbishop is raised to break the strange hush around.

      “Chiefs and nobles of the Gothic nation,” he says, in a tone of authority, while all eyes are fixed on him, “the king who lies here reigned in peace according to the Gospel. I am not come to make his funeral oration. All present know his good deeds and the moderation of his rule. For twenty-three years the sword of the Goth has rested in the scabbard. But this calm cannot continue. An able man must succeed him. One”—and as he spoke the silken cowl fell altogether back, displaying the powerful lines of his tonsured head, the broad intellectual brow, and the erectness of command—“one, I say, alone is worthy, and that is Wamba. He has no enemies.”

      As a long-drawn breath of eager expectation looses itself with a distinct note of relief, so did a low sound pass through the dead chamber as Julianus spoke. On every countenance came an expression of astonishment, but it was astonishment unmixed with opposition or anger. A relief indeed to pent-up feelings, which finally found vent in a burst of loud applause, each man falling back instinctively to where Wamba had placed himself at the foot of the bed. Then, as with one voice, came the response:

      “Yes, Wamba! He shall be our king!”

      “But,” cried Wamba, his wrinkled face working with emotion, as he advanced quickly to where Julianus stood, “my consent is needful to this proposal. Now I refuse it. I am not of an age to rule over my valorous countrymen. I am old, I am unworthy. The strength of my arm is gone. I am unfit to lead the dauntless Goths to battle.”

      “Then rule over them at home,” is the short rejoinder of the archbishop. “In a nation of soldiers a peaceful sovereign is best. You are great in wisdom, O Wamba! Recesvinto was no warrior, and we are here to mourn his loss.”

      “Yes,” replies Hilderic, secretly rejoiced at the choice of Julianus, as from the age of Wamba he will have time and occasion to complete his treacherous plans before the new king’s probable death, for to Hilderic Wamba appears an aged visionary, easy to be put aside when opportunity is ripe, a convenient stop-gap for a time—“yes, Wamba, you are the only man we will accept without bloodshed.”

      “Impossible!” cries Wamba, his cheeks reddening with anger. “I will accept nothing which I cannot righteously fulfil. I am unfit to reign.”

      “No, no!” exclaims Ervig, casting his arms about his patron’s neck and affectionately saluting him. “Goodness and wisdom are the best, and those are yours, dear master.”

      “We will have you! Speak! Consent!” come as one word from the circle of nobles. “You dare not refuse the will of the chiefs,” cry all, gathering round him, each more or less approving the choice on the same grounds as did Hilderic, or as considering Wamba an easy ruler, under whom every man would be his own master. Already the brows of some begin to darken at his continued refusal.

      “Choose some younger man,” he persists, struggling from the hands which are now laid on him; “one better fitted for the arduous duties of your king. Look at me,” and he raises his grey locks and bares his furrowed forehead, “I am long past my prime.” As he speaks he is retreating as best he can towards the door, when the fiery Hilderic, seizing him with one hand, with the other brandishes a naked spear.

      “Look you, Wamba,” says he, a dangerous fire kindling his eye, “you shall never leave this chamber, save as a dead man, or as our king.”

      “Dead, or as our king,” came as a war-cry from all the fierce Goths, closing round him with such unseeming shouts and din, that it seemed as if their rude clamour must disturb the last sleep of the dead whose presence all had forgotten.

      “You accept the crown in the sight of God?” demands the archbishop in a solemn voice, stretching forth his hands towards Wamba, who, perceiving that further opposition is useless, bows his head. “Then at this altar let us offer up our thanksgivings. The Church is with you, Wamba.” And Julianus turns to the oaken table on which stands the Host, and falls upon his knees, with the priests and acolytes around, followed by all those fierce spirits quelled for an instant by the might of his power.

      “And,” says Wamba, as last of all that assembly he slowly bends his knee in the place of honour reserved for him next to the archbishop, “countrymen! let your prayers be for me also, that I may not be deemed unworthy!”

      Again the incense rises in shadowy clouds, filling the chamber with strange outlines. Again the voices of the priests rise and fall, and human interests are lulled for awhile in the presence of the dead king. Again the chiefs remember for a brief moment his just and tranquil reign, and many prayers are recited with apparent fervour for the repose of his soul.

      Within nineteen days after the election of his successor, Recesvinto was buried and Wamba crowned by Julianus in the Cathedral of Toledo. All Spain was jubilant, for he was a blameless man; indeed, a fond remembrance yet clings to his name at Toledo. The words Tiempo del Rey Wamba still point to some lingering impression of national prosperity and of a time of plenty, answering to the days of the “Saxon kings” in England. And Wamba was indeed no imbecile, or weak-handed in war, as Hilderic and his friend the Greek Paul pretended, when, helped by the Jews, they broke into rebellion. He was a warrior indeed, who, though old, could lead the Goths to victory and punish his enemies by slaughter and torture as was the habit of his nation. After which the “Farmer King,” as he was affectionately called, to indicate his simple tastes and care for the neglected serfs, returned to Toledo to enjoy his triumph, descending the hill to the cathedral, through the narrow streets, much as we see them now, followed by a long procession of captive Basques with shaven heads, a signal mark of humiliation to the abundant-haired Goths (the rebel Paul, in impious mockery, decorated with a leather crown, stuck on his head with melted pitch, and a sceptre of reeds in his hand), to be received by the Archbishop Julianus under the sculptures of the Gate, at the head of his clergy.

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