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On the morning after the battle, the Arab
leader, Taric ben Zeyad, rode over the bloody
field of the Guadalete, strewed with the ruins
of those splendid armies, which had so lately
passed like glorious pageants along the river
banks. There Moor and christian, horseman
and horse, lay gashed with hideous wounds;
and the river, still red with blood, was filled
with the bodies of the slain. The gaunt Arab
was as a wolf roaming through the fold he had
laid waste. On every side his eye revelled on
the ruin of the country, on the wrecks of haughty
Spain. There lay the flower of her youthful
chivalry, mangled and destroyed, and the
strength of her yeomanry prostrated in the
dust. The Gothic noble lay confounded with
his vassals; the peasant with the prince; all
ranks and dignities were mingled in one bloody
massacre.

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When Taric had surveyed the field, he caused
the spoils of the dead and the plunder of the
camp to be brought before him. The booty
was immense. There were massy chains, and
rare jewels of gold; pearls and precious stones;
rich silks and brocades, and all other luxurious
decorations in which the Gothic nobles had indulged
in the latter times of their degeneracy.
A vast amount of treasure was likewise found,
which had been brought by Roderick for the
expenses of the war.

Taric then ordered that the bodies of the
moslem warriors should be interred; as for
those of the christians, they were gathered in
heaps, and vast pyres of wood were formed on
which they were consumed. The flames of
these pyres rose high in the air, and were seen
afar off in the night; and when the christians
beheld them from the neighbouring hills they
beat their breasts and tore their hair, and lamented
over them as over the funeral fires of
their country. The carnage of that battle infected
the air for two whole months, and bones
were seen lying in heaps upon the field for
more than forty years; nay, when ages had
past and gone, the husbandman, turning up the
soil, would still find fragments of Gothic cuirasses
and helms, and moorish scimitars, the relics
of that dreadful fight.

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For three days the Arabian horsemen pursued
the flying christians; hunting them over
the face of the country; so that but a scanty
number of that mighty host escaped to tell the
tale of their disaster.

Taric ben Zeyad considered his victory incomplete
so long as the Gothic monarch survived;
he proclaimed great rewards, therefore,
to whomsoever should bring Roderick to him,
dead or alive. A diligent search was accordingly
made in every direction, but for a long
time in vain; at length a soldier brought to
Taric the head of a christian warrior, on which
was a cap decorated with feathers and precious
stones. The Arab leader received it as the
head of the unfortunate Roderick, and sent it,
as a trophy of his victory, to Muza ben Nosier,
who, in like manner, transmitted it to the caliph
at Damascus. The Spanish historians, however,
have always denied its identity.

A mystery has ever hung, and ever must continue
to hang, over the fate of King Roderick,
in that dark and doleful day of Spain. Whether
he went down amidst the storm of battle, and
atoned for his sins and errors by a patriot grave,
or whether he survived to repent of them in
hermit exile, must remain matter of conjecture
and dispute. The learned Archbishop Rodrigo,
who has recorded the events of this disastrous

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field, affirms that Roderick fell beneath the
vengeful blade of the traitor Julian, and thus
expiated with his blood his crime against the
hapless Florinda; but the archbishop stands
alone in his record of the fact. It seems generally
admitted that Orelia, the favourite war-horse
of Don Roderick, was found entangled in
a marsh on the borders of the Guadalete, with
the sandals and mantle and royal insignia of
the king lying close by him. The river at this
place ran broad and deep, and was encumbered
with the dead bodies of warriors and steeds; it
has been supposed, therefore, that he perished
in the stream; but his body was not found
within its waters.

When several years had passed away, and
men's minds, being restored to some degree of
tranquility, began to occupy themselves about
the events of this dismal day, a rumour arose
that Roderick had escaped from the carnage
on the banks of the Guadalete, and was still
alive. It was said, that having from a rising
ground caught a view of the whole field of
battle, and seen that the day was lost, and
his army flying in all directions, he likewise
sought his safety in flight. It is added, that
the Arab horsemen, while scouring the mountains
in quest of fugitives, found a shepherd
arrayed in the royal robes, and brought him

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before the conqueror, believing him to be the
king himself. Count Julian soon dispelled the
error. On being questioned the trembling rustic
declared, that while tending his sheep in the
folds of the mountains, there came a cavalier
on a horse wearied and spent and ready to sink
beneath the spur. That the cavalier with an
authoritative voice and menacing air commanded
him to exchange garments with him, and
clad himself in his rude garb of sheep skin, and
took his crook and his scrip of provisions, and
continued up the rugged defiles of the mountains
leading towards Castile, until he was lost
to view.[23]

This tradition was fondly cherished by
many, who clung to the belief in the existence
of their monarch as their main hope for the
redemption of Spain. It was even affirmed
that he had taken refuge, with many of his host,
in an island of the “Ocean sea,” from whence
he might yet return once more to elevate his
standard, and battle for the recovery of his
throne.

Year after year, however, elapsed, and nothing
was heard of Don Roderick; yet, like
Sebastian of Portugal, and Arthur of England,
his name continued to be a rallying point for

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popular faith, and the mystery of his end to give
rise to romantic fables. At length, when generation
after generation had sunk into the grave,
and near two centuries had passed and gone,
traces were said to be discovered that threw a
light on the final fortunes of the unfortunate
Roderick. At that time, Don Alphonso the
Great, King of Leon, had wrested the city of
Viseo in Lusitania from the hands of the moslems.
As his soldiers were ranging about the
city and its environs, one of them discovered
in a field, outside of the walls, a small chapel
or hermitage, with a sepulchre in front, on
which was inscribed this epitaph in Gothic
characters.

HIC REQUIESCIT RUDERICUS,
ULTIMUS REX GOTHORUM.

Here lies Roderick,
The last king of the Goths.

It has been believed by many that this was
the veritable tomb of the monarch, and that in
this hermitage he had finished his days in solitary
penance. The warrior, as he contemplated
the supposed tomb of the once haughty Roderick,
forgot all his faults and errors, and shed a
soldier's tear over his memory; but when his

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thoughts turned to Count Julian, his patriotic
indignation broke forth, and with his dagger he
inscribed a rude malediction on the stone.

“Accursed,” said he, “be the impious and
headlong vengeance of the traitor Julian. He
was a murderer of his king; a destroyer of his
kindred; a betrayer of his country. May his
name be bitter in every mouth, and his memory
infamous to all generations.”

Here ends the legend of Don Roderick.

eaf221v3.n23

[23] Bleda, Cron. L. 2. c. 9. Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique
L. 1. c. 10.