Toledo under the Moor
Never again was Toledo to attain to the wealth and splendour it possessed under Wamba and his successors. The invaders, fresh from the conquest of the richest provinces of Africa, were dazzled by the magnificence of the spoils that fell to them in the dark-browed city above the Tagus. The Arabian historians have need of all their powers of hyperbole to over-estimate the richness of the treasure. There was enough and to spare, Al Leyth Ibn Saïd tells us, for every soldier in the army. The humblest troopers might have been seen staggering under the weight of priceless silks and garments, chains of gold, and strings of precious stones. The rude Berbers, fresh from their mountains, but ill appreciated the value of the loot, and cut the costliest fabrics in two or more pieces to adjust their shares. A magnificent carpet, composed of superb embroidery, interwoven with gold and ornamented with filigree work, and profusely set with gems, is said to have been treated in this way by the troopers into whose greedy hands it fell. It would be interesting to learn the place of manufacture of this carpet, for from the silence of St. Isidore upon the subject of textile fabrics, it would seem that they were not made in his time in Spain.
But, to credit the Moorish chroniclers, the rarest of exotic treasures had been accumulated in the Visigothic capital. Here were found the Psalms of David, written upon gold leaf in a fluid made from dissolved rubies! and most wonderful of all, the Table of Solomon made out of a single emerald! It was brought to Toledo—so runs one version—after the taking of Jerusalem, and was valued in Damascus at one hundred thousand dinars—equal to about £50,000. We are not surprised to hear that this unique piece of furniture “possessed talismanic powers”; for tradition affirms it was the work of genii, and had been wrought by them for King Solomon the Wise, the son of David. This marvellous relic was carefully preserved by Tarik as the most precious of all his spoils, being intended by him as a present to the Khalifa; and, in commemoration of it, the city was called by the Arabs, Medina Almyda, that is to say, “The City of the Table.”
Thus far Washington Irving. With characteristic credulity, Ibn Hayyan, the historian, gives in the translation of Gayangos a substantially different account of the treasure: “The celebrated table which Tarik found at Toledo, although attributed to Solomon and named after him, never belonged to the poet-king. According to the barbarian authors, it was customary for the nobles and men in estimation of the Gothic Court, to bequeath a portion of their property to the church. From the money so amassed the priests caused tables to be made of pure gold and silver, gorgeous thrones and stands on which to carry the Gospels in public processions, or to ornament the altars on great festivals. The so-called Solomon’s table was originally wrought with money derived from this source, and was subsequently emulously enlarged and embellished by successive kings of Toledo, the latest always anxious to surpass his predecessor in magnificence, until it became the most splendid and costly gem ever made for such a purpose. The fabric was of pure gold, set with the most precious pearls, emeralds and rubies. Its circumference was encrusted with three rows of these valuable stones, and the whole table displayed jewels so large and refulgent that never did human eye behold anything comparable with it.... When the Muslims entered Toledo it was discovered on the altar of the Christian Church, and the fact of such a treasure having been found soon became public and notorious.”
Gibbon accounts for the presence of the Table of Solomon at Toledo—assuming that there ever was such a thing, and that it ever was there at all—by supposing it to have been carried off by Titus to Rome, whence it may have been taken by Alaric when the Goths sacked the city. Whichever version of the table’s origin be accepted, it seems strange that it was not carried away by the clergy in their flight from Toledo. Of its ultimate fate nothing is known, unless we can accept the little that is revealed in the following history.
Upon Musa approaching the city to supersede Tarik, the latter broke off and concealed one of the legs of the table. Musa was already incensed against his lieutenant for having deprived him of the glory of the conquest of Spain, and emphasised his reprimands with strokes of a whip. When he found that the leg of the table was missing, his anger was very great. Tarik assured him he had found it in that mutilated condition, and Musa caused the missing leg to be replaced by one of gold. His subordinate, however, he cast into prison, where the One-Eyed One remained till released by orders from the Khalifa himself. He was amply revenged on Musa, when upon the latter presenting the table to his sovereign as his own discovery, he was able triumphantly to give him the lie by producing the missing leg of emerald. And so the wonderful Table of Solomon, of emerald, or of gold, or of both, passes out of the ken of history.
We hear of Musa’s son, Abd-ul-Aziz (or “Belasis,” as he is quaintly termed by old Spanish writers) marrying King Roderic’s widow, Exilona, at Toledo. Abd-ul-Aziz, however, was Governor of Seville, where he met his death, and it is not unlikely, if he married the queen at all, that he did so in that southern city, where she may have been left by her first consort to await the result of the battle of the Guadalete. If there be any truth in the legend that Exilona was of Moorish origin herself, the story of this second and apparently cold-blooded union seems less improbable. Tradition has it that the widow of the Goth only consented to the match on Abd-ul-Aziz promising to observe towards her all the deference due to a Christian queen. He kept his promise only too faithfully, and his forcing his officers to bend the knee to a woman and an infidel, is said to have contributed to bring about his assassination in the mosque at Seville.
The conquerors here, as in other parts of the kingdom, acted generously towards the conquered. A moderate tribute was levied on the Christians, who were allowed to practise their religion and be governed by their own laws and customs. Seven churches were allotted to their use, the names of these being Santa Eulalia, Santa Maria de Alficem, Santa Justa, San Sebastian, San Marcos, San Torcuato, and San Lucas. But these privileges must have hardly consoled the citizens for the loss of the town’s rank as capital of Spain. It became, as it had been under the Romans, “a strong place,” of which the dominant race valued the advantages, but, in consequence of the rise of Cordoba and Seville it sank to the condition of a provincial town.
As such its career was throughout stormy and turbulent. The spirit of rebellion seemed instinct in the grim fortress-like city, and infused itself into Mohammedan and Christian, Arab and Castilian alike. The two races fraternised well enough. They had a common interest: resistance to any external authority. This impatience of control was characteristic of the Toledans for centuries. Its annals during the period of Mohammedan occupation are a tedious record of sieges, riots, usurpations and massacres. Such events are only of interest when studied in the minutest detail. A brief résumé of them is, however, indispensable to a proper knowledge of the town.
The citizens’ first appearance in the troubled arena of Muslim politics was as loyalists—an uncongenial rôle! In the civil wars that distracted the reign of Abd-ul-Malik, Toledo was held by his son Omeya, and vainly besieged for a month by the rebels. On the approach of Abd-ul-Malik, the garrison, wishful of glory, made a vigorous sortie and completely routed the investing force. The townsmen had tasted blood. It took much to quench their thirst. Knowing their character, in the troubles fomented by the pretender Yusaf ben Debri, his partisan, Mohammed Abu-l-Aswad took refuge among them in the year of the Hegira 142. The place was immediately invested by the Wizir, Al Kama, and as usual offered a stout resistance. Wearied of their ruler, however, the people played him false and betrayed the town to the Wizir. Abu-l-Aswad was taken prisoner and sent to Cordoba.
A year or two later the Toledans repented of their submission. While the Amir, Abd-ur-Rahman, was engaged in preparations for a war in the east of Spain, some powerful families, led by one Hixem ben Adra al Fehri, rose, seized the Alcazar, and put the Wizir to flight. They released the notorious rebel, Kasim ben Yusuf, from prison, and raised an army of about ten thousand men—mostly freebooters and masterless men who seemed to have regarded Toledo as the best market for their peculiar talents. The Amir’s appearance before the walls, with a powerful army, caused moderate counsels to prevail among the insurgents. The citizens were anxious to be rid of the undesirables they had invited into their midst, and persuaded Hixem to visit the royal camp to solicit terms. Abd-ur-Rahman generously pardoned him, and once more incarcerating Kasim, left the town to itself.
He soon had good reason to repent his forbearance. In 763 Kasim escaped from confinement, rallied the citizens round him, and declared the town subject only to the Khalifa of Damascus. The siege that followed was languidly conducted. The people, we read, were suffered to cultivate their fields, and to carry produce into the city unmolested. At this rate the siege might have lasted as long as that of Candia. Kasim, meanwhile lulled into a sense of security, abused his power, and alienated his unruly subjects. On the arrival of the Amir, he was given notice to quit. Having seen him successfully elude the royal forces, Toledo opened its gates to Abd-ur-Rahman. The Amir, despairing of the townsmen’s temper, exacted from them but a nominal obedience, but his successor, Hakam, thought to coerce them by a bitter lesson. As Governor, he sent them one Amru of Huesca, a renegade Christian, “by a condescension,” he wrote, “which proves our extreme solicitude for your interests.” The renegade’s policy was thorough. He ingratiated himself with the people, and posed as the champion of their liberties. It was at their own suggestion that he raised a fortress in their very midst. The place being strongly garrisoned and all being ready, the approach of a large army, commanded by the Amir’s son, Abd-ur-Rahman, was announced. At the suggestion of the Governor, the prince was invited by the nobility into the city; and he, in return, as if to mark his sense of the honour conferred upon him, ordered a great feast to be made ready at the Castle. To this all the chief men were bidden. What followed is known as the Day of the Fosse. The guests were allowed to enter only one by one. Behind the gate stood a man with bared arm and uplifted axe. As each guest entered there was a sweep of the arm, a flash of steel, and a head rolled into the ditch already prepared. Without, nothing was heard, nothing was seen, nothing suspected. The episode reminds one of the famous Blood Bath of Stockholm. The butchery is said at last to have been revealed to those waiting outside the wall by the thick vapour issuing from the gate. A physician, who had been watching for hours, and who had noticed that none of the numerous guests who had entered, had issued forth, was the first to raise the alarm. “Men of Toledo,” he shouted, “I vow that yonder vapour is not the smoke of a feast, but rises from the blood of our butchered brethren!”
This ghastly tragedy occurred in 807, and has given rise to a proverbial expression current in Spanish—una noche Toledana, applied to a night disagreeably passed in sleeplessness or pain.
The blow struck by the ferocious Amru was of the kind that alone met with the approval of Macchiavelli: it not only intimidated, but it crushed. For a quarter of a century we hear no more of tumults or dissensions in the City by the Tagus. Meantime it prospered. Arts and letters flourished. In the year 827 we have to record the death “of the very learned alfaqui, Isa ben Dinar el Ghafeki, a native of that city and a disciple of Malik ben Anas. He was a man beloved by all—friendly in manner, admirable in conversation, and upright of life: such as were taught by Isa ben Dinar acquired their learning with delight. He was in the habit of practising some few observances that were considered extraordinary: he made, for example, the prayer of the dawn with the preparation and ablutions proper to that of the evening twilight.”
The opulence of the Jews and Christians decided the Wali, Aben Mafût ben Ibrahim, to increase their tribute. This led to the outbreak of 832. A wealthy young citizen, named Hakam el Atiki, otherwise known as El Durrete, or “the striker of blows,” had been insulted by the Wali, and used the discontent of the people as a means of avenging his injuries. He distributed money freely among the more inflammable sections of the populace, and collected about him a body of lawless followers. One of these was seized in the Soko, or market-place (the Zocodover) by one of the Wali’s officers, and a tumult at once uprose. In the end the Alcazar fell into the hands of the rebels, and the Wali barely escaped with his life. Hakam, however, was shortly afterwards obliged to abandon his conquest, and spread abroad the report that he had left the country. The vigilance of the garrison becoming in consequence relaxed, he seized the city by a coup de main, and held it for some years. He was wounded, taken prisoner, and beheaded in 837, by Abd-el-Raf, his head being suspended from the gate of Bisagra.
So far the risings at Toledo had been mainly political, and the townsmen had sunk their religious and racial differences to make common cause against the stranger. The cause of the insurrection of 854 was, by exception, an outburst of fanaticism on the part of the Muzarabes or Christians, who practised the ritual of the Spanish Goths. It was at this time that the Catholics of Cordoba and Seville, subject to some extraordinary aberration, had in great numbers earned the doubtful honour of martyrdom by blaspheming Mohammed. To Toledo, as the most likely spot at which to create a disturbance, came Eulogius and stirred the Christians to avenge the “wrongs” of their co-religionists. Under the leadership of Sindola, they dispossessed their Moorish governors, and carrying the war into the enemy’s own country, defeated the Amir’s forces at Andujar. Ordoño King of Leon, now came to the assistance of the citizens, who, hitherto, had shown no eagerness to call in the help of the Christians of the north. Mohammed, the Amir, presently appeared before Toledo, and drew the allied forces into an ambush. The Christians were totally defeated—almost annihilated. Nothing daunted, the Toledans, later on, insulted their sovereign by electing Eulogius to the vacant archiepiscopal see. Mohammed, by way of reprisal, inveigled a large force of Christians on to a bridge which he had undermined. It was the Day of the Fosse over again.
In the year 873, we find the independence of Toledo, subject to his suzerainty, nominally acknowledged by the Amir, who was probably glad to make any terms that promised peace with vassals so turbulent. In the reign of the Amir Al Mundhir even this faint shadow of outside authority was shaken off by the city, which again asserted its complete independence, in 886, under Ibn Hafsûn. The town was besieged by the royal forces under the Wizir Haksim. The wily Ibn Hafsûn, seeing that the stronghold must fall, proposed to the opposing general that he should allow him to evacuate the place and transport his army to the frontier of Valencia, on a train of beasts of burden to be provided by the besiegers. Haksim joyfully assented to this capitulation, and on the day appointed, what was supposed to be the entire army of the rebel chief issued from the gates of the city and wended their way, with the train of packhorses, eastwards. Leaving what he considered a sufficient garrison in Toledo, Haksim drew off the greater part of his forces and went to Cordoba. Meanwhile the crafty Hafsûn swiftly retraced his steps, and with the aid of the considerable detachment he had left concealed in the town, put the garrison to the sword, and once more hurled defiance at the Amir. Great was Al Mundhir’s wrath on the receipt of this intelligence, and before nightfall, the head of Haksim lay severed from his body.
Ibn Hafsûn proved a formidable antagonist. The Amir lead an army against him in 888 and was defeated and killed. Twenty years later Hafsûn died, bequeathing what was practically an independent sovereignty to his son. The great Khalifa, Abd-ur-Rahman III., now sat on the throne of Cordoba. He determined to put an end to the arrogant pretensions of the unruly, untameable city. His summons to capitulate being contemptuously rejected, he took the field in 930. For eight years the siege went on, varied by exploits and incidents, which might prove matter for a Moorish Iliad. Famine stalked abroad in the obstinate city, but the Hafsûns would not hear of surrender. When at last it became plain that the people would yield, the leaders and their partisans, to the number of four thousand, made a last desperate sortie. Two thousand cavaliers, with a foot-soldier clutching firmly hold of each horse’s girth, they broke through Abd-ur-Rahman’s camp, and got clean away. Almost joyfully the townsmen opened their gates to the great Amir—to be firmly bitted and bridled during the remainder of his reign.
That the town was still subject to the central authority in the year 979, we gather from this incident. The Governor, Abd-ul-Malik Ibn Merwân having some difference with the Wali of Medina Selim (Medinaceli), challenged him to single combat and slew him. For this, without more ado, he was removed from office by orders from Cordoba.
In the first quarter of the eleventh century, Toledo recovered her freedom, on the break-up of the Umeyyah empire. Under her sultan, Ismail, in 1023, she was able to boast that she knew no other lord or ruler under the blue heavens. After Ismail came Abu-l-Hasan Yahya al Ramân who reigned till 1075, and was then succeeded by Yahya Kadir, who lost his throne in 1085.
Before relating the incidents of the reconquest of Toledo by the Christians and its incorporation in the steadily expanding kingdom of Leon, we will take a glance at the city as it was under its Mohammedan rulers. Of its affluence, importance, and strength, the foregoing cursory sketch of its history has afforded us some idea. It ranked as the metropolis of the Christian element in the Amir’s dominions, and its prelates early obtained recognition from their Paynim sovereigns as dignitaries of the highest standing. Among them were such notable men as Wistremir and Eulogius. One of the archbishops of Toledo, Elipando, embraced the heresy of Nestorius, and went the length of excommunicating his fellow bishops. Upon his death, however, an orthodox successor was chosen. The Christians were wealthy and arrogant. They were classed in congregations, dependent on their various churches, each division including certain families irrespective of their domiciles. Toledo, during the three and a half centuries of Mohammedan dominion, never seems to have lost the outward character of a Christian town. Moorish influence she felt, and it served to soften and chasten her rough features, but Moorish she never became as did Seville and Cordoba. Yet in every corner of the old city the guides are prone to point out the buildings and remains that they fondly believe to be of Arabic workmanship. In reality, very few monuments of the Mohammedan period have survived. It is not by what we see but by what we read that we can form an idea of the city as it was in those days.
It was renowned for its clepsydras or water-clocks, invented by Abu-l-Kasim. These are described as follows in an Arabic document: “But what is marvellous and surprising in Toledo, and what we believe no other town in all the world has anything to equal, are its water-clocks. It is said that Az-Zagral [Abu-l-Kasim] hearing of a certain talisman which is in the city of Arin, of Eastern India, and which shows the hours by means of aspas or hands, from the time the sun rises till it sets, determined to fabricate an artifice by means of which the people could know the hour of day or night, and calculate the day of the moon. He made two great ponds in a house on the bank of the Tagus, near the Gate of the Tanners, making them so that they should be filled with water or emptied according to the rise and fall of the moon.” The water began to flow into the ponds as soon as the moon became visible, and at dawn they were four-sevenths full. The water rose by one-seventh every twenty-four hours, and were full at full moon. As the luminary waned, the water fell in exact proportion. The exact working of these contrivances was lost when an astronomer, deputed by Alfonso el Sabio to examine them, broke parts of the intricate machinery.
The chroniclers relate wonders of the palace of An Naôra, so called from its celebrated noria or hydraulic apparatus. The apartments were so splendid as to rival those of the palace of the Amir himself, and “were resplendent as the sun at noonday, and the moon at the full.” In the luxurious gardens was the lake or albuhera, in the centre of which rose a pavilion of glass, where Al Ramân-bil-Lah, the last sovereign of Toledo, used to pass the night. “The clever architects”—we quote from the “Monumentos Arquitectónicos”—who made the lake, not only raised the waters from the river in order to fill it, but raised them above the cupola of the pavilion, over and around which they flowed incessantly, forming around it a diaphanous and crystalline mantle. Not a drop could penetrate the structure or touch the persons within. With the sonorous murmur of these waters mingled that produced by the fountains that gushed forth from the mouths of the lions in metal guarding this wonderful pavilion. Illumined inside with lamps of various colours, without it presented a fantastic appearance, which was reflected back from the waters of the lake, and which the people of Toledo contemplated with admiration through the dense foliage.”
Of this exquisite pleasaunce, no trace remains. Nor is anything left of the other palace of Al Hizem, built by Ismaîl, the first admittedly independent Sultan of Toledo—afterwards inhabited by the Christian kings. The principal building in Moorish times was, of course, the Aljama, or Chief Mosque. This seems to have been erected at the same time as the great Mezquita at Cordoba, in the reign of Abd-ur-Rahman II., and to have been richly embellished and enlarged under the third and greatest Khalifa of that name. We read that in the fourth century of the Hegira, the architect Fatho ben Ibrahim el Caxevi built two sumptuous mosques, called, the one, Adabejin, the other Gebel Berida; but where these were situated, or what was the real Arabic spelling of the names, we have no means of knowing.
Happily a few specimens of the local architecture of that epoch remain. Of these one of the learned compilers of the “Monumentos Arquitectónicos” writes: “In spite of their varying degrees of integrity, and although greatly damaged and changed by later restorations, these works possess an extreme importance, and suffice to manifest the peculiar physiognomy of the secondary religious edifices of this part of the Peninsula at the most glorious epoch of the Khalifate—a physiognomy strikingly different from that of the principal religious structures, or Aljamas, equivalent to our cathedrals, and different also from that of the same buildings in the south. They show, furthermore, decorative processes believed to have been unknown in Spain at that epoch.”
The most complete and remarkable of these buildings is the Mosque of Bib-el-Mardom, now known as the Cristo de la Luz. It is situated to the north of the city, between the Puerta del Sol and the Puerta Bisagra. Here Alfonso VI., on entering Toledo on May 25, 1085, halted and caused Mass to be celebrated, leaving his shield behind him as a memento of the incident.
The exterior of this most interesting building is unpromising. It is thus described by Mr. Street: “The exterior face of the walls is built of brick and rough stone. The lower part of the side wall is arcaded with three round arches, within the centre of which is a round horseshoe arch for a doorway; above is a continuous sunk arcade of cusped arches, within which are window openings with round horse-shoe heads. The lower part of the walls is cut with single courses of brick, alternating with rough stonework; the piers and arches of brick, with projecting labels and strings also of unmoulded brick. The arches of the upper windows are built with red and green bricks alternated.” Restorations carried out in 1899 brought to light a most interesting pierced frieze running round the north-eastern façade, and serving as a sort of ventilator. Above was deciphered the following inscription in Arabic characters: “In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful. This mosque was rebuilt... the renewal of its upper part, proposing to render it more beautiful, and [the restoration] was finished, with the help of God, under the direction of Musa Ibn Ali, the architect, and of Saada. It was completed in the Muharram of the year 370” [July 17, 979, to August 15, 980 A.D.] The whole façade of the edifice has been much disfigured by successive reconstructions, coatings of plaster, &c., and has undergone much more serious transformation than the interior.
Entering when the eyes have become accustomed to the obscurity, we make out the details of a very small and curious structure. Again to quote Mr. Street, the nave is only “21 ft. 7¼ in. by 20 ft. 2 in., and this space is subdivided into nine compartments by four very low circular columns, which are about a foot in diameter. Their capitals are all different. The arches, of which four spring from each capital, are all of the round horseshoe form; above them is a string-course, and all the intermediate walls are carried up to the same height as the main walls. They are all pierced above the arches with arcades of varied design, generally cusped in very Moorish fashion, and supported on shafts; and above these each of the nine divisions is crowned with a little vault, formed by intersecting cusped ribs, thrown in the most fantastic way across each other, and varied in each compartment. The scale of the whole work is so diminutive that it is difficult, no doubt, to understand how so much is done in so small a space; but looking to the early date of the work it is impossible not to feel very great respect for the workmen who built it, and for the ingenious intricacy which has made their work look so much larger and important than it really is.” After the Reconquest, the loftier portion of the temple, consisting of apse and transept, and containing the altar, was added. Looking closer into the details of the Moorish portion, one is struck by the contrast presented by rude shafts and capitals, evidently of Visigothic workmanship, with the general elegance and delicacy of the whole. On making a careful study of these features, it is difficult to resist the conclusion (supported, indeed, by tradition) that they formed part of an earlier and less skilfully constructed mosque, itself merely a restoration or adaptation of a Visigothic church. Señor Amador de los Rios is of opinion that the existing structure constituted only the inner portion or maksurah of the temple, and believes that the southern wall is the only part of the outer or enclosing enceinte remaining. In this he finds traces of the kiblah or sanctuary, membar, and other features peculiar to Mohammedan worship. The mosque consisted originally, in all probability, in addition to the fabric we now see, of naves extending on each side of those still standing, from north-east to south-west. Even thus the mosque must have been very small. The exact configuration and plan of the original building is still a matter of great perplexity to archæologists, and a great many more discoveries remain to be made before anything can be positively stated under this head.
The newer, or Christian, portion of the mosque contains some remarkable mural paintings, discovered in 1871. They date from about the close of the twelfth century, and exhibit pronounced Byzantine influence. It seems satisfactorily established that two of the four female figures represent Saints Eulalia and Martiana; and the other two, in all probability, the martyrs Leocadia and Obdulia. The fifth figure—that of a man—represents a prelate. It may be, as Mr. Leonard Williams thinks, the Archbishop Bernardo, who figures largely in the annals of the Reconquest; or the prelate’s patron saint. It is not to that archbishop, however, but to one of his successors—possibly Don Gonzalo Perez (1182-1193)—that the remodelling of the building into a Christian place of worship should be ascribed.
This intensely interesting monument is the subject of several curious and entertaining legends. In the days of Athanagild (and it is not impossible, as we know, that the church may have existed at that time) a crucifix, greatly venerated by the citizens, hung over the door. Two evil-minded Jews, Sacao and Abishai by name, to express their hatred for Christianity, drove a lance into the side of the figure. Instantly blood gushed forth. The terrified Israelites hid the miraculous object in their own home, but were traced by the stains of blood, and (it is hardly necessary to add) torn to pieces. This irritated their co-religionists, who, to avenge them, poisoned the feet of the statue. This resulted in a second miracle, for when a devout woman was about to kiss the feet, they were withdrawn—to the discovery and undoing, once more, of the villainous Jews. The right foot of the image remains withdrawn to the present day, that all men may know the truth of the story.
Now we come to the explanation of the name “Cristo de la Luz.” When the Moors were about to take the city, the Christians walled up the miraculous crucifix, with a lamp burning before it. Three hundred and seventy years passed; and on the glorious May 25, 1085, Alfonso VI. and his Christian chivalry came riding into reconquered Toledo. Among the cavaliers was the Cid, Ruy Diaz de Bivar. The warrior’s horse, on passing the mosque, stumbled, or, as others have it, knelt. With preternatural acuteness, the Cid suspected some unusual circumstance, and had the adjacent wall broken down. Then was discovered the crucifix with the lamp still burning brightly, as when placed there nearly four centuries before. The mosque was reconsecrated on the spot; and the King left his shield as a memento. There it hangs to-day, above the central arch, bearing a white cross on a crimson ground. Whether it is authentic or not, we cannot say, but below it one may read: Esto es el escudo que dejo en esta ermita el Rey Don Alfonso VI., cuando ganó á Toledo y se dijo aqui la primera misa.
The Cristo de la Luz is no longer a church, and is now classed among the national monuments of Spain.
Hardly less interesting, but very far from being as well known, is the ancient mosque in the Calle de las Tornerias. It is contained in the upper part of the private houses numbered 27, 29, and 31. The mosque having been built against a steep incline, it was raised on a substructure of galleries, which now form the ground floor of the modern houses. The mosque was never converted to Christian uses, and retains its original physiognomy almost unimpaired. In the opinion of Spanish archæologists, it belongs to the same period as the Cristo de la Luz; but Street does not share this view, and thinks it a later work. Like the other mosque, it is built more or less in the form of a square, and has likewise Visigothic columns and capitals, pointing to the existence of a previous structure. Here, also, we find the horseshoe arch and the cupola, and evidences of the position of the kiblah. Recent restorations have shown that the walls are composed of the finest brickwork, unsurpassed for smoothness and regularity. But so far no trace has been revealed of any texts from the Koran, or inscription commemorating the architect’s name, such as were usual in the Mohammedan temples of Spain.
The Puerta Antigua de Bisagra, or ancient gate of Bisagra—not to be confounded with the new gate of the same name built by Charles V.—is dilapidated and falling to pieces. In Moorish times it was the principal entrance to the city. The name was probably originally Bib-Sahla. It dates from about the beginning of the tenth century, but to the primitive structure only the foundations of the gate belong. A reconstruction seems to have been carried out at the time of the Reconquest, and to that epoch the arch, or gate, properly speaking, may be assigned. The upper portion of the time-worn fabric belongs to a still later period. This is the only one remaining of the fifteen gates with which the walls of Toledo appear to have been furnished during the Mohammedan occupation.
The celebrated Puente de Alcantara, as it exists to-day, must be regarded as the work of the Christians. It took the place of a structure, built or restored by the Musulmans, and regarded by the writers of their time and nation as one of the wonders of Spain. According to an inscription on the bridge tower, the work dated from the year 997 A.D., and was built by “Alif, son of Mohammed Al Ameri, Governor of Toledo, under the great Wizir, Al Mansûr.” With it, no doubt, were incorporated the remains of previous Gothic and Roman constructions. It was almost entirely swept away in a great flood in the year 1258, after having already undergone extensive repairs and restorations since the Reconquest. Thus we may conclude that there can be few if any traces of the Moorish bridge in the actual Puente de Alcantara. On the other side of the town there was probably a wooden bridge or bridge of boats, where the Puente de San Martin now spans the river. A little below it is a brick tower, with open arches, the horseshoe curve of which, and other features, bespeak its Moorish origin. Legend places here the incident of the Bath of Florinda. In later times the work was believed to be the remains of a bridge. But an Arabic inscription, recently redeciphered and translated, goes to prove that the tower formed part of a very different monument: “In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate! Oh, men, believe that the promises of God are certain and let not yourselves be seduced by the flattery of the world, nor be lured away from God by the deceits of the Evil One! This is the tomb of Hosàm (?)-ben-Abd... [He confessed that there is no other God but] God. He died [may God have mercy on him]... the year eight... and four hundred.” The Baños de la Cava may now be safely regarded as a Musulman sepulchral monument of the fifth century after the Hegira.
We have now briefly considered the only monuments of interest to any but the most ardent archæologists that can be ascribed, so far as their general structure is concerned, to the Moslem lords of Toledo. Admitting that the most important buildings of that time have long since disappeared, it remains clear that the city could never have presented the Oriental aspect of the Andalusian seats of Islam.
The history of the city as an independent State is soon told. Under Ismail and his son Al Mamûn, Toledo became the most powerful Musulman State in Spain. The lesser principalities having been disposed of, a fierce struggle for supremacy was waged between Al Mamûn and the Amir of Seville. A desperate battle before the walls of Murcia decided the issue in favour of the Toledan, and gave Valencia into his hands. But, as is often the case with men of all ranks, Al Mamûn’s strength and wisdom were undone and rendered unavailing by his fatal trait of magnanimity.
Alfonso of Leon, dispossessed of his kingdom by his brother, threw himself upon the protection of the Amir of Tolaitola. The noble Muslim bestowed upon the fugitive prince a palace near his own, an oratory, and a garden “wherein to recreate himself”; and allowed him to establish a miniature Court for himself and his followers at Brihuega. Lands were assigned to him as a source of revenue, and he became the most intimate and honoured friend of the Amir. It is said that in return an oath was exacted of Alfonso that he would assist his host against all men, and never war upon him or his son. That some such pledge should have been asked for in return for such magnificent hospitality seems very probable. The Archbishop Don Rodrigo relates that one day Al Mamûn found himself with his most trusty counsellors in a wood from which a full view of the city could be obtained. The Moorish sovereign fell to discoursing upon the defences of the place and the best means of attacking it. These words were overheard by Alfonso, who chanced to be by, and who at once feigned sleep beneath a tree. Here he was presently discovered by the Moors, to their great dismay. Some among them asked leave of Al Mamûn to slay him. On this permission being indignantly refused, they dropped hot lead on the Leonese prince’s hand to see if he were really asleep. Alfonso did not stir, which would have convinced most people that he was feigning sleep. The Muslims, on the contrary, retired, satisfied that he had heard nothing and seen nothing.
Before returning to his kingdom, the Christian prince renewed his vows of loyalty and friendship to Al Mamûn, with whom personally, indeed, he never broke faith. The Moor’s son, Yahya, reaped the reward of the father’s generosity. A weak and incapable sovereign, addicted to luxury and despised for his devotion to superstitious practices, he was detested by his own subjects, who on one occasion drove him out of the city, to take refuge at Cuenca. His authority was restored only with the help of his natural foes, the Castilians. Alfonso, unmindful of his vow, forgetful of the dead Al Mamûn’s princely generosity, could not resist this opportunity of adding to his dominions the old capital of the Kings of Spain. For six years he laid waste the frontiers of the Amirate, and in the seventh year—carefully availing himself, no doubt, of the information unwittingly communicated by his old benefactor—invested Toledo itself. Famine accomplished what arms could not, Yahya asked for terms. They were onerous enough. They involved the cession of all the Moorish King’s dominions, except Valencia, the Muslims who elected to remain in Toledo being guaranteed the free exercise of their religion, their property, and liberty. They were to be subject to their own laws and tribunals and to retain their mosques. The terms, as remarks Quadrado, were, in fact, almost the same as those granted to the Christians by the Arabs three hundred and seventy years before. Only the Alcazar, the bridges, gates, and the garden called the Huerta del Rey, were reserved to Alfonso himself. The capitulation completed, Yahya and his court took the road to Valencia, and Alfonso VI. entered Toledo by the Bib-el-Mardom on Sunday, May 25, 1085.
“May God renew her past splendour, and inscribe once more the name of Toledo on the list of the cities of Islâm!” This was the devout aspiration of a Muslim chronicler, but in neither particular has it ever been fulfilled.