(813–935)
They then made the sign of the cross over the bulls, which suddenly became gentle and submitted to the yoke. Next they put Saint James’ body, with the rock upon which they had laid it, on the wagon. The oxen, with no one guiding them, hauled the body into the middle of Lupa’s palace. This was enough for the queen. Recovering from her astonishment, she believed and became a Christian, granted everything the disciples asked for, gave her palace to be a church dedicated to Saint James, endowed it magnificently, and spent the rest of her life doing good works.—Jacobus de Voragine1
With the death of the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne in January of 814, western civilization seemed on the verge of yet another shift. Although the military prowess of the Carolingian Franks had preserved Europe from foreign invasion in the eighth century, something novel was by then clearly developing in remote northwest Iberia. Against all odds, the tiny Kingdom of Asturias had become a viable political entity, recognized by the rest of Europe as a bastion of hope for Christendom among all former outposts far beyond Rome and Constantinople, outposts otherwise swept away by recent Islamic ascendency. In the eyes of religious fanatics such as Beatus of Liébana, Asturias had succeeded where the rest of Iberia, North Africa, and the Holy Land had failed: it remained stubbornly independent of infidel rule. Curiously, the Umayyad Caliphate of Córdoba was by then largely independent as well, having been ousted from Damascus the previous century by the insurgent Abbasids. While foes with their Christian neighbors to the north, the Umayyads were now free to forge their own uniquely Iberian identity, one that would strongly influence Spanish culture straight into the modern era. While this was happening, however, a stunning transformation was taking place within Asturias, although the origins of this metamorphosis had in fact been percolating since at least before the time of Saint Isidore (see Chapter 2).
According to later surviving sources (the 12th century Historia Compostelana), sometime around the years 813–814, the burial site and relics of Saint James the Greater were discovered in Ira Flavia (modern day Padrón), along the Atlantic coastal region of Galicia.2 This revelation was reportedly inspired by the visions of a local monk fortuitously named Pelayo, not to be confused with the Asturian king successfully rebelling against the Umayyad Caliphate about a hundred years earlier (see Chapter 3). Word of the momentous find spread like wildfire, first to the Galician bishop Theodomor, then to King Alfonso II, and finally to a no doubt startled but apparently pleased Pope Leo III. Its legitimacy was quickly ratified by all authorities. The discovery centered around an ancient Christian burial site concealed in a wood and long forgotten after the barbarian invasions of Iberia 400 years previous. The site itself came to be known by the name of Compostela. One suggested (and quite plausible) origin of the place name derived from the Latin Campus Stellae, or field of stars.3 Soon afterwards, the newly-identified relics were relocated to a more accessible site, around which a great shrine proceeded to gradually develop. The nickname of Compostela, however, appropriately stuck. According to longstanding tradition of which there is no good reason to doubt, King Alfonso the Chaste was the first personage to make a religious pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela from the Asturian coastal capital of Oviedo, along a daunting, mountainous route later dubbed the Camino Primitivo.4
Alfonso the Chaste had no biological heirs, but he had produced perhaps the greatest political brainchild in the history of Western Europe. By officially endorsing Galicia as the final resting place for one of the 12 original apostles—one of the four greatest apostles, for that matter—he instantly put Galician Iberia on the map among the world’s most important religious shrines. In this, as in so many other things, Alfonso showed shrewd judgment and foresight. After having saved the young Asturian monarchy during the precarious early stages of his reign, he effectively created a potent unifying symbol for all of Christendom west of the Pyrenees and beyond. It represented a logical extension and dramatic culmination for everything that Beatus of Liébana had been advocating in Asturias only a generation earlier.5 By the mid–ninth century, distant French writers such as Florus of Lyon and Usuard of Saint-Germain-des-Près were both making excited references to the relics of Saint James the Greater discovered at Iria Flavia. This was still an age in which writing and literacy were unusual. Public imagination had obviously been captured. Other budding nation-states in Europe took careful note of the enthusiasm. In 828, only 14 years after the monk Pelayo had his starry vision at Compostela, the Venetian Republic claimed to have stolen or rescued the relics of Saint Mark the Evangelist from Alexandria in Islamic-controlled Egypt and brought these back to Venice for permanent safekeeping, becoming the very symbol of the city-state itself. Between Venice and Santiago, Catholic Rome now boasted powerful twin pillars of holy shrines located along the eastern and western frontiers of its authority.6 By this time, other great kingdoms, even those within Christian Europe, no doubt looked on in amazement, as well as considerable envy.
Back in Galicia, King Alfonso had a modest chapel built over the newly-consecrated shrine, and then a few years later (around 829), the first church proper constructed on the same location.7 Thus inaugurated was the ongoing and ever evolving industry of tourist pilgrimage to the destination now world famous as Santiago de Compostela. After making considerable allowances, however, for imprecisions in early ninth century archeology, there were still a number of vexing questions attached to the sensational news coming out of Iria Flavia.8 One of these, perhaps the most troubling of all, was that absolutely no one before the humble monk Pelayo, not even the formidable Beatus, had expressly claimed that James the Greater had been buried in Spain, or at least had not done so in writing. Many others maintained that James preached in Spain and originally founded the Spanish church, but the idea that his relics had been transported there from Palestine appears to have been a somewhat more recent innovation, or perhaps an idea gradually gaining popular currency after the saint’s physical presence in Spain became more widely accepted.9 In any event, easily overcoming scholarly hesitation was powerful incentive that Asturians were now fanatically defending their young kingdom against infidel invaders.
Yet another question of doubt, one gaining some acceptance in modern times, is that the Christian relics discovered at Iria Flavia were in fact those of someone else. By far the most infamous among these alternative candidates was the accused, condemned and executed heretic bishop, Priscillian, whose remains are well documented to have been returned to his native Galicia during the late fourth century, albeit to an indeterminate location (see Chapter 1). As more than one mischievous commentator has noted, the ancient Christian remains discovered by Pelayo and possibly today resting at Santiago de Compostela may in fact be those of Priscillian rather than Saint James the Greater. For purposes of popular veneration, however, none of these doubts mattered. By the early ninth century, the once locally venerated memory of Priscillian was long forgotten. Waves of Germanic and Islamic invasions had partially seen to that, as had the fall of Western Roman Empire. What now mattered most was that a very big idea’s time had firmly arrived in Christian Iberia, thanks in no small part to the creative political genius of Alfonso. People believed what they wanted to believe and ran with it. If subsequent chronicles are to be half believed, this religious faith yielded tangible and nearly instantaneous social, economic, and military results, the repercussions of which would be felt for centuries to come across several oceans and continents.
While the relics of Saint James uncovered at Compostela may or may not have been authentic, the first major outgrowth of the discovery, as recorded centuries later, was most certainly a mythical one. According to the notoriously forged 12th century Diploma of Ramiro I (see Chapter 6), in the year of 834 Christian armies under that same Asturian monarch allegedly won a tremendous long shot victory over Islamic forces at the so-called battle of Clavijo in far northeastern Spain. More importantly, at the moment in which Christian defeat seemed certain, it was reported that an overwhelming apparition of Saint James the Greater on white horseback appeared, like something out of the biblical Revelation, to rally and lead the Asturian army back to the offensive and ultimate triumph. Thus was born the irresistible, and by definition, bloodthirsty image of Santiago Matamoros, or Saint James the Moor-slayer. As previously noted, however, these events did not in fact occur, or at least not as originally written down. Even religiously devout Spanish scholars otherwise accepting that Saint James preached in Spain, was buried in Spain, and possibly later appeared posthumously at the head of Spanish armies, are usually quick to concede this. Multiple problems begin with dating. In 834, Ramiro I was not the king of Asturias but rather Alfonso II, who was still very much alive and would continue to rule until his death in 842. Moreover, there is no record of Alfonso or anyone else ever fighting such a battle at such a place. At first, this discrepancy was simply corrected by moving the date forward to 844, by which time Ramiro had indeed become the king of Asturias. Then, however, a second major problem comes into play, namely, that there is still absolutely no contemporary or near contemporary record, Christian, Islamic or otherwise, of Ramiro or any other leader ever having fought at Clavijo, let alone reporting the supernatural elements attaching to much later accounts. It also appears that in 844, Ramiro was busy fending off Viking invaders at the other end of the Iberian Peninsula. In short, the Battle of Clavijo must be viewed purely as a legend by the standard disciplines of historical methodology.10
The good news for Spanish nationalism is that a fairly well documented battle with numerous similarities to Clavijo did occur a few decades later in 859, when the Asturians under King Ordoño I, along with their Basque allies, dealt a crushing defeat to an Islamic army under the command of Musa ibn Musa, until then the most successful warlord of that era, at the Battle of Monte Laturce in Aragón. Following recent successes against marauding Franks, Musa ordered the geographic high point of the region (Monte Laturce) to be fortified, only to find his construction project then daringly besieged by Asturian and Basque mobile forces.11 Attempting to raise the siege, Musa suddenly found himself counterattacked and routed by the Iberian Christians. By any measure it was a great victory and prestige builder for the Asturians, which seemed to shift military momentum in northern Iberia for the remainder of the ninth century.12 Although there was no mention of Santiago Matamoros in surviving accounts, notable elements of Monte Laturce were later incorporated into the fictional Battle of Clavijo, as well summarized by the imminent 20th century Spanish historian Claudio Sánchez-Albornoz.13 There can be no denying that a military surge by Iberian Christians took place around this time. Then in 866, Alfonso III (848–910), nicknamed El Grande (“The Great”), assumed the throne of Asturias. Within the space of five years, much of northern Portugal was reclaimed by the Asturians, setting off alarms both for the Caliphate of Córdoba and for Christian Portuguese nationalists, the latter group even at this early stage beginning to form their own separate identity.14 For that matter, it might well be argued that the late ninth century saw the birth of the notorious Conquistador mentality, although the New World would have to wait yet another five centuries to be discovered.15
Immediate Islamic response to the new Christian offensive was fitful but consequential. Among these aftershocks, perhaps the most significant occurred sometime during the late ninth century when Muhammad I of Córdoba (823–886) ordered that a prominent site along the banks of the Manzanares River, about 70 kilometers north of Toledo, be fortified as a defensive buffer and staging area against the Christian threat now posed from both Asturias and Portugal. Although the location had been a human settlement since prehistoric times, it was the Umayyads who first put it officially on the map, and their place name for it (“Magerit”) appears to have been a bowdlerization of more indigenous references. The new fortress eventually became known to Iberian Christians as Madrid. It was destined to become the third largest capital city in Western Europe. As for Toledo, stronger efforts from Córdoba to protect it only seemed to feed internal rebellion against Córdoba. Chaotic records and chronicles from the period suggest that Muhammad I spent just as much time suppressing insurrections from his own Islamic vassals in Toledo as he did trying to contain Christian gains to the north and west. Although he succeeded in doing this, the groundwork had been effectively laid for the gradual loss of central Spain to the Reconquista over the next two centuries, as well as a perceptible shift away from Córdoba as the center of Islamic political power.16 Accordingly, the first immediate impact of the newborn Santiago shrine was to throw the Umayyad Caliphate into a divided and defensive posture.
The second immediate impact of the Santiago shrine was to generate a wave of prosperity for Asturias, which also bred their own internal division and strife. After having achieved territorial gains unimaginable to his Asturian predecessors, Alfonso the Great gave thanks for his good fortune by building an enlarged church edifice over the Compostela shrine towards the end of the ninth century.17 This church, however, was destined to exist less than a century before it would be erased by a furious Islamic raid into Galicia (see Chapter 5). More immediate than this setback, however, was that by the end of his long reign in 910, Alfonso lived to see all three of his living sons rise in unified rebellion against him, forcing the aging monarch to divide his extensive realm into three separate kingdoms: Asturias, Galicia, and León. On paper, these now separate political entities would provide mutual military support to each other whenever threatened, but in reality, an overt sign of weakness had been openly presented to the Caliphate of Córdoba, which would in turn proceed to make the remainder of the 10th century a living nightmare for Christians in northern Iberia.
This prolonged rough patch for the Reconquista began with the reign of Abd-ar-Rahman III (891–961), nicknamed “Defender of God’s Faith,” effectively assuming power at Córdoba in 912. His near half century rule would be remembered as an era in which Christian aggression in Iberia was firmly halted and to some extent reversed. Abd-ar-Rahman’s ascension also inaugurated what later became known as the Golden Age of Spanish Jews, a prolonged period in which Jewish cultural and political influence within Al-Andalus reached unprecedented heights. Architecture and the arts flourished. While the new monarch showed unusual tolerance and respect for non–Muslims within his realm, he was vigilant and ruthless in putting down insurrections led by Iberian Muslims. Abd-ar-Rahman’s most visible achievement, however, occurred in the year 920 when he confronted a sizeable Christian host in the Basque country led by King Ordoño II of León and King Sancho I of Pamplona. Ordoño, the ambitious second son of Alfonso the Great, had responded to an appeal for aid from Sancho, and by doing so sought to shield all of Spanish Navarre from future Islamic incursions. This time, however, Santiago Matamoros did not come to their aid. Instead, they were roundly defeated at an obscure place later known as Valdejunquera. Two Christian bishops expecting to consecrate a triumph were instead taken hostage by the Caliphate. Immediately afterwards, the city of Pamplona was brutally sacked by the victors, just as it had been by Charlemagne’s Franks back in 778.18 Ordoño and Sancho managed to physically escape the disaster, but never recovered their former prestige. As for Abd-ar-Rahman, had it not been for untimely rebellions breaking out within his own realm, he may well have overrun all of Asturias and Galicia in the aftermath of this stunning success.
In hindsight it might well be argued that Saint James was in fact looking after the best interests of the Reconquista, even while refusing to grant Christians victory at Valdejunquera. Traumatized by this unexpected reversal, the northern kingdoms temporarily reunited after the death of Ordoño in 924 and prepared for the inevitable onslaught which, fortunately for them, was very late in coming, thus giving ample time for preparation. By the time Abd-ar-Rahman had put down multiple insurrections, declared his independence from other caliphates of North Africa and the Middle East, and raised a new expeditionary force, some 19 years had passed. Finally in 939, at the head of a massive but somewhat less than enthusiastic army, he marched north and was met at Simancas in the Duero River Valley (near Valladolid) by an allied Christian force under the joint leadership of King Ramiro II of León and King García I of Pamplona. This time the Asturians were fighting on their own frontier, and the stakes were for nothing less than political independence. Following a total eclipse of the sun, Christian forces first broke the ranks of the invaders, then sent them running for their lives. Santiago Matamoros was reported to have been seen again fighting for the Christians.19 Abd-ar-Rahman was so shaken by the defeat that he never again personally led his troops into battle. Although future invasions by the Caliphate of Córdoba would have far more success pushing northwards (see Chapter 5), the Battle of Simancas seemed to psychologically establish the Duero Valley as a temporary buffer zone between Iberian Christians and Iberian Muslims, at least for the remainder of the first millennium. Nevertheless, this defensive posture for the Christians seemed a far cry from only two decades previous, when the Asturians appeared on the verge of reclaiming all of Al-Andalus. The mid–10th century also marked the end of another era—in a sense, the second phase of the Reconquista—one in which the public declaration of a major religious shrine at Santiago de Compostela provided Christian armies with a valuable but temporary aura of invincibility in the field.
All of this naturally raised the question as to exactly how the body of Saint James the Greater was brought to Iberia in the first place, following his martyrdom in Judea circa 44 CE (see Chapter 1). On this point, the historical record is silent until the 12th century Codex Calixtinus provided pseudo-historical data for the Santiago shrine, much of which had in all likelihood existed in older oral traditions or lost written sources (see Chapter 6).20 On a more popular level, however, The Golden Legend by Jacobus de Voragine of the 13th century has supplied the modern English-speaking world with its best-known backdrop for these distant events. According to the Codex and Golden Legend, James’ disciples (Athanasius and Theodore, traditionally by name) transported his relics by sea to Iberia, the alleged earlier scene of James’ evangelical efforts, where they asked permission for interment from the local reigning monarch or noblewoman, one Queen Lupa.21 At first, Lupa maliciously imposed various obstacles to thwart their efforts, but after these barriers were miraculously overcome, then had a complete change of heart. The climactic moment occurred when two wild bulls became docile at the sign of the cross and peacefully hauled the body of the apostle, along with a stone burial slab and cart, directly into Lupa’s palace, to the amazement of all onlookers (see header quote). Not only did Lupa grant permission for burial, she also became a baptized Christian, converted the palace into a church, and devoted her remaining life to good works. Notwithstanding many fantastical details thrown into the tale designed to impress gullible minds, the tale of James’ Spanish burial and Queen Lupa’s conversion conveys an undeniable sense of poignancy and pathos. Malice and deceit are repeatedly frustrated, and eventually confounded, by simple acts of religious faith. Evil is directly confronted by Good, and is ultimately defeated.
There is nothing to prove or disprove this legend. Galician Spain of the first century had been firmly under Roman control since the time of Christ, and continued to be so during the reign of the Emperor Claudius, although local rulers were frequently given considerable autonomy as part of standard Roman foreign policy. For example, as far as we know, James in Judea, unlike Jesus, was tried, condemned, and executed solely on the authority of King Herod Agrippa I with no outside input from Roman authorities. The name Lupa may itself represent a medieval nod to the she-wolf symbol of Rome, as well as to Galician society’s comparatively matriarchal traditions.22 One early artistic depiction of the legend, which strikingly contrasts the authoritative attitudes of Herod and Lupa towards the relics of James, may still be viewed today at the Prado Museum. This striking diptych by the Gothic Renaissance master of Zaragoza, Martín Bernat (1450?–1505?), dates from the late Reconquista period of the 1480s. Respectively titled The Embarkation of James the Greater’s Body at Jaffa and The Translation of the Body of Saint James the Greater at the Palace of Queen Lupa, the dual works depict each monarch along with James’ two loyal disciples Athanasius and Theodore as they transport the saint’s relics. Agrippa is portrayed as a placid, self-satisfied despot unmoved by the pious devotion of James’ disciples; Lupa is shown reacting to the tamed wild bulls—the very moment of her conversion—astonished and disarmed, regally aloof but totally helpless in the face of divine intervention.
Still more dramatic are the spectacular series of frescoes in Padua titled Stories of St. James, by the northern Italian painter, Altichiero da Zevio (c.1330–c.1390), particularly Episode Number Seven, Miracle of the Wild Bulls and Arrival of St. James’ Body to the Realm of Queen Lupa (1372–1379). Altichiero created his highly visible masterwork for the San Giacomo Chapel situated within the world-renowned Pontifical Basilica of Saint Anthony of Padua, itself housing the relics of its venerated namesake. Very little beyond conjecture is known of Altichiero’s life, but his groundbreaking visual style speaks for itself. At the time of Altichiero’s work, Spain, Italy and the rest of Europe, were still reeling from the Black Death and other catastrophes (see Chapter 9).23 The Santiago legends seem to have provided an easy rallying point for surviving believers. The large set piece depicts dozens of human or saintly figures representing every segment of society and the full gambit of emotional response, beginning with shocked surprise from Queen Lupa and her attending ladies, all occupying a balcony in the upper center right side of the scene. Other figures at street level are amazed, frightened, skeptical, dismissive, uncertain, oblivious, excited, or piously devotional. Heavenly saints situated in the mountains above the palace serenely contemplate the miracle and its effect upon the local populace. Even more impressive is the composition, which somehow makes the diversity all fit and flow together seamlessly. Compared to the late medieval illuminations from only a century before, the latter appear almost childish by comparison. Although many historians date the Renaissance as beginning approximately during the 15th century, Altichiero’s late 14th century commission at the San Giacomo Chapel is a prime example of proto–Renaissance sensibility, not unlike that of his great predecessor in Padua, Giotto de Bondone.24
The latter half of the 10th century saw a Portuguese rebellion in Coimbra break out, not against the Caliphate of Córdoba, but against their own Christian overlords from Asturias. It represented a clear harbinger of a separate Portuguese national identity; nevertheless, by 981 the uprising had been ruthlessly suppressed by King Ramiro III of León (961–985). It seemed a rather pitiful way to enforce Christian unification, but far worse was yet to come. With the death of Ramiro in 985, he was succeeded by his far less impressive son, King Bermudo II, who proved more adept at persecuting fellow Christians than guarding the borders of his vulnerable realm. Some churchmen later added in hindsight, not without some plausibility, that subsequent misfortunes represented divine punishment for Bermudo’s earlier mistreatment of his own Christian subjects. Add to these internal problems widespread fears in Iberia and throughout Europe that the end of the first millennium marked the end of the world or beginning of Doomsday. Some of these anxieties were fueled by the very same apocalyptic visions promoted by Beatus of Liébana two centuries previous. All Reconquista efforts now appeared to be paralyzed. Then, at the worst possible moment for Iberian Christians, Córdoba produced its greatest military genius, one who proceeded to wreak sustained havoc against the independent kingdoms of the north.