(1400–1492)
From there I went to the city of Ghanāta [Granada], the capital of al-Andalus and the bride of its cities. Its surroundings are unequaled in any country in the world…. Ibn Juzayy remarks: ‘If I were not afraid of being charged with excessive local patriotism I would try to describe Granada, since I have the opportunity. However, such is its fame that there is no sense in speaking at length about it.—Ibn Battuta1
From the viewpoint of the Spanish Reconquista, the beginning of the 15th century appeared to represent little more than a continuation of the previous, highly disruptive 1300s. Castile and León, the traditional bulwark Kingdom of central Iberia, was in shambles thanks to ongoing internal strife and antagonistic relations with all its neighboring states, both Christian and Islamic alike. Moreover, no help whatsoever was forthcoming from the outside, the rest of Europe being preoccupied with its own miseries and political divisions. In truth, as late as 1481, a casual outside observer might assert that, in pure military terms, Europe and Spain were weaker and more vulnerable than ever to outside threats.2 The entire state of dysfunctional affairs was typified in 1409 by a botched attempt at reconciliation between the two papal factions in Pisa, Italy. Roman Catholic Cardinals, finally realizing that the ongoing Western Schism, with two popes claiming simultaneous legitimacy, was an unsustainable state of affairs, tried to jettison the competing claimants by electing a third, Pope Alexander V. Instead, neither of the still living popes would step down, even after their former partisans informed them that their services were no longer needed.3 Now, Western Europe witnessed the farce of three popes simultaneously claiming supremacy, each making pronouncements and fulminating excommunications against their opposition. At this unsettling stage of events, it would not have at all been unreasonable for any Spanish Christian to ask the simple question, for what and for whom exactly are we fighting for?
And yet somehow, against all odds, amidst the atmosphere of dissension and uncertainty, arose an outstanding Iberian leader, as had happened on more than one previous occasion. In 1410, only one year after the papacy had split into three factions, the 30-year-old Prince Ferdinand of Aragón (1380–1416) out of the blue led a daring expedition which conquered the city of Antequera near Málaga in the Kingdom of Granada.4 It was a bold and unexpected move, but proving that the old enterprising spirit of Reconquista was still alive and well. By birth Ferdinand was a Castilian, younger son of the inept King John I of Castile, but his mother was from Aragón, and rather than play an insignificant role in Castilian affairs he chose to become a regent in Aragón, where he won a reputation for evenhandedness and square dealing. In 1412, two years after his stunning success at Antequera, Ferdinand was elected to the throne of Aragón as Ferdinand I, surnamed El Justo (“the Just”), after most of his competitors had died naturally or proved themselves to be completely incompetent. During the four short years remaining in Ferdinand’s life, he then proceeded, not to lead more military adventures, but rather to play the role of royal diplomat in the ongoing Western Schism. By surprisingly agreeing to pull his support for the Spanish antipope in Avignon (Benedict XIII), Ferdinand shamed his contemporaries by setting a good example, making possible the final resolution of the schism one year after his death in 1417, with the near unanimous election of a single Pope (Martin V) at the Council of Constance (Konstanz) in neutral Alpine Germany. After his death at age 36, Ferdinand left behind him a sterling reputation in both war and peace, and for the first time in a long time, a few things had managed to go right for Iberian Christians.5
Much bigger problems, however, were still on the immediate horizon for European Christendom. Foremost among these were the Ottoman Turks, whose resurgence in Asia Minor during the 15th century revived fears of continental invasion not felt since over 700 years previous when the Saracens rampaged their way through Spain and France. Although in hindsight the crisis clearly could be seen approaching, the big shock came in 1453 with Byzantine Constantinople falling to the Ottoman juggernaut, led by their ambitious 22-year-old sultan, Mehmed II (1432–1481), surnamed “the Conqueror,” appearing as a direct challenge to the seemingly dormant Spanish Reconquista. The last Byzantine Emperor, Constantine XI, was slain while defending the city and Christian survivors were either sold into slavery or ransomed. In the aftermath of conquest, local Orthodox Christianity was nominally allowed to continue in accordance with Islamic custom, albeit segregated from the mainstream. The Eastern Roman Empire, on the other hand, which had stood firm since the early fourth century (excepting the Venetian-led sack of Constantinople in 1204), was promptly terminated. Within a matter of days, Constantinople was itself renamed Istanbul, while the famed Hagia Sophia church built by the Emperor Justinian was stripped of its Christian iconography and converted into a Grand Mosque.
The psychological shock wave of this event was felt throughout all of Christendom, and continued to be felt as the Ottomans pressed their advantage. Two months after the fall of Constantinople, the Hundred Years War between England and France effectively came to an end when the English were thoroughly beaten at the Battle of Castillon. The French had been inspired by the late Joan of Arc, burned at the stake for witchcraft by the English in 1431 but posthumously cleared of wrongdoing by a French ecclesiastic court in 1456. The final partition of France and England into separate geographic realms represented yet another paradigm shift which plunged England into its own civil war (the War of the Roses), but at least France was now free to focus on defending its own borders—just as it had back in the year 732 from Saracen invaders. Such talk was not considered outlandish at the time given the rapid progress of the Turks. After obliterating the remnants of the Byzantine Empire, the Ottomans and Mehmed began expanding westward, and nothing appeared capable of stopping them. British historian Edward Gibbon, quoting the eyewitness Aeneas Sylvius (the future Pope Pius II), concluded that Europe during mid-century was incapable of any kind of unified military action, even under the banner of religion.6 The political landscape was too fractured. No person, or country, for that matter, was strong enough to lead an effective resistance. Leaders spoke boldly of crusading, but the Crusades were in fact long over and never coming back. When an Ottoman invasion force easily overran the Italian city of Otranto (located on bootheel of the peninsula) in 1480, there was serious talk in Rome of evacuation. The papacy, which during the previous generation had tenaciously won back its right from Avignon to be in the Roman Vatican, now spoke of northern flight across the Alps for the sake of survival. Then, as the Kingdom of Naples braced to become the next victim of Islamic conquest, Mehmed died unexpectedly in Istanbul under suspicious circumstances. The Turks peaceably evacuated Italy and the crisis seemed to pass as almost suddenly as it had precipitated.7
The loss of Constantinople as a supposed inviolable bastion of the Christian faith had consequences more symbolic than strategic for Europe; however, this symbolism was so strong as to hardly be equaled before or since during the annuls of western civilization. The city had stood firm against infidels for over a thousand years, and many believed it to be more untouchable than Rome itself. Obviously, this proved not to be the case. Although relations between the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches had always been problematic, particularly since the great East-West Schism of 1054 (and even more so after the Franco-Venetian conquest of 1204), religious solidarity tended to override differences in language and culture in the face of serious outside threats. This had certainly transpired within Iberia over the last 700 years since the Islamic conquest of 711. As for the eastern Christian churches now under Islamic rule, these were allowed to exist, but not allowed to have any say in political or military decisions, perhaps all for the better. Regarding the Armenian Apostolic Church, it had long since parted company with the Greek Orthodox Church over theology, and by the mid–1400s was grudgingly accustomed to living under its Ottoman overlords.8 The Armenian shrine of Saint James the Greater in Jerusalem no doubt continued as if little had happened. Meanwhile in central Europe circa 1454, only one year after the fall of Constantinople, Johannes Gutenberg printed a complete Bible in Latin using the newly invented technology of movable type. The innovation would have multiple, far reaching effects.9 One of these would be the West’s ability to mass produce and quickly disseminate information for the literate, including propaganda for the tremendous military initiatives that were about to unfold, first within Iberia, then westward into a New World (see Chapter 11).
Almost right on cue, at this highly pivotal moment in European history, two of its most extraordinary and influential future monarchs, destined to be a power couple in the truest sense of the phrase, were born in the respective kingdoms of Aragón and Castile. Fernando or Ferdinand II of Aragón (1452–1516), el Católico (“the Catholic”) had an excellent pedigree, being the son of a king (John II of Aragón) and the grandson of Ferdinand the Just, but more importantly, possessed a steady temperament, as well as a knack for avoiding big mistakes—the latter being an especially rare quality for that time and place. Far more interesting, however, was his second cousin and slightly older wife to be, Isabel or Isabella I of Castile (1451–1504), la Católica, also descended from royal lineage but born with no particular expectation of becoming queen, initially having other male family relations in line ahead of her.10 Isabella’s namesake mother, Isabella of Portugal, who became Queen of Castile and León through marriage, was also the granddaughter of Portuguese King John I, the same monarch who during the late 14th century had successfully defended Portugal against both overreaching Castilian ambitions and attempted Islamic incursions (see Chapter 9). The younger Isabella, practically from childhood, exhibited traits of both religious fanaticism and fighting spirit, both of which seemed to run in her bloodline. She was destined to almost single handedly resurrect the dormant cult of Saint James the Greater to even greater heights of prominence than previously seen. Both she and Ferdinand came of age in the aftermath of Constantinople’s subjugation by the Ottoman Turks; moreover, it is nearly impossible to believe that they were not both deeply affected by the unhappy legacy of that event, especially the fiery and religiously inclined Isabella.
The teenage Isabella also steadfastly insisted on choosing her own husband, another very unusual thing for those times. For most of the eligible female nobility of that era, the typical options were to wonder who more powerful or wise elders would choose for them, to imagine who their lovers might be after marriage, or to choose the cloister if they preferred a higher education. How a young woman such as Isabella managed to pull this off, living in one of the most autocratic and chauvinistic societies of Europe, remains one of the great underappreciated stories in history, but unfortunately lies beyond the scope of this study. One true story, however, is worth repeating. At one point, Isabella’s older half-brother, the weak Castilian King Henry IV, tried to use Isabella as a negotiating tool by promising her to a very wealthy and powerful but dissolute and rebellious knight, the Master of the Order of Calatrava. According to tradition, the 15-year-old Isabella prayed fervently that she would not be forced into this marriage, and the groom promptly died under mysterious circumstances while traveling on his way to meet her. After this incident, everyone, including King Henry, seems to have taken Isabella a bit more seriously. She capitalized on this newly gained credibility by promising her uncle to be dutiful, so long as she maintained a right of consent to whatever marriage might be proposed for her.11 Though mostly forgotten today, this agreement would prove to be one of the more momentous contracts in world history. For our part, we would speculate that in her prayers the young Castilian princess vowed that if sparred a bad marriage, she would devote her life to the extension of Christendom, which she in fact later did with unprecedented aplomb.
Another likely impressionable event from the childhood of Isabella and Ferdinand was the surprise conquest of Gibraltar by the Castilians in 1462, only nine years after the fall of Constantinople. Gibraltar had continuously changed hands during the last two centuries of the Reconquista, but this time the Christians managed to hold on, mainly through an odd set of circumstances. While it was often unclear during the siege whether the Castilians were fighting Muslims defenders or amongst themselves, the ultimate success of the operation proved that Castile was still a military power to be reckoned with, provided they were not engaged in civil war. Prominent among the infighting victors was the local Guzmán clan, descendants of the same Guzmán “the Good” who back in the late 13th century had apparently converted to Christianity, then helped Castilians to defend against Marinid incursions from North Africa (see Chapter 8). As events would play out, after 1462 the next 30 years would see the Reconquista noose gradually tighten around the Kingdom of Granada.12 Gibraltar had been held or retaken by Islamic rulers since the year 711 when its namesake conqueror had subdued Visigoth Iberia (see Chapter 3). Granada no doubt tried to console itself with the thought that Gibraltar would yet again be retaken, and that the infighting Christians, especially those within Castile, would not put up an effective defense. The truth was that Granada struggled hard with its own internal wrangles while Castile and Aragón were on the cusp of unprecedented unification. As for Christian Iberia, there was a new sense that anything once again seemed possible. Such was the public mood during the late 1460s as Ferdinand and Isabella approached adulthood.
Ferdinand and Isabella had been betrothed as children as a half-hearted gesture of friendship between neighboring monarchs, but no one seems to have really pushed the idea until the 17-year-old Isabella was named heir apparent to the Castilian crown by a failing Henry IV after the premature death of her brother Alfonso in 1468.13 Gradually, the dim-witted nobility surrounding them began to grasp the enormous advantages of the proposed union, while others opposed seemed to panic at the thought of a united Spain threatening their petty fiefdoms. The pope did his part, however, by granting a special dispensation so that the second cousins could legitimately wed. After the prerogatives of each royal spouse were carefully spelled out in a meticulously drafted prenuptial agreement, the controversial couple met clandestinely in Valladolid to secretly wed on October 19, 1469. For five years there was calm, as King John of Aragón and King Henry of Castile were still alive. Neither Ferdinand nor Isabella immediately inherited their thrones, but upon King Henry’s death in 1474, civil war broke out yet again in Castile.14 Those who feared the recently consolidated power of Castile and Aragón rallied behind Isabella’s half-sister Joanna, and attempted to bring in the Portuguese as would-be Castilian overlords. The war on the ground proved to be another bloody stalemate, but the two young monarchs clearly demonstrated their superior political skills during the conflict, culminating with Isabella giving birth to a male heir to the Castilian throne in 1478. That same year (1478), Ferdinand and Isabella were given papal permission to formally establish the Spanish Inquisition to root out religious minorities perceived as rebellious (specifically, conversos or Jews pretending to be Christians), as well as to solidify support from wavering church factions. By 1479, the five-year internal struggle had finally ended, and the Kingdoms of Castile and Aragón were firmly united by marriage, both more powerful and aggressive than ever before.
With the unexpectedly rapid retreat of the Ottoman threat to Western Europe in 1581, Aragón-Castile under Ferdinand and Isabella were suddenly presented with a unique opportunity to renew Reconquista efforts with singular, undistracted zeal. That same year (1481), news arrived that the now isolated Kingdom of Granada had dared to attack the Christian mountain border town of Zahara in retaliation for Christian raiding parties having made it their staging ground. After nearly eight centuries of non-stop conflict, it had become pointless to argue about who began hostilities. The time to end it once and for all had finally arrived for Christian Iberia; moreover, it was payback time for Constantinople. Just as the Ottoman Turks had ventured into Europe and appropriated one Europe’s most treasured cities, Spain would now expel Islam from Western Europe and confiscate perhaps its most fabled urban center (see header quote). Ferdinand and Isabella initiated the final Granada War in 1482 by sacking the peaceful Andalusian town of Alhama, located only about 30 miles from Granada itself. Here the Spaniards introduced semi-modern artillery pieces, not unlike the kind that the Ottomans had used with such devastating effect against Constantinople less than three decades previous. Santiago Matamoros had now taken the form of gunpowder and munitions, and there was no debate on whether or not it was real. Also quite real was the granting of an audience by Ferdinand and Isabella in 1486 to an fanatical Genoese mariner by the name of Cristoforo Colombo (Christopher Columbus), presenting them with a seemingly far-fetched scheme to reach Asian trade routes by sailing west through unknown waters of the Atlantic Ocean (see Chapter 11). The royal couple tabled the proposal of Columbus until the Granada War was concluded, but in the meantime granted him an allowance in order to prevent him from leaving Spain.
Things then began to move quickly. Granada, finally waking up to its danger, was still badly hindered by internal conflicts, and no reinforcements from North Africa were forthcoming. In 1487, after a lengthy siege, the Castilians conquered the important Andalusian port city of Málagra, thereby reducing the Kingdom of Granada to the size of an inland city-state. After making careful preparations and the failure of half-hearted diplomacy, the Castilian all-out siege of Granada began on November 25, 1491. By January 2, 1492, it was over. Correctly sensing that the Christians would not offer any quarter (as had the Ottomans at Constantinople), the last Nasrid ruler of Granada, Mohammad XII (aka King Boabdil) formally surrendered the city to Ferdinand and Isabella. Victorious Spanish troops marched into Granada shouting “Santiago! Santiago!” and waving banners bearing the image of the saint.15 Muslims for the time being were allowed religious freedom, but Jews were given an ultimatum: they had four months to convert to Christianity, clear out of Spain, or die. On March 31, 1492, the infamous Alhambra Decree was issued by Ferdinand and Isabella, expelling all un–Christianized Jews from Spain, effective July 31. Those who converted immediately became targets of suspicion for the Inquisition, especially those owning valuable property. Only nine years later (in 1501), Iberian Muslims would be given similar harsh options (see Chapter 11). For the first time since the year 711, all of Iberia was under autonomous Christian rule.
Exactly how Isabella I of Castile became a devotee of Saint James the Greater is anyone’s guess, but there can be little doubt of her enthusiasm.16 English-language biographies of her, tending to be underserved in general, also gloss over such important matters.17 Herein we will at least venture a surmise. The psychological roots of Isabella’s interest in the Santiago cult most likely went back to her childhood and formative years, a time in which no one expected her to be a reigning monarch, let alone of powerfully joined Castile and Aragón, as well as a time of great anxiety and uncertainty for Europe. Most of this childhood and adolescence was spent in the provincial towns of Medina del Campo (her birthplace) and Arévalo, located northwest of Ávila and southwest of Valladolid, along what is today known as the Camino de Levante to Santiago de Compostela.18 Before marrying Ferdinand, her teenage years were spent in more cosmopolitan Segovia, northwest of the capital along a parallel route to Santiago, the Camino de Madrid.19 By all accounts, these were mostly unhappy times for the princess, living in comparative poverty and isolation, under the watchful, suspicious eye of King Henry, while witnessing her mother, the widowed Queen Dowager, slowly slip into dementia.20 Decades later, after the end of the Reconquista, Isabella would commission a magnificent and still extant tomb for her parents at the Miraflores Carthusian monastery near Burgos, designed by the important artist Gil de Siloe and situated along the Camino Frances.21
During the same period, the Spanish Reconquista had stalled and degenerated into civil strife, while to the east, the seemingly unstoppable Ottoman Turks had overrun Constantinople and would soon threaten Rome itself. Given these circumstances, an intelligent, pious girl of royal lineage would need something positive to latch onto, especially given her own precarious personal situation. Perhaps Isabella found comfort in the Santiago cult, being situated along the Spanish Camino routes, particularly in Arévalo where local legend held that the saint himself had once preached. In Arévalo she came under the fortunate influence of her designated tutor, Gonzalo Chacón, a professed admirer of Joan of Arc, who no doubt instilled this same admiration into his apt pupil.22 From Joan of Arc, it would have been a natural transition to fascination with the cult of Santiago, another martyr saint with nationalistic and militaristic associations. By the time she reached marriageable young adulthood, it would be no wonder that Isabella viewed herself as a pilgrim journeying along the uncertain road of life itself, and for the remainder of her life and subsequent legacy, the pilgrim badge of Santiago came to be associated with her own royal personage.
Five hundred years later, the visual tradition of Isabella as Catholic monarch transformed into Camino pilgrim is hard to miss. Much of the statuary paying homage to the first great queen of the Renaissance has her sporting variations of a scallop shell neckless, with the pilgrim badge covering her heart. One visible example of this (“Isabella la Católica”) can be found within the very halls of the Palacio Real or Royal Palace of Madrid, even though both the palace and the statue date from a much later period.23 More typical from the epoch of Isabella, or at least more in keeping with recent usage of Santiago imagery, is an embroidered Castilian altarpiece tapestry, currently on display as part of a special exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago. This spectacular work was produced for Pedro de Montoya, Bishop of Osma, sometime between 1454 and 1474, long before Ferdinand and Isabella had consolidated their political power, or perhaps just as this consolidation process was beginning and the Spanish nobility beginning as well to realize its tremendous possibilities. The focal point of the tapestry is not Santiago, but rather the Virgin and Christ child, well in tune with the Christian iconography of greater Iberia. Saint James the Greater is demoted to the role of worshipping pilgrim at the bottom of the tapestry, along with five other saints. Osma (today El Burgo de Osma-Ciudad de Osma) and the Castilian province of Soria are situated along the eastern frontier of Castile, adjacent to the Kingdom of Aragón and west of Zaragoza, traditional site of the very first alleged Marian vision by Saint James himself (see Chapter 2). The religious hierarchy reflected by the altarpiece tapestry pays respectful homage to Santiago as a Camino pilgrim, but also (more prominently) to the Madonna. As religious artwork goes, this is as politically correct as it gets for that specific period in Spanish history.
One of the best-known images of la Católica, however, is today found within the monumental 19th century canvass on display in Madrid’s Museo de Prado. Queen Isabella the Catholic Dictating Her Will (1864) by Eduardo Rosales Gallinas (1836–1873) was meticulously and painstakingly executed by a 28-year-old artist trying to establish his reputation. In this he succeeded. Painted at a time in which Spain was struggling to achieve a new national identity but long after it had lost control of its Latin American holdings (see Chapter 17), while in the United States the War between the States furiously raged, the multiple symbolic layers of this work are too rich to be fully addressed within these pages. Regarding the deathbed figure of Isabella, however, near the very center point of the canvass is the same pilgrim scallop shell neckless being worn by the dying queen, with which she was closely associated. According to tradition, as she lay dying in 1504, Isabella directed in her will that Native Americans be treated with justice—as opposed to being exploited—a wish that, if it ever came to pass, did so only long afterwards.24 Whether or not real (and possibly it was in fact real), in the popular imagination Isabella remained a religious pilgrim right to the very end. If as an unmarried teenager she had made a prayerful promise to extend Christendom when given the opportunity, the promise was indeed kept. Rosales himself lived a tragically short life, dying of consumption less than a decade after producing the masterwork for which he will always be remembered. Anyone doubting the power and broad appeal of this work need only stroll into the Prado Museum to witness the crowds of casual viewers stopped in their tracks when encountering it.
Perhaps the most iconic example of this same motif can be found in the famous 19th century painting, The Capitulation of Granada (1882), by Francisco Pradilla Ortiz (1848–1921), depicting Isabella’s ultimate moment of triumph in early 1492, as Mohammad XII hands over the city to her and Ferdinand, thereby completing the Reconquista. The city of Granada is seen in the middle background, displayed like a trophy. Here we see a very imperious, regal, and romanticized version of Isabella mounted on a white Arabian steed (not unlike Santiago Matamoros himself), but around her neck wearing a pearl-lined pilgrim scallop shell emblem of the saint, embellished by a red cross (or bloody sword) symbolic of the military order. It is perhaps the same neckless worn on her deathbed as earlier depicted by Rosales. Within the context of the scene, the pilgrimage aspect of the cult is almost completely lost, while that of the warrior saint is highlighted. For the artist, Isabella herself has become the incarnation of Matamoros, adorned with a pilgrim badge. Pradilla was a prolific artist specializing in historical scenes, particularly from this period. The Capitulation of Granada took him three years to complete after being commissioned by the Spanish government.25 The painting romanticizes the crowning achievement of Isabella’s career, although it would soon be overshadowed by the commission she and Ferdinand were about to give to Christopher Columbus.
With the conclusion of the Reconquista, its ugly side immediately asserted itself with the expulsion of unconverted Jews from Iberia, even though for many families Iberia had been their home long before Christianity arrived. Things were about to get even uglier. Rather than fade into oblivion with the surrender of Granada, the mentality of Santiago Matamoros would soon cross the Atlantic Ocean to unsheathe its sword against Native Americans or anyone else standing between Spain and its perceived manifest destiny in the New World. One unpleasant byproduct of this global shift would be the first modern refugee problem on a global scale, whether it be Sephardic Jews and Muslims leaving Iberia, enslaved Native Americans and African-Americans, or religious dissidents fleeing persecution from the Spanish Inquisition.26 Tragically, these problems remain relevant to the present day, as the world economy continues to globalize at an accelerating pace. Whether in 1492 or the present, the vision of multicultural coexistence earlier dreamed in Iberia by the likes of Alfonso the Wise or El Cid seems to have faded even more so into the realm of fantasy and illusion. What Isabella’s own feelings were is impossible to say. There were probably regrets; on the other hand, a war lasting eight centuries had finally been put to rest, the likes of which history had never witnessed in terms of sheer obstinacy and vicissitudes of fortune. Termination of the conflict had been achieved not through tolerance or compromise, but through brute force and uncompromising persistency. And yet, notwithstanding the immeasurable bloodshed and rank injustice, the old dream of something better for humanity still remained after all was said and done, even perhaps in the final hopes of the great Catholic Queen.