“No, no!” exclaims Ervig, casting his arms about his patron’s neck and affectionately saluting him. “Goodness and wisdom are the best, and those are yours, dear master.”
“We will have you! Speak! Consent!” come as one word from the circle of nobles. “You dare not refuse the will of the chiefs,” cry all, gathering round him, each more or less approving the choice on the same grounds as did Hilderic, or as considering Wamba an easy ruler, under whom every man would be his own master. Already the brows of some begin to darken at his continued refusal.
“Choose some younger man,” he persists, struggling from the hands which are now laid on him; “one better fitted for the arduous duties of your king. Look at me,” and he raises his grey locks and bares his furrowed forehead, “I am long past my prime.” As he speaks he is retreating as best he can towards the door, when the fiery Hilderic, seizing him with one hand, with the other brandishes a naked spear.
“Look you, Wamba,” says he, a dangerous fire kindling his eye, “you shall never leave this chamber, save as a dead man, or as our king.”
“Dead, or as our king,” came as a war-cry from all the fierce Goths, closing round him with such unseeming shouts and din, that it seemed as if their rude clamour must disturb the last sleep of the dead whose presence all had forgotten.
“You accept the crown in the sight of God?” demands the archbishop in a solemn voice, stretching forth his hands towards Wamba, who, perceiving that further opposition is useless, bows his head. “Then at this altar let us offer up our thanksgivings. The Church is with you, Wamba.” And Julianus turns to the oaken table on which stands the Host, and falls upon his knees, with the priests and acolytes around, followed by all those fierce spirits quelled for an instant by the might of his power.
“And,” says Wamba, as last of all that assembly he slowly bends his knee in the place of honour reserved for him next to the archbishop, “countrymen! let your prayers be for me also, that I may not be deemed unworthy!”
Again the incense rises in shadowy clouds, filling the chamber with strange outlines. Again the voices of the priests rise and fall, and human interests are lulled for awhile in the presence of the dead king. Again the chiefs remember for a brief moment his just and tranquil reign, and many prayers are recited with apparent fervour for the repose of his soul.
Within nineteen days after the election of his successor, Recesvinto was buried and Wamba crowned by Julianus in the Cathedral of Toledo. All Spain was jubilant, for he was a blameless man; indeed, a fond remembrance yet clings to his name at Toledo. The words Tiempo del Rey Wamba still point to some lingering impression of national prosperity and of a time of plenty, answering to the days of the “Saxon kings” in England. And Wamba was indeed no imbecile, or weak-handed in war, as Hilderic and his friend the Greek Paul pretended, when, helped by the Jews, they broke into rebellion. He was a warrior indeed, who, though old, could lead the Goths to victory and punish his enemies by slaughter and torture as was the habit of his nation. After which the “Farmer King,” as he was affectionately called, to indicate his simple tastes and care for the neglected serfs, returned to Toledo to enjoy his triumph, descending the hill to the cathedral, through the narrow streets, much as we see them now, followed by a long procession of captive Basques with shaven heads, a signal mark of humiliation to the abundant-haired Goths (the rebel Paul, in impious mockery, decorated with a leather crown, stuck on his head with melted pitch, and a sceptre of reeds in his hand), to be received by the Archbishop Julianus under the sculptures of the Gate, at the head of his clergy.
But the decline of native valour had gone too far for any single man to stem the downward tide. The free constitution of the Nomad tribes had given place to a military despotism, alternating with, and controlled by, a bigoted priesthood. The tremendous superiority of Julianus delayed for a time this downward course, but could not arrest it. Even his iron will could not stop the decadence of a nation. Each chief—or duke (dux)—was king in his own district, and free to lead a life of idleness and crime. If the Goths still fought well, it was only against each other, or when pressed by necessity to arrest the inroads of the Franks, a much more masculine nation than themselves.