In 1476, Aben Ismail died; and his successor, Muley Abul Hacen, a chieftain already famous in his own land for various daring raids into Christian territory, ceased to send the required tribute to Castile. When the ambassadors of Ferdinand and Isabel came before him to remonstrate, he replied haughtily:
“Go, tell your sovereigns that the kings of Granada, who were wont to pay tribute, are dead. In my kingdom there is no coin minted save scimitars and iron-tipped lances.”
SPANISH HALBERDIER, FIFTEENTH CENTURY
FROM “SPANISH ARMS AND ARMOUR”
REPRODUCED BY COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR, MR. A. F. CALVERT
The sovereigns, who were in Seville at the time delivering justice, received his message with indignation. “I will tear the seeds from this pomegranate one by one,” exclaimed Ferdinand, punning on the meaning of the word “granada.” But he and Isabel were still busy with the Portuguese war and the task of restoring order in Andalusia. They therefore dissembled their real feelings, and consented to a temporary treaty, in which there was no mention of the disputed tribute; but they did not cease from this time to redouble their preparations for the inevitable crusade. In the end it was Muley Hacen who was to set the spark to the mine.
Just over the Andalusian border, not many leagues distant from the Moorish stronghold of Ronda, stood the fortress of Zahara, which had been stormed in old days by the King’s grandfather and namesake “Don Fernando de Antequera.” Raised on a height, surmounted by a fortress, and approached only by slippery mountain paths, its Christian defenders believed it almost impregnable, and had allowed themselves to grow careless in their outpost duty. One night in the year 1481, when the truce between Castile and Granada still held good, a band of Moors led by Muley Hacen himself drew near under cover of the darkness. The wind and rain were blowing in a hurricane across the mountain peaks, but the Moors, heedless of its violence, placed their ladders against the rocks above them, and scaled the ill-protected walls. Then they poured into the town. The sound of their trumpets, as scimitar in hand they cleared the narrow streets, was the first warning of their presence; and the inhabitants of Zahara awoke to find themselves faced by death or slavery.
It seemed to the affrighted inhabitants [says Washington Irving in his vivid Conquest of Granada] as if the fiends of the air had come upon the wings of the wind, and possessed themselves of tower and turret. The war-cry resounded on every side, shout answering shout, above, below, on the battlements of the castle, in the streets of the town; the foe was in all parts, wrapped in obscurity but acting in concert by the aid of preconcerted signals. Starting from sleep, the soldiers were intercepted, and cut down, as they rushed from their quarters, or, if they escaped, they knew not where to assemble or where to strike. Wherever lights appeared, the flashing scimitar was at its deadly work, and all who attempted resistance fell beneath its edge. In a little while the struggle was at an end.... When the day dawned it was piteous to behold this once prosperous community, which had lain down to rest in peaceful security, now crowded together without distinction of age, or rank, or sex, and almost without raiment during the severity of a winter storm.
The next day the unhappy prisoners, first fruits of the Moorish triumphs, were led back in chains to the capital; but the sight of their misery aroused not so much rejoicing amongst the people as pity and dismay. Courtiers might crowd to the palace of the Alhambra to congratulate their warrior sovereign, but the general feeling of foreboding found vent in the cries of an old dervish, as he wandered through the streets wringing his hands:
Woe to Granada! Its fall is at hand. Desolation shall dwell in its palaces, its strong men shall fall beneath the sword, its children and its maidens shall be led into captivity. Zahara is but a type of Granada.
In Medina del Campo, where the news of the disaster reached Ferdinand and Isabel, there was burning indignation, and demands on all sides for instant revenge. The gallant Don Rodrigo Ponce de Leon, Marquis of Cadiz, took upon himself the task of retaliation. Having learned from the “Asistente” of Seville, Don Diego de Merlo, that the town of Alhama, only eight leagues from the Moorish capital and a regular granary and storehouse for the neighbourhood, was ill-defended and quite unprepared for any attack, he collected a considerable force both of horse and foot, and set off at their head to effect its capture. Pushing forward by night, and hiding at daybreak in whatever cover was afforded by ravines and woods, on March 1, 1482, he arrived at his destination, unperceived. He then selected some picked men; and these under the command of Diego de Merlo, placed their ladders against the steepest part of the citadel, from which attack would be least expected, and scaling the walls slew the sentries whom they found on guard. Soon they had opened the gates to admit the Marquis and their companions, and all within Alhama was in confusion.