Leaving the city of Valencia, the traveller journeys northwards through one of the most luxuriant garden-plains of southern Europe. Groves of olive, almond, and orange trees crowd thick upon each other, their almost monotonous fruitfulness broken only by an occasional graceful cluster of stately palms. Soon there comes in sight a hill crowned with an irregular line of battlemented walls. Its silhouette is warm against the sky-line. This is Saguntum, famed in story.

You pass out of the station and on your left rise up the eastern slopes of the Saguntine hill. At its feet are huddled the dark green tiled roofs of the village, from among which the little church of San Salvador detaches its quadrangular tower, proudly conscious that (in the eye of its worshippers at least) it is the oldest Christian foundation in the whole of Spain. Tiny cottages gleam white in the dark places of the rocks, between thickets of aloes and prickly-pear. And far above, the reddish walls of the castle with its huge square towers stretch in slanting belts along the summit of the hill, keeping watch over the ever-retreating sea that has so often been studded with the ships of enemies.

To the right, coaches from Teruel and Segorbe lumber along a white ribbon of road, smothered in clouds of dust. Clambering up the fence of masonry that separates populace and passengers a dozen Saguntine youths, burnt by the sun, with eyes like sloes and jet-black hair, hail you in eager tones. They thrust towards you sinewy arms holding cups of milk or wine and plates of savoury meats, with branches of oranges or wands garlanded with fruits and sweet-smelling flowers.

But it is a silent town, Saguntum (or Murviedro as it is generally called), and seems to brood on memories of the past. Founded in 1389 B.C. by the Greeks of Zacynthus, it has been held in turn by Carthaginian and Roman, by Goth, Moor, and Spaniard. Its place in history is unique. The story of its famous siege has repeatedly been told.

It is the year 219 B.C.—the eve of the Second Punic War. Hannibal, having sworn war to the death on Rome, is gathering his forces for a crushing blow. The wealth of Saguntum attracts him; impoverished by the loss of Sicily, its position as frontier town appeals to him as a strategist; as the ally of Rome it draws his hatred. Suddenly a force of a hundred and fifty thousand Carthaginian soldiers is hurled against the town; battering-rams thunder at the gates; huge catapults scatter death among the startled townsfolk. Then begins a struggle that can be compared only with Numantia in ancient or Saragossa in modern times. Force and cunning have met their match in desperate heroism.

The siege lasted for eight months. Rome was appealed to, but her Ambassadors were not allowed to land. They turned to Carthage and entered the Senate House. “I bring you peace or war,” cried Valerius Flaccus; “choose which you will have!” and resounding cries of “War! War!” initiated one of the fiercest struggles of antiquity. But though fighting against a common enemy, Rome deserted her Spanish ally.

A city beseiged is a city doomed. Saguntum could hold out no longer. Hannibal named his terms—life and two garments to each individual. Arms, wealth, and Fatherland must all be given up, and the inhabitants must drift to whatever part of the world the conqueror decreed.

Immediately, by order of the Senate, a scaffold was erected in the public square. All the wealth from the public treasury was flung upon it. Private citizens added their treasures to the holocaust, and with the courage of despair flung themselves into the flames. Then a shout arose from the walls; one of the towers had fallen and the attacking army swarmed over the ramparts to wholesale massacre. Such is Livy’s account, but it is probably an overstatement. For though the Carthaginians, being a Semitic race, were capable of any cruelty, history records that the first act of the Scipios, on rebuilding the town four years later, was to buy back the exiled inhabitants.

Two thousand years later Saguntum was once again the theatre of war, when in 1808 it was attacked and taken by Marshal Suchet. But Napoleon’s success was as ephemeral as Hannibal’s. The French violet could not take root in the granite of Spain.

The present castle is principally Moorish, though some traces of the old Saguntine walls can be distinguished. It is probable that the keep described by Livy occupied the site of the present citadel. There are some old Moorish cisterns to which the girls of the village climb in the evening with water-jars on their shoulders.

A little lower down the hill lies the ancient Roman amphitheatre, the most nearly perfect of its kind that exists to-day, not even excepting those of Italy. The separate entrances that Roman ceremony required for knights and magistrates, for women and for the common people, can still be recognised in spite of the depredations of Suchet and the Philistines. Its thirty-three tiers of bluish grey pebbles, cemented cunningly together to look like huge blocks of stone, rise with the sloping hill-side. The theatregoer of Murviedro had little to complain of in the old days. If the play was tedious, he could turn his eye to the beautiful scenery that lay before him. His lot was enviable beside the Londoner’s.

The plain that now separates Murviedro from the sea is rich in ruins of a bygone age. Desultory excavations have yielded some results. In 1795 a magnificent mosaic was discovered representing Bacchus astride a tiger in the midst of revellers, which, unfortunately, has since been lost. For the antiquary with money at his back and method in his brain a rich and interesting harvest lies waiting.

Leaving Saguntum we continue northwards past the picturesque old castle of Almenara; past Nules, famous for its mineral springs; past Burriana, whose oranges you have eaten in every country of Europe; and the train steams at length into Castellon de la Plana. To the eye this city is uninteresting enough, but the imagination is touched by the recital of its history.

A league to the north of the town the barren mountains of the Desierta rise from an arid plain. Here can be seen some crumbling grey walls and a hermitage in honour of St. Mary Magdalena. The walls mark the site of the old town captured in 1233 by Jaime I. of Aragon. A few years later the inhabitants petitioned the King’s lieutenant for leave to remove their town to the fertile plain on the coast where it now stands. Not only was this granted but considerable privileges were bestowed on the enterprising city.

Every year on the third Sunday in Lent this event is commemorated by the Feast of Las Gayates. Clergy and laity alike, bearing green reeds, proceed in pilgrimage to the hermitage, where a solemn service is celebrated. A gay crowd invades the hill. They sing; they dance; they shout; they eat and drink. After this sylvan feast, they troop back to the town. At nightfall a second procession sets out, in which are represented with all edifying accompaniments the worldly pomps and repentance of the Magdalene. Raised up among a myriad flashing lanterns the “Gayata,” which gives its name to the festival and recalls the removal of the city, is borne along with song and dance.

More than once has Castellon fought bravely in defence of its liberties. A very strenuous resistance was offered to Pedro IV. when the women fought side by side with the men upon the walls. One of the amazon warriors killed a relative of the attacking General, Don Pedro de Boil, and was hanged in the market-place on the fall of the city, along with the other rebel leaders. Considering the part that Spanish women have played in the history of their country, it is curious to remember that voluptuous indolence is supposed to entirely sum up their character. The War of the Brotherhood, that great popular rising, gave three more martyrs to Castellon. It is not, therefore, surprising to find that this city to-day stands, in the province to which it gives its name, for democratic tendencies. So Morella on its rocky throne, the stronghold of the ferocious Carlist chief, Cabrera, stands for aristocratic militarism; and Segorbe, lying in the shadow of the magnificent monastery of Valdecristo, for the ecclesiastical element and clerical control.