TODAY, you could drive through the little town of Lucena, halfway between Córdoba and Granada, without really noticing it, but on April 21 in the year 1483, a major battle was fought here.

For almost eight centuries, Spain was a Muslim territory.

You can hear it in Andalucian placenames (even ‘Gibraltar’ comes from Arabic) and more so when people speak.

We English people sometimes say “I wish!” meaning “If only!”

The Spanish people that you know say “Ojalá!”, which is almost pure medieval Arab-speak, meaning the same thing.

But as the Middle Ages drew to their close, a new idea was being born in Europe – the “nation”.
France and England led the way, but Spain was quick to follow.

Those big, sprawling empires were a thing of the past (the Habsburgs in East Europe, and the Arabs from the Holy Land to the Pyrenees).

They were extremely difficult to administer (an official of the Sultan, setting off from Constantinople to collect taxes in Kosovo, would take eight weeks to get there) and impossible to defend (if a rebellion broke out in Zaragoza, the fight would be over before troops could be sent).

That’s why we have ambassadors. When Britain owned Hong Kong – which is yesterday, in historical terms – a ship carrying orders from London might take months to complete the journey.

You needed someone on the spot, to make decisions.

Nations, on the other hand, were compact.

They (usually) spoke one language, and were loyal to one leader. They had borders which could be defended.

It took a couple of centuries, but the Christians of Spain started to roll back the Arab dominance of their country.

Those Andalucian towns with “de la frontera” after their names were once, quite literally, on the Christian-Muslim frontier.

By 1485, there was only one corner of the Spanish peninsula which was still in Arab hands – the Kingdom of Granada.

And that’s what the Battle of Lucena was about.

Gradually, almost mile by mile, the Christians were edging closer to their ultimate objective.

If they could capture the Alhambra, which they did seven years later, Muslim rule in Europe would be at an end.

And Lucena was a stepping-stone towards that final victory. The Christians took Boabdil (the Arab king also known as Muhammad XII) prisoner, and it cost the Nazrid family a fortune to ransom him back.

The two Christian leaders were Lucena’s local aristocrat, Hernando de Argote, and “El Alcaide de los Donceles” (‘the leader of the page boys’), Diego Fernández de Córdoba.

His rather camp title derives from what had once been a truly significant rank at the Court of Castile.

An elite cavalry corps once existed, consisting only of the sons of noble courtiers (hence page boys). By Diego’s time it had become purely an honorific post – rather like the British Parliament’s serjeant-at-arms isn’t actually a sergeant.

We can dispense with the fighting very briefly.

Boabdil didn’t have a good day.

His father-in-law was killed (try explaining THAT when you get back to the missus!)

He saw his forces break and run, and he tried to escape too, but his horse got stuck in some deep mud.

Abandoning the horse, he hid in some bushes, but a handful of Christian soldiers found him.

They were going to kill him, but noticed he was wearing nice clothes.

Knowing that their officers made good money out of ransoming posh prisoners, they thought they’d better check with a superior before beheading him. (Boabdil’s life was saved by his threads – eat your heart out, Mary Quant!)

Granada’s king was in Christian custody, the Muslim army was in disarray, and the road to Granada was now open.

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HAVE you ever experienced – or more likely, caused – confusion over your use of surnames?

If you’re not Spanish, you know the rule. Two Christian names, one surname.

Example – the British Prime Minister is Sir Keir Rodney Starmer.

Not difficult, is it?

But if he went into a bank or Town Hall in Spain, he would cause havoc. They’ll ask him, “Señor Keir, what are your apellidos?” (‘Apellido’ is the Spanish word for surname).

They might even call him, “Señor Rodney”.

Imagine showing up with two sources of ID – your British passport and a Spanish residence card, for example. One surname on one document, two on the other.

Mayhem.

The Spaniard facing you will tell you blankly, “You can’t exist.”

Here’s the Spanish rule: one Christian name, two surnames.

Example – Spanish actress Penélope Cruz Sánchez

Dad’s surname, followed by mum’s.

Penelope will use both surnames for anything formal or official.

When giving her name informally, she’ll just use her first surname. So, if the Olive Press asks to interview her she’ll go by her famous screen name “Penélope Cruz”.

It’s her father’s surname.

But there are two sub-rules that we need to think about.

1. If her surnames were reversed and her dad’s surname was Sánchez and mother’s Cruz, Penélope’s first surname would be a little dull. “Sánchez” is a bit like being known as ‘Jones’ in Cardiff. Spaniards like things to be showy, glittery. “Cruz” is much more interesting. So she could have chosen to be known as “Penélope Cruz” anyway.

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