How the Spanish Inquisition Turned Gossip into Gospel

It’s hard to imagine now, isn’t it? A world where you could be accused of witchcraft for something as innocuous as owning a few candles and small jars, or for being whispered about by your neighbors. But, in the vast territories of New Spain following the Spanish conquest, such was the delicate web of power, control, and fear woven by the Holy Inquisition. It was a masterclass in politics through religion, a regime established to protect both the interests of the Spanish Crown and the doctrinal purity of the Catholic Church.

The tale of Latlalpa, the supposed witch from Querétaro, stands as a striking example of this peculiar fusion of politics, superstition, and bureaucracy in the early modern world. Her story begins, as so many did in the archives of the Inquisition, with a whisper and a wild accusation.

The Machinations of Power and Religion

Now, it’s worth stating right from the start that the Spanish conquest of the Americas wasn’t a full-blown slaughter-fest—at least, not intentionally. Sure, the conquistadors brought their fair share of bloodshed, disease, and misery, but their primary goal was never simply to wipe out the indigenous population. Oh no, that would’ve been far too simple. The real aim was to conquer the hearts and minds of the people, bending them to the will of the Crown and the Catholic faith. And that, dear reader, is where the Inquisition came in.

Founded in 1571 in Mexico City, the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition had a clear mission: to safeguard Catholicism from any form of heretical contamination. This was more than just a spiritual crusade. It was political control dressed in the robes of religious orthodoxy. The institution’s task was not just to sniff out heresy but to quash any opposition to the existing order. And in New Spain, that meant anyone who could be accused of going against the grain—witches, sorcerers, fortune-tellers, concubines, blasphemers, and those strange individuals whose only crime was perhaps being a bit more “sane” than others.

Now, try to picture the scene in Querétaro back in 1657. A bustling colonial town, perhaps a few dusty streets lined with modest Spanish homes and indigenous dwellings. It’s April 13th, 8 p.m., and a woman named Catalina de Ávila strides into the office of the city commissioner. You can imagine the flickering candlelight, the heavy oak desk, and the stifling air as Catalina, a single Spanish woman of about 26, begins to unravel a sordid tale that she claims to have kept hidden for five long years.

The Accusation of Witchcraft

The story Catalina tells is one straight from the pages of a twisted historical drama. She recounts a conversation with one Josefa de Echaves, a young woman from the town of San Juan del Río, who, in turn, claimed to have heard whispers from a local mulatto woman named Beatriz, also known as Latlalpa. It seems that Josefa had a knack for gossip, or perhaps just a flair for the dramatic, as she went on to accuse Latlalpa of being a full-fledged witch.

What’s most interesting here is not just the accusation, but how these allegations flowed through the social hierarchy like poisoned wine at a banquet. According to Catalina, she heard from Josefa that Latlalpa’s mother had been caught by a local man, Thomas Rangel, engaging in some rather questionable nighttime activities—likely involving candles, strange objects, and plenty of murmured incantations. Naturally, Rangel being the upstanding citizen he was, didn’t expose the woman’s dark secrets out of the kindness of his heart. Oh no, he bargained for silence in exchange for something far more intimate—a relationship with Latlalpa.

The whole scenario sounds ripped from a bizarre soap opera, but to the ears of the Inquisition, it was deadly serious. What we’re seeing here is a typical pattern in witchcraft accusations: a blend of personal grudges, whispered rumors, and a liberal dose of fear-mongering, all of which the Inquisition lapped up like a cat with cream.

A Web of Secrets and Silence

A few days later, in what seems like a subplot straight out of a dark comedy, Catalina relates another conversation—this time with Leonor Bata, wife of a local Spaniard. It appears that Leonor was more than happy to corroborate Josefa’s claim, adding a few spicy details of her own. She alleged that Latlalpa’s daughter, a young woman named Phasolana, had admitted that her mother owned “botecillos,” or small jars, and regularly performed eerie nocturnal rituals. And, just to hammer the point home, Leonor claimed that a local vicar, Marcos Sevilla, had once walked in on Latlalpa in the middle of one such ceremony, only for the witch to recognize him and blow out the candles, sending him scurrying back into the night.

Now, whether any of this was true is, of course, up for debate. But, the key point here is that in the climate of suspicion and fear fostered by the Inquisition, truth was often secondary to the power of a good accusation. After all, why let facts get in the way of a juicy witch hunt?

What became of Latlalpa after all these accusations? Unfortunately, the documents don’t tell us whether she was ever punished or exonerated. The records merely state that Catalina’s testimony was given under oath, with the commissioner and notary dutifully recording every word, swearing to keep it confidential under the seal of the Holy Office.

What’s left behind, though, is a tantalizing glimpse into the mechanisms of control in colonial New Spain. The Inquisition didn’t need to rely on brute force; it wielded the power of fear, secrets, and silence. It was an institution that thrived on whispers, playing on the anxieties of a population already caught between two worlds—one old and indigenous, the other new and Spanish.

The Inquisition’s Lasting Legacy

The story of Latlalpa is but one of countless similar tales preserved in the dusty annals of the National Archives. The Inquisition’s reach was long, its memory longer. Its role in shaping New Spain was profound, as it quietly influenced not just religious practices, but social behavior, personal relationships, and even the fabric of everyday life.

The witch hunts, accusations, and testimonies held within those records are a chilling reminder of how easily societies can be manipulated by fear and superstition, especially when such forces are wielded by institutions with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.

The legacy of the Inquisition in the Americas is not just one of fire and brimstone, but of the slow, insidious creep of power—of politics disguised as piety, of whispered lies and the silencing of truths. In Latlalpa’s Querétaro, it wasn’t just about the candles, the jars, or even the supposed rituals. It was about control. And in that game, there were no witches—only pawns.