How Two Nutty New Spain Doctors Tried to Get Ahead in Medicine

In an age when most of us are content with a couple of paracetamol to cure whatever ails us, it’s hard to imagine a time when medicine involved human skulls and navigating the murky waters between science and religion. But that’s precisely what two doctors in the early 18th century were grappling with, as evidenced by a rather curious document kept within the Inquisition collection of the National General Archives.

Picture the scene: it’s 1702 in Puebla de los Ángeles, a city that today might conjure images of street tacos and lively fiestas, but back then was ground zero for some of the most bizarre medical experiments known to man. Enter doctors Juan de Torres and Antonio de Heredia—two men of science, but also products of their time, where religion dictated not just the afterlife but also how one might attempt to stay alive in the first place.

Now, what had these two bright sparks discovered? Apparently, after what we can only assume were a series of rather grim trials and error, they’d hit upon the idea that the human skull—yes, the skull, presumably removed from its original owner—was the key to curing an unspecified illness. You might think that at this point, they would be hailed as heroes or at least eccentric geniuses. But no, instead they found themselves facing a conundrum of bureaucratic and religious proportions: could they get away with using human skulls for medicinal purposes without running afoul of the Inquisition?

Let’s pause here for a moment. We’ve all heard about the Inquisition—usually in the context of burning heretics or torturing people who failed to attend Mass. What you probably don’t associate with it is the regulation of medical practices. But here we are, with two doctors desperately trying to convince the Tribunal of the Holy Office that skulls could be a legitimate medical tool, and not just a prop for some dodgy sorcery.

On October 3, 1702, Torres and Heredia decided to roll the dice and submitted a formal request to the Inquisition, seeking permission to carry on with their skull-based remedies. Their petition is fascinating, partly because it’s a rare glimpse into the precarious balancing act between emerging medical knowledge and the iron grip of religious authority. But also because of the creative rhetorical gymnastics they used to justify their somewhat macabre practices.

The crux of their argument was this: Yes, they acknowledged, the Church probably had a problem with superstitious or magical uses of human bones. Fair enough. But they, being men of science, were doing no such thing. What they were proposing was a purely medicinal use of the skull—one that they claimed was not only grounded in medical science but was also supported by natural and divine law. In other words, this wasn’t about conjuring spirits or dark forces; this was about healing, and what could be more sacred than that?

They went on to argue that similar remedies were permitted in other parts of the world—no doubt with a casual wave of the hand toward some vague, far-flung kingdom where, apparently, skull-based medicine was all the rage. And, in a move that could only be described as bold, they appealed to the very laws of nature and God Himself. After all, they reasoned, if God created the human body, why wouldn’t He allow us to use it—even after death—for the betterment of mankind?

Their argument didn’t stop there. They cited cases where the Church had made exceptions to its own rules for the sake of healing. There was, they explained, some sort of magical ointment used by witches (or sagas, as they were known), which had at first been condemned by the Church. But once a respectable doctor—one presumably in good standing with the Pope—got hold of the recipe, the whole thing was given a rubber stamp of approval. “If witches can get away with it,” Torres and Heredia seemed to suggest, “surely we, who are doing this for purely medicinal purposes, deserve a break too.”

One can only imagine the faces of the Inquisitors as they read through this petition. Were they scandalized? Intrigued? Did they perhaps entertain a brief moment of morbid curiosity as to whether these skulls actually worked as medicine? The record, unfortunately, doesn’t tell us how the Holy Tribunal responded. What we do know is that Torres and Heredia submitted their case with all the humility and deference one might expect when groveling before an institution known for its enthusiastic use of torture devices. They asked, in the end, for clarification—did the prohibition on human skulls apply to them as health professionals, or could they carry on their experiments with the Church’s blessing?

Whatever the outcome, the whole affair offers a tantalizing peek into the weird and wonderful world of 18th-century New Spain, where the lines between science, superstition, and religion were often as blurry as the distinction between a cure and a curse. It was a time when doctors not only had to contend with the limits of medical knowledge but also had to navigate a world where every step forward in science might land them in front of a tribunal for heresy.

Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of this whole skull debacle is that we don’t even know what disease Torres and Heredia were trying to cure. Was it something serious, like the plague? Or was it some now-ridiculous ailment that had people scurrying to doctors with headaches from too much powdered wig wear? Either way, it’s clear that for these two doctors, the end justified the means, even if those means involved the occasional grave robbery.

So, next time you’re downing an aspirin or calling your GP for some antibiotics, spare a thought for the pioneers of medicine in the 1700s. Sure, their methods were a bit unorthodox—OK, downright creepy—but in a world where you had to ask the Church for permission to treat a patient with bits of skull, you’ve got to admire their tenacity.

And who knows, maybe they were onto something. After all, medicine has come a long way since then, but I wouldn’t be surprised if somewhere, deep in the archives of forgotten remedies, there’s a recipe for a skull-based cure just waiting to make a comeback.