How the Spanish Conquered Mexico with a Wedding Ring

Let’s begin by addressing a universal truth that any history buff, monarchist, or even a vaguely interested pub-dweller must acknowledge: marriage has always been less about love and more about power. Yes, your parents might have tied the knot after a whirlwind romance in the 1970s, but for most of human history, nuptials were more like high-stakes poker games. Except instead of poker chips, the players were tossing land, titles, and occasionally entire armies onto the table. And nowhere is this better illustrated than in the case of the Villegas family of colonial New Spain.

It’s the early days of the viceroyalty—imagine something like a corporate startup, only with conquistadors instead of coders and far fewer beanbags. The Spanish, having swept through Mesoamerica with a zeal that makes Elon Musk look lethargic, were faced with a dilemma: How do you maintain control over a society teetering on the edge of collapse while also convincing everyone that your new-fangled religion isn’t just another imperial racket? The answer? Marry the local elites. And that’s exactly what the Villegas clan managed. By forging strategic marital alliances, they didn’t just preserve their power—they cemented it, like building a medieval castle out of reinforced concrete.

But these marriages weren’t simply a social arrangement. They were part of a broader scheme to overhaul an entire belief system. The Spaniards, keen as mustard to spread Catholicism, realized that targeting the indigenous nobility was the ecclesiastical equivalent of snagging a corporate sponsor for your fledgling religion. Get the chiefs and kings on board, and the masses would follow, like lemmings off a cliff.

In this divine game of chess, the mendicant orders—the friars, the monks, the robed missionaries—were the pawns, bishops, and knights. These men were tasked with not only converting the indigenous population but also inventing an entirely new cultural framework. They had to answer questions like, “How do we teach a people who worship sun gods to kneel before a crucifix?” and, more importantly, “How do we do this without getting eaten by said sun-worshippers?”

Their solution? Build a spiritual infrastructure atop the foundations of existing indigenous traditions. Think of it like a cultural renovation project: gutting out the old plumbing but keeping the charming façade. To do this, they needed the support of the local elite. And that’s where those marriages came into play.

Picture a solemn ceremony in a colonial church. The Villegas son, decked out in a doublet so tight it could double as a sausage casing, weds the daughter of an indigenous noble. In this moment, a merger occurs—not just of two families, but of two entire worlds. It was like the Spanish equivalent of a Silicon Valley buyout. The indigenous nobles got access to the new power structure, while the Spaniards gained legitimacy among the local populace.

This wasn’t mere pragmatism; it was politics wrapped in the guise of religion. The friars officiating these unions weren’t just reciting vows—they were laying the groundwork for a societal overhaul. The indigenous nobility, once the stewards of their people’s spiritual lives, became the Spanish Crown’s proxies, tasked with spreading the Catholic faith and reinforcing colonial order.

Now, because the Spaniards couldn’t resist over-complicating things (seriously, have you seen the paperwork for a colonial land grant?), they decided to split the entire population into two republics: one for the Indians, and one for the Spanish. This wasn’t exactly the “separate but equal” nonsense of 20th-century America, but it wasn’t far off either. The idea was to keep the groups apart to maintain control while claiming it was all for their benefit.

Of course, this required a delicate balancing act. The mendicant orders had to teach the indigenous population the basics of Catholicism—confession, penance, the works—while also ensuring they didn’t get too many ideas about equality. The friars might have admired the indigenous people's craftsmanship, their music, even their art, but let’s not kid ourselves—they weren’t inviting them to the governor’s ball.

From Many Wives to One

Imagine you’re a 16th-century friar, deep in the sun-drenched lands of New Spain, dodging the occasional jaguar and contemplating the mysteries of the cosmos. Your mission: not just to save souls, but to reshuffle the entire social fabric of an indigenous world that’s stubbornly clinging to its polygamous past. Oh, and you’ve got to do it with the grace of Saint Augustine whispering in your ear. Easy, right?

This was the monumental task faced by the Catholic Church, freshly arrived and brimming with fervor. Marriage, that sacred bond ordained by the Almighty, wasn’t just a personal commitment in their eyes. No, it was a cosmic alliance, a divine contract inked by God himself. But in the bustling marketplaces and serene mountain villages of the New World, things were a bit more... shall we say, complex.

At the heart of this social transformation was the idea that marriage transcended human laws and customs. It wasn’t a mere handshake deal or a romantic whim. According to the Church, it was a divine law, immutable and universal, hovering far above the heads of us mere mortals. Saint Augustine had laid down this theological framework centuries earlier: marriage wasn’t just a good idea; it was a moral imperative, a direct order from Heaven.

This presented a bit of a problem in Mesoamerica, where polygamy—particularly among the noble classes—had been the order of the day. To the indigenous elite, having multiple wives wasn’t just socially acceptable; it was a sign of power, wealth, and prestige. It was a way to forge alliances, consolidate resources, and keep the family tree from branching off into oblivion.

But to the Catholic friars, this system looked less like a sophisticated network of alliances and more like a chaotic tangle of sin. And so began the laborious process of convincing an entire civilization to trade their polygamous ways for the Catholic vision of marriage: one man, one woman, and an Almighty God keeping watch from above.

Here’s where things get interesting—or mind-numbingly theological, depending on your taste. The friars couldn’t just waltz into an indigenous village, point at a random couple, and declare them married by the grace of God. No, they needed to tread carefully. After all, these weren’t Europeans—they were people with their own deeply ingrained customs and traditions.

Enter natural law. This was the intellectual bridge that the friars used to connect Catholic doctrine with indigenous practices. Natural law, as they saw it, was universal. It was the idea that certain moral truths were baked into the very fabric of humanity, accessible to anyone with a functioning conscience, whether they’d heard of Christ or not.

So the friars asked themselves: which of these indigenous unions were based on mutual consent, genuine commitment, and a shared intention to build a family? If a relationship ticked those boxes, then it could potentially be recognized as a legitimate marriage, even if it hadn’t been blessed by a priest or performed in a cathedral.

This approach allowed the friars to work with the grain of indigenous society rather than against it—at least to a degree. They could point to existing relationships and say, “Aha! This one looks like a marriage according to natural law.” And if it wasn’t quite up to scratch? Well, that’s where things got tricky.

One of the leading voices in this theological minefield was Alonso de la Veracruz, a Spanish friar with a knack for Augustine and a penchant for philosophical gymnastics. Veracruz grappled with some of the thorniest questions surrounding indigenous marriages.

What if one spouse converted to Catholicism while the other stubbornly clung to their traditional beliefs? Should the marriage be annulled? Could it be salvaged? And what about the messy legacy of polygamy? If an indigenous man had several wives before converting, who got to be the lucky “real” wife under the eyes of the Church?

Veracruz turned to Saint Augustine for answers. Augustine, ever the pessimist about human nature, emphasized the primacy of fidelity and the sanctity of marriage as a divine institution. But he also recognized that human societies were often messy, complicated things. Veracruz argued that the Church needed to approach these situations with both firmness and flexibility, legitimizing unions that aligned with natural law while gently nudging others toward the Catholic ideal.

Of course, this wasn’t a one-way street. Indigenous communities weren’t passive recipients of Catholic teachings; they actively engaged with, resisted, and reshaped the doctrines being thrust upon them. Many indigenous leaders sought to negotiate the terms of this cultural exchange, attempting to preserve aspects of their traditions while adopting elements of the new faith.

In some cases, indigenous people used the Church’s own teachings to their advantage. For instance, if a polygamous husband converted to Catholicism, his wives might lobby the friars to recognize their marriages as legitimate under natural law—effectively turning the Church’s moral framework into a tool for securing their own rights and status.

Matrimonial Chess

In the pre-Hispanic world, marriage was less about "‘till death do us part” and more about "how many alliances can I forge before dinner?” Historian José Luis Rojas paints a fascinating picture of matrimonial policy in this era. Here, men didn’t bother with the messy business of monogamy. They married as many women as their power and prestige could attract, using these unions as social superglue to bind different rulers and regions together.

But don’t mistake this for some chaotic free-for-all. There was a meticulous hierarchy to these arrangements. The main wife was always drawn from the top-tier lineage, ensuring her status was as solid as a Rolls-Royce engine. Secondary wives, while numerous and no doubt handy at dinner parties, were strategically placed lower down the pecking order. This system wasn’t just about keeping peace among the in-laws; it was a vital mechanism for maintaining political stability. Unless, of course, some upstart lord decided to shake things up, at which point the whole deck of matrimonial cards could come crashing down.

Fast forward to the colonial era, and the game changes entirely. The Spaniards arrived with their rigid European ideals, declaring that one wife per man was quite enough, thank you very much. This shift to monogamy didn’t just curb the party atmosphere—it redefined the entire strategy of matrimonial alliances. With only one wife per household, lords could no longer forge sprawling networks of personal alliances. Instead, the baton was passed to the next generation. Marriages became a slow-burn strategy, where alliances were forged through the children rather than the patriarch himself.

You’d think this might have been a disadvantage, but the colonial lords were nothing if not resourceful. By limiting heirs, they inadvertently created a system where land and wealth started piling up like unclaimed baggage at an airport. Over time, fewer heirs meant fewer divisions of property, and eventually, single families came to control vast swaths of land and influence. It was a Monopoly board strategy, played with breathtaking patience and ambition.

Let’s talk about the true heart of the matter: politics. Whether you’re in pre-Hispanic Tenochtitlán or a colonial hacienda, marriage wasn’t about love—it was about power. As historian Zárate Toscano astutely notes, marriage was a weapon in the arsenal of wealth preservation, prestige, and family honor. It was a strategy designed to secure the future, ensuring that no upstart family could wrest control of what had been so carefully amassed.

In the pre-Hispanic world, this meant forging alliances to stave off rival factions and keep your enemies close (and, ideally, married to your sister). In the colonial era, it was a way to cement power in a society where property and titles meant everything. The fewer the heirs, the bigger the pie. And who doesn’t like pie?

A Royal Screw-Up

Clever anthropologists and historians have been poring over ancient societies, particularly in Oaxaca, to figure out how this game of matrimonial power worked. While these marital alliances could propel chiefs to greater heights of wealth and influence, they also had the uncanny knack of sending them crashing back to earth faster than a budget airline’s emergency landing. In other words, sometimes tying the knot meant untying your grip on power.

Take Oaxaca as an example. A chief might marry his offspring to the son or daughter of another noble family, gaining lands, tributes, and a shiny new social network. Fantastic, right? Yes, until it wasn’t. Because while the family was busy toasting their newfound wealth and titles, the seeds of their downfall were already being sown. Marriages between nobles might consolidate power temporarily, but they often led to rivalries, fragmentation of resources, and in some cases, complete social ruin.

It’s a bit like buying a classic car at an auction. You feel on top of the world, parading it through town. But a few months later, the gearbox explodes, the repair bills skyrocket, and you’re left wondering if that shiny acquisition was worth the headache. Chiefs, it seems, had a similar problem with spouses.

Now let’s turn our attention to Tepexi de la Seda, in Puebla, where researcher Patricia Cruz Pazos reveals that marriage alliances were not a spur-of-the-moment gamble but a carefully planned strategy. They were the ancient equivalent of merging two powerful companies to dominate the market. Nobles in pre-Hispanic times already knew the score. They weren’t marrying for love; they were playing the long game—preserving their wealth and power while keeping out the riffraff. But, of course, along came the Spanish, like uninvited guests to a wedding buffet. And suddenly, everything got messy.

The Spanish didn’t just conquer lands; they infiltrated the intricate web of noble marriages. By law, dating back to 1576, a person of mixed European and indigenous heritage—mestizo, as they were called—couldn’t hold the title of chieftain. It sounds pretty airtight, doesn’t it? But as anyone who’s ever tried to enforce parking restrictions knows, rules are only as strong as the will to follow them.

Indigenous nobles started marrying Spaniards, and the law couldn’t do much about it. These unions weren’t just acts of rebellion; they were clever moves on the chessboard of colonial politics. Indigenous families used Spanish surnames to legitimize their place in New Spanish society. Meanwhile, Spaniards gained access to lands, labor, and tributes—everything a colonial power could desire. Both sides benefited, proving that marriage alliances were less about love and more about cold, calculated gain.

But here’s the tragedy—or the comedy, depending on how you view it. These alliances created a balance of power that could topple at any moment. Chiefs, nobles, and colonists found themselves tangled in a web of ambition, law, and tradition. Like a poorly tuned sports car, the whole thing could roar gloriously down the road or spin wildly out of control.

One minute, you’re a powerful noble with wealth, land, and influence. The next, you’re a historical footnote, your title stripped away because you married the wrong person or miscalculated how much power to consolidate.

If all of this sounds absurdly dramatic, well, that’s because it is. But is it so different from modern times? People still marry for power and wealth—whether it’s billionaires merging fortunes or celebrities consolidating their brand empires. The stakes might be different, but the game hasn’t changed much.

Marriage, whether in 16th-century or modern-day, remains the ultimate double-edged sword. And as the chiefs of Oaxaca would probably tell you, sometimes it’s better to stay single and keep your engine running smoothly.

In-text Citation: (Ramírez González & López Alcántara, 2018, pp. 45-48)