Auto de Fe en la plaza Mayor de Madrid, by Francisco Rizi (17th century).
In the mid-16th century, Spain stood at the pinnacle of its global power. Under King Philip II, the Spanish Empire stretched from Peru to the Philippines, from Antwerp to Naples. It was an age of gold — in wealth, in art, in cathedrals — but also in fire. Literal fire.
Spain saw itself as the chosen guardian of the one true faith: Catholicism. And as the Reformation spread across northern Europe, Spain responded with iron resolve. The Protestant heresy, born in Germany with Martin Luther, had no place in the empire of the Cross and the Crown. To defend that purity, Spain empowered one of history’s most feared institutions: the Inquisition.
September 24, 1559 – A Sunday of Fire and Fear
On that day, the city of Seville hosted one of the largest and most symbolic autos-da-fé (acts of faith) in Spanish history. The central Plaza de San Francisco was transformed into a theater of religious justice, where the Church, the state, and the crowd came together for a ritual meant to cleanse the city of heresy.
According to the pamphlet Relación del Auto general de fe celebrado en Sevilla a 24 de septiembre de 1559, people from across Andalusia began arriving days in advance. Inns were overflowing. Some slept in the fields. This was not merely a judicial proceeding — it was a public spectacle, staged to warn, to punish, and to glorify faith.
What Was an Auto-da-Fé?
The auto-da-fé was the public culmination of an Inquisition trial. After months (or years) of secret hearings, interrogations, and confessions, those found guilty would be presented before the people. A massive wooden platform was erected. On one side sat the inquisitors, cathedral officials, and nobles. On the other stood the condemned, wearing sanbenitos — penitential robes painted with flames and demons.
The ceremony began before dawn. A grand procession wound its way through Seville, led by 300 armed guards, 50 priests with a cross, banners, drums, and trumpets. The accused carried candles and walked in silence, followed by effigies of those already dead or who had escaped the tribunal.
The sounds of chanting, bells, and murmuring filled the streets. It was a performance of power — religious, political, and psychological.
Who Was Judged — and Why?
This was no trial of peasants. The accused were nobles, intellectuals, monks, and even priests — people of status and education. The Inquisition had uncovered what it believed to be a secret Protestant circle centered around the monastery of San Isidoro del Campo, just outside Seville.
Among the most notable accused were:
Juan Ponce de León, son of the Count of Bailén and cousin of the Duke of Arcos, accused of spreading Lutheran doctrine.
María de Bohórquez, a young woman well-versed in Latin, Greek, and the Bible, who refused to recant her Protestant beliefs and was burned at the stake.
Juan González, a priest and preacher of Morisco descent, previously sentenced as a child for practicing Islam. Now he stood before the crowd to be defrocked and condemned.
Their crimes? Reading banned books. Doubting papal authority. Believing the Bible could be understood without Church mediation. In short: thinking for themselves.
The Flames of San Diego
The ceremony ended outside the city, at the burning ground of San Diego. There, according to eyewitness accounts, twenty-one people were burned, some alive, others symbolically through effigies.
Clergy from various orders tried throughout the afternoon to extract confessions and repentance from the accused — but many stood firm. Their silence in the face of fire was a quiet defiance that echoed louder than any sermon.
Centuries later, a pillar from the San Diego execution ground was rediscovered and found to bear an Arabic inscription, hinting at an earlier time when Spain burned Muslims instead of Protestants. Today, that pillar rests in the Seville Archaeological Museum — a silent witness to cycles of intolerance.
The Legacy of Ritualized Fear
No known painting depicts this specific auto-da-fé. But in Madrid’s Prado Museum, you’ll find Francisco Rizi’s 1683 masterpiece Auto de fe in the Plaza Mayor, capturing the full spectacle: the platforms, the banners, the robes, the faces. Swap the city and the date, and the picture is the same.
The auto-da-fé of Seville in 1559 was not an isolated event. It was a carefully choreographed message: deviate from the faith, and you will be judged — not behind closed doors, but before the eyes of God and the people.
The fires may be long extinguished, but the echoes of those flames still smolder beneath the stones of Seville.
