Basilica of Santi Apostoli

Stand in the long piazza for a moment and listen. Scooters hum past from the direction of Piazza Venezia, but here the sound softens. Pale travertine arches run along the front of a church that does not look like a church at first. It looks almost like a palace loggia, open to the street, cool in the shade. This is the Basilica of the Twelve Holy Apostles, Santi Apostoli to Romans, and it sits only a short walk from some of the busiest crossroads in the city.

The story begins in the sixth century. After the long Gothic Wars that left Rome battered, a church was raised here to celebrate the Byzantine reconquest of Italy. It was dedicated first to two apostles, Philip and James the Less. Their relics, according to church tradition, still rest in the crypt below your feet. Over the centuries the dedication grew to include all twelve apostles, and the name you hear today followed.

Nothing visible above ground comes from that early building. Rome rebuilt this church again and again. Earthquakes, neglect, and changing taste each left a mark. What you see now is a layered object. There is a Renaissance portico at street level, a neoclassical upper façade above it, and behind both, a grand Baroque interior. Three eras stand stacked on one site, like pages pressed together in an old book.

Look first at the portico. These open arches belong to the fifteenth century, when a Roman family took a close interest in the church. That family was the Colonna, one of the great noble clans of medieval Rome. One of their own became Pope Martin the Fifth, and the family palace stands right beside the basilica. In fact, the church and the palace share this end of the piazza almost like neighbours sharing a garden wall.

Now raise your eyes above the arches. The upper storey, with its calm windows and crisp lines, was added in the early nineteenth century by the architect Giuseppe Valadier. He is the same designer who shaped much of Piazza del Popolo. Notice the row of statues along the top. From the street, the apostles stand against the sky and look down at the traffic, as they have for two hundred years.

Before you go inside, walk slowly under the portico. Here is the first surprise many visitors miss. Set into the wall is an ancient Roman relief of an eagle, wings spread, framed by a wreath of oak leaves. It is far older than anything else on this façade. Romans often reused fine carved stone from older monuments, and this proud bird was given a second life here, guarding the door of a Christian church.

Also under the portico, look for a quieter memorial. It honours Giovanni Volpato, an engraver of the eighteenth century. The relief was made by Antonio Canova, the sculptor whose name will return in a moment. Volpato was his friend and supporter in Rome. A grieving figure sits beside his portrait. It is a small, tender work, and it hints at what waits inside.

Step through the doors and the scale changes completely. The interior was rebuilt in the early eighteenth century by Carlo Fontana and his son Francesco. The nave is wide and high, with side chapels opening off both walls. Gold, coloured marble, and painted stucco catch whatever light comes in. Your footsteps echo on the stone floor, and the noise of the piazza seems very far away.

Now tilt your head back. The ceiling of the nave carries a huge fresco by Giovanni Battista Gaulli, the painter Romans called Baciccio. He was a master of illusion. His figures seem to tumble out of the painted frame and into the real space of the church. The scene celebrates the Franciscan order, the friars who still look after this basilica today. Give your eyes time to adjust. The longer you look, the deeper the painted sky seems to go.

Walk towards the left side of the church, near the sacristy entrance. Here stands the tomb of Pope Clement the Fourteenth, carved by Canova. This was the young sculptor's first great public commission in Rome, made in the 1780s. It launched his career. The pope sits high on his throne, one arm raised in blessing. Below him, two pale marble women represent virtues, calm and still. This was a new, cooler style, quite different from the swirling Baroque around it.

Here is the second surprise. When Michelangelo died in Rome in 1564, his body was first placed in this very church. He had lived nearby. But Florence wanted its great son back. According to the well-known account, his body was quietly taken out of Rome and carried north to Florence, where he lies today in the church of Santa Croce. For a short moment, though, this basilica held the greatest artist of the age.

The church holds other learned ghosts. Cardinal Bessarion, a Greek scholar of the fifteenth century, is linked with this basilica. He fled the collapse of the Byzantine world and brought precious Greek manuscripts to Italy. His books helped feed the European revival of classical learning. In a way, his story mirrors the church itself — a place founded to mark ties with Constantinople, later guarded by a man who carried that eastern world to the west.

Before you leave, take the stairs down to the crypt if it is open. The air is cooler there, and the light is low. This lower space is a reminder that every Roman church sits on older layers. Above, there is gold and illusion. Below, there is stone, silence, and the memory of the first builders who chose this spot nearly fifteen centuries ago.

When you step back out under the portico, pause beside that ancient eagle once more. Feel the change in temperature as you move from shade into sunlight. Look along the piazza towards the Colonna palace, and then up at the apostles on the roofline. The traffic will soon pull you back towards Piazza Venezia. But for a few more seconds, stand still, and notice how many centuries you just walked through in a single visit.