Fontana dell'Acqua Felice

Listen first. Under the rumble of traffic on Via Venti Settembre there is another sound — water falling steadily into wide stone basins. The noise of cars rises and fades. The water keeps the same note. In front of you, a wall of pale travertine stone rises like a triumphal arch, with three tall openings and water pouring out of each one. This is the Fontana dell'Acqua Felice. Many Romans simply call it the Fountain of Moses.

The name comes from the man who paid for it. In the late sixteenth century, the pope was Sixtus the Fifth. Before his election, his name was Felice Peretti. Felice means happy, or fortunate, in Italian. So the Acqua Felice is, quite literally, the happy water. It is also a signature. The pope put his own birth name on the aqueduct, and he put this grand fountain at its end.

To understand why this mattered, picture Rome in the 1500s. The ancient city had been fed by many aqueducts. Over the centuries, war and neglect broke almost all of them. People moved down from the hills to live near the river Tiber, where they could draw water. The high ground — hills like the Quirinal and the Viminal, around where you are standing — became fields, vineyards and ruins. Without water, nobody could build a neighbourhood up here.

Sixtus the Fifth wanted to change that. His reign was short, only about five years, but he worked fast. He ordered a new aqueduct to carry spring water from the hills east of Rome into the city. Engineers followed parts of the route of an ancient Roman aqueduct, and reused some of its old structures. When the water arrived in the late 1580s, it was the first new aqueduct Rome had built since antiquity. This fountain is the mostra — the show front — where the water made its public entrance.

The architect was Domenico Fontana, the pope's favourite builder. Yes, his surname really does mean fountain. Look at the design. It follows the shape of a Roman triumphal arch, the kind built to celebrate victorious generals. Here, the victory is over thirst. Above the arches, a tall block of stone carries a long Latin inscription. It records the pope, his work and the source of the water. Rome's later fountains, including the Trevi, follow this idea of water presented as theatre.

Now look at the central niche. Moses stands there, holding a staff, at the moment he strikes the rock and water flows for the thirsty Israelites. The choice is clever. The pope is quietly comparing himself to Moses — a leader who brought water to his people in a dry place. And here is the first surprise. For more than four hundred years, Romans have laughed at this statue.

Look closely and you can see why. The figure is heavy and short, with a large body and a long, flowing beard. Critics have long said the proportions feel wrong, especially for a statue of a great prophet. Remember that Michelangelo's famous Moses already sat in a Roman church. Every comparison was unkind. The sculptors usually named for this statue are Leonardo Sormani and Prospero Antichi, who was also called Prospero Bresciano.

According to a popular Roman tale, Prospero was so hurt by the mockery that he died of grief. It is a good story, and guides have repeated it for centuries. But treat it as legend, not as history. Romans have always enjoyed sharp jokes about their monuments. This statue simply became one of their favourite targets. Still, stand in front of it for a while. Many visitors find that its stubborn, solid weight starts to feel almost likeable.

On either side of Moses, the two smaller niches hold carved stone reliefs. They continue the story of water in the Bible. On one side, Aaron, the brother of Moses, leads the people towards water. On the other, Gideon chooses his soldiers by watching how they drink from a stream. These scenes are easy to miss, because Moses takes all the attention. Give them a moment. They are calmer and finer than the statue in the centre.

Now lower your eyes to the water itself. Four lions lie along the front of the basins, and water flows from their mouths. Here is the second surprise. The first lions placed here were ancient Egyptian sculptures. In the nineteenth century, Pope Gregory the Sixteenth moved them to the Vatican Museums for safekeeping. The lions you see today are copies. The real ones now rest in the Vatican's Egyptian collection, far from the noise of this crossroads.

The fountain changed this whole part of the city. Once water arrived, new streets, palaces, churches and gardens followed. Sixtus the Fifth was already reshaping Rome with long straight roads that linked the great churches. The aqueduct gave those new roads a reason to fill with houses. In a real sense, the busy junction in front of you exists because of the water coming out of this wall.

Turn around and look at the buildings nearby. Across the small square is the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria. Inside is Bernini's famous sculpture of Saint Teresa in ecstasy, a high point of Baroque art — the dramatic, emotional style of seventeenth-century Rome. Close by stands the church of Santa Susanna, with its tall pale front. The round church of San Bernardo alle Terme was built inside a tower from the ancient Baths of Diocletian. Few corners of Rome bring together so many centuries within one short walk.

The fountain sits on a corner where cars, scooters and buses pass all day. That is part of its character. It is not in a quiet square made for tourists. It is a working piece of city furniture, still carrying water after more than four centuries. Office workers walk past without looking up. Delivery riders wait at the lights. Pigeons drink at the edge of the basins. The fountain belongs to the daily life of the street.

Before you go, look once more at the falling water. It has travelled a long way underground and over arches from the hills outside the city to reach this basin. Listen again to that steady note under the traffic. Then look up at Moses, still raising his staff, still slightly too short, still doing his job. As you walk away, notice how the sound of water stays with you for a few steps... and then the city takes over again.