San Bartolomeo all'Isola

Listen first. Before you look at anything, listen. The Tiber runs fast on both sides of you, and its sound fills the small square. Traffic hums faintly on the riverbanks above, but here, on this low island of stone, the water is louder. The air feels a little cooler. Ahead of you rises a pale church front with a plain brick bell tower beside it. This is San Bartolomeo all'Isola, the Basilica of Saint Bartholomew on the Island. It sits on the oldest healing ground in Rome.

You are standing on Tiber Island, the only island in the river's course through the city. It is small. You can walk around it in a few minutes. In ancient times, Romans thought it looked like a ship, and they shaped it to look even more like one. The island points downstream like a bow cutting through the current. Two ancient bridges tie it to the city. One of them, the Ponte Fabricio, dates to the first century before Christ, and people still walk across it every day.

The story of this place begins with a plague. In the early third century before Christ, Rome suffered a deadly epidemic. The city sent messengers to Epidaurus in Greece, home of the healing god Asclepius. Romans knew him as Aesculapius. Legend has it that a sacred snake came back with the messengers on their ship. As the ship sailed up the Tiber, the snake slipped into the water and swam ashore here, on the island. The Romans took it as a sign. They built a temple to the god on this spot.

For centuries, the sick came to that temple. They slept in its halls and hoped for healing dreams. Some left offerings shaped like the body parts they wanted cured: hands, feet, eyes. Archaeologists have found many such clay offerings in the riverbed nearby. The church you see now stands on or near the site of that temple. So when you walk inside, you walk over ground that people have visited for healing for more than two thousand years.

Now look at the church itself. The present building goes back to the end of the tenth century. The German emperor Otto the Third founded it, around the year 1000. Here is the first surprise. Otto did not dedicate it to Saint Bartholomew at all. He dedicated it to his friend, Saint Adalbert of Prague, a bishop who had recently died as a missionary. Only later did the relics of the apostle Bartholomew become the focus, and his name replaced Adalbert's.

The front of the church is much younger than its foundation. It was rebuilt in the seventeenth century in the Baroque style, the grand, theatrical style of Rome in that period. But glance up at the bell tower. That is Romanesque, the sturdier style of the Middle Ages, with rows of small arched openings stacked one above another. The tower was added in the twelfth century. Over the centuries, the church survived floods, rebuilding, and changing tastes, and you can see those layers in a single look.

Step inside. The nave, the long central hall, is lined with ancient columns. They do not all match. Builders in the Middle Ages often reused columns from older Roman buildings, and these probably came from earlier structures nearby. Some may even come from the old temple of healing. Run your eye along them and notice the small differences in stone and colour. The light inside is soft and even. On a quiet morning, you can still hear the river faintly through the walls.

Walk toward the altar and look down at the steps. Here is the second surprise. In the middle of the steps stands a carved marble well-head, the stone rim of an old well. It dates from the Middle Ages, and carved figures run around its sides. Many people believe the well was dug over a spring connected to the ancient healing sanctuary. Locals once drew water from it for its supposed healing powers. Pagan god, Christian saint, the same thirst for a cure.

Now raise your eyes to the main altar. Beneath it rests a large ancient basin of dark red stone, a type of stone the Romans prized for imperial use. Tradition holds that the relics of Saint Bartholomew lie inside it. Bartholomew was one of the twelve apostles. According to Christian tradition, he was martyred far from Rome, and his remains travelled a long way before arriving on this island.

This church has one more layer, and it is very recent. In the year 2000, Pope John Paul the Second asked that this basilica become a memorial to the Christian martyrs of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Look at the side chapels. Each one holds objects connected to people who died for their faith in modern times: letters, a Bible, a stole, personal belongings. They come from many countries and many conflicts. A Catholic community called Sant'Egidio, which works for peace and the poor, cares for this memorial.

Take a moment with those objects. They are small and ordinary. That is what makes them hit so hard. A worn book. A simple cross. These were real people, some of whom died within living memory. The church that began as a memorial to one martyred missionary has become a memorial to thousands. It is a quiet room, and it asks only that you look closely.

When you go back outside, notice the large hospital on the other side of the square. A religious order of brothers has run a hospital on this island since the sixteenth century, and Romans still come here to be treated today. So the island's purpose has never really changed. From the temple of Aesculapius to the modern wards, people have crossed these bridges looking for care. If you walk down to the riverside path at the island's southern tip, look for the old stone carving shaped like a ship's bow.

Before you leave, stand still for a moment in the square again. Listen to the river once more. It has run past this island since long before Rome existed. Look at the brick tower, the reused columns, the stone well, the bridge your feet will carry you across. Each one was built by someone who came here hoping for something. As you step back onto the old bridge, the city will grow louder again. But the sound of the water stays with you a little longer.