San Pietro in Montorio

Stand still for a moment on the terrace in front of the church. Below you, Rome opens out in layers of terracotta roofs, pale domes and dark umbrella pines. The noise of the city comes up softly from this height, a low hum broken by a scooter or a church bell. The stone under your feet is worn smooth. Behind you, the plain facade of San Pietro in Montorio waits in the sun, quieter than almost any church you will see in Rome.

You are on the Janiculum, the long ridge that rises above Trastevere on the west bank of the Tiber. The name Montorio is usually traced back to the Latin phrase Mons Aureus, which means golden mountain. Look at any patch of bare earth along the slope and you may see why. The soil here has a warm, yellowish colour. In the low evening light, the whole hillside turns faintly gold.

This spot has carried a powerful tradition for centuries. According to a long-held belief, this is where Saint Peter was crucified, upside down, at his own request. Most historians now think the Vatican Hill, across the river, is the more likely site. But the tradition shaped everything you see here. A church existed on the hill in the Middle Ages, and pilgrims climbed up to pray at the place they believed Peter had died.

The church in front of you dates from the late fifteenth century. Its rebuilding was paid for by the Catholic Monarchs of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella, the same rulers who sent Columbus west. That Spanish link has never really broken. The convent beside the church now houses the Spanish Academy in Rome, a residence for artists and scholars. So this hilltop is, in a quiet way, a small piece of Spain inside the Italian capital.

Notice the facade. It is simple and flat, made of pale travertine, the creamy limestone used across Rome. There are no wild curves, no crowds of statues. This is early Renaissance restraint, before the drama of the Baroque arrived. The rose window and the double flight of steps are almost the only decoration. Many visitors walk past it on the way to the view. That would be a mistake... because the real surprises are inside and behind.

Step into the nave. It is a single, fairly narrow space with chapels opening along both sides. The light is soft and the air is cool, even on hot days. In the first chapel on the right, look for a painting of Christ being whipped at a column. It is the Flagellation by Sebastiano del Piombo, a Venetian painter who worked in Rome. Art historians believe Michelangelo supplied drawings for the figure of Christ. You can feel that sculptor's sense of muscle and weight.

Here is something most visitors never learn. For a long time, the high altar of this church held one of the most famous paintings in the world — Raphael's Transfiguration. It was the last great work of his life. The painting is now in the Vatican Museums. But for generations, people climbed this hill to see it here. When you look toward the altar today, try to imagine that huge canvas glowing above it.

The church holds another, darker story. Beatrice Cenci, a young Roman noblewoman, was executed in 1599 after the killing of her violent father. Many Romans saw her as a victim rather than a criminal, and her case became a legend. She was buried in this church, in front of the high altar, without any grand monument. Writers and painters have returned to her story ever since. Locals say her ghost still walks on the anniversary of her death — but that, of course, is folklore.

Also inside, one chapel was designed by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, the great master of Roman Baroque, with sculpture carried out by his workshop. Compare its sense of theatre with the calmer painting around it. In one small church you can follow Roman art across more than a century of change. That variety is part of the pleasure here. Take your time, and let your eyes adjust to the darker corners before moving on.

Now comes the reason architects travel here from all over the world. Leave the church and walk into the courtyard on the right. In the middle stands a small, round building, no wider than a large room. This is the Tempietto, which means little temple. It was designed by Donato Bramante in the early sixteenth century. It marks the exact spot where tradition placed Peter's cross. It is tiny, and yet it changed the direction of Western architecture.

Walk slowly around it. A ring of slender granite columns supports a light balustrade. Above that rises a drum and a neat dome. Bramante took the shape of ancient Roman round temples and gave it a Christian meaning. Every part relates to every other part in calm proportion. Not long after, Bramante became the first architect of the new Saint Peter's Basilica. Many scholars see this little building as a rehearsal for that enormous dome.

One more detail is easy to miss. Bramante planned the courtyard itself as part of the design — a circular colonnade that would wrap around the Tempietto like a frame. It was never built. The rectangular courtyard you see today is tighter than he intended, so the building feels a little squeezed. Below the Tempietto there is also a small crypt. Tradition holds that a hollow in its floor marks where the cross once stood.

This hill has also seen war. In 1849, the Janiculum was the scene of heavy fighting during the defence of the short-lived Roman Republic, when Giuseppe Garibaldi and his volunteers fought French troops. The church was damaged in the battles. If you continue up the road, you will pass memorials to those fighters and reach a large monumental fountain, the Acqua Paola, which Romans call the Fontanone, or big fountain.

Before you go, return to the terrace. Look again across the rooftops toward the domes of the old city. Somewhere out there is the great dome that grew from the small idea in that courtyard behind you. Listen for the bells, the wind in the pines, the distant traffic. As you walk down the slope toward Trastevere, glance back once. The church will already be half hidden by the trees — quiet again, and waiting for the next person to climb up.