I picked up the Via Francigena just east of Circus Maximus, and while most walks in and out of major cities disappoint, this proved to be an absolute delight. The route follows the Via Appia Antica for the better part of the day, and this is the most important of all the great roads ever built by the Romans. Originating in 312 BC, one of the very first Roman roads, the Via Appia initially served a military function, facilitating the southeastward movement of its army towards Brindisi. Almost four centuries later, Emperor Trajan added the Via Traiana, which connected those newer territories down along the Adriatic. Combined, those roads constitute the lion’s share of today’s Via Francigena.
On a beautiful Sunday, the Via Appia remained as highly trafficked as ever, though cars were an exceptionally rare presence. Instead, walkers, joggers, and bikers shared the route, alternatively hopscotching on cobblestones or swerving over to the parallel footpath. Trees line most of the Via, and as a consequence I found that I had been hotter in that very initial walk from the pilgrim hostel to the Appia than I ever was after, even as the hours rolled past.
The walk along the Via Appia to Castel Gandolfo, I realized, narrates a story of some of Christianity’s most difficult moments on the Italian peninsula. The first indicator comes in a small, seemingly unremarkable church early on the walk. The Church of Domine Quo Vadis, also known as Santa Maria in Palmis, is the site where a terrified Peter, fleeing Roman persecution of Christians, ran headfirst into Jesus. “Domine, Quo Vadis?,” Peter asked, or “Lord, where are you going?” Jesus replied, “To Rome, to be crucified a second time.” And with that, Jesus disappeared, though his footprints remained, imprinted in the road. Within the church, a replica of that stone is preserved. Ashamed, Peter turned back around, deciding that if anyone was going to face crucifixion on this occasion, it would be him. However, when the end arrived, Peter demanded that he be crucified upside down. While this has long been interpreted as Peter’s judgement that he didn’t deserve to die in the same fashion in Jesus, the initial explanation offered in the late 2nd century was that Peter sought to make the point that Roman values were upside down and they needed to seek something greater in Christianity instead.
It’s a short walk from that church to a pair of major Roman catacombs–two of the fifty-plus catacombs spread around the metropolitan area and comprising some 150 kilometers of tunnels. I remember hearing at one point that the catacombs served as a place of refuge for Christians when facing persecution. In reality, though, these mostly functioned as burial sites. The Romans had banned burials within the city–land was at a premium, to be fair, and their preferred method of cremation didn’t make the same demands–and so the Christians had to go outside the limits and underground to make this work. The Via Appia leads past what is considered by many to be the most important of these, the Catacomb of Callixtus. Pope Calixtus I is credited with the creation of this catacomb, and he became one of nine popes over the next two centuries to be interred here. Among them is Pope Sixtus II, who was killed during the persecution of Valerian.
The situation for Christians improved considerably after Constantine, of course, though it was hardly smooth sailing all the way through. After all, a number of popes ended up in Avignon, France, for a spell. Over time, though, the papacy’s circumstances solidified, and by the second half of the 20th century popes also enjoyed substantial political power, ruling over the Papal States in central Italy. Any powerful ruler requires a pleasant holiday home, and many popes found that in Castel Gandolfo, in the pontifical villas spread across 55 hectares of land, overlooking Lago Albano. While the ascent to this viewpoint feels almost like a non-event, with only a modest final push, the payoff is substantial, as the volcanic lake shines well below the town, which sits practically on a cliff’s edge.
Unfortunately for the papacy, Italy happened. The unification of Italy wasn’t a process of consensus building–it was a conquest. And the Papal States were the last piece of the puzzle, secured in 1870. Pope Pius IX was in office at the time, and he paid his last visit to the villa in Castel Gandolfo in May 1869. After that, he locked himself away in the Vatican, refusing to engage with the usurpers in any fashion, and ordering good Catholics across the peninsula to do the same. Not a promising start for a new state!
It was Mussolini who ultimately resolved the stalemate with the signing of the Lateran Pacts in 1929, allowing for the creation of the Vatican City State, while also granting it certain extraterritorial zones–including the Pontifical Villa of Castel Gandolfo. A tax exempt status for the Vatican and nearly three billion lira in cash and bonds sweetened the pot.
The recent popes have taken different approaches to Castel Gandolfo. Pope Benedict retired here after he resigned from the papacy. Francis practically never came, and instead opened the palace and gardens to the public for visits. As he acknowledged in his autobiography, Francis was an original proponent of the staycation, and went decades without leaving home for a vacation. The newly-minted Pope Leo XIV, though, didn’t waste any time–he took his first vacation here in July. And it’s hard to blame him for wanting to get the heck out of Rome in July.
Alas, none of them have opened up a wing of the villa to function as a pilgrim hostel, so I pushed onto neighboring Albano Laziale, where I got a room in the Seminario Vescovile. So much the better. The town is on the third and final night of its performing arts festival, with street performers putting on a show all across the small town, and loads of street food on offer. And with this finished, I can join them as well.
