Rome's Hidden Healing Island
By John Huddleston

The late afternoon sun scattered diamonds across the dark surface of the Tiber River and a warm breeze from the Capitoline Hill surrounded me with the sweet scent of pine and cypress as I walked onto the ancient gray Ponte Fabricio, the only stone bridge remaining from the time of Julius Caesar. At the other end of the span a delicate crescent of stone and soil seemed to float in the middle of the blue-green Tiber like a ship at permanent anchorage. Isola Tiberina is Rome's only island. It's on few tourist itineraries but an Italian friend said it's her favorite soothing place, hidden amid the swirl of modern Rome. It was also a pre-Christian power point. She wouldn't tell me much more than that but said, "Go and see for yourself." 

The island is slender and only three blocks long and stepping onto it I entered an unhurried world of medieval cobblestone streets and twisty alleys. It's a slow-paced world where no Fiats were in motion and even the Vespa's ubiquitous buzz was absent. All the narrow, winding streets converge on the Piazza San Bartolomeo, and I had been told the source of the island's balming influence was the adjacent Romanesque church of San Bartolomeo, facing the piazza, its square medieval bell tower rising above the welcoming low-sprung arches of the west facade. 

As my eyes adjusted to the church's cool darkness, I remembered the clues I had been given. In the first century a great plague swept through Rome. When the oracles and priests were powerless to stem it, several priestesses of Aesclepius, the Greek God of Healing, came to this island to perform their rituals and oblations. When the plague abated a temple to Aesclepius was built on the island. That ancient pagan temple existed somewhere beneath the stones of this 10th century Christian church.

I walked beneath the soaring ribvaulted ceiling moving slowly through an interior built of marble and limestone that had a soft pink-gray glow, making the vast church feel intimate. The beautiful altar was flanked by chapels displaying delicate pastel hues. 

San Bartolomeo was built on the remains of the original Temple of Aesclepius, and I could feel the energy of Aesclepius was still there, radiating upward from deep beneath the floor. Its glow suffused the whole building with a delicate perfumed warmth that mingled with the scents of candlewax and incense. As I walked through the church I felt this energy was strongest at a round limestone wellhead on the steps leading to the altar. Every Aesclepion temple had a medicinal spring at its center and the well was actually a part of the original pre-Christian temple, a portal down through layers of history to a more ancient spirituality. 

Would this doorway open to me? I sat on the cool marble chancel steps beside the rough granite well. Then taking a deep breath I sent a greeting to the power in the well. At first, nothing. Had I expected too much? Then a response began to build which seemed to come from deep in the earth. It was more a sense than a specific sound, a sense of something primal, as if it issued from the Earth Goddess Gaia, the first being born from the primeval chaos of creation. It was like communication from an old friend who knows your thoughts so well that words are no longer necessary. The nature of the presence felt more female than male and also felt active, distinct from the heavier overlay of modern energy. Its power was palpable. As I communed with the spirit the temperature in the church felt ten degrees warmer. The healing power of Aesclepius was all there. 

I realized I hadn't come with a healing request so I asked the presence for a blessing on my path. The presence seemed to be happy to be about its business, like a solitary sage in a cave, who had been patiently awaiting a student. As the energy from the well moved through me I felt suffused with peace and tranquility. I closed my eyes, and felt a mantle of oneness and harmony drape my shoulders. Time slowed and I was bathed in the peace that an ancient spirit was passing on to me. The tranquil iridescence seemed to remain with me for timeless minutes. 

The drama of a new religion sitting atop an older spirituality is played out often, but nowhere do you see this more graphically than in Rome, for Rome, that most Christian of cities, is also the most Pagan. But look beneath the surface and you'll find the old religion still vibrant.
When I left San Bartolomeo I was surprised to find it was already dusk, and cars were turning on their headlights as they whizzed across the Garibaldi Bridge. Isola Tiberina is an island in Rome but also an island in time, and I reluctantly left its soft gray limestone and marble interior and headed back to the twentieth century world outside. §

John Huddleston reports on travel and foreign affairs, and is Contributing Editor at Deja Vu Publishing.