This side of the Testaccio neighbourhood a lot more Roman than the Rome people talk about / Getty
Enchanting, ethereal, eternal – Rome is many things, but cheap it is not. Yet native Rory Buccheri knows a quiet, compelling (and totally free) area of the city, found in the most surprising place.
A Vespa moped roaring out of sight is the only noise rippling through the otherwise quiet cypress-laden street. Soon, I am left alone with the sound of my footsteps on crunchy gravel to accompany me through iron gates. Tucked into one of Rome’s quietest yet picturesque neighbourhoods lies the Cimitero Acattolico, Rome’s oldest non-consecrated cemetery, where poets, artists and foreign adoptees of the Eternal City have found their final resting place.
When I was 16, this was the spot I came to escape the crowds. It’s incredible, almost 15 years later, to think that this place is only a few Metro stops away from the buzz of the Colosseum.
I have always found this side of the Testaccio neighbourhood a lot more Roman than the Rome people talk about: it has those slightly rundown cafes with plastic chairs and tables outside, populated by old men on their lunch breaks smoking and laughing. They do so under the eye of the Pyramid of Gaius Cestius, which has watched over the area since 12BC.
But the star of the neighbourhood is the cemetery. The minute I cross the gates, I feel like time has stopped here. There is a coin box with a sign showing a suggested donation in lira, last used in 1999. Scribbled hastily on top is the equivalent in euros. But even then, this is not an entry ticket – and the meagre sum can’t compare to the NZ$50 or more that it takes to visit the magnificent statues and artworks that adorn the Vatican Museums and Sistine Chapel on the other side of town. Every piece of art in the cemetery is made to commemorate, and be enjoyed by, people. And the first people I want a word with are the ones who, in life, have made words their universe.
I learn from the groundskeeper that this place was formed in 1716, when Pope Clement XI granted the exiled members of the Stuart royal family permission to be buried in a dedicated space.
As Protestants could not be buried on sacred ground, a new cemetery had to be built. What was first nicknamed the “English Cemetery” was soon populated by dozens of expats of any, all or no religious affiliation.
Neatly inscribed on a tomb is the oldest date I can find: 1738. George Langton, an Oxford student on his grand tour of Europe, is the cemetery’s earliest documented grave. Sadly, he is also one of the youngest, as he died aged 22.
The people I came to visit are mostly English-born, adopted Roman citizens who met an untimely death in my native Italy. By the time I make my way towards the back of the cemetery, I wonder how many have come here for this very reason, and maybe gave up before reaching a slightly hidden tomb, lying flat on the ground and unadorned by tall marble angels, weeping in sorrow.
No pomp is given to Percy Bysshe Shelley, the poet and philosopher who died off the coast of Livorno in 1822. Instead, his tomb is decorated by a verse from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, and a simple inscription: “Cor Cordium”, Heart of Hearts. It is rumoured that when Shelley’s body was put on the funeral pyre, his heart would not burn.
Following the same narrow path, I’m treated to big, ornate monuments erected for nobility and important persons from all corners of the world. Extravagant designs and expensive Carrara marble are the custom.
August Von Goethe, son of the famous German writer; English painter Joseph Severn; and Russian painter Karl Bryullov reside here among many others. Despite the low-tech entry, the cemetery’s website has a neat database where you can research the tombs by code or name, and find out the history of the people buried here, and how they came to be eternal citizens of Rome.
I climb a set of stairs to an open space enclosed within a tall hedge. There are lots of people buried on this eastern corner, but their tombs are sun-kissed, away from the thick foliage of the main promenade. The first cluster of visitors I’ve seen all day are gathered around a headstone with no name, but with a dedication to a “Young English Poet” whose “name was writ in water”. John Keats’ tomb is one whose popularity has not waned since the 19th century, inspiring several pilgrimages every year.
But my last stop is approaching. I want to pay a visit to a neighbour of sorts. Fellow Sicilian Andrea Camilleri is one of the latest occupants to join the cemetery. The author of the 38 Inspector Montalbano thrillers died in 2019. His tombstone is simple grey marble, but filled with fresh plants and flowers.
Before the wind picks up and frost starts to settle, I start making my way out, when something bright catches my eye. The tomb of Antonio Gramsci, Italian philosopher and founding father of Italy’s Communist Party. It’s covered with dozens of red roses, ribbons and candles.
As I ready myself to leave, Gramsci’s tomb reminds me why people keep coming to this cemetery. Yes, to be surrounded by the beauty of the tombstones and the rose bushes and pines. But also to keep alive the memory of Rome’s most important citizens.
The writer travelled at their own expense.