The Hidden Waters

One thing you should know about Siena is that everything is connected.

The city is built upon hills, and its streets rarely obey a straight line. A path may rise, descend, divide, disappear beneath an arch, and return somewhere you had already passed. Two people can begin in the same place, take different roads, and arrive at the same piazza from opposite directions.

Though the Piazza del Campo stood somewhere above us, Clay and I chose a path that descended.

We assumed it would eventually climb again.

For several minutes, the city grew quieter. The singing from Saint Catherine’s chapel faded behind us. The lamps became sparse, and the air cooled as the walls rose higher on either side.

Then we heard water.

Not the thin trickle of a street fountain, but a steady rushing current.

Clay stopped.

“Is there a river beneath the city?”

“Not that I know of.”

The sound grew louder as we descended. Around the next corner, a narrow stream appeared, running through channels carved into the stone beneath our feet.

We followed it.

The path opened suddenly, and there before us stood a great reservoir built into the side of the hill.

“Alas!” I exclaimed.

Clay laughed at me, but it was the only word that seemed appropriate.

The structure resembled less a fountain than a buried palace of water. Three broad arches opened beneath the weight of the city. Beyond them lay a long, dark basin, perhaps thirty feet from end to end, its surface glowing blue beneath the night sky.

Rose-colored fish moved slowly through the water.

The spring flowed from somewhere within the stone, clear and constant, as though the hill itself had begun to breathe.

We approached the edge.

“What is this place?” Clay whispered.

Neither of us knew.

We had expected a small fountain hidden at the bottom of a stairway. Instead, we had found an ancient reservoir large enough to sustain a neighborhood.

The water entered silently from a source we could not see, filled the basin, and escaped again through channels that carried it into the city.

Even the plumbing is magnificent here, I thought.

Only later did I learn its name.

Fontebranda.

It was one of Siena’s oldest and greatest founts, fed by underground channels carved through the earth long before modern pipes reached the city. For centuries, its waters had served households, craftsmen, animals, and travelers. It had sustained life without asking to be admired.

By day, perhaps, it would have appeared simply old.

At night, beneath the arches and stars, it seemed eternal.

The air around it was almost cold. After the heat of the day, the chill passed through my shirt and raised the hairs on my arms.

Clay and I stood there in silence.

The Piazza del Campo was the visible heart of Siena, the place where people gathered and the city revealed itself. But Fontebranda seemed to belong to another part of the body.

It was hidden beneath everything.

A buried organ.

An unseen source from which life continued to flow.

At nineteen, I did not yet know why that image moved me. I only knew that I wanted to remain there.

But the Maiden’s Fountain was still ahead.

If this was not the most beautiful fountain in Siena, then what could possibly be waiting for us?

A cool wind passed through the arches and moved toward the rising road.

We followed it.

The climb from Fontebranda was steep. Clay leaned forward as he walked, and his steps grew slower. I kept pace beside him, pretending not to notice how heavily we were both breathing.

As we ascended, the city gradually returned.

First came the lamps.

Then footsteps.

Then distant voices, music, and the clatter of plates being cleared from tables.

The streets widened just enough for two people to walk side by side. From the walls above us extended curved iron lampposts painted in the colors of the contrade. I had noticed them earlier that day, but at night they seemed to serve another purpose.

They marked our passage through the city.

Near Saint Catherine’s house and Fontebranda, the lamps bore the green, white, and red of the Oca—the Goose.

Farther on came green, orange, and white.

“The Rhinoceros,” I said.

Clay looked at me.

“Rhinoceros?”

“I think so.”

I was wrong. It was the Selva—the Forest.

But at the time, every painted animal, tree, and creature seemed possible in Siena.

Then came the red and black lamps trimmed in white, marking the Contrada della Civetta—the Owl.

Each neighborhood seemed like a small country contained within the city. Its people shared a church, a fountain, a museum, a history, colors, songs, victories, defeats, and obligations to one another.

The streets changed, but the city remained whole.

At last, the narrow passage opened.

We emerged into the Piazza del Campo.

The sight surprised me for the second time that day.

After the compressed stone streets, the piazza felt immense. It spread before us like an open hand, descending toward the Palazzo Pubblico and the Torre del Mangia. The buildings curved around it in a great ring, their windows glowing above restaurants and crowded terraces.

Music played from somewhere near the center.

Couples walked hand in hand.

Children ran across the brick pavement, shouting as their parents watched from café tables.

It was late on a Sunday night, yet no one appeared concerned that Monday was approaching.

No one hurried.

No one looked at a watch.

The person before them and the place around them seemed to be enough.

I stood at the edge of the piazza and breathed it in.

Why can’t we all live like this? I wondered.

The thought came quickly and without sophistication. I did not yet know what I meant by it. I only felt that life there moved according to a rhythm I recognized but had somehow never experienced.

A rhythm of meals, walking, conversation, prayer, place, and belonging.

Then I remembered why we had come.

I replayed Signora Bandinelli’s directions.

Cross the piazza.

Take the street beside the entrance to the Onda.

Follow it almost to the Tartuca.

I pointed toward the far side.

“Over there.”

We crossed the square beneath the tower and entered another narrow street.

Behind us, the music continued.

Ahead, the lamps grew dim again.

The fountain was close.