The basilica in front of you is the largest church in the world, and to build it, they had to destroy the last one. Because there was already a Saint Peter's here — a grand basilica built by the emperor Constantine, standing for about twelve hundred years, over the actual tomb of Saint Peter. Older than most countries. And in the early fifteen-hundreds, the Pope decided it wasn't impressive enough, and ordered it torn down.
The architect who did the tearing was named Bramante, and he went at it so eagerly, knocking down ancient columns and smashing priceless early-Christian tombs, that Romans gave him a nickname. Bramante Ruinante. Bramante the Wrecker. People were genuinely horrified — this was one of the holiest buildings in Christendom, and he was reducing it to rubble to make room. The scandal was bad enough that the Vatican later added a clause to its architects' contracts requiring them to carefully preserve any tombs before demolishing anything above them.
Bramante didn't fini
sh it, of course. Nobody did, for a hundred and twenty years. The job passed from architect to architect like a cursed relay baton — Bramante, then Raphael, then a string of others, then Michelangelo, and more after him. Popes died, plans were torn up, the building was redesigned halfway through being built. And the reason they clung to this exact spot through all of it lies directly underneath. B
