We are now at the water spring, one of the most evocative and ancient places in the entire complex. Listen closely: even before seeing it, the water makes itself heard. Its steady flow, springing from the channel and pouring into the sarcophagus, fills the air with a fresh, continuous sound, like an ancient breath that has never ceased to pulse.
The water comes from a spring captured by underground conduits dating to the late antique period. These hidden channels collect the natural flow and guide it precisely toward two sarcophagi. The first is simpler; the second, however, is decorated with strigilation and can be dated to the 3rd century AD: its sinuous grooves seem to follow the movement of the water as it descends and settles within them. After filling these basins, the water continues on its path toward other cisterns further downstream, in a silent journey that has quenched the landscape for centuries.
Raising your gaze above the sarcophagi, to the left, you will notice traces of Roman masonry in opus incertum. These are substructural walls, built to support the slope. It is unclear whether the ancient Roman building stood uphill of the wall or further downstream, at the site where the church now stands. What is certain is that here, between stone and water, traces of different eras coexist, like overlapping chapters of the same story.
In this story, water is the thread that unites everything. It nourished the Roman building, accompanied the birth of the medieval abbey, and continues to flow under the name of Saint John the Baptist, the saint who, in the sign of water, proclaimed purification and rebirth. Listening to it pour into the sarcophagus, it is easy to imagine that this place has always been perceived as special: a threshold between nature and spirituality, between the flow of time and the quiet of contemplation.
