Nestled in the heart of Rome's most beloved public park, the Borghese Gallery is one of the world's great collections of painting and sculpture.
There are museums whose greatness lies in scale, and others whose greatness lies in concentration. The Borghese Gallery belongs firmly to the second category. Within the rooms of this seventeenth-century villa is gathered an astonishing density of masterpieces: Bernini sculptures that seem to breathe and move, Caravaggios vibrating with psychological tension, luminous Renaissance paintings, and ancient marbles collected at the height of Rome’s aristocratic age.
The collection is indelibly associated with Cardinal Scipione Borghese, nephew of Pope Paul V and perhaps the most voracious art collector of the 17th century, who assembled it through a combination of connoisseurship, financial muscle, and outright intimidation.
You might question Scipione’s methods, but never question his taste. What he assembled is a greatest hits of Italian art — from ancient Rome to the Baroque — housed in a luxurious villa designed as much to display art as to inhabit. The following are ten unmissable highlights of the Borghese gallery.
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But first a little about Scipione Borghese himself. Appointed cardinal in his twenties after his uncle’s election to the papacy, Scipione possessed immense wealth, political influence, and — more importantly — an almost insatiable appetite for art.
Rome at the beginning of the seventeenth century was a city overflowing with newly excavated antiquities, ambitious painters, and aristocratic competition. Collecting became a form of political theatre, a demonstration of magnificence and cultural authority.
Scipione played the game more aggressively than almost anyone else. He recognised the genius of the young Gian Lorenzo Bernini early and commissioned the marble groups that still dominate the gallery’s ground floor. He also assembled one of the greatest collections of Caravaggio ever formed, acquiring works that traced the painter’s career from youthful experimentation to dark spiritual intensity.
Not every acquisition was entirely voluntary. Scipione’s agents famously removed Raphael’s Deposition from a convent in Perugia under papal pressure; Domenichino was briefly imprisoned after resisting the seizure of one of his paintings; other artists discovered that refusing the cardinal was rarely wise. Yet alongside this ruthlessness was genuine connoisseurship. Scipione possessed an unusually sharp eye for innovation and artistic brilliance, and many of the artists he championed would come to define the age.
The villa itself formed part of the spectacle. Built on the edge of Rome amid gardens, vineyards and hunting grounds, it was conceived not as a private residence in the ordinary sense, but as a setting for display, entertainment and cultivated retreat. Ancient sculptures, illusionistic ceilings, rare marbles and modern masterpieces were arranged together to overwhelm visitors with the sophistication and prestige of the Borghese family.
Four centuries later, remarkably little of that atmosphere has been lost. The Borghese Gallery remains one of the few places in the world where you can still experience great Baroque collecting almost as its original visitors did: as a carefully staged encounter with beauty, power and ambition.
Before you reach the paintings and sculptures, you walk across history. The first thing that greets visitors in the entrance hall of the Borghese Gallery is a vast, polychrome mosaic laid across the floor, and it deserves far more attention than most visitors give it in their rush towards Bernini.
Discovered in 1834 during excavations on the Borghese family’s estate at Torrenova, along the Via Casilina on the outskirts of Rome, this extraordinary mosaic dates to the early 4th century AD, and originally decorated the floor of a cryptoporticus in a large Roman suburban villa.
It was removed and installed in the entrance hall of the Borghese villa in the 19th century as part of a renovation, where it has remained ever since. The mosaic is approximately 28 metres in total length, divided into panels, and depicts two categories of spectacle that were central to Roman public life: gladiatorial combat (munera) and animal hunts (venationes).
What makes this mosaic truly exceptional is its specificity. Each fighter is named. The letters beside the fallen figures include the Greek letter theta, used as an abbreviation for thanatos (death), telling us their fate.
We know the names of the individual combatants: Talamonius defeats Aurius in one panel; Cupido is killed by the secutor Bellefrons in another; the hoplomachus Pampineus stands victorious and heavily armed.
These are not anonymous types representing Roman ferocity in the abstract — they are individuals who lived, fought and in some cases died in the arena. The mosaic is one of the most historically specific and humanly vivid documents of gladiatorial culture to survive from antiquity.
The hunting panels alongside them are spectacular in their own right: panthers, deer, ostriches and other animals are depicted in combat with hunters, and the naturalistic energy of the animals is remarkable.
One of the gallery’s most famous and most mischievous works offers a famous double-take. Viewed from the rear, this ancient marble statue appears to represent a nude woman lying face-down in the depths of sleep, with the softly modelled curves of her sleeping form rendered with extraordinary sensuous refinement.
Walk around to the front, however, and you will find a little surprise: the figure is simultaneously male and female.
In classical mythology, Hermaphroditus — as his name indicates — was the son of Hermes and Aphrodite. A handsome youth, he attracted the passionate attention of a water nymph named Salmacis, who fell so deeply in love that she prayed to the gods that the two would never be separated. Her wish was granted, perhaps not quite as she had envisaged it: the gods fused their two bodies into a single androgynous form.
The statue in the Borghese Gallery is a Roman-era copy — made probably in the 1st or 2nd century AD — of a lost Greek original, likely cast in bronze. The Romans loved this subject: over a dozen copies are known to survive, in collections ranging from the Uffizi in Florence and the Hermitage to the Louvre and the Palazzo Massimo in Rome, a testament to how widely the sensuous allure of the original image was felt across the ancient world.
The history of the Borghese example contains another twist. The most famous Sleeping Hermaphroditus associated with the Borghese family was not in fact this one, but another ancient version discovered in Rome in the early seventeenth century and acquired by Cardinal Scipione Borghese.
In 1620, Scipione commissioned the young Gian Lorenzo Bernini to carve the astonishingly lifelike marble mattress on which the figure reclined — a virtuoso illusion in stone so persuasive that visitors reportedly reached out to touch it.
That celebrated sculpture remained one of the marvels of the Villa Borghese until 1807, when Prince Camillo Borghese sold much of the family’s antiquities collection to Napoleon. The Bernini-mounted Hermaphroditus was taken to Paris and is today in the Louvre.
The sculpture now displayed in the gallery took its place in the nineteenth century. It too reclines on an illusionistic mattress and cushion, added in the eighteenth century by the sculptor Andrea Bergondi in conscious homage to Bernini’s famous original. The result preserves something of the theatrical surprise and sensual ambiguity that made the Borghese Hermaphrodite one of the most admired sculptures in Europe.
Few sculptures in the Borghese Gallery capture so perfectly the mixture of beauty, power, scandal and performance that animated Napoleonic Europe as Antonio Canova’s Paolina Borghese as Venus Victrix.
Executed between 1804 and 1808, the work portrays Paolina Bonaparte — Napoleon’s youngest sister, celebrated across Europe for her beauty, wit and fiercely independent spirit — reclining bare-breasted on an elegant couch, an apple resting lightly in her hand.
The apple identifies her as Venus Victrix, the victorious Venus of the Judgement of Paris, though Paolina herself seems scarcely in need of divine endorsement. Her gaze carries the cool assurance of someone entirely conscious of the effect she produces.
Paolina had married Prince Camillo Borghese in 1803, after the death of her first husband, but the match appears to have done little to tame her famously unconventional character. Throughout Europe, gossip circulated endlessly about her love affairs, extravagance and refusal to conform to the expectations placed upon the sister of an emperor and the wife of a Roman prince.
When Camillo commissioned Canova to sculpt his new wife, he is said to have initially envisioned her as Diana, the chaste goddess of the hunt. According to later accounts, Paolina laughed at the idea, remarking that nobody would believe her a virgin, and insisted instead on appearing as Venus, goddess of love.
When later asked how she could have posed in such a state of undress, legend recounts her responding with one of the great deadpan responses in the history of art: “Canova had a stove in his studio.”
Whether embroidered by legend or not, the stories capture something essential about the sculpture itself. This was not an anonymous classical beauty or an idealised mythological figure, but a living aristocratic woman, unmistakably recognisable as herself, presented with provocative sensuality in the heart of papal Rome. The audacity of the image caused an immediate sensation.
Though shown to select visitors, the sculpture was not widely displayed in the years following its completion. Yet its notoriety only amplified its fame. Technically, it remains one of Canova’s supreme achievements. The marble possesses an extraordinary softness and luminosity, enhanced by the delicately tinted wax finish Canova applied to the surface to imitate living flesh.
The couch originally revolved mechanically, allowing candlelit viewers to admire the figure slowly from every angle — an almost theatrical staging of beauty, desire and celebrity.
More than two centuries later, Paolina still appears entirely at ease with the attention.
If you see one sculpture in Rome, it should be this one. Bernini completed Apollo and Daphne in 1625, when he was around 27 years old, and it remains perhaps the most astonishing demonstration of what can be done with marble ever carved. Stand in front of it for five minutes and you will still be finding new details.
The subject comes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Cupid, stung by Apollo’s mockery of his little bow and arrows, takes revenge by shooting Apollo with a gold-tipped arrow that inflames him with love for the wood nymph Daphne — and simultaneously shooting Daphne with a lead-tipped arrow that makes her incapable of returning it.
Driven desperate by desire, Apollo chases her through the forest. At the very moment he catches her, she escapes by being transformed into a laurel tree.
It is precisely that moment — the last possible second before transformation is complete — that Bernini chose to capture. And he captures it with a fidelity to Ovid’s text so precise that you can read the poem and the statue against each other almost line by line: her hair becoming leaves, her arms rising into branches, her feet rooting into the earth.
The bark creeps up from below her, and at her outstretched fingertips the foliage bursts from what was flesh. The carving of those fingertip leaves — lace-thin marble, impossibly delicate — remains the single most audacious piece of stonework in the western tradition.
Bernini also found a way to animate his sculpture in a temporal sense. If you circle around it — as you must — you begin from Apollo’s perspective, seeing only a woman in flight, and only as you round the composition does the transformation reveal itself progressively, the bark rising higher and higher until the figure is almost entirely consumed.
In a medium usually condemned to a single, frozen view, Bernini made a moving picture.
Apollo and Daphne is just the beginning of the Bernini masterpieces on show in the Borghese Gallery. For a complete guide, follow the link below:
The Borghese Gallery holds more paintings by Caravaggio than any other museum in the world — six in total, spanning the full arc of his career from the early works he made when he first arrived in Rome as an unknown painter from the provinces, to the final, most psychologically complex canvases of his last years.
The cardinal acquired them through a combination of genuine admiration, deep pockets and, where necessary, the willingness to use papal leverage on artists or collectors who preferred to keep what they had.
Of all six, the most personally charged — and perhaps the most haunting — is David with the Head of Goliath, painted around 1609–1610 and probably among the last works Caravaggio completed before his death. By this point the artist was in desperate circumstances.
Three years earlier, in Rome in 1606, he had killed a man in a street brawl and fled the city with a death sentence on his head. He had been in exile ever since — in Naples, Malta, Sicily, back to Naples — producing extraordinary paintings while remaining a fugitive, hoping for a papal pardon that always seemed just out of reach.
The painting has all the signatures of Caravaggio’s late style: the intensely dark background, the brutal contrast of light and shadow, the refusal of any idealisation. David holds up the severed head of Goliath by the hair, almost offering it to the viewer to inspect.
Unlike Michelangelo’s famous marble David, poised for action, Caravaggio’s is in the aftermath: the killing is done, and the young man’s expression is not triumph but something closer to sorrow.
He looks at the head with something that might be pity — or might be recognition. Because the face on the head of Goliath is Caravaggio’s own. It is a self-portrait, and it reads unmistakably as a plea: here is my head, already severed, already condemned. Have mercy.
Whether the painting was sent to Cardinal Scipione as a direct appeal for intercession with the pope, or simply reflects the existential condition of a man who had lived for years under a death sentence, no one can say with certainty.
What is certain is that the papal pardon eventually did come — and that Caravaggio died anyway, in July 1610, on a beach in Porto Ercole, of a fever, before he could reach Rome to receive it.
The most dramatic backstory of any work in the collection belongs to this monumental painting of 1507, which is also one of the supreme paintings of the Italian High Renaissance.
The Deposition, also known as the Pala Baglioni or the Borghese Entombment, was commissioned in 1504 by Atalanta Baglioni of Perugia as an altarpiece for her family chapel.
It was a memorial as much as a commission: not long before, her son Grifonetto had been killed in a brutal factional massacre for which he himself bore partial responsibility, cut down before she could shelter him.
The young bearer at the right of the composition, his hair lifting in a breeze, his tunic of deep red, is widely believed to be a portrait of Grifonetto himself — grief turned into narrative, and narrative turned into paint.
Raphael was twenty years old when he received the commission, and he spent two extraordinary years preparing it, producing more than a dozen surviving preparatory drawings as the composition evolved from a static Pietà in the manner of his teacher Perugino into something far more dynamic and ambitious.
His studies show him working through the lessons of both Michelangelo and ancient Roman sarcophagus reliefs, transforming a received devotional format into a scene of almost unbearable emotional energy.
Two bearers carry the dead Christ on a length of linen between them; his body forms a great diagonal of weight and stillness that cuts through the composition; behind them the Virgin is collapsing, her own body echoing her son’s; Mary Magdalene cradles Christ’s hand with aching tenderness. Vasari, who saw the painting in its original setting, wrote that it seemed “only just painted” — still breathing.
The altarpiece hung in Perugia for over a century. Then, on the night of 18–19 March 1608, with the complicity of the friars of its church, it was lowered from the city walls in the darkness and carried off to Rome, seized on the authority of Pope Paul V for the collection of his nephew Scipione.
The city of Perugia protested vigorously; the pope sent them two copies by other artists by way of consolation. The original has been in Rome ever since, with one interruption: Napoleon confiscated it in 1797, displayed it in the Louvre, and it was returned in 1815. The predella, however, was not returned to the Borghese, and today you can find it in the Vatican Museums.
This luminous early masterpiece by Titian has been the subject of scholarly debate since it was painted, around 1514. The central puzzle is also the picture’s most immediate charm: which of the two female figures represents Sacred Love and which Profane?
The conventional expectation would make the nude figure — sensual, warm, her bare shoulder turned towards the viewer — the embodiment of earthly, physical desire. But she holds a burning lamp, a symbol of divine fire and heavenly light.
Her clothed companion, meanwhile, whose dress and demeanour suggest propriety and decorum, holds a vessel of flowers and rests her hand on a Roman sarcophagus, the significance of which remains disputed. A Cupid stirs the water in the sarcophagus’s basin; rabbits scatter across the middle ground; a hunting scene plays out in the far distance.
Titian painted this picture for a Venetian nobleman, and scholars have argued for decades over its programme. The most elegant reading suggests that the contrast between the two figures is not a simple opposition of sacred and profane at all, but a Neoplatonic meditation on two forms of love: celestial Venus, who inspires the soul towards divine beauty, and earthly Venus, who presides over the generation of natural life.
On this reading, neither figure is debased — they are complementary aspects of a single cosmic force. Others have proposed that the painting relates to a specific betrothal, or to iconographic programmes drawn from ancient sarcophagi and classical poetry.
The title we use today is not Titian’s own. It was not recorded until a century after his death, in 1693, and may be a complete red herring. Titian himself probably never gave it a title at all.
Whatever the programme, Sacred and Profane Love is unmistakably the work of a supreme colourist at the beginning of his long mastery: the shimmering quality of the evening light, the warm flesh tones, the gorgeous complexity of the drapery, the soft recession of the landscape behind — these are the marks of a painter already in full possession of his powers at around twenty-five years of age.
In a gallery filled with swaggering Bernini marbles and dramatic Caravaggios, Correggio’s Danaë offers up different pleasures. Quietly radiant, intimate rather than theatrical, it unfolds not through violence or spectacle but through atmosphere: warm flesh tones, dissolving light, and an eroticism so refined that it seems to hover somewhere between dream and myth.
Correggio, the great master of the Parma school, occupies a curious position in Italian art history: enormously admired in his own lifetime, somewhat eclipsed in the nineteenth century, and now once again recognised as one of the most innovative painters of the High Renaissance. His soft sfumato modelling, atmospheric light, and illusionistic treatment of space would exert a profound influence on later painters, from Annibale Carracci to Guido Reni and the Baroque tradition beyond.
The Danaë was painted for Federico II Gonzaga, Duke of Mantua, as part of Correggio’s celebrated series depicting the loves of Jupiter — alongside Jupiter and Io, Ganymede Abducted by the Eagle, and Leda and the Swan.
The subject derives from classical mythology: Danaë, daughter of King Acrisius of Argos, was imprisoned after a prophecy foretold that her future son would kill his grandfather. Jupiter nevertheless reached her in the form of a shower of golden rain.
Correggio captures the precise moment of the god’s descent. Danaë reclines on her bed, smiling faintly as she lifts the white sheet from her body. The gesture is both graceful and unmistakably erotic.
Beside her, Cupid helps draw back the drapery, his gesture directing the viewer’s eye towards Danaë’s womb, while two small putti at the foot of the bed test arrows on a touchstone — distinguishing golden arrows that inspire love from leaden ones that repel it, a motif drawn from classical poetry. Above, the golden cloud of Jupiter already begins to gather.
Everything in the painting conspires toward sensuality: the warmth of the flesh tones, the softness of the modelling, the delicate diffusion of light. More than one critic has described it as among the most erotic paintings of the Renaissance.
When the canvas eventually arrived in Rome in 1827 — purchased in Paris by Prince Camillo Borghese — it reportedly entered the Papal States under a false attribution to avoid customs duties. Once installed in the gallery, a green curtain was devised to shield the painting from sensitive viewers unsettled by its frank sensuality.
Today, thankfully, it hangs uncurtained, and you can admire it in its full glory.
Few paintings in the Borghese Gallery reveal Cardinal Scipione Borghese’s obsessive collecting instincts more vividly than Domenichino’s Hunt of Diana. The luminous canvas was so coveted by the cardinal that he had it seized by force — an act of artistic piracy that became almost as famous as the painting itself.
Domenico Zampieri, known as Domenichino, was among the leading painters of the Bolognese school, shaped by the classicising ideals of Annibale Carracci and consciously opposed to the harsher naturalism associated with Caravaggio.
In 1617 he completed The Hunt of Diana, a luminous mythological canvas commissioned for the villa of Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini at Frascati — unfortunately for Domenichino, one of the Borghese family’s chief rivals.
When Scipione saw the finished work and determined that he wanted it, he did not attempt a polite negotiation. Instead, Domenichino’s studio was raided, the painting seized, and the artist briefly imprisoned. Though Scipione eventually paid him 150 scudi for this work and another, contemporaries regarded the sum as insultingly low.
The painting itself more than justifies the cardinal’s obsession. Domenichino depicts Diana, goddess of the hunt, surrounded by her nymphs in an idyllic Arcadian landscape suffused with warm evening light. Some prepare bows, others restrain elegant greyhounds, while Diana herself presides over an archery contest.
The subject was inspired by a passage in Virgil’s Aeneid, adapted by Domenichino’s learned adviser Giovanni Battista Agucchi into this refined mythological scene.
At first glance, the composition appears serenely harmonious, almost pastoral in mood. Yet Domenichino introduces a subtle note of unease. Half-hidden in the undergrowth at the far right, two male figures spy upon Diana’s company, and one of the nymphs has just caught sight of them.
The reference is to the myth of Actaeon, the hunter who accidentally witnessed Diana bathing and was punished by being transformed into a stag before being torn apart by his own hounds. Domenichino does not depict the violence itself. Instead, he allows the threat to hover quietly at the edge of the composition, lending the painting an undercurrent of tension beneath its classical calm.
Dominating the Salone of the Borghese Gallery is one of the strangest and most theatrical sculptures in the villa: a horse and rider suspended in a moment of violent forward motion, poised forever on the brink of catastrophe. The subject is Marcus Curtius, the legendary young Roman who, according to ancient tradition, sacrificed himself to save the Republic.
The story was told most famously by Livy. In 362 BC, after an earthquake, a vast chasm supposedly opened in the Roman Forum. The Romans attempted desperately to fill it, but nothing worked.
Finally the augurs declared that the gods demanded Rome’s greatest possession as an offering. While the city debated what that might mean, a young soldier named Marcus Curtius declared that Rome’s true strength lay not in gold or monuments, but in the courage and arms of its citizens. Mounting his horse in full armour, he rode directly into the abyss. The earth immediately closed over him, and Rome was saved.
The site where the miracle supposedly occurred — the Lacus Curtius in the Roman Forum — remained visible for centuries, a physical reminder of the story of patriotic self-sacrifice that Roman writers held up as an ideal of civic virtue.
The sculpture itself is a fascinating hybrid of antiquity and Baroque restoration. The rearing horse is an ancient Roman marble, probably dating from the early Imperial period. Around 1617, Pietro Bernini — father of Gian Lorenzo Bernini — was commissioned by Cardinal Scipione Borghese to restore and complete the fragment by carving the figure of Marcus Curtius and integrating rider and horse into a unified dramatic composition.
Pietro Bernini was one of the leading sculptors working in Rome in the years before his son eclipsed him, and this work reveals a transitional moment in Roman art. The muscular energy of the horse still belongs partly to the world of antique sculpture and late Mannerism, yet the plunging movement and psychological immediacy already anticipate the full theatrical dynamism of the Baroque.
By lowering the angle of the horse and thrusting the rider forward into space, Pietro creates the illusion that horse and rider are genuinely hurling themselves into the depths below.
The choice of subject was probably not accidental. In 1606, Cardinal Scipione Borghese had earned widespread praise for assisting victims during the catastrophic flooding of the Tiber, and contemporaries appear to have drawn flattering parallels between the cardinal’s public generosity and the self-sacrifice of Marcus Curtius.
Like so much in the Borghese collection, the sculpture functioned not merely as decoration but as political theatre — a way of associating the Borghese name with the heroic virtues of ancient Rome.
Tickets and Reservations
Access to the Borghese Gallery is strictly controlled, enforcing a hard cap on visitor numbers at any one time. Visits take place in timed two-hour sessions; when the session ends, the gallery is completely cleared before the next group enters. You will never feel crushed or hurried in front of a painting here.
For this reason, advance booking is not just advisable but essentially essential. The Borghese Gallery regularly sells out weeks in advance during peak season (spring and summer), and same-day tickets are almost never available even in mid-winter. The earlier you book the better.
You can book tickets directly through the official Borghese Gallery website at galleriaborghese.beniculturali.it. An audio guide is available for hire at the museum. A compulsory cloakroom deposit is required for all bags — the wait to deposit and collect can be significant, so arriving light is recommended.
The most convenient option for visitors is to book a guided tour: we handle all ticketing and reservations, and our guides will make sure that your two hours are used to their absolute maximum, steering you through the collection with the kind of contextual depth that transforms a beautiful museum visit into a genuine encounter with art history.
Getting There
The gallery is located within the Villa Borghese park on the Pincian Hill. The most scenic approach is to walk: take Metro A to Flaminio station, just north of Piazza del Popolo, and follow the well-signposted path through the park for approximately 20 minutes. This is the recommended approach, particularly in good weather — the park itself is beautiful and the walk is an enjoyable prelude to the visit.
Alternatively, Tram 3 stops nearby on Viale delle Belle Arti, and bus routes 52, 53 and 910 pass close to the gallery entrance.
Is booking in advance really necessary for the Borghese Gallery?
Yes. The gallery operates a strict cap on visitor numbers and fills up weeks in advance during spring and summer. Book as early as possible, ideally when you first confirm your Rome travel dates.
How much time do I have inside?
Visits are two hours long. The gallery is cleared between sessions, and the time limit is firmly enforced. For most visitors, two hours is enough to see the highlights in some depth; for real art enthusiasts, it will feel brief.
How much do tickets cost?
The standard entry fee is €16 per person, plus a mandatory booking fee for online purchase of €2 for a total of €18. Guided tours, audio guides, and reduced tickets for EU citizens aged 18–25 are available at varying prices.
Is photography allowed inside?
Yes you can take photographs for private use in the Borghese Gallery, but flash is prohibited.
Can I visit the Borghese Gallery with children?
Absolutely. Children are welcome and there is no minimum age. The collection is well suited to children with even a passing interest in stories and legends — the Bernini sculptures in particular are vivid and immediately comprehensible as narrative. Some works in the collection depict nudity, though this is in the context of classical art.
Is the gallery accessible?
Yes. The Borghese Gallery is fully wheelchair accessible, with a lift serving all floors and level access throughout.
Can I visit the Villa Borghese park at the same time?
The park surrounding the gallery is a large, free public park open at all times — entry to the park does not require a ticket or reservation. It is a beautiful space in its own right and makes for an excellent extension to a gallery visit: there is a boating lake, a number of follies and monuments, and a pleasant café with terrace seating.
What are the opening hours?
The Borghese Gallery is open Tuesday through Sunday, 9am to 7pm. It is closed on Mondays. The gallery is also closed on 1 January, 1 May, and 25 December.
Visit the Borghese Gallery and Baroque Rome
