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Much of the action in novelist Jenny White's gripping 19th century detective story “The Abyssinian Proof” takes place in and around a village inside old İstanbul that sounds as if it must surely have been made up.
Set inside an ancient cistern dating back to the fifth century, it's a self-contained and almost absurdly quaint place in which houses peep out from amid the luxuriant foliage growing out of crumbling antique walls. Could such a place ever have existed? Well, actually it did well into the 1970s when, in “Strolling Through İstanbul,” John Freely and Hilary Sumner-Boyd described it as a “very picturesque little farm village whose housetops barely reach to the level of the surrounding streets.”
They were describing the Cistern of Aspar, a giant hole in the ground in front of the mosque of Sultan Selim I as you approach it from Fatih and Çarşamba. But what on earth was this cistern, and what role did it play in city life?
Way back in 1978, I remember being taken by a Turkish friend to visit the Yerebatan Sarnıcı (Underground Cistern) close to the Aya Sofya in Sultanahmet. At that time, it was not officially open to the public, and we stood at the edge of a dark space that seemed to stretch back into infinity, peering at the dim shapes of 336 soaring pillars topped off with elaborate Byzantine capitals; a steady sound of dripping provided the soundtrack to our visit. It was a sixth century cistern, my friend told me, although at the time that meant absolutely nothing to me. Now, of course, the Yerebatan Sarnıcı is one of the city's main attractions, kitted out with walkways, suitably evocative lighting and the haunting sound of the ney (reed flute), and always crowded with visitors who gaze in awe at the sea of columns and at the fish swimming in the water beneath them, before trekking along the walkways to inspect the upside-down head of the Gorgon Medusa adorning the base of a column at the rear. However, probably not one person in a hundred really appreciates the part that the cistern played in ensuring that first Byzantium, then Constantinople and finally İstanbul were kept supplied with water.
Most of the water had to be collected either from the Belgrade Forest or from densely wooded parts of Trakya (Thrace) beyond the city walls, and Yerebatan is just the best-known piece in a complicated jigsaw of cisterns, aqueducts, water towers and reservoirs that kept it flowing. This water supply system was surveyed by the British Leverhulme Trust between 2000 and 2005, and their report concluded that it was “one of the greatest achievements of hydraulic engineering known from antiquity,” and this in spite of the fact that large parts of it still lie unmapped in the woods of Trakya.
The most conspicuous monument to the system is the Aqueduct of Valens that straddles busy Atatürk Bulvarı as it runs up from the Golden Horn to Fatih. Dating back to 375, the aqueduct, a double-tier of arches, still runs for almost a kilometer and would originally have been attached to a network of pipes that conveyed water from beyond Edirnekapı, along the ridges of the Sixth, Fifth and Fourth Hills, then on to Beyazıt Meydanı. It continued in use right through until the 19th century, which accounts for its astonishing state of preservation.
The Aqueduct of Valens is the only such structure to survive inside the walled city, but if you head out to the Belgrade Forest, you will find several more examples, including the Eğrikemer (Crooked Aqueduct) and the Uzunkemer (Long Aqueduct), both of them designed by Mimar Sinan, the architect more famous for his beautiful mosques, during the reign of Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent. Sinan is also believed to have rebuilt the Maglova Kemeri (Maglova Aqueduct) that dated back to the time of the Emperor Justinian. Also buried in the forest are a series of beautiful historic “bends” (reservoirs) that still store water for the city.
The aqueducts left an unmissable mark on the horizon, as did the extraordinary “su terazı,” stone towers that helped drag water up gradients. One of these still stands in Sultanahmet, very close to the Milyon monument and the entrance to the Yerebatan Sarnıcı, but there are many others dotted about the city: a cluster of three, for example, in Kilyos, and another one beside the Karacaahmet Cemetery in Haydarpaşa.
Also conspicuous were the buildings used to disperse the water around each neighborhood, the most famous of these being the “taksim” (water distribution point) that gave its name to Taksim. Recently opened to the public, this consisted of the long stone building that closes off Taksim Square where water used to be stored, plus the small octagonal building nearby to which it was piped for distribution around the area. Of course, the final pieces in this network were the ubiquitous çeşmes (fountains) which can be found in every neighborhood of the old city, sometimes still with brick storage tanks attached to them. Some of the fountains were truly magnificent structures: viz., the Sultan Ahmet III Fountain that stands in front of Topkapı Palace, the Tophane Fountain, the Hekimoğlu Ali Paşa fountain at Kabataş and the Saliha Valide Hatun fountain in Azapkapı. Increasingly, the fountains are being restored to their original splendor, often by modern water-selling companies. Paired with the çeşmes were the sebils, small kiosks enclosed with grilles that were usually to be found attached to the outer wall of a mosque and from which water was dispensed to thirsty passers-by.
In contrast to the aqueducts, towers and fountains, the network of cisterns in which the water was stored kept a low profile, their very existence forgotten as the city's population contracted and the need for water reduced. Hard though it is to imagine it now, even the Yerebatan Sarnıcı was forgotten for centuries, the first Western visitor to learn of it being a 16th century Frenchman called Petrus Gyllius, who left a lyrical description of how he was taken fishing in a boat there by a man who had tunneled into it just as some unscrupulous locals dig wells beneath their city-center properties today.
The success of Yerebatan as a tourist drawcard has generated greater interest in the many other cisterns dotted about the old city. For example, the Binbirdirek Sarnıcı just off Divan Yolu, which in spite of its name (1,001 Pillars Cistern) boasts a measly 224 columns, has now been turned into an entertainment center, while the Theodosius Sarnıcı, behind what was the Eminönü Belediyesi building, is being readied to open to the public. On pretty little Söğükçeşme Sokak, which runs between Aya Sofya and the outer wall of the Topkapı Sarayı, the Sarnıç Restaurant is housed inside an ancient cistern, as is the Sultan Sarnıç restaurant in Çarşamba. Another cistern with especially lovely Byzantine capitals lurks beneath the Nakkas carpet shop in Cankurtaran.
So where does the Cistern of Aspar fit into the picture? Actually, there is some uncertainty about the part that the city's open-air cisterns played in the water distribution system. Some argue that the water collected in these vast cisterns was left open to the air to be purified. It seems far more likely, however, that they were simply large reservoirs from which water could be drawn to irrigate nearby fields. Four such cisterns are known. Called generically “çukurbostan” (sunken gardens), three of them -- the Cisterns of Aspar, Aetios and Mocius -- have now been fitted out with gardens and sports facilities. The fourth, the striking Fildamı (Elephant Stables) out in Bakırköy, stands empty.