From SRP author Tracy Cooper-Posey:
I have a bit of a thing for aqueducts. There, I said it.
They’re one of those quietly remarkable things that don’t get nearly enough spotlight. You never see a thriller that pivots on the majesty of a Roman aqueduct, do you? But maybe you should. Because once you understand what these ancient structures were built to do—and how long they’ve lasted—it’s hard not to gape a little.
Let me first straighten out a common confusion: aqueducts are not viaducts. They look similar—arched, elevated, stunning against a blue sky—but they are not the same creature. Aqueducts are ancient engineering masterpieces, built (mostly by the Romans) to carry water into cities and towns. Viaducts, on the other hand, came along much later, mostly during the Victorian era, and were designed to carry trains and other traffic across valleys. They’re bridges, really. Pretty ones. But not aqueducts.
Back to the water.
Roman aqueducts weren’t just pretty—they were astonishingly complex. They had to move water over dozens of miles, and they did it without pumps. Just gravity. That means the entire aqueduct had to be engineered with a continuous, gentle downslope. Sometimes, the decline was only a few centimeters over hundreds of meters. Do you know what that means? That they did the math. Two thousand years ago. With no computers. Just chalk, rudimentary surveying tools, and genius.
And here’s the kicker: many of them are still standing.
Let’s take the Pont du Gard in southern France. That one holds a special place in my heart, not just because it’s a jaw-dropper of a structure (which it is), but because I wrote a whole book—The Triumph of Felix—around it. It’s one of those places that stays with you, long after you’ve wandered away from the tourist path and into your story notes.
The Pont du Gard carried water to the Roman colony of Nemausus (modern-day Nîmes), and it did it with elegance. Three tiers of stacked arches, towering above the Gardon River, with a gradient so subtle it makes modern engineers shake their heads. It dropped only 2.5 centimeters over 456 meters. And it worked. For centuries.
The longest known aqueduct system from antiquity is the Valens Aqueduct (Aqueduct of Constantinople), which—not in its bridge form, but as an entire water supply network—reached a staggering total length of at least 426 km (roughly 265 miles) by around the 5th century AD. That makes it the longest ancient aqueduct system on record. It started with conduits fed from springs some 60 km away, later expanded to about 120 km out.
And then there’s Nerja, over in Spain.
The Acueducto del Águila (Eagle Aqueduct) isn’t Roman. It was built in the Victorian era, around the 1880s. But—and here’s the cool part—it still works. It still carries water. Not for a bustling Roman bathhouse, but for irrigation, which is no less vital in sun-drenched Andalusia. This one isn’t just a relic—it’s functional. It’s gorgeous, too, with four tiers and a bright red hue that catches the sun in all the right ways.
You’d think aqueducts would be a strictly European thing, but you’d be wrong. The Romans, being the global go-getters of their time, built aqueducts wherever they went. You’ll find remnants across Europe, yes, but also in North Africa, parts of the Middle East, even Türkiye. Basically, anywhere the Empire stretched, they brought water—and the means to move it.
Fun fact: the Segovia aqueduct in Spain was built entirely without mortar. It’s just 25,000 granite blocks, stacked dry, standing tall for nearly two thousand years. Try doing that with IKEA furniture.
Here’s another: the Eifel Aqueduct, in what is now Germany, was mostly underground and stretched 95 kilometers to bring fresh water to ancient Cologne. That’s nearly sixty miles of subterranean water highway. Still gravity-fed. Still genius.
I think what captivates me most is this: aqueducts are the perfect intersection of beauty and practicality. They’re not just pretty ruins. They were critical infrastructure. They made cities possible. They enabled sanitation, public fountains, and that all-important Roman bath.
They were—and are—quietly brilliant.
So yes, I have a thing for aqueducts. And while I’ve never had the luck to stand under one myself (not yet, anyway), every time I see one in a photo or a documentary, I can’t help but think, “Well done, lads.”
Because really, damn.
