In a development that has sent shockwaves through the classical world and given heritage enthusiasts something to actually clap about, Italian restorers have successfully pieced back together a 2,000-year-old bull mosaic after a tourist – presumably one of those ghastly creatures who treat history like a buffet – decided to test its structural integrity with his or her clumsy feet. The mosaic, which once adorned a Roman villa in the shadow of Vesuvius, now stands restored, its bull glaring at passers-by with the same disdain I reserve for airline gins that don't measure up to a proper London dry.
UK heritage experts, the sort of people who wear tweed and tut at anything more modern than a steam engine, have applauded the restoration with the kind of earnest approval usually reserved for a particularly sturdy Tudor beam. "This is a triumph," declared one bespectacled gherkin from the National Trust, probably while adjusting his cravat. "The Italians have demonstrated that even the most shattered artefact can be reborn, provided you have the patience of a saint and the budget of a small principality."
Of course, let us not ignore the elephant in the amphitheatre. The tourist who cracked the mosaic in the first place is still at large, a phantom menace stalking the corridors of history, armed with nothing but ignorance and a reckless disregard for ancient stonework. One can only imagine the scene: a stressed German with a selfie stick, perhaps, or an American demanding to know why the bull doesn't have a horn emoji. The irony is that this same barbarian might next week be photographed eating a Panini in a museum café, oblivious to the havoc they've wrought.
Meanwhile, back in Blighty, our own heritage sites continue to crumble under the weight of austerity and the occasional wayward football fan urinating on a war memorial. While Italy restores its mosaics, we are busy trying to find someone to repair the potholes in the Roman roads. The experts' applause, I suspect, is less about the mosaic and more about projecting a desperate hope that we might one day reclaim a shred of our own alleged civilisation.
But let us raise a glass to the restorers. These unsung heroes, armed with tiny trowels and infinite patience, have performed a miracle worthy of a Vatican miracle. They have taken the shattered pieces – fragments of a bull that once charged through the atrium of a Roman merchant – and made it whole again. It is a metaphor, if you like, for what we might achieve if only we could stop breaking things long enough to glue them back together.
As for the tourist, may he be haunted by the spectre of that bull, its mosaic eyes following him through every airport lounge and tourist trap. And may the rest of us learn that history is not a playground, but a sacred trust. Or at least something you shouldn't stand on.
