One of the Roman exhibits at the National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina is this limestone funerary monument, discovered at Borčani near modern Tomislavgrad. It dates from around AD 130 to 170, when the area formed part of the Roman province of Dalmatia. I take photos of every gravestone in churchyards from before 1800, so I couldn’t find a reason not to take a photo of this and witter on about it.
The inscription begins with the letters D M, an abbreviation of Dis Manibus, meaning “to the spirits of the dead”. It records that Publius Aelius Varro dedicated the monument to his mother Dasto and his sister Paiio. Publius does not tell us what his mother or sister were like, unfortunately, although even the Romans presumably recognised that there was only so much room available on the stone. He simply states that it was erected as a token of affection and, in fairness, it’s lasted remarkably well.
Without being morbid, I don’t want a gravestone. My friend Liam will instead be busy scattering me around the world in a list of locations that I regularly update, requiring him to undertake an extensive international tour which I hope he doesn’t moan about. But if I did had a gravestone, I’d be very pleased if it survived for nearly 2,000 years. I hope he realises that even death will apparently not release Liam from the administrative burden of being my friend……
Among the exhibits in the natural history galleries of the National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina was this lion, although it appeared to have been assembled by someone working from a description supplied over the telephone. The elongated face, wide eyes and unexpectedly modest mane gave it less the commanding presence of the king of the beasts and more the expression of a slightly startled dog that had just heard someone opening a packet of biscuits.
Taxidermy is an unforgiving business, particularly when the finished specimen is expected to represent an animal normally associated with strength and dignity for decades to come. This lion may not communicate quite the intended degree of menace, but it was certainly memorable and quickly became one of my favourite exhibits. There is something rather endearing about a museum lion that looks as surprised to be there as the visitors are to find it.
This photograph will also be a useful addition to my collection of Artichoke Hearts bar billiards memes, particularly for those occasions when Luke the Lion performs rather more like Luke the Mildly Alarmed Labrador.
This fragment of stone in the National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina came from the base of an honorary monument discovered at Tasovčići, near Čapljina in southern Bosnia and Herzegovina. It was erected to celebrate Octavian’s victory over Sextus Pompey in Sicily in 36 BC, although that perhaps rather understates the amount of fighting involved. I got rather muddled up with all these Caesars, but Octavian styled himself Imperator Caesar Divi Filius, meaning something like “Commander Caesar, son of the divine one”. The divine one was Julius Caesar, who had adopted Octavian as his son and heir and was officially declared a god after his death. Rather nice really.
The monument was erected by two brothers, Gaius Papius Celsus and Marcus Papius Canus. Researchers believe that they were probably merchants associated with nearby Narona, an important Roman settlement and trading centre on the River Neretva. Publicly honouring Octavian may have expressed gratitude or political loyalty, although it probably did the brothers no harm to advertise that they had supported the emerging winner. Some things never change.
Only part of the inscription survives, but there is still enough to preserve the names of the brothers and the ruler they wanted to impress. Octavian would go on to become one of the most famous people in history, while the Papius brothers are remembered largely because they paid for what was effectively a very durable press release.
As for why I stared at this for far too long, I liked the thought that it was erected more than 2,000 years ago, survived everything that followed and is now safely displayed in a museum. Admittedly, a few pieces have fallen off, but after that length of time it is entitled to have developed some minor structural concerns.
I don’t like snakes. It’s nothing personal, it’s just that they seem very scary to me, so I do my best to stay well away from them. Unless they’re in zoos or dead ones in museums, then I’m quite intrigued by them. The National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina had quite a collection of them, so, for the sake of completeness, I thought that I’d take a photo of them all.
Here are a couple of grass snakes playing. Grass snakes are strong swimmers and the name of their genus, Natrix, comes from the Latin for a water snake, probably influenced by the word natare, meaning to swim so this means that even entering the water is no guarantee of escaping them, which seems like a serious design flaw.
A dice snake. Its scientific name, Natrix tessellata, means something like tiled or mosaic-patterned, referring to the square markings which give the snake its dice-like appearance. It spends much of its time in or near water and feeds mainly on fish.
Two Balkan whip snakes. The word whip refers to their long, slender bodies and considerable speed rather than any tendency to whip passing museum visitors. They are non-venomous, which is a modest source of reassurance.
A Caspian whip snake playing with a mouse. This is one of Europe’s largest snakes and particularly substantial individuals can exceed two metres in length. The mouse appears to be having a less enjoyable game.
A Dahl’s whip snake. Its name honours the Austrian naturalist Georg Dahl, who collected the specimen used to describe it in Dalmatia in 1824.
Two smooth snakes which take this name because their scales lack the raised central ridges found on many other snakes. Their scientific name, Coronella, means little crown and probably refers to the dark marking on the top of the head.
An Aesculapian snake which is named after Aesculapius, or Asclepius, the ancient god of medicine whose staff entwined by a snake remains a medical symbol today. These snakes are also excellent climbers so the bloody things can lunge off trees if necessary.
A European rat snake which is also known as the leopard snake because of its blotched markings. It is non venomous and feeds on rodents, hence its name.
A four-lined snake and the name comes from the four dark stripes running along the bodies of adults, although younger snakes begin life with blotches.
A European cat snake and this takes its name from its vertical pupils, which resemble those of a cat. It is rear fanged and mildly venomous, because having unsettling eyes was evidently not considered enough.
An eastern Montpellier snake. The Montpellier part of the name was inherited from its western relative, whose scientific name refers to the French city. It is another rear fanged snake, although serious encounters with humans are uncommon when both parties behave sensibly.
Two nose-horned vipers and the horn is made from soft scales and is not a weapon, although the rest of the venomous snake remains quite sufficient.
Two European adders. The name developed when the old expression ‘a nadder’ was gradually redivided into ‘an adder’. It is the only venomous snake native to Britain, although Bosnia appears to offer a considerably wider selection for anyone dissatisfied with that.
A meadow viper and its scientific name, Vipera ursinii, honours the Italian naturalist Antonio Orsini. Unlike many vipers, it feeds heavily on insects such as grasshoppers and crickets, making it slightly less alarming provided that you are not a grasshopper.
There seem to be an awful lot of snakes in this region and I’m glad that I only visited the museum after walking around the countryside, where it appears that all these reptiles are slithering about without supervision. I accept that most snakes are probably perfectly well behaved, but it is the troublesome minority that concerns me.
