Herodotus has a lot to say about slavery and about particular slaves and groups of slaves. The broad theme was, of course, central to his historical conception and presentation of the Persian Wars and of warfare in general, as well as being key to the contrasting nomoi whose range and significance he is concerned to explore. Against that large background, I wish to examine Herodotus' understanding of slavery and slave-trading on the north coast of the Black Sea, with a view to a fuller appreciation of his Histories and of exchange in the region. Three broad observations will assist.

This paper does not aim to establish the ‘dramatic date’ of Plato's Gorgias, nor does it seek to establish with any precision the date at which Euripides’ fragmentary Antiope was written. Nor does it aim to show that Athenian anti-intellectualism had some fixed beginning and conclusion rather than persisting, in some fashion, as long as intellectuals frequented its public places. It does, however, have aims that may easily be mistaken for these. First, while Plato was not too particular about fidelity to a dramatic date, he frequently shows a strong desire to supply an intellectual background for the views that his characters will propound and the debates that follow from them. In the case of dialogues that employ a single interlocutor that certainly tends to produce a reasonably coherent dramatic date, but what matters to Plato is not so much fidelity to history as the appropriate intellectual context.

The arrival of Aristeides, Miltiades, Solon and Perikles in Eupolis' Demes was arguably one of the most celebrated scenes of Attic Old Comedy. Platonios (diff. char. 13-4) praises Eupolis for ‘being capable of resurrecting (ἀνάγειν) from Hades the characters of lawgivers and through them to discuss the establishment or the repeal of laws.’ Aelius Aristides (3.365) observes that ‘a certain comic poet depicted four of the Athenian leaders as coming back to life (ἀνεστῶτας).’ Platonios uses the verb ἀνάγω to refer to the ascent of the four statesmen to the upper world, whereas Aelius Aristides chooses ἀνίστημι. Both ἀνάγω and ἀνίστημι describe an upwards movement, and suggest a return to the world of the living. Neither of them, however, specifies the nature of this journey.

Many scholars have commented on Menander's facility in alternating between tragic and comic forms of the iambic trimeter, and the subtle effects he creates thereby in manipulating the mood of a scene. But characteristically these effects are interpreted solely in dramatic terms, and the statements made are rather vague, at the most detailed (and rarely then) merely noting that in a given line a particular tone is created by the overall form of metre used. What I aim to show is that deliberate metrical manipulation of a quite different kind is also involved, and in order to appreciate better Menander's art we need to attend to the metrical form of individual words.

Louis XIV may have made the image of the ‘sun-king’ his own, but the equation of monarch and sun has a long pedigree that stretches back into antiquity. For the Roman emperors, an association with Sol became commonplace, and both Caligula and Nero were explicitly saluted as νέος Ἥλιος. One of the earliest rulers to have adopted sun-related iconography within the western tradition is Demetrius Poliorcetes. His self-identification with Helius is not, to be sure, the most pronounced of his divine relationships. This was a king whose elevation to divine status in the Greek world of the late fourth and early third centuries was accompanied by a great number of religious and semi-religious associations: honoured by Athens as a Saviour, Demetrius himself seems to have cultivated above all an identification with Dionysus, whose combination of ferocity with a delight in wine and revels seems to have appealed to the character of the young king. Nonetheless, it is clear that imagery of the sun and of the heavenly bodies was employed of Demetrius in the representations of his status and power. The most explicit instance belongs to an ithyphallic hymn performed in Athens in 291/90 BC, in which Poliorcetes was hailed as the sun.

In early 58, the tribune Clodius proposed a lex de capite civis Romani reaffirming the essence of an earlier lex Sempronia, that no Roman citizen should be put to death without a trial. Since Cicero, as consul in 63, had overseen the summary execution of five men, he was, without doubt, the target of Clodius’ rogation. On the day before the bill de capite civis Romani was voted upon, however, and at the insistence of friend and foe alike, Cicero departed from the city, but his ‘timely’ exit did not put an end to this episode. Very soon after his departure, chattels were removed from his estates under the aegis of the consuls, and his wife was subjected to financial harassment.

Although F.M. Cornford’s name was already known to me from his commentary on Plato’s Theaitetos, my first acquaintance with his Thucydides Mythistoricus came in my earliest years of teaching Ancient History in the mid-1970s under the tutelage of the one to whom this essay is dedicated. I have drawn on Cornford’s book regularly when teaching Greek History, and found it useful as a provocation to students reading Thucydides. With the centenary since its publication looming, two years ago I felt it was high time to learn more about the context in which the book arose. Already a generation ago, W.M. Calder III identified Cornford as ‘an outstanding scholar, a personality, and a man involved in the issues of his time’ who merits a biography.