Phoenix's speech in Book 9 of the Iliad is generally considered prophetic of what happens to Achilles later in the story. Many scholars have argued that Achilles is punished by Zeus through ἄτη (of either Achilles or Patroclus) which causes the death of Patroclus, just as anyone who spurns the Litai in the allegory of Phoenix will be punished by Ate sent by Zeus. The Meleager episode is also regarded as reflecting almost exactly what happens later: the Achaeans have difficulty in the battle due to Achilles' withdrawal, just as the Aetolians have when Meleager refuses to fight. Achilles, like Meleager, receives a set of three supplications to go back to the battle, and, just as Meleager loses his prize because he rejects the supplications, Achilles loses Patroclus because he does not listen to the pleas of the Embassy. This seems to be, in outline, the present orthodoxy.

Two inscriptions, one (A) found at Tylissos on Crete, the other (B) found at Argos, both dated about 450, concern relations between Argos and the Cretan towns of Knossos and its smaller neighbour, Tylissos. The close relationship between the treaties of fragment A and fragment B – and therefore the interconnection among Argos, Knossos, and Tylissos – seems generally recognized by scholars. The articles of the agreement lay down a diverse and complex set of arrangements among the three parties, but as a whole, the treaty has been interpreted in two ways: (1) the three πóλεις have entered into some sort of federal union; (2) only Argos and Knossos are signatories to the treaty, while Tylissos is a dependency of Argos. The former interpretation has gained wider acceptance than the latter, and if it is correct, just such a federal union would represent a remarkable advance in the development of Greek political institutions. In this paper we shall press a philological point based upon the information we have both from the treaty and from contemporary sources, and in so doing, we shall attempt to show that a federal union is unlikely. We shall then offer our own interpretation of the regulations governing the insular cities with regard to the formation of alliances and the declaration of friends and enemies.

‘Unhappy boy, what a deed you have done! What came into your mind? What disaster destroyed your reason?’ This version of 1228–9, by Andrew Brown in his recent commentary, represents the majority opinion. But what ‘deed’ has Haemon done that justifies such an outburst? Jebb, followed by Kamerbeek and Brown, claims that the deed which causes Creon to wail aloud with charges of insanity is Haemon's entry into Antigone's tomb. Kamerbeek and Brown justify the extremity of Creon's reaction by claiming that Creon knows that Haemon intends to kill himself. But is it reasonable to suppose that Creon's first reaction to the shocking scene of Antigone's hanging corpse and Haemon helplessly wailing would be that Haemon is on the verge of killing himself? Creon has not had time to predict his son's actions and his screams of dismay are most naturally read as a reaction to something he sees before his eyes. It would also be strange if Creon had absolutely no reaction to Antigone's death; he expected to find her alive.

The text and apparatus below are Diggle's. At the end of the article I give, for the sake of the curious, an expanded version, for 11ff., of Wecklein's ‘Appendix coniecturas minus probabiles continens’, with references where they are known to me.

The staging of Aristophanes' Ecclesiazusae is complicated considerably by the large number of individual male citizen parts in the play. These include Praxagora's husband Blepyrus (312–477, 520–727), Blepyrus' anonymous Neighbour (327–56) and his friend Chremes (372–477), the First Citizen (564–871) and the Second Citizen (746–876), the Young Man ‘Epigenes’ (938–1111; cf. 931), and the δεσπτης who leads out the Chorus (1128–83). These are not necesarily all independent characters, but the great difficulty with the play is in deciding precisely who is to be identified with whom. R. G. Ussher, the most recent Oxford editor of the text, distinguishes four separate characters, and divides the parts in the following way:

In Frogs Aristophanes presents the comic katabasis of Dionysus, whose quest is to bring back the recently deceased Euripides and restore him to the Athenian literary scene. In the prologue Dionysus and his slave, Xanthias, seek out Heracles and ask his advice about the journey below. After some comic play, as they consider various short-cuts, Heracles finally gives Dionysus a serious lesson in Underworld geography (136–64). The various items on this itinerary – Charon, terrifying beasts, filth and excrement, sinners, μσται – are all encountered on Dionysus' journey, each transformed for humorous effect. Dionysus crosses the lake on Charon's barque, but is forced to row (180–270). At this point we have the introduction of the off-stage chorus that gives the play its name. In what appears to be a kind of false parodos Dionysus engages in a metrical tug-of-war with the frogs that finally spoils his rowing rhythm. After disembarking, he is joined by Xanthias, who was forced to walk around the lake, and they find themselves in the place of σκτος κα βρβορος (273), where they see the miscreants (here, comically, the audience). In place of ϕεις and θηρα μυρἱα δειτατα (144), our heroes are terrified by the figure of Empousa, who is seen by Xanthias alone (285–305). When Empousa is gone, there appears the chorus of initiates, whose song (with comic interruptions from Dionysus and Xanthias) constitutes the parodos (316–459).

There existed in Greek a multitude of words denoting or connoting sexual congress. The list of verbs given by Pollux (5.92) only skims the surface. In what follows I discuss words which with one exception (ληκ) are absent from this list and belong, as will be seen from their distribution, to the lower register of the Greek language. They are all demonstrably direct expressions, blunt and non-euphemistic. Only one of them, κιν, is at all common in non-sexual contexts. As for the rest, if they originated through metaphor like many more respectable verbs of intercourse, this had long since been forgotten by native speakers. They rarely undergo any significant weakening, retaining their basic sexual denotation.

In the 23rd book of the Iliad, Menelaus loses second place in the chariot race because of a manoeuvre by Antilochus. So, after Antilochus claims the second prize as his and dares others to fight him for it with their fists, Menelaus rises before the assembled heroes, sceptre in hand, to initiate a formal proceeding against him (571ff.). First he makes the charge: Antilochus has insulted his aretē and endangered his horses. He then calls upon the leaders of the Argives to judge fairly between them. But at this point he states that he will judge the case himself – in both instances the verb for ‘to judge’ is δικάζειν. He then calls on Antilochus to follow an involved procedure and finally to swear an oath that in running the race he did not purposefully use a trick. But despite the fact that Menelaus said during the race that Antilochus would not take the prize without swearing an oath (23.411), we do not know later what the result might be if Antilochus were to accept Menelaus' challenge and to swear the oath. Homer has him sidestep the challenge and concede the prize.

The banker Pasion, father of the notorious fourth-century litigant and politician Apollodoros, some of whose speeches have survived under the name of Demosthenes, was originally a slave; freed by his owners, he made a substantial fortune from banking and subsequently received Athenian citizenship for his generous gifts to the city. At [Dem.] 59.2 we are given a paraphrase of the decree which enfranchised him: 'Aθηναον εἶναι Πασωνα κα κγνους τοὺς κενου ‘[the Athenian people voted] that Pasion and his descendants should be Athenian’. In common with inscriptions recording grants of citizenship, and unlike Roman military diplomata, the decree appears to have ignored Pasion's wife Archippe. The silence of the decrees of enfranchisement is echoed in the literary sources, with the result that we have no explicit testimony to the legal status of the wife of an alien who was granted Athenian citizenship. M. J. Osborne assumes that the status of the wife was in no way affected by the grant; she remained an alien. D. Whitehead has argued that in such cases the wife's status was indeterminate; in the event of the death of her first husband she might find herself married either to an Athenian citizen or to an alien, whereupon her status would be defined according to that of her husband. This article will argue that Archippe's status was unaffected by Pasion's receipt of citizenship, that is, that she remained a metic. I shall then proceed to consider the question of the implications of the difference in status of Pasion and Archippe subsequent to his enfranchisement for the legal basis of the relationship between them, and finally draw a tentative conclusion about the date of Pasion's receipt of citizenship.

This speech attributed to Demades has provoked controversy on the grounds of its authenticity and the circumstances to which the piece refers. The date generally assigned to its content of about 326 is determined by ‘counting forward’ twelve years (the title of the speech) from 338, since the speech details some aspects of Demades' political career starting with his diplomacy in the immediate aftermath of the battle of Chaeronea (2 August 338). The date of 326 and its implied context merit question, but first some remarks on the authenticity of the speech may be made since this is relevant to its subject.

As an Apollo-like (1.307–9) Jason leaves home to start the long journey in quest of the Golden Fleece a strange incident occurs: The first thing to be said about this scene is that it is almost certainly an invention of Apollonius Rhodius.

The origins of the well-known hatred for the nomen regis at Rome are in this way explained by Cicero in the De Republica, written in the late 50s b.c. Tarquinius Superbus, Rome's last king, so traumatised the Roman people that the term rex still had a potent effect almost five hundred years after his downfall. Many modern scholars would accept that the Roman hatred of kings was deep-rooted and intense, and it is often called upon to explain Roman behaviour. This approach finds clear expression in the latest edition of the Cambridge Ancient History, where one scholar in his discussion of the overthrow of Tarquinius writes: ‘Forever after the Romans hated the very idea of a king’. Yet an examination of Latin writings from the Republican period, rather than confirming this, reveals much that is at odds with this interpretation of the Roman attitude towards kings and the concept of kingship. Surprisingly, even their own kings are generally treated favourably. While there is no doubt that there was hostility to kings in the first century b.c., it is necessary to reconsider its origins and nature. I wish to argue that it was neither as long-standing nor as intense as is traditionally assumed. Its origins should be sought not in the distant obscurity of the last years of the regal period, but in Rome's encounters with the hellenistic kings of the East in the second century b.c.

Hannibal's trek through western Europe has fascinated ancient and modern historians alike. Although most attention has been focused on determining his route through the Alps, a less popular question, the site of his Rhône crossing, has been by no means neglected. Many scholars have offered differing solutions to this problem, but all agree on one point: that Hannibal transported his elephants across the Rhône by raft. No doubt this consensus stems from the fact that both Polybius and Livy, who give almost identical versions of the crossing, agree on this mode of transport. But an analysis of their accounts will show that the use of rafts was neither necessary nor desirable and that a more likely method is contained in an alternative version that Livy records, then rejects in favour of Polybius' account.

Discussion starts from Tac. Ann. 4.56, where in a.d. 26 ambassadors from Smyrna, with those of other communities in Asia, present their city's case for selection as the site of the province's cult of Tiberius, and plead a lengthy record of loyalty and past officia to Rome, dating back to the foundation at Smyrna of a temple to Urbs Roma in 195 B.C. amid the tensions with Antiochus III of Syria. Tacitus proceeds:

The text of this poem, already corrupt in the Palatine, has had a turbulent history over the last two centuries. Here is Page's version, the translation in Gow–Page, and my own somewhat expanded apparatus: I who in time past was good for five or nine times, now, Aphrodite, hardly manage once from early night to sunrise. The thing itself, – already often only at half-strength, – is gradually dying. That's the last straw. Old age, old age, what will you do later when you come to me, if even now I am as languid as this.

In Latin Hexameter Verse, his 1903 manual for composers of Latin hexameters which is still useful as a guide to Vergil's metrical and prosodic practices, S. E. Winbolt states that a hexameter ‘must not end with an adjective preceded by a noun with a similar short ending, e.g.…flumina nota’ unless the adjective is emphatic, ‘i.e. strongly distinctive, predicative or antithetical’. Whether or not his distinction between emphatic and non-emphatic adjectives in this position is wholly workable (predicative adjectives are clearly distinguishable, but it is not clear that the other types are), Winbolt here rightly detects a strong tendency in Vergil and other Latin poets towards avoiding endings of this general kind, which we can conveniently call the ‘Discordia taetra’ type after one of its earliest and best-known instances in the Annales of Ennius (225–6 Skutsch ‘postquam Discordia taetra/Belli ferratos postes portasque refregit’). The rarity of this type of line-ending is clear in Vergil; there are only 16 examples, regardless of whether the adjective is emphatic or not, in the 9890 lines of the Aeneid. Such a select and easily-defined phenomenon might prove a yardstick of some interest in the history of the Latin hexameter, for it seems to raise a number of questions to which the answers would be significant and useful. Is this type of ending avoided equally by all poets? Is there an increasing tendency to avoid it as time goes on? Is it associated with any particular genres of hexameter poetry? Do poets tend to use in it the same words or phrases as their predecessors? To discover the answers, this article will look at the ‘Discordia taetra’ phenomenon in Latin hexameter poetry, defining it as the instance where a noun ending in a short vowel (in practice, in ‘-a’) is immediately succeeded by an adjective of similar ending and in agreement at the end of the hexameter, and where such a noun is not a substantivised adjective and such an adjective is neither predicative nor a participle.

The occasional role played in Ovidian poetry by noble Roman families and their contemporary representatives has naturally received much less attention than the recurring and often ambivalent presence of Augustus. A case of special interest is that of the Fabii, whose antiquity and military prowess are accorded special attention in the Fasti, while the penultimate consul the gens produced was a correspondent of Ovid's from Pontus. I propose to examine the ways in which the fortunes of this house become a complex theme in Fasti 2, partly to justify a sophisticated reading of the poem and partly to encourage a similar approach to the theme of the princeps himself.

In his note on lines 27–8 Luck gives two Ovidian parallels for conversation outlasting the day, P. 2.4.11–12 and P. 2.10.37–8, but he makes no reference to lines 2–3 of Callimachus' epigram on Heraclitus of Halicarnassus (Epigr. 2[Pf.] = A.P. 7.80)

From Pliny the Elder, who was his contemporary, to the present, the unhappy ending of the fourth Julio-Claudian emperor's life is often and uncritically retold. Thus Agrippina's poisoned mushrooms have become proverbial through the writings of Pliny, Juvenal and others. Historical evidence surrounding the circumstances of his death is, however, vague, contradictory, and open to alternative explanations. In the present note I shall argue for the simplest of these: that the emperor Claudius died after having ingested – either through criminal intent, or by sheer accident – the most W poisonous of mushrooms, Amanita phalloides or Death Cap.

These notes result from a seminar on Quintilian which I gave at Berkeley in the spring of 1989, and have benefited from discussion with students in the class, David Silverman, Shadi Bartsch, and Andrew Riggsby. Their individual contributions are noted when appropriate.