Hunters of acrostics have had little luck with Horace. Despite his manifest love of complex wordplay, virtuoso metrical tricks and even alphabet games, acrostics seem largely absent from Horace's poetry. The few that have been sniffed out in recent years are, with one notable exception, either fractured and incomplete—the postulated PINN- in Carm. 4.2.1–4 (pinnis? Pindarus?)—or disappointingly low-stakes; suggestions of acrostics are largely confined to the Odes alone. Besides diverging from the long-standing Roman obsession with literary acrostics, Horace's apparent lack of interest is especially surprising given that Virgil, his contemporary, friend and ‘poetic pace-maker’, was at the time conducting what seems to be a systematic adaptation of Hellenistic acrostic-poetics into Latin poetry.

Roughly half way through the fourth Georgic, Virgil confronts a sad reality: on occasion the entire population of a hive can perish without warning and leave the bee-keeping farmer bee-less. In response to such a devastating loss, the poet describes an Egyptian procedure, to which modern critics have given the name bugonia, whereby the farmer acquires a new swarm of bees from the putrefying carcass of a dead ox (4.281–314). After the account of bugonia, the poem takes a notoriously unexpected turn. Virgil asks the Muses about the origins of this practice and then recounts the exploits of Aristaeus, an inhabitant of the georgic world whose own bees once succumbed to famine and disease. In the narrative that follows, Aristaeus consults his mother Cyrene and the seer Proteus, who tells him about Orpheus’ descent to the underworld. The narrative ends when Aristaeus, thanks to the teaching of his mother, performs a series of activities that culminates in a new swarm of bees bursting forth from the putrefying carcass of a dead ox (4.315–558). The aetiological character of the Aristaeus narrative is clear—Virgil promises to trace the Egyptian procedure back to its first origo (4.286), and when he addresses the Muses, he specifically asks what god discovered the practice and whence it took its first beginnings (4.315–16). But for what activity does the story actually offer an aition?

At Her. 6.113–18 Hypsipyle lays out for Jason the advantages to be gained by marrying her: the prestige of her noble and even divine family, and the fertile island of Lemnos, which will come as her dowry. She then adds the fact that she is pregnant with twins (6.119–22); this thought introduces a new section, which extends until line 130.

In his lengthy survey of the cosmic devastation wrought by Phaethon's disastrous chariot ride, Ovid includes two catalogues detailing the scorching of the world's mountains (Met. 2.217–26) and rivers (2.241–59). Ovid enlivens these lists through his usual play with sound patterns and revels in the opportunity to adapt so many Greek names to Latin prosody; for instance the opening line of the catalogue of mountains (ardet Athos Taurusque Cilix et Tmolus et Oete, 2.217) masterfully illustrates both of these features. The lists are also brimming with playful erudition. To take but a few examples: a dried-up Ida belies its standard epithet πολυπῖδαξ, ‘many-fountained’ (2.218); the sun's heat doubles the flames of volcanic Etna (2.220); burning Xanthus is destined to burn again (2.245; cf. Hom. Il. 21.330–82); and the famous gold-bearing sands of the Tagus are melting (2.251). These features not only ‘relieve monotony’; they warrant the catalogues’ inclusion in the category of Ovid's most entertaining.

In the eighth book of Lucan's Bellum Ciuile, Pompey sends the Galatian king Deiotarus into the distant East to seek an alliance with Parthia, the vast empire beyond the Euphrates ruled by the Arsacid dynasty. His instructions to Deiotarus begin with these lines (8.211–14):

‘quando’ ait ‘Emathiis amissus cladibus orbis,
qua Romanus erat, superest, fidissime regum,
Eoam temptare fidem populosque bibentis
Euphraten et adhuc securum a Caesare Tigrim.’

On the outside wall and in the vestibule of the ‘House of Publius Paquius Proculus’ in Pompeii (building I.7.1) three graffiti containing the name Cucuta can be found. The first simply reads Cucuta (CIL 4.8065 [outside wall]). The second tells us that Cucuta was an attendant of the Emperor Nero (CIL 4.8066 [outside wall]): Cu(cuta) | Cucuta Ner(onis). From the third we learn that Cucuta was a financial secretary (a rationibus) of Nero (CIL 4.8075 [vestibule]): Cucuta ab ra[t]ioni[b]us | Neronis Augusti. While the meaning and significance of these graffiti may seem apparent—that one of Nero's attendants scratched his name on the wall and vestibule pillar as he waited for the emperor to return from a meeting—the closeness between Cucuta (an otherwise unattested name) and cicuta (hemlock) raises a key question: should we read Cucuta as Cicuta and therefore understand the third graffito in particular as a joke about Nero's rumoured fondness for killing family, friends and his senatorial enemies with poison? In other words, is it Poison, and not a person, that keeps Nero's finances in order? And, if so, can the Cucuta graffiti give us an alternative insight into the plethora of wall inscriptions found outside building I.7.1 greeting Publius Paquius Proculus and recommending him for office?

Pliny's celebration of Cicero's consular achievements contains a striking anomaly, namely the assertion that Cicero proscribed Marcus Antonius (HN 7.117). That statement turns Cicero, the victim of Antonius’ murderous vendetta, into the one who wielded the executioner's axe, and it abruptly shifts the focus of the passage from 63 to 43 b.c. Two slight corrections to the Latin text can eliminate the intrusion of the proscriptions by substituting a reference to the control Cicero exercised in 63 over Gaius Antonius, his consular colleague and an old ally of Catiline. In his In Pisonem (§5), Cicero takes credit for combatting the threat posed by his colleague, and it is highly probable that HN 7.117 mentioned Gaius (not Marcus) Antonius as well, since Pliny's summary of Cicero's consular deeds and honours is nearly identical to the one found in Pis. 4–6. The beauty of the emended text is that it restores both historical fact and a logical progression to the overall structure of Pliny's encomium.

This paper deals with an apparently straightforward question: the degree to which ancient educators thought it necessary to introduce a playful element into the programmes of schools, and the way in which such ideas were put into practice.

In his book on Plutarch's Maxime cum principibus philosopho esse disserendum from 2009, Geert Roskam takes up the question of the genre of the work. Few scholars have approached this question and they have had little to say. Hence, Roskam's treatment of the question is much appreciated. Among the suggestions previously put forth is the suggestion by F.H. Sandbach, who argued that the work should be regarded as a treatise, while H.N. Fowler stated in the ‘Introduction’ to the Loeb Classical Library translation that the work is an essay. Other suggestions regarding the genre of Maxime cum principibus include the notion that it is a diatribe and a parva disputatio e magisterio orta. Of course, although all four suggestions have something to say for themselves, they are rather imprecise and not actual genres in a specific sense. The diatribe often surfaces as a convenient label for ancient philosophical discourses, but it is a misleading label, since what it picks out was not recognized as a distinctive form or stylistic level in antiquity. In addition, the technical and literary uses of the Greek word διατριβή were entirely different.

In a forthcoming article, Willy Clarysse presents an overview of the name Socrates in Egypt. He argues for an evolution from a ‘normal Greek name’, with no specific reference to the Athenian philosopher (Ptolemaic period), to a Greek name with Egyptian connotations (Roman period).

Among the one-word fragments from unknown plays of Sophocles, fr. inc. 1111 R. (φίλανδρον) has been treated as one of the more straightforward. It derives from a passage in Hermogenes of Tarsos’ treatise Περὶ Ἰδεῶν (late second century c.e.), which includes the Sophoclean adjective, its referent and a brief gloss: … ὁ Σοφοκλῆς … φίλανδρόν που τὴν Ἀταλάντην εἶπε διὰ τὸ ἀσπάζεσθαι σὺν ἀνδράσιν εἶναι (‘… Sophocles called Atalante philandros somewhere because she enjoyed being with men’). Brunck assigned the fragment to Sophocles’ tragic Meleagros; most subsequent editors have edited the fragment as sedis incertae while commenting favourably on Brunck's ascription. This suggestion has also found support beyond Sophoclean scholarship, and, to my knowledge, no alternative has been brought forward. While the ascription of the fragment to the Meleagros is prima facie not implausible, I shall argue that a thorough analysis of the difficult passage in Hermogenes calls for a revision of the current lexicographical accounts of the word φίλανδρος—as well as φιλανδρία—and suggests that fr. 1111 may in fact originate in a satyr-play.

In his Meditations, Marcus Aurelius repeatedly presents a disjunction between two conceptions of the natural world. Either the universe is ruled by providence or there are atoms. At 4.3, we find perhaps its most succinct statement: ἀνανεωσάμενος τὸ διεζευγμένον τό⋅ ἤτοι πρόνοια ἢ ἄτομοι (recall the disjunction: either providence or atoms). The formulation of the disjunction differs; at 7.32, being composed of atoms is contrasted with a stronger sort of unity (ἕνωσις) that may survive death. In 10.6 and 11.18 Marcus simply offers φύσις (nature, construed in the Stoic manner as providentialist and causally efficacious) in opposition. On the surface, the contrast between the theory of atomism and the acceptance of providence seems to not warrant the term ‘disjunction’; it seems possible to accept both atomism and a causally determined providential universe. Yet, it is agreed on all sides, in the recent literature, that the relevant contrast for Marcus is not between the atomist and the non-atomist views of the constitution of the natural world as such but between two entailments that follow from the atomist Epicurean and the non-atomist Stoic advocacy of these positions. The contrast is between the providential ordering of the Stoic universe and the chaotic chance-ridden Epicurean model.

In this article I want to clarify the text of one of the short maxims assigned to Pythagoras in the ancient tradition, which are known as symbola or acusmata. Before I turn to the acusma in question, it is important to understand the context in which it appears. It occurs in Chapter 17 of Book 4 of Aelian's Historical Miscellany (ποικίλη ἱστορία). Aelian's work was written in the early third century a.d. in Rome, and is a ‘miscellaneous collection of anecdotes and historical material’. It consists of short chapters, usually a page or less long, that are for the most part independent of one another. Chapter 17 of Book 4 is about a page long and is devoted to the sayings and doings of Pythagoras. There is no particular connection between it and the surrounding chapters, and it is clearly meant to stand on its own. The preceding chapter (16) tells us that if we went to Callias for guidance he would turn us into drinkers, … if to Alcibiades, arrogant cheats, if to Demosthenes, orators, … if to Aristides, just men, … if to Socrates, wise men. The following chapter (18) recounts an anecdote about Plato's arrival in Sicily and his reception by the tyrant Dionysius the Younger. The chapter that I am concerned with, Chapter 17, begins by asserting that Pythagoras taught that his ‘lineage was superior to that of ordinary mortals’. This is followed by a list of superhuman acts and traits of Pythagoras, for example his ability to be in Metapontum and Croton at the same time and his golden thigh. The second two-thirds of the chapter are then devoted to the miscellaneous teachings of Pythagoras. Most of these take the form of the brief taboos and maxims known elsewhere as symbola or acusmata, among which is the text on which I want to focus here.

‘Everyone who now reads and writes in the West, of whatever racial background, sex or ideological camp, is still a son or daughter of Homer.’ While the extent to which this claim is accurate has been disputed, it is not wrong in our own day to grant the highest honours for ongoing influence to the author of the Iliad. All the more so in Late Antiquity, a period frequently viewed as hermetically isolated from the classical world, but which resolutely viewed itself as part of that unbroken cultural and literary continuum. One of those who made repeated use of Homer's epic was the Emperor Julian (a.d. 331–63), one of the most prolific writers among Rome's emperors. In the fourth century a.d., Homer's influence was still predominant, not only being Julian's favourite and most frequently cited author but also forming for Libanius of Antioch ‘one of the pillars of rhetorical teaching’. Despite Glen Bowersock's statement that Julian's many writings offer unique insight into his character and disposition, Julian is still a historical character who is not easy to ‘know’. Julian's life was shaped by the murder of his father, brothers and uncles by a cabal involving, if not orchestrated by, his cousin Constantius II. This was followed by the removal of his trusted confidant Salutius, again by Constantius. These experiences exhibit an unusual phenomenon, in that, when Julian referred to them, they were prefaced by a spate of Homeric allusions. Julian's wrath at people taken from him was both genuine and politically useful, but the expression of it was dangerous enough that he expressed it obliquely in the language of Homer. These citations and allusions, drawn primarily from the Iliad, were far more than Julian's flaunting of his education, but were rather a tool for subtly conveying his desired message, a message with strong political tones. I will treat these passages in the order in which Julian wrote them, although that places the events reminisced about in the reverse order.

In a well-known parable, told by Xenophon but credited by him to the sophist Prodicus, the young Heracles setting out on the road meets two women whose appearance turns out to be in accord with their characters and names, which are soon proclaimed by each to be Virtue and Vice. The former comports herself as a proper Greek woman should, ‘becoming to look at and freeborn by nature, her body (σῶμα) adorned with purity, her eyes with shame, her stature with moderation (τὸ δὲ σχῆμα σωφροσύνῃ), dressed in white’ (transl. Mayhew). Vice, on the other hand, is self-absorbed and slutty: ‘well nourished to the point of fleshiness and softness, made up to appear whiter and redder than she was in fact’, τὸ δὲ σχῆμα ὥστε δοκεῖν ὀρθοτέραν τῆς φύσεως εἶναι, ‘with wide-open eyes, dressed to show off her ripeness, often checking herself out and seeing whether anyone was looking at her, often even looking at her own shadow’.

In 1977, French excavations at Aï Khanoum in north-east Afghanistan—a foundation of Antiochus I Sotēr and subsequently one of the major cities of the Greco-Bactrian kingdom—of a building dating to shortly before the destruction of the place in 145 b.c.e. uncovered inter alia the remains of a papyrus and a parchment document. The papyrus text, dated by Cavallo on the basis of its letterforms to the mid third century b.c.e., preserved a fragment of a philosophical dialogue seemingly to be associated with the Peripatetic school. The second document consisted of two separate portions of a piece of parchment roughly assigned on the basis of its letterforms to the second half of the third or the first half of the second century b.c.e.; as also in the case of the papyrus, the letters survived not on the parchment itself but impressed upon the hardened dirt that surrounded it. Only column II of the original editors’ ‘Texte 2a’ (the more substantial of the two parchment fragments) contains a significant amount of text, which appears in neither TrGF nor PCG. I present it here without regard to standard editorial niceties, which are rendered impossible by the desperate state of the original document, now almost certainly lost, and the nature of the original publication.

(1) 2.4:

Towards the beginning of Book 3, Lucretius starts his description of the soul. According to Epicurus, the soul is divided into two, an irrational part, which is coextensive with the body, and a rational part, the ‘mind’, which is located in the chest. This position is a relic from an earlier, non–philosophical tradition, and was adopted by several different philosophers. But Alexandrian doctors would soon correctly locate the mind in the head, and later Epicureans would have to defend an increasingly uncomfortable and out-of-date position.

Varro's De lingua Latina (= Ling.) is a treasure trove of information. Of the originally twenty-five books, six have come down to us more or less complete. Among these, Books 5–7 give us many hundreds of etymologies, and Books 8–10 discuss the question whether Latin morphology is regular or not. What Varro rarely comments on is sociolinguistic variation. The sociolinguistic comments in Varro's work can almost be counted on one hand. For instance, in 5.162 Varro remarks that cenaculum, from cena ‘dinner’, means ‘attic’ in Roman Latin, but that the original meaning was, as one might expect, ‘dining-room’, a meaning preserved in the non-Roman dialects of Latium, Falerii and Corduba in Spain; the meaning also lives on in religious uses in Lanuvium. In 7.96, Varro tells us that some words are pronounced with -ae- by some, but with -ē- by others. We know that non-Roman varieties of Latin monophthongized -ae- earlier than the Roman dialect did. Varro mentions pairs like scaena / scēna ‘stage’, a loan from Greek σκηνή, which shows that -ae- is hypercorrect here. Interestingly, only in one such pair is the variant with -ē- ascribed to country people, in the name Maesius / Mēsius, and this is indeed the only pair where the diphthong -ae- is original rather than the result of hypercorrection.

(1) 1.21: