This has all the appearance of being a straightforward, even conventional, transition. Indeed, the conceit of Night′s chariot is common and has a history stretching back at least as far as the beginning of the fifth century B.C. Night is elsewhere described by Virgil as umida, the epithet reflecting the traditional view that Night, like Dawn (cf. Theocr. 2.148), arises from and sinks back into the stream of Ocean. In fact, the chariot of Night had been referred to as recently as lines 721 and 738 of this book, in the latter instance with the epithet umida applied to Night. What is new and interesting in our passage is the ‘meta caeli’ round which Night′s chariot turns. The effect of this novelty is to make of Night′s vehicle a racing chariot, as it is the chariots in the Circus that must negotiate a meta. The programmatic reasons for Virgil′s having done this in Book 5 are obvious. Earlier in the book Virgil had described the games held in honour of the anniversary of Anchises′ death. The first and most elaborately portrayed event in these games had been the boat-race, which is plainly modelled on the chariot-race in Iliad 23, the first and most elaborately portrayed event in the funeral games for Patroclus. Just as Achilles had required the competing chariots to race once around a distant turning-post, so Aeneas requires the competing ships to race once around a rock out at sea, which rock is three times called a meta (5.129, 159, 171). A simile comparing the sailors and their ships to charioteers and their teams (5.144–7) makes the connection explicit.

Presocratic philosophy, for all its diverse features, is united by the quest to understand the origin and nature of the world. The approach of the Pythagoreans to this quest is governed by their belief, probably based on studies of the numerical relations in musical harmony, that number or numerical structure plays a key role for explaining the world-order, the cosmos. It remains questionable to what extent the Pythagoreans, by positing number as an all-powerful explanatory concept, broke free from Presocratic ideas that certain stuffs or material elements sufficed to account for the source (⋯ρχ⋯) and constitution of the world, but apparently number found such a universal application with them that Aristotle could summarize the Pythagorean position as ‘numbers…are the whole universe’ (Met. 986a21). Historians of Greek philosophy have generally accepted Aristotle's assessment. Of late, however, certain scholars have argued that the Pythagorean number doctrine is Aristotelian (mis-) interpretation, unjustly foisted upon the Pythagoreans. Enlisted in support of their arguments are the fragments of Philolaus of Croton. Here we have the foremost representative of fifth-century Pythagoreanism, who states as his basic principles, not numbers exactly, but ‘limiters’ and ‘unlimiteds’, and who, it is argued, regards number solely as an epistemological aid for understanding the structure of reality. So Philolaus is called upon as a witness against Aristotle. The rationale goes something like this: Aristotle most likely had written sources for his knowledge of Pythagorean teachings; the only texts we know of with any certainty are Philolaus' book and the writings of Archytas; since Aristotle treats Archytas separately, he is mainly relying on Philolaus; because Philolaus does not expressly state that things are numbers, Aristotle's interpretation is wrong.

At a point not long after Anytus has been introduced in Plato's dialogue, Meno, we learn two things in particular: (i) that good and virtuous men often have despicable sons, despite their efforts to give them the finest educations (91a–95a), and (ii) that public affairs are not governed by knowledge; Athenian statesmen and those who elect them are ignorant even though they sometimes might get lucky and rule by true opinion (96d–99d).

The idea of a returning golden age (or, more properly, a renascent golden race1) is widely understood and commonly presented both as a staple of Augustan propaganda and as a pervasive aspiration of Augustan society. The Carmen Saeculare—an official commission for a public festival—is presented as a means by which the regime proclaimed to an enthusiastic populace the imminent renascence of the golden race. The aim of this article is to draw attention both to the failure of the Carmen Saeculare explicitly to proclaim the renascence of the race, and to the critique implicit in the poem of the very idea of a renascence. The golden race, according to this reading, might be undesirable on account of its very goldenness. The golden race was the subject of a complex myth at the centre of a complex discourse: neither the ‘official’ nor the popular response to the idea of its return can have been as simple as they are frequently portrayed.

Aristotle's treatment of trade in the Politics book one is usually regarded as especially hostile, and this is put down to snobbery and political prejudice on his part. The Greeks often regarded trade as a degrading thing for a free man to engage in, and it would be surprising if Aristotle's view of trade were entirely unconnected with this Greek sensibility. But there should be something more definite than a loose general affinity if a charge of prejudice is to be taken seriously. A balance of hostile judgements over argued cases to back them up would be some sort of evidence for prejudice, and prima facie evidence against would be anything like a theory from which the hostile judgements followed as conclusions. Theories can be concocted to give the required conclusions, of course, and then we must try to decide how serious the theory is. It comes to this: is there so little in the reasons Aristotle gives for his condemnation of trade that they may be convincingly explained away and belittled as no more than expressions of attitudes?

After his return from exile in A.D. 96 Dio of Prusa claims that even before it he had known the homes and tables of rich men, not only private individuals but satraps and kings (i.e. governors and emperors, Or. 7.66). Following the lead of Philostratus (V.A. 5.27–38) modern scholars have seen Dio as a confidant of the Flavian dynasty: amicus to Vespasian, possibly a special envoy of Vespasian to the Grek east, amicus to Titus, and friend and adviser to a minor member of the house T. Flavius Sabinus. These views are important not only for the biography of Dio, but also for the general question of relations between powerful Romans, above all emperors, and Greek philosophers and other intellectuals.

Statius′ Silvae 5.4 is one of the best-known poems in the collection, although it is also one of the least representative. Its nineteen lines make it the shortest poem in the Silvae, and although there are other brief poems, such as those describing the parrot of Melior and the tame lion (Silvae 2.4 and 5), it is quite different from the many longer poems that deal with subjects and persons from contemporary society. Of course insomnia must always be a universal issue, but this is nevertheless a poem that does not draw the reader into the ‘ life and times’ of Statius as do the poems which precede and follow it, the laments for his father and for a child (Silvae 5.3 and 5.5).

Reading is delusion. In order to read, we have to suspend certain standards of reality and accept others; we have to offer ourselves to deceit, even if it is an act of deception of which we are acutely aware. One way of considering this paradoxical duality in the act of reading (being deceived while being aware of the deception) is more or less consciously to posit multiple levels of reading, whereby the deceived reader is watched by an aware reader, who is in turn watched by a super-reader; and so it continues. The ancient art critics, obsessed as they were with deceptive realism, provide in anecdotal form a good example of such multiplicity of perception when they tell stories of birds trying to peck at painted grapes, horses trying to mate with painted horses, even humans deceived by the lifelikeness of works of art. Such stories act as easy but potent signifiers of ‘realism’ in ancient art criticism, by showing the reactions of a ‘naive reader’ (the animals) whose deception the aware reader can enter into but also see exposed. In verbal or visual art parading itself as realistic, the artistic pretence of a pose of reality is, at some level, intended to be seen as deceptive; when it is non-realistic, or anti-realistic, or even stubbornly abstract (which it rarely is), art still demands that the reader suspend ordinary perception. But deception alone is not enough: ‘deceit’ only becomes artistic when a viewer sees through it, for a work of art which is so lifelike that no-one realizes it is not real has not entered the realm of art. The appreciation of deception happens at the moment when the deception is undone, or by the imaginative creation of a less sophisticated reader who has not seen through the deceit. That is what happens in comedy, more overtly than in other artforms, but in the same way.

An inscription from Priene, first published at the beginning of this century, honours a local citizen who had among other accomplishments conducted a series of embassies to Roman officials in Asia. The text was originally published by Hiller von Gaertringen, though (as we shall see) his interpretation of it was unsatisfactory in at least one respect.

A familiar image from the Roman world is a Pompeian portrait of a man and woman sometimes identified as Terentius Neo and his wife. He has a papyrus roll under his chin, while she looks out with a writing tablet in one hand, a stylus held to her lips in the other. The message of the attributes presented would seem to be: ‘ We can and do read and write’. But how should the message be interpreted? To judge from the houses in which this and similar portraits were found, the couple was not of the elite decurion class, but belonged to that difficult to define group of varying social, economic and cultural statuses recently described by Keith Hopkins as ‘sub-elites’. Does the display of book and pen then reflect the social reality of the sub-elite orders of Pompeian society, or is the self-representation rather an expression of social pretension, with the couple attempting to emulate the Roman elite? If the latter is the case, what does the image say about the habits of the Roman ruling class? This question has been raised in relation to the issue of literacy, particularly women's literacy, but the image invites another question.

Comparison of literary passages is a critical procedure much favoured by Gellius, and is the main theme in several chapters of his Noctes Atticae: ch. 2.23 is dedicated to a comparison of Menander's and Caecilius′ versions of the Plocium; 2.27 to a confrontation of passages from Demosthenes and Sallust; in 9.9 Vergilian verses are compared with their originals in Theocritus and Homer; parts of speeches by the elder Cato, C. Gracchus and Cicero are contrasted in 10.3; two of Vergil's verses are again compared with their supposed models in ch. 11.4; a segment of Ennius′ Hecuba is contrasted with its Euripidean original in 13.27; Cato's and Musonius′ formulations of a similar sententia are confronted in 16.1; in 17.10 Vergil's description of Etna is compared to Pindar's; the value of Latin erotic poetry is weighed against the Greek in ch. 19.9, in which an Anacreontean poem and four Latin epigrams are cited; and finally in 19.11 a ‘Platonic' distich is set side by side with its Latin adaptation, composed by an anonymous friend of Gellius, though in this case no comparison of the poems is attempted.

The manuscripts of Cicero's De oratore divide into two families: mutili and integri. The oldest representatives of the mutilated family are Avranches 238 (A; c. 830–50), Erlangen 380 (olim 848; E; c. 985), and London, Harley 2736 (H; written by Lupus of Ferrierès, c. 830–40). A and H are independent of each other, and the best witnesses to the text of the lost archetype (M). E too is considered to be an independent witness. Since the work of E. Ströbel, dating from the early eighties of the last century, the view has been generally held that E, though closely related to A, is not a descendant of it but a copy of a ‘gemellus’ of A. The stemma devised by Ströbel has remained essentially the same to the present day.

It is a cliché that most Greek art (indeed most ancient art) was religious in function. Yet our histories of Classical art, having acknowledged this truism, systematically ignore the religious nuances and associations of images while focusing on diverse arthistorical issues from style and form, or patronage and production, to mimesis and aesthetics. In general, the emphasis on naturalism in classical art and its reception has tended to present it as divorced from what is perceived as the overwhelmingly religious nature of post-Constantinian Christian art. The insulation of Greek and Roman art from theological and ritual concerns has been colluded in by most historians of medieval images. Take for instance Ernst Kitzinger's monographic article entitled ‘The Cult of Images in the Age before Iconoclasm’. Despite its title and despite Kitzinger's willingness to situate Christian emperor worship in an antique context, this classic paper contains nothing on the Classical ancestry of magical images, palladia and miracle-working icons in Christian art. There has been the odd valiant exception (especially in recent years), but in general it is fair to say that the religiousness of antiquity's religious art is skirted by the art historians and left to the experts on religion.

Horace begins his second book of satires by picturing himself caught between the extremes of two sets of critics, one group claiming that his poetry is too aggressive (nimis acer, 1), the other that it is insipid and lacklustre (sine nervis, 2). The charges are extreme and contradictory, so there is no way he can adjust his work to please one group without further antagonizing the other: the more straightforward he becomes in his criticisms, the more bitter and ‘lawless ’ he will seem to group A. Further subtlety and indirectness will only draw further criticism from group B. He takes his problem to Trebatius, Rome's leading legal expert, expecting an easy solution, only to be told what his question made clear from the start: that the safest way to write satire in Rome is ‘not at all’: quiescas (‘keep quiet’, line 5). His question, as far as Trebatius is concerned, is irresolvable and best left unexplored.

Of all the works attributed to Ovid but of disputed authenticity, the epistle of Sappho to Phaon is notoriously the one which has most perplexed scholars. Most philologists at the end of the 19th century asserted the Ovidian paternity of the epistle; but in recent years the discussion has flared up once again, especially following an important contribution, tending in the opposite direction, by R. J. Tarrant, and today, above all in Anglo-American studies, the pendulum seems to be swinging more in the direction of inauthenticity, according to the movement typical in debates of this kind. The present article obviously does not intend to discuss the whole question once again nor to reaffirm tout court the attribution to Ovid, but brings to the attention of scholars certain arguments which should not be neglected in the discussion (and which point in the direction of authenticity). I do not mean to underestimate the linguistic, stylistic, and metrical anomalies which scholars up to Tarrant and beyond have imputed to the epistula Sapphus, but rather to indicate some characteristics, above all of compositional technique, which have not been considered but which I think have a not insignificant weight in the debate on authenticity.

At the end of Book 15 of his Res Gestae Ammianus Marcellinus reports how Strategius Musonianus became the successor of the murdered Domitianus as Praefectus Praetorio Orientis (PPO). He tells that Strategius was a man versed in the two languages, i.e. Greek and Latin, and that because of this he had won a higher distinction than was expected. When Constantine the Great, so says Ammianus, was looking for an expert interpreter for his investigation into the Manichaean and similar heresies, he chose Strategius as a person recommended to him as competent. Constantine was so pleased with Strategius' skilful work that he gave him the honourable nickname Musonianus, which became his official name. This assignment was the start of a great career which eventually led to his denomination as PPO under Constantius II.

The focus of this paper will be the critical material in the particular Life of Thucydides which is attributed to ‘Marcellinus’.1 After some preliminary remarks about the extant Lives, I shall identify the critical material to be discussed, and proceed to examine its composition and possible origin. I shall suggest that, like the biographical material, the critical passages are a compilation of material from different sources and show a variety of approaches. In discussing these approaches, I shall show that the critical passages contain different emphases, analytical skills and priorities, and vocabulary.

In an important recent article, A. Rodger expounded a cogent analysis of ch. 84 of the Lex Irnitana and especially of the logic of its account of the limits of the jurisdiction of the duumviri (lines 1–25). He sums up (p. 150) his analysis of the jurisdiction of the duumviri as follows: ‘the picture which emerges is coherent, as we should expect. The duumvir has jurisdiction in cases up to 1,000 sesterces. In such cases the plaintiff may insist on his case being heard locally unless it falls into one of the exempted categories. In that event, unless both parties agree, the duumvir will have jurisdiction only for vadimonium to be made to the governor who will in turn deal with vadimonium for a hearing before the praetor in Rome. If on the other hand both parties concur, the duumvir will have jurisdiction in exempted actions of up to 1,000 sesterces, the only exception being cases where an issue of free status arises. If such an issue does arise, the jurisdiction of the duumvir is restricted to dealing with vadimonium to the governor. In cases over 1,000 sesterces the duumvir has no jurisdiction unless both parties agree. If the parties do not agree, again the duumvir has jurisdiction only for vadimonium to the governor. If, however, the parties do agree, the duumvir has jurisdiction in all matters except again where an issue of free status arises. If that issue arises, he has jurisdiction only for the vadimonium to the governor.’

Whether out of an understandable reluctance to neglect any of the scarce available sources or simply for want of more trustworthy evidence, classical scholars nolentes volentes tend to rely to a large extent on references to amounts of money in the ancient literary sources whenever they aim at quantifying, however roughly and shielded by appropriate disclaimers, some fundamental features of Roman economy and society. In view of this, the almost complete lack of systematic enquiries into the very nature of these particular data is almost as inexplicable as it seems inexcusable. While several studies have been devoted to the use of rounded numbers in Greek and Roman literature in general, none of these has specifically addressed the stylization of monetary valuations. The only notable exception is provided by the work of Richard Duncan-Jones who in a pioneering survey of prices in the Latin novel above all showed beyond reasonable doubt that in this genre, prices expressed in multiples of thirty (up to thirty million) should best be understood as purely conventional valuations. In his latest book, he has subjected the ancient numerical evidence for two areas of major concern—the public treasury and state expenditure during the Principate—to an analogous examination that has highlighted the stylized character of many relevant references and has thus largely confirmed his previous findings. Even so, owing to the limitation of these studies to a small number of authors and subject matters, a vast pool of similar data from ancient literature has hitherto been left virtually untapped. What is more, Duncan-Jones did not attempt to complement his re-evaluation of multiples of thirty with a systematic exposition of complementary patterns of stylization. In this paper, I hope to demonstrate the need for a more extensive and much more radical reassessment of much of the available evidence.

Allusions to the Panathenaia 1 in the final scene of the Eumenides have been pointed out by a number of scholars.2 Headlam identified the red robes of the Eumenides (, E. 1028) with the cloaks worn by the Metics in the Panathenaic procession.3 In Athena's pronouncement at 1030–1