The centrepiece of Cicero's De re publica is a discussion of justice (Book 3). This discussion, which evokes the theme of the Platonic dialogue after which it was named, consists of a set of three speeches. It begins with a speech opposing justice, placed in the mouth of L. Furius Philus and alleged by him to be modelled on the second of a pair of speeches for and against justice delivered in Rome in 155 B.C. by the Greek Academic philosopher Carneades (Rep. 3.8–31 [8–29 B]). Philus' speech lays the dialectical foundation for the two subsequent speeches, a defence of justice as the prerequisite for government by C. Laelius (Rep. 3.32–41 [30–41 B]), and an explanation of its role in various forms of government by Scipio Aemilianus (Rep. 3.42–8).

Socratic irony is potentially fertile ground for exegetical abuse. It can seem to offer an interpreter the chance to dismiss any claim which conflicts with his account of Socratic Philosophy merely by crying ‘irony’. If abused in this way, Socratic irony can quickly become a convenient receptacle for everything inimical to an interpretation. Much recent scholarship rightly reacts against this and devotes itself to explaining how Socrates actually means everything he says, at least everything of philosophical importance. But the fact that a commentator needs to argue that Socrates is really serious when he disavows knowledge or claims to be the saviour of Athens is by itself sufficient to establish that there is an abundance of what I will call ‘play’ in the Socratic dialogues. The term ‘play’ refers to occasions when Socrates at least appears not to be speaking straightforwardly. ‘Play’ covers cases of real or apparent humour, mockery, teasing, irony, and sarcasm, without differentiation or further elaboration. When left undefined, as often, the phrase ‘Socratic irony’ seems to be used to refer to what I am calling ‘play’.

Plutarch's excerpt of Ctesias' version of the death of Cyrus makes fascinating reading. Although Ctesias has an unenviable reputation among scholars from antiquity onwards for fabrication and self-promotion, his description of the effects of trauma to the temple match well the clinical signs listed in a modern study of such injuries. Since he was a doctor from a family of doctors, this is not surprising, but it does suggest that his account here can be relied upon.

In the opening section of Ovid's Ars Amatoria 3 the poet, in an attempt to gain favour with his female addressees, lists a number of legends where it is men who are the deceivers. In this list he includes Aeneas, et famam pietatis habet, tamen hospes et ensem I praebuit et causam mortis, Elissa, tuae (39–40). The terms in which Aeneas' guilt is cast are striking. Aeneas is criticized not for his lover's faithlessness, but for his shattering of the rules of hospitium. At the heart of hospitium, in as much as it is friendship between strangers, lay the ideals of duty, loyalty, reciprocity, and the exchange of services, pietas (39) includes, in this context, a reference to the guest's sense of, or actual fulfilment of, the duty to pay a proper return on the hospitality received. Aeneas had a reputation for doing his duty as a hospes, i.e. as someone who was conscientious about his duty to make an appropriate return. But, according to Ovid, the return which he actually made was diametrically opposed to a proper return, and consisted of a sword and a reason for Dido to kill herself with it. Ovid's decision to frame Aeneas' guilt in terms of hospitium reflects and emphasis adopted both in his own earlier epistle from Dido to Aeneas (Heroides 7), and (what will concern us more) in the Aeneid itself. The erotic relationship between Dido and Aeneas in Book 4 of the Aeneid evolves out of the hospitium relationship established between them in Book 1. When Aeneas leaves Dido he asserts that their relationship is that of host and guest rather than of husband and wife, and that he has acted and will act well in this hospitium relationship (Aen. 4.334–9). 9). Dido, for her part, even after she has been forced to drop the argument that she and Aeneas are married (Aen. 4.431), continues to attack Aeneas and the Trojans as bad or faithless hospites (Aen. 4.538–41, 4.596–8), and ends by renouncing hospitium with them (Aen. 4.622–9).

Over twenty years since the influential revisionist studies of Roussel and Bourriot, agreement on a satisfactory theory of the Attic genos seems as elusive as ever. Although they differed on details, these two scholars were agreed in their rejection of the old monolithic account of the genos as aristocratic family whose institutionalized control over state cults and phratry admissions in the historical period was a relic of a wider political dominance. Roussel and Bourriot instead proposed a tripartite model according to which the formal genos-kome—a more or less localized community similar to the later deme, with hereditary but socio-economically diverse membership, and enjoying, as a tighter community well placed to regulate its own admissions, automatic access to the wider phratry—was distinguishable both from aristocratic families, such as the Peisistratidai or Alkmeonidai, and priestly houses, such as the Kerykes and Eumolpidai of Eleusis. Subsequent discussion has moved in several directions. My analysis of the relationship between phratry and genos followed a broadly revisionist line. I found no good evidence for gene controlling the access to phratries of persons who were not genos members and presented a new interpretation of the crucial Demotionidai decrees in which, contrary to prevailing theories, neither of the two groups mentioned in them—the Demotionidai and the House (oikos) of the Dekeleieis—was a privileged subgroup dominating the whole. Rather, I suggested that the Demotionidai were a phratry in process of fission, the Dekelean House a product of this process. Others, however, have taken the debate in the other direction, as it were reprivileging the genos.

Dawn. Aeneas has just left. As soon as Dido notices that the Trojan fleet is sailing far away from Carthage she is overcome by despair and launches into an enraged monologue (Aeneid 4.590–629), which climaxes in her curse against Aeneas and all of his descendants (607–29). In the first part of the monologue (590–606) Dido reproaches herself for how she has dealt with Aeneas:

Like most passages in the Metamorphoses, the story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus benefits greatly from a clear understanding of the traditions with which and against which it is working—such an understanding is not manifest in many recent discussions of the story. As a result, some scholars have been unable to recognize its humour, seeing instead only ‘ein interpretatorisches Problem’. In this paper I hope to clarify the background to this episode, and then examine the story in the light of this clarification. I close by focusing on some specific problems of interpretation raised by recent scholarship.

Whether its title, ύπέρ τοῦ μ⋯ γεννᾶν is authentic or not, the work transmitted as ‘Book X’ of Aristotle's History of Animals (HA) deals with a wide range of possible causes for failure to conceive and generate offspring. It sets out by saying that these causes may lie in both partners or in either of them, but in the sequel the author devotes most of his attention to problems of the female body. Thus he discusses the state of the uterus, the occurrence and modalities of menstruation, the condition and position of the mouth of the uterus, the emission of fluid during sleep (when the woman dreams that she is having intercourse with a man), physical weakness or vigour on awakening after this nocturnal emission, the occurrence of flatulence in the uterus and the ability to discharge this, moistness or dryness of the uterus, wind-pregnancy, and spasms in the uterus. Then he briefly considers the possibility that the cause of infertility lies with the male, but this is disposed of in one sentence: if you want to find out whether the man is to blame, the author says, just let him have intercourse with another woman and see whether that produces a satisfactory result (636bl 1–13; see also 637b23–4). The writer also acknowledges that the problem may lie in a failure of two otherwise healthy partners to match sexually, or as he puts it, to ‘run at the same pace’ ἲσοδρομῆσαι during intercourse, but he does not go into this possibility at great length (636b 15–23), and he proceeds to discuss further particulars on the female side.

Klaus Alpers has recently recovered from the obscurity of Byzantine lexica the fragments of what appears to be a novel dating from c. A.D. 100, and notable to us, as it was for the Byzantine excerptor, for the elegant verbal borrowings from ancient comedy, always a favourite source of good Attic Greek for the atticists of imperial times. One of these glosses gives occasion to look again at fishing metaphors for erotic business, a subject discussed often enough by scholars, but still perhaps capable of revealing new nuances. These hunting and fishing metaphors are used as one would expect in many non-amatory contexts, but in both love poetry and its allied genres they occur throughout antiquity in such quantity that the metaphorical complexity reaches into very allusive language. Long ago Preston had already pointed out that ‘Figures from hunting, fowling and fishing as parallel to the arts of the meretrix, are very frequent, and are developed at unusual length.’ There was undoubtedly a realistic side to all of this metaphorical hunting. ‘The lover is a fish to be baked, as long he has juice in him’, says the bawd at Plautus, Asinaria 177, and one needs little imagination to realize what plays can be made on such a theme, and indeed were made at all levels throughout antiquity.

Nearly a century ago, Friedrich Leo argued with his characteristic acumen that the neo-Ciceronian style of Tacitus' Dialogus de oratoribus was as much a function of its genre as its subject. ‘The genre’, he observed, ‘demands its style. One who deals with different genres must write in different styles.’ Alfred Gudeman, the target of Leo's review, had therefore missed a key step in the argument for Tacitean authorship when he invoked ‘the influence of subject-matter’ without considering the demands of genre. In hindsight, the point seems almost obvious, and the sophistication of recent work on the date and style of the Dialogus has left Gudeman's discussion far behind. The advance in method—if not necessarily in results—has been profound. Leo's success in linking genre and style, however, has also had a second, less happy result: it has encouraged belief in a corresponding link between genre and content, as if Tacitus necessarily embraced Ciceronian values along with his Ciceronian forms. The Dialogus is often thought to accept Cicero's aesthetic agenda and to examine why the orators of succeeding generations failed to maintain its ideals and standards. Perhaps inevitably, its analysis is then read as a rather depressing tale of oratory's literary, social, and moral decline. This view demands reconsideration. To explore, as the Dialogus certainly does, the collapse of Ciceronian values is not necessarily to regret that collapse. We have, I think, too often read our own prejudices into the Dialogus by presuming a post-Augustan decline in oratorical standards and, in the process, reducing our sensitivity to important variations in and departures from the generic conventions that Tacitus so deliberately recalls. The result is a significant distortion of the Dialogus' view of oratory under the empire.

The evaluation of speeches in ancient histories by modern scholars is very varied. Tarn (p. 286) opened his discussion of ‘The speeches in Arrian’ with the following words:

Speaking generally, one expects a speech in any ancient historian to be a fabrication, either composed by the historian himself or by a predecessor, or else some exercise from one of the schools or rhetoric which he had adopted.

On the other hand, according to Fornara (p. 143), ‘the fact does not seem to have been sufficiently appreciated that the ancients unfailingly endorsed the convention that speeches must be reported accurately’. When Fornara made a generalization, he wrote as follows:

The ancients had unanimously adopted the Thucydidean principle of honest reporting of the things that were said as well as the things that were done.

An eleventh-century manuscript in the Biblioteca Laurenziana in Florence preserves a short excerpt of a calendar outlining stages in the development of the foetus. It is headed Δαμναστού έκ τού Περί κυουσών καί βρεΦών θεραπείας, ‘Damnastes, from On the Care of Pregnant Women and of Infants’. Though its existence has long been noted, it has not been previously edited or published.

The Chronicle of Jerome states that Gaius Lucilius was born in 148 B.C. and died in 103 B.C. in his forty-sixth year. The Oxford Classical Dictionary (1996) says that Gaius Lucilius was probably born in 180 B.C. and died in 102/1 B.C.

The opening pages of the annals of the Roman monarchy tell of long-lived rulers and thriving families. Augustus lived to the ripe age of seventy-six, survived by his wife of fifty-one years, Livia, who died at eighty-six, while her son Tiberius bettered his predecessor's record by two more years. Augustus’ sister Octavia gave birth to five children, all of whom lived long enough to get married; Agrippa left at least half a dozen children, and perhaps more; Germanicus, despite his tender age at death, was survived by no fewer than three sons and three daughters. At the same time, longevity and abundant offspring went hand in hand with early death and misery. More than a few luminaries of Augustus’ court were less fortunate than their elders: Marcellus died at twenty-three, the elder Drusus at twenty-nine, Augustus’ heirs Gaius and Lucius Caesar at twenty-three and eighteen. Drusus had lost a number of children save three that survived; Germanicus buried three of his six sons as infants.

According to Suetonius, Nero Claudius Drusus, the younger of Augustus' two stepsons, was said to have aspired to win spolia opima, that is, spoils taken from an enemy commander killed in battle. The aim of this paper is to consider what substance there may be in this claim and what light it may throw on Augustus’ relationship with the princes of the imperial family.

There are a number of ways in which Greek mathematics can be seen to be radically original. First, at the level of mathematical contents: many objects and results were first discovered by Greek mathematicians (e.g. the theory of conic sections). Second, Greek mathematics was original at the level of logical form: it is arguable that no form of mathematics was ever axiomatic independently of the influence of Greek mathematics. Finally, third, Greek mathematics was original at the level of form, of presentation: Greek mathematics is written in its own specific, original style. This style may vary from author to author, as well as within the works of a single author, but it is still always recognizable as the Greek mathematical style. This style is characterized (to mention a few outstanding features) by (i) the use of the lettered diagram, (ii) a specific technical terminology, and (iii) a system of short phrases (‘formulae’). I believe this third aspect of the originality—the style—was responsible, indirectly, for the two other aspects of the originality. The style was a tool, with which Greek mathematicians were able to produce results of a given kind (the first aspect of the originality), and to produce them in a special, compelling way (the second aspect of the originality). This tool, I claim, emerged organically, and reflected the communication-situation in which Greek mathematics was conducted. For all this I have argued elsewhere.

Eug. carm. 70 (Vollmer)

At the end of line 3, all the extant manuscripts offer -melos. This has been accepted by the editors without discussion. But is it plausible to accept camels in this bucolic landscape?

On many important aspects of the economic life of the rural population there is little that can be said. The complaint about the lack of secure data regarding the rural population of the ancient world has often been repeated, and there is no reason to restate the remarks about the lack of interest in the ancient sources for this topic. There is a danger, however, that absence of information may lead to an over-simplified picture of what actually happened. It is generally assumed that 80 or 90% of the ancient population was engaged in agriculture and that, conversely, only a small part of the population was engaged in non-agricultural work. Ancient historians have a tendency to treat the various sectors in the economy—commercial farming, subsistence farming, industries, and services (especially transport)—as strictly detached from each others. This is too simplistic a picture. We should not underestimate the importance of the employment of various economic strategies by the ancient farming population. This means that a peasant might also have been from time to time a charcoal maker, muleteer, or textile worker. If so, then agriculture and the non-agricultural sectors were indissolubly connected.

This paper reconsiders certain questions about Ausonius’ two incomplete works on historical themes, Fasti and Caesares, with particular attention to points raised in a recent article by R. W. Burgess. Of the Fasti we have only a few tantalizing snippets, the packaging and not the core: what did the work look like when it left Ausonius? What was its coverage? was it in verse or prose? The Caesares as we have it breaks off in mid-quatrain, at line 139: did it go beyond Elagabalus? What of the evidence in Giovanni Mansionario that Ausonius treated certain imperatores from Decius to Diocletian?

In the discussions and debates about the precise nature of Melanthios’ abuse of Eumaios and Odysseus at Od. 17.215–32 and especially the meaning of μoλoβρóν at 219, an important point appears to have been missed.