What follows is an experiment in reading practice. I propose that we read some key passages of the Aeneid and the Metamorphoses in the active pursuit of acrostics and telestics, just as we have been accustomed to read them in the active pursuit of allusions and intertexts; and that we do so with the same willingness to make sense of what we find. The measure of success of this reading practice will be the extent to which our understanding of these familiar and well-studied texts can be usefully enriched by our interpretation of our discoveries (or rediscoveries). These will include an undiscovered authorial signature NASO in the ‘second proem’ of the Metamorphoses; an unnoticed self-referential response to Horace with NITIDO at the centre of Ovid's epic and a similarly self-referential AVSVM at the centre of Virgil's epic; in the Aeneid we will also find glances to Aratus with LEPTE and an Aratean anagram on Aeneas’ shield; and two new acrostics connecting Dido, Ajax and Lavinia.

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?

Approaching the Ovidian story of Pygmalion, scholars mainly focus on the moment in which the artist carves his ideal woman out of ivory. But the reasons that led him to sculpt the statue tend to remain in the background. Ovid informs us that, before giving to ebur the shape of a uirgo, the ‘Paphian hero’ (Met. 10.290), shocked by the lascivious conduct of the Propoetides, had declared war on the whole of womankind (Met. 10.238–46):

sunt tamen obscenae Venerem Propoetides ausae
esse negare deam; pro quo sua numinis ira
corpora cum forma primae uulgasse feruntur;
utque pudor cessit, sanguisque induruit oris,
in rigidum paruo silicem discrimine uersae.
quas quia Pygmalion aeuum per crimen agentes
uiderat, offensus uitiis, quae plurima menti
femineae natura dedit, sine coniuge caelebs
uiuebat thalamique diu consorte carebat.

It is undeniable that the form of Seneca's Epistulae Morales we currently read is a work of literature, literature being here defined as a piece of work the author intended to publish. What Seneca claims in Ep. 21.3–5 is clear evidence of this:

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 study of the divinization of Roman emperors, a great deal depends upon the sequence of events. According to the model of consecratio proposed by Bickermann, apotheosis was supposed to be accomplished during the deceased emperor's public funeral, after which the Senate acknowledged what had transpired by decreeing appropriate honours for the new diuus. Contradictory evidence has turned up in the Fasti Ostienses, however, which seem to indicate that both Marciana and Faustina were declared diuae before their funerals took place. This suggests a shift away from the Augustan precedent, whereby the testimony of a (well-compensated) witness had been required to establish divinity (Suet. Aug. 100.4, Dio Cass. 56.46.2, 59.11.4; cf. Sen. Apocol. 1.2–3), to a procedure in which the senators were able to jump ahead to the politically foreordained conclusion and bestow the honour at once. Careful re-examination of the evidence in Tacitus (Ann. 12.69.3, 13.2.3) and Suetonius (Ner. 9) has made it possible to assign this development to the year 54, with the consecration of Claudius.

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.’

From the first century a.d. to the late third there existed a group of soldiers known as the frumentarii. Centralized in the late first century, they became an increasingly important force throughout the second century until Diocletian abolished them at the end of the third. Modern scholarship has usually seen their purpose as encompassing three roles: couriers, military police and secret police, with the last attracting the most attention.

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?

Rufus of Ephesus (fl. c. a.d. 100) wrote a large body of works on a variety of medical topics. Generally speaking, the Arabic tradition is particularly important for the reconstruction of much of his œuvre. In the present article, I am going to present four new fragments of Rufus’ On Melancholy and a fragment from an otherwise unknown monograph On Preferring Fresh Poppies. These new fragments provide fascinating new insights into Rufus’ approach to recording case histories.

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.

The verse hinc subitae mortes atque intestata senectus (Juv. 1.144) has long fuelled considerable debate and discussion among classical scholars. This hexameter occurs in the passage of the first satire that describes the aspect of the patron-client relationship where the rich patron, ignoring the plight of his poor and hungry clients, enjoys a sumptuous but deadly feast. After dining on delicacies such as boar and peacock, he bathes on a bloated stomach, causing him to die suddenly and apparently intestate, and causing those angry at being deprived of their legacy to cheer at his funeral (1.140b–6):

quanta est gula quae sibi totos
ponit apros, animal propter conuiuia natum!
poena tamen praesens, cum tu deponis amictus
turgidus et crudum pauonem in balnea portas.
hinc subitae mortes atque intestata senectus.
it noua nec tristis per cunctas fabula cenas;
ducitur iratis plaudendum funus amicis.

This paper draws on Juvenal's intertextual relationship with comedy to solve a textual crux involving fish-names. The monograph by Ferriss-Hill will no doubt warn scholarship away from the treatment of Roman satire's intertextuality with Old Comedy for a time. Yet, Greek comedy's influence on Roman satire is far from exhausted, and this paper will show that this influence goes more widely, and more deeply, than is usually seen. In time, one might hope for a renewed monographic treatment of the subject.

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.

Suetonius’ Lives of the Caesars contain at least twenty discrete anecdotes about childhood (pueritia) and youth (iuuenta or adulescentia) spread across the Lives. Some characterize the Caesars by looking forwards (foreshadowing) and others do so by looking backwards (flashbacks). In both foreshadowing and flashback, the childhood anecdote shows continuity with the adult and creates the impression of lifelong consistency of character. The foreshadowing technique is also something other ancient biographers do; the flashback is something that appears to be unique to Suetonius. In this note I briefly consider the stories from childhood and youth that foreshadow character traits and themes of the rest of the Life, and then the flashbacks from the adulthood section of the Life that refer to childhood and youth in order to demonstrate vices of the grown adult. I show that the use of foreshadowing and flashbacks contributes to the appearance of a fully formed character in the child that will be consistent into adulthood, as well as facilitating the rubric system of arranging material by type rather than by time.

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).

As his writings tend to prioritize the incorporeal over the corporeal, Plato seems an unlikely authority on medicine. He does not appear to have engaged in any systematic investigation of the body through direct examination of animal anatomy, like his pupil Aristotle. Notwithstanding Plato's apparent lack of interest in anatomical research, modern scholars view his dialogues as valuable witnesses for earlier and contemporary theories about the body. Famously, the Phaedrus (270c–e) mentions Hippocrates’ holistic approach to studying the body. Out of all his dialogues, the Timaeus offers the most extensive comments about the nature of the body and its functions. Many of its physiological ideas, however, seem to derive from earlier medical and philosophical authorities such as Alcmaeon of Croton (fifth century), Empedocles (fifth century) and Philistion of Locri (fourth century) rather than from Plato himself.