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.

Much of the fascination that Petronius' Satyricon holds for its readers originates in the work's gleeful violation of traditional categories of classical genres. Critical terminology makes explicit the issue of unconventionality, as it is reduced to the neutral word ‘work’ in describing the Satyricon, which, as far as we can tell, belongs to no single category (e.g. novel, romance, satire), but appropriates elements from many sources in both poetry and prose. Perhaps if we had more evidence with which to compare the work, such as a greater selection of Menippean satire or proto-novels from antiquity, we might be able to identify it more accurately. But the suspicion remains that the intense variety of its evocations, allusions, and parodic passages differentiates it clearly from its component genres without allowing it to settle firmly in any one established genre. A certain amount of ‘Kreuzung der Gattungen’ is, of course, typical of both Alexandrian and consequently Roman texts. But the Satyricon seems to revel in its generic instability; it plays with the notion of ‘literariness’ by revealing impulses from non-literary forms such as mime and subliterary prose fiction, raising this material to an unfamiliar level of literary sophistication even as it debases other traditional genres (e.g. epic) through parodic techniques. One of the results of this open experimentation with style and decorum is an extremely dense fabric of literary (and sub-literary) allusion which some would label ‘literary opportunism’. The reader quickly learns to expect intertextual pyrotechnics, swift changes from the sublime to the ridiculous, and humorous incongruities in plot and form, as the stylistic disorder of the text reflects the topsyturvy Petronian world. The modern reader's response to this profusion of referents is to explore the recognizable categories and sources embedded in the work, to tease out the familiar elements in the hope of gaining a better understanding of the whole. Since a great deal of the allusion in the Satyricon functions parodically, there is yet another step necessary in the interpretation, namely taking into account the effect of the decontextualization of language and events from the source material and their recombination and transformation into the new text.

The overwhelming importance of Lucretius' De Rerum Natura for the interpretation of the Georgics is recognized by almost all critics. As W. Y. Sellar expressed it over a hundred years ago, ‘the influence, direct and indirect, exercised by Lucretius on the thought, composition and even the diction of the Georgics was perhaps stronger than that ever exercised, before or since, by one poet on the work of another’. Richard Thomas' recent commentary attempts to play down the extent of this influence, contending that ‘the debt of Virgil to Lucretius in the Georgics is predominantly formal’, and manifests itself chiefly on a verbal level, whereby the poet seeks ‘to create a didactic appearance for his poem’. The aim of this paper is to reassert the pervasive importance of Lucretian ideas, as well as Lucretian language, throughout the poem, and particularly in Virgil's presentation of the physical and metaphysical relationships between man and beast.

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.

A list of the principal works referred to is given in my previous article, ‘Notes on Some Passages in Seneca's Tragedies and the Octavia’, CQ 39 (1989), 186–96.

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:

In the preface to each book of his collected poems, the Silvae, Statius writes in the apologetic mode. Addressing his friend Arruntius Stella in the preface to Book 1, he claims that his poems are mere impromptu productions, ‘qui mini subito calore et quadam festinandi voluptate fluxerunt’, and he worries that by the time they reach publication they may have lost their only charm, that of speed, ‘celeritas’. Statius makes the same claims for impromptu production with the poem I will be discussing in this article, Silvae 3.1, which celebrates the remodelling of the temple of Hercules on the private Campanian estate that belonged to Statius' friend Pollius Felix: ‘nam primum limen eius Hercules Surrentinus aperit, quern in litore tuo consecratum, statim ut videram, his versibus adoravi’ (praef. 3).

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 a recent article I tried to disperse the fog in which modern editions envelop the transmission of the Livian Periochae and Floras' Epitoma de Tito Liuio. Working from editions and catalogues, and without looking at more than a few readily accessible manuscripts, I argued that the Periochae reached the Middle Ages in the company of Floras and nothing else; that the mainstream of the medieval tradition, which probably issued from the region south-west of Paris, derived first from a manuscript that presented Florus and only 1–7 of the 142 Periochae, Λ, and then from one that presented Florus alone, e; that after appearing for several centuries only in N (s. ix1) and P (s. xii2) the complete text of Florus and the Periochae saw a revival in the Italian Renaissance, probably thanks to Petrarch and Boccaccio; and that most Italian manuscripts contaminate the text of e with the complete text. Pending visits to libraries, I left open several questions: whether Λ derived from the source of NP; whether e derived from Λ; whether the Italian manuscripts of the complete text all derive from one source; whether, if so, it was P; whether any of them have escaped contamination in Florus; and whether contamination had already begun in France.

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.

There has been little research on the vocabulary of the Greek novelists. Gasda studied that of Chariton in the last century. He compared some of his terms with those of other authors and he concluded he should be placed in the sixth century A.D. Then Schmid considered that Chariton's language was not Atticist, and dated his novel in the second century or beginning of the third. In 1973 Chariton's language was studied by Papanikolaou. His research dealt above all with several syntactic aspects and the use of some vocabulary, which led him to conclude that this language was closer to the koiné than that of the other novelists. But Papanikolaou went further in his conclusions: finding no trace of Atticism in Chariton, he considered him a pre-Atticist writer and, using extra-linguistic data, such as the citing of the Seres, the Chinese (6.4.2), placed him in the second half of the first century B.C. This chronology has been accepted by some, but already Giangrande has observed that this lack of Atticisms could have been intentional, in which case that date would be questionable.

In his Ars grammatica Fl. Sosipater Charisius quotes long portions of text which he has taken over from books of other grammarians. One of these quotations starts at 246.18 (‘C. Iulius Romanus ita refert de adverbio sub titulo ϕορμν’) and continues up to 289.17. At 246.19–252.31 we find a long argument in which Romanus offers a sort of introduction to the theory of the adverb. This introduction is a surprise to modern readers because it is written in a very rhetorical manner. I mention this because otherwise one cannot understand why at 251.22ff. the author of a Latin treatise on grammar should quote from a Greek work on Aristotle's Categories by a certain Aquila.

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)

In this article I am making what is, as far as I know, the first systematic analysis of Justin books 7, 8 and 9. The method is that which I employed in analysing the sources of Diodorus 16 in CQ 31 (1937), 79ff. and 32 (1938), 137ff. Previous scholars had looked for similarities between the fragments of ancient historians and details in the text of Diodorus, and they had taken any such similarity as proof of a particular source being followed. They had carried their method to extremes: A. Momigliano, for instance, had concluded that Diodorus changed his source 12 times within 23 chapters, and R. Laqueur 18 times within 4 chapters in book 16. My system was to define separable Groups of narrative on the basis of fullness, accuracy, military and political detail, and attitude to the general theme, and to see how far any one Group could be attributed to an ancient author. I begin, therefore, with separable Groups of narrative.

It is a brave scholar who ventures into the murky world of Late Antique medicine in search of information on earlier theories. Not only may the opinions of a Herophilus or a Galen be distorted by their distant interpreters, but frequently the texts themselves present serious challenges to understanding. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the Latin versions made from Greek philosophical and medical commentaries, which interpose an additional linguistic barrier before one can make sense of sometimes complex arguments. Yet as R. J. Hankinson has shown in his recent note on John of Alexandria, there is much to be gained from these forbidding works. But while he has succeeded in elucidating much of the technical terminology and argument that lies behind one of these translations, his lack of familiarity with the textual basis of the relevant commentary has both led him into error and prevented him from resolving still more of its difficulties. His ignorance is easily pardonable, for, as will be shown, modern editors have unwittingly conspired to block the way to the truth, and the essential secondary literature has been published in journals and theses rarely accessible to the classicist.

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.

On the morning of the third day on Circe's island of Aeaea, Odysseus takes sword and spear in hand and leaves his demoralized and exhausted crew to seek out some sign of habitation. Eventually, from the height of a rocky point, he spies smoke rising in the distance. After debating with himself whether or not to investigate immediately, he determines first to return to his ships, in order to see about his comrades' dinner (10.144–55). Returning to the beach, he encounters an enormous stag, which he takes to have been sent by a god who pitied him (10.157–9) and which he kills, binds with a makeshift rope of brushwood and willow branches, and drags back to the camp (10.160–72).