The sea god Poseidon is taken for granted as such in Classical Greek literature and iconography. Yet one does not have to look far in the literary or iconographical sources to find material that conveys a somewhat different impression. This has been noticed, and in the past there have been some interesting attempts to surmise Poseidon's origins and significance from the evidence at hand. This paper is not an attempt to reconstruct a putative Mycenaean deity, but will examine certain episodes of the Homeric Iliad to suggest possible reasons for the inconsistencies and anomalies that appear.

It is well known from the sources that three Athenian factions were organized after Solon's reforms. Herodotus writes as follows:

In the course of time there was a feud between the Athenians of the coast under Megacles son of Alcmeon and the Athenians of the plain under Lycurgus son of Aristolaides. Pisistratus then, having an eye to the sovereign power, raised up a third faction. He collected partisans and pretended to champion the hillmen (συλλέξαՏ δ­ σταƣώταՏ ĸαì τѽ λóγω τѽν ύπεραĸρíων προστάЅ). (Her. 1.59, trans. A.D. Godley [Loeb])

The tragic or ‘instantaneous’ aorist usually has a paragraph to itself in the grammar books, as a distinct but not especially important use of the aorist. It is most common in Athenian drama of the second half of the fifth century, although there are possible examples in Homer and some learned revivals later. The present article offers an entirely new account of these aorists, and entails a new interpretation of the tone of some 75 lines of tragedy and comedy.

In the study of education, as in many more travelled regions of Classical scholarship, democratic Athens is something of a special case. The cautions formulation is appropriate: in the case of education, surprisingly few studies have sought to establish quite how special Athens was, and those which have, have often raised more questions than they answered. The subject itself is partly to blame. The history of education invites comparison with the present day, while those planning the future of education rarely fail to invoke the past. The place of Classical Athens in European culture has ensured a place for Athenian education in almost every debate from the relation between education and democracy to the value of education versus training, and as the original champion of causes as varied as mass education, co-education, and the national curriculum. Desirable as it is to be in demand, such treatment is not calculated to produce the most circumspect account of the subject. The study of education is further hampered by the fact that our knowledge of Athenian culture is so vibrant and diverse in some ways and so partial in others. Plato and Aristophanes present a vivid fictional picture of education in the late fifth century. If we add a few passages from Xenophon and Aristotle, a large number of vases depicting men, women, and children reading, playing the lyre, and doing athletics, and one or two archaeological finds of an educational appearance, it is tempting to take the result as a clear portrait of a society at school.

In recent years, there has been considerable debate about the reliability of Herodotus: the attack on his honesty led by Fehling, the defence by Pritchett. The debate, it seems, may have begun at least as far back as Thucydides, but now Thucydides himself may have joined the school of liars. Badian has produced a new reading of Thucydides’ description of the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, arguing that Thucydides deliberately set out to mislead the reader, misrepresenting the Spartans as the instigators of the War and carefully masking the Athenians’ own responsibility.

In a previous article I attempted to trace the way in which, for Xenophon, homosexual liaisons might or might not affect the discipline of military life, and the emphasis which he placed upon the virtue of self-control (έγκράτεια) in dealing with desires of this kind. The present paper seeks to broaden the enquiry into a study of Xenophon's attitude to male same-sex affairs in general.

Perhaps more than any other dialogue, Plato's Laws demands a reading that is at once historical and philosophical. This text's conception of the ‘rule of law’ is best understood in its contemporary socio-political context; its philosophical discussion of this topic, in fact, can be firmly located in the political ideologies and institutions of fourth-century Greece. In this paper, I want to focus on the written lawcode created in the Laws in the context of the Athenian conception and practice of rule by written law. How are the Athenian laws authorized, disseminated, and implemented, and how does Plato's lawcode reflect and/or depart from this model? What is the status of the ‘text’ of each lawcode? How—and how well—do the citizens know the law? When and by whom can the lawcode be altered? Recent work on literacy and on rule by written law in fourth-century Athens invites a serious reconsideration of Plato's lawcode and the polity it is designed for. Certainly Plato's Laws is grounded in a serious meditation on Athenian legislative practices. But Plato adds a novel ingredient to his legislation—the ‘Egyptian’ practice of ‘doing things by the book’ exemplified by (among other things) the institution of laws which compel doctors to treat patients in strict accordance with venerable and, indeed, sacred medical texts. As I will argue, the ‘Egyptian’ medical and textual practices offer a model for the rule of law quite different from that found in Athens.

The characters in Plato's Socratic Dialogues and the sociocultural beliefs and assumptions they present have a historical dramatic setting which ranges over the last quarter of the fifth century b.c.—the period of activity of the historical Socrates. That this context is to an extent fictional is undeniable; yet this leaves open the question what the dramatic interplay of (mostly) dead politicians, sophists, and other Socratic associates—not forgetting Socrates himself—signifies for the overall meaning and purpose of individual Dialogues. Are we to assume, with a recent study, that Plato is entirely concerned with his contemporary world and is, as it were, borrowing his characters from the fifth century, or does the fiction reveal something of his real involvement in the values and debates of the recent past? The aim of this paper is to argue that a detailed study of the characterization and dramatic structure of one particular Dialogue, Laches, strongly suggests that Plato is using a perceived tension between past and present to generate not only a philosophical argument but also a commentary on the cultural and political world of late fifth-century Athens and in particular Socrates’ position within it.

In editing Plato's Sophist for the new OCT vol. I, ed. E. A. Duke, W. F. Hicken, W. S. M. Nicoll, D. B. Robinson, and J. C. G. Strachan (Oxford, 1995), there was less chance of giving novel information about W = Vind. Supp. Gr. 7 for this dialogue than for others in the volume, since Apelt's edition of 1897 was used by Burnet in 1900 and was based on Apelt's own collation of W. The result was better than the somewhat confused information printed by Burnet, even in his 1905 reprint, for W for the other dialogues in vol. I. (This seems perhaps to have arisen from some misinterpretation by Burnet of Kral's method of reporting W.) But in the Sophist as elsewhere in vol. I collations largely due to Dr W. S. M. Nicoll added new facts about all of BDTWP and their correctors, and the search for testimonia largely carried out by Dr E. A. Duke added new facts in that area. A reviewer counts 66 changes in our text of the Sophist, which may perhaps be a slight over-estimate. Classification of changes as substantive or as falling into different groups is sometimes difficult, but I think plausible figures are as follows. We (myself aided in the earlier sections by Nicoll) have in 25 places made a different choice of readings from the primary mss. and testimonia. We have printed conjectures where Burnet kept a ms. reading in 17 places, but conversely we have reverted to a ms. reading where Burnet had a conjecture in 8 places. We have printed alternative conjectures to conjectures adopted by Burnet in 6 places. So we have actually departed from the primary sources on at most 9 more occasions overall than Burnet. What must be noted is that Burnet had already printed conjectures (including readings from secondary mss.) on something like 87 occasions (12 from secondary mss., 75 from modern conjectures from Stephanus onwards), so our percentage addition to Burnet's departures from the primary sources is modest. Moreover Burnet printed about 25 readings from testimonia; we have followed him in 20 or so of these cases, and this in turn implies that the primary mss. are in error at these further 20 places. It needs to be underlined that though Burnet undoubtedly deserved to be regarded as a safe and cautious editor, nevertheless he departed from the primary mss. on average about twice per Stephanus page in this dialogue. Sometimes, of course, testimonia showed him right to do this, but testimonia cover only a quite small part of this dialogue. Otherwise Burnet accepted almost 90 conjectures. For the Politicus the figures are fairly similar; Burnet accepted 22 Byzantine conjectures and 35–40 more modern ones. The new OCT there adds 15 or so more (not all new) conjectures. (On the Politicus in the new OCT see Robinson [1995].)

The law of Athens prohibited any but full citizens from owning land or houses. Thus the law also impeded the bequeathing of real property to those who were not citizens. This law seemed to preclude those who were the real backbone of the trading and banking businesses from owning land and, therefore, from lending and borrowing by using it as a security.

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).

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).

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.