In this article I argue for a change to the text of Stobaeus’ doxography of Stoic ethics. I propose we emend it by reference to a parallel text in the Scholia in Lucianum. In order to make that argument, I offer a new assessment of the value of the scholiast's report of Stoic doxography – a report that, at least in virtue of its length (over 1,000 words of Greek) ought to be better known to scholars of Stoicism than it currently is.

The struggle for and passage of the so-called Licinio-Sextian rogations of 367 b.c. is generally regarded as the climactic moment of the ‘struggle of the orders’. According to Livy, this year saw the ratification of a package of three laws. One limited possession of land. Another required that all money having been paid toward the interest on a debt be counted against the principal, and that the remainder of the debt be paid off in three annual instalments. The third law, which has received far the most attention in the sources and in modern scholarship, ended the practice of the annual election of tribuni militum consulari potestate, restoring the two-man consulship and requiring that one of the two consuls each year come from the plebs. The centrality of the struggle over these laws in Livy's account of the fourth century and their obvious effect, as reflected in the fasti by the subsequent election of two consuls every year, have led scholars to accept as genuine the tradition that an important reform of the Roman constitution took place in this year. However, every element of the laws, and of the narrative of how those laws came to be, has come under the scrutiny of modern scholarship. The most thoroughgoing of these criticisms is that offered by von Fritz, who argued that Livy and his sources completely misunderstood the tradition that they were interpreting.

Ovid in writing Amores 3.11.38–9 showed awareness of Metellus Macedonicus’ speech of 131, which proposed compulsory marriage in order to stimulate the birth rate and which was read to the senate and published at large by Augustus (Suet. Aug. 89.2). I wish to suggest that when he wrote Book 1 of the Metamorphoses Ovid was evoking another political debate in which Augustus was involved. Jupiter announces to the gods that in the end radical surgery is needed when the wickedness of mankind becomes incurable (Met. 1.187–91).

Tacitus' Dialogus de oratoribus (c. 100 c.e.) may be the most perplexing of the extant Roman dialogues, quite possibly, of the entire Greco-Roman tradition. Despite advances in the rhetorical and literary appreciation of ancient dialogues, this text continues to elude understanding. Oddly, the difficulties stem neither from obscurities of subject matter and presentation nor from any anomalism vis-à-vis the norms of the genre. Six compelling speeches lucidly detail the value, history and development of eloquentia (‘skilled speech’) from the perspective of the late first and early second centuries c.e. They provide convincing accounts of rhetoric and its evolution: the social and political efficacy of eloquentia (Marcus Aper's and Curiatius Maternus' prescriptions on how best to assert oneself with and against the powerful, and the famous yet notoriously tumultuous oratory of the Late Republic), evaluative categories for rhetoric, including the competing discourses that prized renown and canonical status (Vipstanus Messalla's praise of the ancients), or external and absolute aesthetic criteria; and lastly, exemplary instances (e.g. past luminaries) or suitable models for imitation (ancient and modern orators and poets). The richness of these diverse emphases, along with the complex and ambiguous reworking of literary forerunners, not to mention the open-endedness at the work's conclusion, all conspire against the expectation of a uniform message.

The rare Latin word draucus is known almost exclusively from Martial. Older dictionaries and handbooks used to gloss the word as ‘sodomite’, until Housman showed that draucus is in fact ‘as innocent a word as comoedus, and simply means one who performs feats of strength in public’. Thus, Mart. 7.67.5–6 concerns weightlifting: gravesque draucis | halteras facili rotat lacerto (‘and with effortless arm she rotates weights that would tax a draucus’), while 14.48 describes drauci playing hand-ball (harpastum): Haec rapit Antaei velox in pulvere draucus | grandia qui vano colla labore facit (‘These the swift draucus, who makes his neck big by futile toil, snatches in Antaeus’ dust').

The text that has been preserved among Plutarch's writings under the title βίοι τῶν δέκα ῥητόρων (Lives of the Ten Orators, henceforth LTO) is, on the one hand, an invaluable and often the best source about the canonical Attic orators: it is, for example, our only source for the verdict against Antiphon after the oligarchic revolution of 411 and for Lycurgus’ state copy of the tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. On the other hand, it is a shambles, containing dubious anecdotes, obvious factual mistakes, and blatant contradictions.

Galen's stories about his successes in predicting the development of an illness belong to the best-known anecdotes drawn from his writings. Brilliant pieces of self-presentation, they set Galen apart from his peers, who tried to cover up their ignorance by levelling accusations of magic and divination against their superior colleague. These accusations are usually interpreted as very real threats, as Roman law punished illicit magic and divination. Pointing out that Galen sometimes likes to present himself as a mantis and a prophet, others have suggested that the accusations against Galen and his own self-presentation indicate that the border line between medicine and religion was still fluid. Both approaches correctly draw attention to the social reality that the accusations betray: they suggest that Galen belongs to a group of healers of dubious standing that populated the empire and thus show that medicine did not have a monopoly on healing. Yet such a socio-historical approach may not be sufficient. For one thing, both explanations have their limitations. Regarding the former, it can be said that Augustus' prohibition of divination aimed at controlling prediction about the emperor and one can doubt that a widespread clampdown of all forms of divination ever was intended. A possible objection to the second view is that throughout his oeuvre Galen emphasizes his medicine as a rational undertaking, even as a science (epistêmê). If one takes his self-presentation as a mantis to be more than metaphorical and to indicate the not yet fully crystallized identity of medicine as a separate scientific discipline, then Galen's usual way of understanding his own craft as a ‘science’ is in need of explanation. Besides such possible objections, a different set of questions still needs to be asked: why precisely were accusations of practising magic and divination levelled against Galen and why do they recur so frequently in his writings? Why divination and not, say, poisoning?

The centrality of sacrifice in ancient life has elicited a steady stream of scholarship on the subject that continues unabated. Treatments of the ritual in the works of the philosophical authors of this period and, in particular, within Late Platonism are less prevalent. The occasional references to θυσία in modern studies tend to be chronologically front-loaded and to focus primarily on Porphyry of Tyre (c. 234 c.e.–c. 305 c.e.) and Iamblichus of Chalcis (third–fourth centuries c.e.), two of the initial philosophers in the tradition. The official resurgence of the practice under the emperor Julian (reigned 360–3 c.e.) in the wake of the limitations on and outright bans of the practice by Constantine and his sons, along with the brief explication of sacrifice by Julian's comrade, Sallustius, have also received some scholarly attention. The fortunes of the ritual in the Platonic Academy of fifth-century Athens have come under even less scrutiny. This essay seeks to make its own contribution to the study of sacrifice in Late Platonic philosophy.

In their introduction to the recent excellent volume Plato & Hesiod, the editors G.R. Boys-Stones and J.H. Haubold observe that when we think about the problematic relationship between Plato and the poets, we tend to narrow this down to that between Plato and Homer. Hesiod is practically ignored. Unjustly so, the editors argue. Hesiod provides a good opportunity to start thinking more broadly about Plato's interaction with poets and poetry, not in the least because the ‘second poet’ of Greece represents a different type of poetry from Homer's heroic epics, that of didactic poetry. What goes for Plato and Hesiod goes for Proclus and Hesiod. Proclus (a.d. 410/12–85), the productive head of the Neoplatonic school in Athens, took a great interest in poetry to which he was far more positively disposed than Plato had ever been. He wrote, for example, two lengthy treatises in reaction to Socrates' devastating criticism of poetry in the Republic as part of his commentary on that work in which he tries to keep the poets within the Platonic pale. This intriguing aspect of Proclus' thought has, as one might expect, not failed to attract scholarly attention. In Proclus' case too, however, discussions tend to concentrate on his attitude towards Homer (one need only think here of Robert Lamberton's stimulating book Homer the Theologian). To some extent this is only to be expected, since much of the discussion in the Commentary on the Republic centres on passages from Homer. Proclus did not, however, disregard Hesiod: we still possess his scholia on the Works and Days, now available in a recent edition by Patrizia Marzillo.

Surveying the ancient biography and work of Terpander, Maarit Kivilo has recently referred to an observation by Martin West on fr. 2 Gostoli:

The account of the Battle of Thermopylae found in Diodorus Siculus (11.8.4–10.4) is remarkably different from the more commonly known Herodotean version of events (7.201–33). Most strikingly, his account includes details of a night raid on the Persian camp made by Leonidas and his men. Diodorus’ principal source for this section of the narrative, historians generally agree, was Ephorus of Cyme (c. 405–330 b.c.). This tradition was later taken up also by Justin (2.11.12–18) and Plutarch (De malignitate Herodoti 866a). But who was Ephorus’ source? Many believe that Ephorus simply made it up. However, Michael Flower, in a discussion of Ephorus and his sources, rightly I think, dismisses this verdict on a number of accounts. Firstly, he questions the willingness of Ephorus’ audience to accept this novel version without Ephorus providing a suitable source for it. Secondly, he points out that scholars have never conclusively demonstrated that Ephorus simply fabricated the events that he related. Instead, dismissing the Greek physician Ctesias of Cnidus (‘It could not have come from Ctesias’), who was active during the last decades of the fifth and early part of the fourth century b.c., Flower argues for the possibility that the lyric poetry of Simonides of Ceos was Ephorus’ source. It is the argument of this paper that Flower dismisses Ctesias as a source for the Thermopylae nyktomachia too quickly, and that by combining information found in Dracontius (De laudibus Dei 3.279–95) and Tertullian (Apologeticum 9.6) it is probable to conclude that Ctesias is indeed the source for this alternative tradition.

The scholia to Wasps gloss τραχήλια variously as τὰ ἄκρα καὶ τὰ εὐτελῆ κρέα (‘cheap trimmings of meat’), τὰ ἀποβαλλόμενα τῶν ὄψων (‘discarded scraps of prepared dishes’), ὀστράκιόν τι βραχὺ τελέως (‘a tiny bit of bone’), and εὐτελὲς προσόψημα ἐν λοπαδίσκοις σκευαζόμενον (‘a cheap side-dish prepared in small pans’). These might all be guesses, but the absence of the definite article in the original text shows that Bdelycleon's reference is to something more generic than ‘the backbones’ in the next verse. The ancient commentators were thus probably right not to interpret the word ‘bits of neck’, vel sim., as if this were a diminutive of τράχηλος (‘neck’ or ‘head and neck’). Instead, these must be ‘tail-ends’ of food, scraps and leftovers of a sort that might be fed to a dog; compare Hippocrates, Epidemiae 7.62 (v.428.7 Littré), where βόεια τραχήλια (‘beef tit-bits’, vel sim.) are mentioned along with ham as part of the diet of a man recovering from illness.

Although the manuscript tradition of Euripides’ Orestes is unanimous in preserving the reading Μυκηνίδες ὦ φίλαι at line 1246, recent editors have increasingly preferred the emendation Μυκηνίδες ὦ φίλ⟨ι⟩αι, first suggested by Gottfried Hermann in 1841. Thanks to the recent publication of new Michigan papyri, that emendation can now be unreservedly accepted.

In his speech On the Crown (330 b.c.e.), the orator Demosthenes twice refers to his opponent Aeschines as a kinados (‘fox’), both times in the context of accusing him of flattery and slandering in the service of Philip of Macedon (18.162, 242). Although a number of scholars have studied the use of invective in the speeches of Demosthenes and Aeschines, very little attention has been paid to the significance of this peculiar epithet. In this note, I investigate why Demosthenes calls Aeschines a kinados, suggesting that, in addition to painting Aeschines as devious, the word may also have served as a pun.

The overall sense is clear enough: the Pythagoreans called the fourth συλλαβή, the fifth δι' ὀξειᾶν and the octave ἁρμονία. We are also told that the octave is a σύστημα, which is a musical structure resulting from an acceptable combination of two or more smaller intervals – in this case, of a fourth and a fifth. But the received text appears problematic: in particular, the double accusative τὴν δὲ διὰ πασῶν … ἁρμονίαν occurring in connection with the dative τῷ συστήματι seems quite difficult to account for. The phrase is perhaps to be taken as meaning that the Pythagoreans ‘posed’ or ‘defined’ the octave as ἁρμονία ‘because of the σύστημα’; nevertheless, the syntax still sounds troubled and, as Andrew Barker has suggested, the text is very likely to be corrupt in some way. An easy emendation would be τὴν δὲ διὰ πασῶν τῷ σύστημα <εἶναι> … (‘they defined the octave as ἁρμονία because of its being a σύστημα, as Theophrastus also said’). The corruption could have taken place in two steps, the accidental loss of εἶναι having caused the correction of the ungrammatical τῷ σύστημα into the dative case.

Scholarship has long argued that the Batrachomyomachia (BM) is to be dated to the Hellenistic period or later, but the question of its literary affiliations in this context has only recently been addressed. Usually considered an example of παρωιδία, the poem is a unique example of that genre in several respects, including the extent to which it develops its own formularity rather than merely mirroring the Homeric exemplar with minimal change, and the fact that it was passed off as the work of Homer himself instead of being self-consciously distanced from the parodied author. It is therefore fitting that the BM is also unusual for ancient parody in dealing with the scholarly discourse surrounding its primary exemplar. This note offers, as an(other) example of this tendency, the BM's engagement with the Homeric arming scene, and its reception in Hellenistic poetry and scholarship.

A conjecture made by Lambinus in 1565 proposes replacement of difficilest (present in the three authoritative manuscripts O, Q and V) at 3.361 with desiperest. Although commonly printed until the end of the nineteenth century (including in Lachmann's famous edition and Heinze's edition of Book 3, but excluding Wakefield's and Munro's), in the twentieth century the conjecture fell out of favour, both in editions of the entire De rerum natura (DRN) and of Book 3; the manuscript reading of difficilest has been kept by editors since 1900: Duff, Bailey, Martin, Kenney, Müller, Smith and Brown. But with this consensus there are problems, and there are several reasons for preferring Lambinus' conjecture.

Cicero is narrating various proposals advanced by Servius Sulpicius Rufus in an attempt to save his failing consular campaign of 63. In addition to the lex Tullia de ambitu discussed in the preceding section, he mentions this proposal that was blocked in the senate. The text printed is that of Clark, who compares [Sall.] 2.8.1, citing a law promulgated by C. Gracchus in his tribunate: ut ex confusis quinque classibus sorte centuriae vocarentur. On this basis Clark suspected that the transmitted praerogationum conceals a reference to the praerogativa (centuria), the first to vote in the comitia centuriata, traditionally chosen by lot from the centuries of the first class and the twelve classes of equites, and thus highly influential. Certainly this is more plausible than Mommsen's perrogationem (‘the successive asking for opinions’: OLD s.v. perrogatio), which is not attested in any classical author.

Amores 1.1, as usually understood, ends in a way that seems a little flat: after an amusing account of how falling in love made him turn from epic to elegy, the poet concludes by ponderously invoking an elegiac muse. In this note I will argue that the ending is more entertaining, and more significant: the muse invoked in the last couplet, who is to inspire the poems to come, is none other than Corinna herself.

Trimalchio's fabulous epitaph, recited in full by Petronius’ colourful host towards the end of the Cena (Sat. 71.12), has long attracted abundant comment. Similarly, allusions to the underworld in much of the decoration leading to and in Trimalchio's dining room have been the object of intense scholarly discussion of the freedman's morbid characterization. In consequence, it is now accepted that epitaph and funereal allusions make for a deliberate mirage of the netherworld – so much so that ‘… Trimalchio's home is in some sense to be regarded as a house of the dead’. As John Bodel has shown, ‘Petronius signalled his intention to portray Trimalchio's home as an underworld earlier in the episode’. Examples for this include the procession from the baths to Trimalchio's house that preceded the banquet (Sat. 28.4–5) – ‘resembling nothing so much as a Roman cortege’, and the wall paintings in the porticus of Trimalchio's house which made Encolpius stop and pause, as Aeneas had done at the Temple of Apollo at Cumae (Sat. 29.1). The example of the pairing of the Cerberus-like watchdog encountered by Encolpius and friends during their escape (Sat. 72.7) and the painted dog in Trimalchio's vestibule that frightened Encolpius upon his arrival (Sat. 29.1) makes it moreover clear that Petronius engaged in some elaborate ring composition concerning Trimalchio's portrayal as a dead man walking. It is surprising, then, that Petronius should have failed to square the circle as regards Trimalchio's epitaph: Sat. 71.12 appears to lack an earlier match – and this despite the fact that a visitor to a Roman tomb might well expect to be informed about the name of the deceased, and perhaps a few other details, at the moment of entering the tomb.