Rome and Carthage had established peaceful diplomatic relations before 300 b.c. — as early as the close of the sixth century according to Polybius, whose dating there no longer seems good cause to doubt. A second treaty was struck probably in 348. Both dealt essentially with traders' and travellers' obligations and entitlements, so any military or political terms sprang from that context. In both, the Carthaginians agreed to hand over any independent town they captured in Latium. In the first treaty they were not to establish a fort in Latium either; in the second, the Romans were not to found a city in Carthaginian Africa, Spain or Sardinia.

But independent military considerations are the stuff of a third treaty concluded during Rome's war with Pyrrhus. Rome and Carthage now pledged each other military aid in certain circumstances, as we shall see. And ‘geopolitical’ concerns of a very broad kind imbued a treaty which was reported by the third-century historian Philinus of Agrigentum. By this, he stated, ‘the Romans must keep out of the whole of Sicily, the Carthaginians out of Italy’ (ἔδει Ῥωμαίους μ⋯ν ⋯πέχεσθαι Σικελίας ⋯πάσης, Καρχηδονίους δ' Ἰταλίας). This is Polybius' citation of Philinus' allegation; Polybius himself then roundly rejects the very existence of such a pact and declares himself at a loss to understand how his predecessor could record it, but modern scholarship is no longer all that ready to accept his view. A strong majority of historians prefer to follow the Agrigentine, and many see 306 b.c. as the likely year for the agreement because Livy records a ‘renewal’ then of a foedus with Carthage (without giving details).

H. Dohm has amply demonstrated how the cook of Plautus, Pseud. 790ff. exhibits characteristic features of the mageiros of Greek comedy. He has also argued, however, that this scene contains substantial Plautine expansion, comparable with that which has been recognised in the cook scene of the Aulularia. I wish to suggest that Dohm is largely right but that the Plautine expansion is even more extensive than he supposes.

In 790–838 Plautus is probably for the most part following his Greek model fairly closely. One can trace a logical sequence of ideas, as follows. Ballio: ‘I couldn't have found a worse cook’ (792–7). Cook: ‘Why did you hire me then?’ (798–9a). Ballio: ‘You were the only one left. And why was that?’ (799b–801a). Cook: ‘I am expensive, but nowadays people look for cheap cooks, who produce only concoctions of seasoned vegetables. That is why men are so short-lived’ (801b–25). Ballio: ‘You can make men live longer then?’ (826–8a). Cook: ‘Certainly, for 200 years’ (828b–30). The cook then proceeds to give a list of his fantastic sauces for fish and meat (834f. Neptuni/terrestris pecudes), until he is cut short by Ballio's ‘Damn your lies’ (836–8). We have here a typical comic mageiros: he is loquacious and boastful (794 multiloquom, gloriosum), claims magic powers (829f.), denigrates his rivals (810–25), reels off lists of foods, real and fictitious (814–17, 831–6), and uses grandiose language (834f. Neptuni pecudes).

Within this essentially Greek section there are three short passages which look like Plautine additions. First, Dohm is surely right, following E. Fraenkel, to see 790f. as a Plautine addition.

The aim of this paper is to discuss Terence's use of Greek loan-words and to examine their distribution by plays and by characters. How far are they used for stylistic effect and what relationship do they have to the themes of different plays? Is there any evidence for the concentration of these words, which often tend to be colloquial in tone, in the mouths of slaves and characters of low social status for the purposes of linguistic characterisation? Finally, does Terence's use of these words develop in the course of his short career? The usefuleness of a previous note on this subject by J. N. Hough is limited by the absence of any comprehensive list of occurrences, so that its objectivity is difficult to check. A more helpful discussion by P. Oksala gives a fuller list, but concentrates mainly on a comparison with Plautine usage in the type and frequency of these words and does not discuss their distribution within the Terentian corpus.

The question of characterisation by linguistic means, particularly in the field of New Comedy, has received considerable attention in recent years. The doctrine that a character's speech should be appropriate to his or her age, sex or social status, is well attested in the ancient world, with reference both to the theatre and to the law-courts. The ancient scholia on Aristophanes, as well as the fourth-century commentary on Terence that goes under the name of Donatus, contain comments on the appropriateness of particular words and phrases to particular character types. Leo, commenting long ago on the distribution of Greek words in Plautus, observed that they were used predominantly by slaves and characters of low social standing, a point made earlier by N. Tuchhaendler. More recently M. E. Gilleland has produced detailed statistical evidence for both Plautus and Terence which tends to back up these observations.

In 179 b.c. the censors M. Aemilius Lepidus and M. Fulvius Nobilior brought about a reform in the voting. The only evidence for this is a single sentence in Livy (40.51.9):

mutarunt suffragia regionatimque generibus hominum causisque et quaestibus tribus discripserunt

The meaning of these words has often been discussed but never in a fully systematic manner. Further, the attempts to discover their meaning have always been made in an effort to throw light upon some other problem. They are thus transported into the historical context in question, such as the vicissitudes of the freedman vote or the reforms of the comitia centuriata. Yet the formulaic nature of the sentence and its virtual independence from its immediate context make it essential to examine it in its own right in order objectively to establish its meaning. Only then should the question of historical context be considered. The purpose here is to provide a systematic analysis of each element in this sentence. If the results of this are accepted it will become apparent that Livy 40.51.9 relates to central questions concerning the census and the centuriate assembly.

As it stands the sentence is entirely divorced from what precedes and follows it, with the exception of the subject, the censors. Not only is there nothing in the surrounding context to explain it; there is nothing remotely comparable anywhere else in Livy. This, together with the precision of the language, the institutional content, and the formal and formulaic sound of the whole, suggests that Livy has either lifted the sentence out of an official document or is using the terminology characteristic of such documents.

Although it is now fifteen years since G. Williams' thorough-going criticism of B. Axelson's Unpoetische Wörter, his discussion has failed to elicit the adverse response which might have been expected in view of the widespread influence exerted by the earlier work.

The reason for this may be that Axelson's theory is so widely accepted that any refutation thereof may be disregarded. Yet surely Williams was right to point to the dangers of total reliance on statistics and to the necessity of considering the contexts in which words occur in Latin poetry. In this respect, he was not so much rejecting Axelson's work as pointing to its inadequacies: whereas Axelson would be content to label a word that occurs only rarely in poetry as ‘unpoetisch’, it is necessary, as Williams demonstrates, to take the further step of determining the effect that such a word has in a given context. This approach will be particularly helpful, for example, in the case of parvulus at Virg. Aen. 4.328, where the heightened pathos achieved by Virgil's use of a diminutive is better appreciated by the reader who is aware of the scarcity of diminutive adjectives in poetry and in epic above all. To recognise parvulus as an ‘unpoetic word’, with Axelson, is the essential first step, but we should proceed a stage further to inquire what effect was intended by the employment of a form not normally found in elevated poetry.

Of greater importance is Williams' rejection of the ‘hierarchy of genres’ theory, taken for granted by Axelson, that is, that Latin poetry may be divided into a number of higher- or lower-ranking genres and that the more elevated a genre the less unpoetic vocabulary it is liable to employ.

The ancient tradition is strong that the execution of M. Marius Gratidianus during the Sullan proscriptions was carried out by L. Sergius Catilina. The earliest evidence comes from several passages in Cicero's speech in toga candida, delivered just before the consular elections in 64 and designed to rake up as much prejudice as possible against his two main rival candidates, Catilina and C. Antonius (Hybrida). While in none of the passages does Cicero specifically mention the executioner or the victim, it is Asconius commenting on the passages (which are preserved for us as lemmata in his commentary on the speech) who reveals that Catilina was the executioner and Marius Gratidianus the victim. We do not have a great deal of the speech in toga candida left (and we are indebted to Asconius for what we do have of it); if we did have the whole speech, it is clear that we would have been given the name by Cicero himself.

The Ciceronian version (if that term may be used for convenience) is that the head of Gratidianus was cut off by Catilina, carried in his hands through the city from the Janiculum to the temple of Apollo, and delivered to Sulla still full of life and breath. This version is followed by Plutarch (Sull. 32.2). A variation can be found, as early as Sallust (and so for convenience it may be called the Sallustian version — not that the two versions are necessarily to be regarded as mutually exclusive). There is a fragment of the historiae which says that Gratidianus died after his arms and legs had been broken and his eyes gouged out, so that he expired as it were through each and every limb. There is nothing about his head being cut off and carried about, nor is there any mention of Catilina as the executioner. While the details of the torture and mutilation become progressively more gory, this version is followed by Livy (per. 88), Valerius Maximus (9.2.1), Lucan (2.173–93), and Florus (2.9.26 = 3.21.26).

Of the various contests held by Aeneas to mark the anniversary of his father's death the ship-race (Aen. 5. 116–286) is marked out by its length and initial position as especially important. However its precise significance is by no means obvious. That Virgil intends it to have some relevance to events of later Roman history seems fairly clear. First, we are told the names of the families descended from three of the four captains involved — Cluentii, Memmii and Sergii. It seems therefore that we should look to the activities of members of these families to discover Virgil's intention. Two families — Cluentii and Memmii — are a mystery, since none of their members plays an obviously prominent role in the events of Virgil's own time. However, Sergestus and the Sergii point unmistakably towards Catiline. Sergestus' rash folly, which is nearly the ruin of his men and his ship, exactly matches Catifine's own furor, which would have destroyed Rome. Even the name of his ship, Centaurus, reinforces the point.

The recent article by R. P. Saller on Roman dowry in the Principate makes some interesting and important suggestions about the function of dowry and its role in the devolution of property. I am in broad agreement with a good deal of what he says, and would not dispute his views that dowry was, as shown by the requirement of collatio dotis, regarded as in a sense part of a woman's patrimony, and that the rules for the recovery of dowry show that the purpose of giving dowry was not held to rest on one single principle, but included provision both for the expenses of the wife's maintenance during marriage and for a possible remarriage after divorce or widowhood. However, his remarks on both points need some qualification and amplification. Briefly, I hope to show (i) that the oddities and anomalies noticed by Saller in the rules governing the recovery of dowry at the end of a marriage are apparent rather than real, since these rules rest, not on conflicting views about the purpose of dowry, but on the fact that the husband had full legal ownership of the dowry during marriage, together with the right of the wife or her pater to an actio rei uxoriae for recovery of dowry; (ii) that the rules for collatio dotis applied only if the woman herself chose to claim a share in her father's estate on intestacy beyond the amount of her dowry; (iii) that the use of the dowry for the wife's support was an equitable, rather than a legal, requirement.

In a characteristically provocative judgement Sir Ronald Syme has declared: ‘It is not easy to go against a document. Nevertheless, the worse posture is obduracy against the testimony of a precise and lucid writer’. The writer is Ovid, the document one employed by Frontinus, and the context, the death-date of Messalla Corvinus, a subject of scholarly dispute since Scaliger's day. Largely on the basis of two passages in Ovid (Trist. 4. 4. 25 ff.; Pont. 1. 7. 29 f.), Syme rejects the apparent testimony of Frontinus (Aq. 102) and Jerome (Chron. p. 170 H) that Messalla died in a.d. 12 or 13, in favour of a date in a.d. 8, before Ovid's departure for exile. Issues beyond the death-date of Messalla are involved. Thus Syme wishes, as a corollary, to ante-date the year of Livy's death by five years from a.d. 17 to a.d. 12.3 Further, Syme's characterization of Ovid as ‘a precise and lucid writer’ seems to have more general implications. His arguments merit close scrutiny.

Technical chronology establishes the structure of calendars and the dates of events; it is, as it were, the foundation of history, particularly ancient history. The chronologer must know enough philology to interpret texts and enough astronomy to compute the dates of celestial phenomena, above all eclipses, which alone provide absolute dates. Joseph Scaliger, so we are told, was the first to master and apply this range of technical skills:

Of the mathematical principles on which the calculation of periods rests, the philologians understood nothing. The astronomers, on their side, had not yet undertaken to apply their data to the records of ancient times. Scaliger was the first of the philologians who made use of the improved astronomy of the sixteenth century to get a scientific basis for historical chronology.

So Mark Pattison.

This verdict can be challenged on a number of grounds. The one relevant at present is simple: Scaliger himself claimed far less. He certainly said that technical chronology had been untouched in modern times — not an entirely fair judgement — but in antiquity it had been practised in exactly the manner he considered proper, or so he believed. In particular he singles out Censorinus, whose De die natali drew extensively on Varro's lost Antiquitates rerum humanarum, books 14–19, for information on chronology.

Students of Varro have long appreciated the importance of Censorinus. His dry and compact treatise offers Varronian views on etymology, the human life-span, and the course of history itself, all couched in language so jejune as to suggest that he added little or nothing to what he read.

Most of the commentaries on Greek authors which circulated in the towns of Egypt during the late Ptolemaic and early Imperial periods ignored the critical and colometrical problems which had engaged the attention of the great Alexandrian grammarians. A few, however, based themselves on texts equipped with signs, included the signs in their lemmata and offered explanations. Such commentaries must be the source of the scattered references to signs in the older marginal scholia in Byzantine manuscripts of Homer, Hesiod, Pindar and the Attic dramatists. The only Byzantine manuscript to transmit a pagan text still equipped with a large number and a variety of signs, namely cod. Venice, Bibl. Marc. gr. 454, is also the only one to transmit scholia with lemmata retaining prefixed signs. Just as texts and scholium-lemmata lost their signs in the course of transmission, so too did references to signs within scholia either disappear or become garbled. At best, a statement about the reasons for affixing a sign would turn into one about the content or style of the verse in question. The few mentions made of the great Alexandrians give no cause for thinking that we ever have a verbatim quotation of an ὑπόμνημα written by one of them in order to explain his own signs. Time and again it is demonstrable that an explanation of a sign's presence against a particular verse goes back to some writer like Aristonicus.

What survives of the ancient discussion of Latin literature is exiguous in comparison with the Greek material.

When Mommsen saw foll. 28r line i–29r line 6 of cod. Paris, Bibl. Nat. lat. 7530, an eighth-century grammatical miscellany from Monte Cassino, he realised immediately the importance of their contents. He wrote to Bergk about his discovery on 2 November 1844 and Bergk published the material early the next year as being an epitome of a treatise on signs applied to literary texts by Probus and earlier Latin grammarians. There had long been known Diogenes Laertius' account of the χῖ and other signs placed in the margins of texts of Plato's dialogues, Hephaestion's account of the colometrical παράγραɸος, κορωνίς, διπλ⋯ and ⋯στερίσκος placed in texts of lyric and dramatic poetry, the chapter de notis sententiarum in Isidore's Origines, the names of various treatises περ⋯ σημείων mentioned in the Suda, the references to σημεῖα in Eustathius' commentary on Homer' and in the marginal scholia to Homer, Hesiod, Pindar, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides and Aristophanes in Byzantine manuscripts, Cicero's allusions to the ⋯βελός and the διπλ⋯ scattered reports of the signs with which Origen equipped Greek versions of the Old Testament and Jerome's adaptation of Origen's system, and Cassiodorus' account of his own method of noting orthodox and heterodox opinions in ecclesiastical writings.

The 166th codex of the Bibliotheke of Photios comprises a summary of a peculiar work written by one Antonius Diogenes, entitled τ⋯ ὑπ⋯ρ Θούλην ἄπιστα. This told the story of an Arkadian named Deinias, who travelled the world κατ⋯ ζήτησιν ἱστορίας (109a 13–14), coming eventually to Thule, where he met Mantinias and Derkyllis, a brother and sister from Tyre, and struck up an erotic relationship with Derkyllis (109a 26). A narrative of Derkyllis, told to Deinias, seems to be inset at this point (109a 29–110b 15), relating her own travels and including much Pythagorean material associated with her wonder-working companion, Astraios, which was authentic-seeming enough for Porphyrios to make use of it in his biography of Pythagoras. The Apista was a long work, running to 24 books, and it seems likely that a sizeable proportion of its length was devoted to paradoxographical material related to the places and peoples visited by the various narrators, but largely omitted from Photios' summary; the plot itself, though both complex and episodic, does not seem capable of sustaining such length.

At the end of his summary Photios has a short discussion of the place of the Apista in literary history (111 b 32ff.). Detailed analysis of this passage will form an important part of this paper, but for the moment it will suffice to say that Photios saw the work as germinal for Greek fiction, and in particular expresses the view that it was the ‘source and root’ (πηγ⋯ κα⋯ ῥίζα, 111 b 36–7) of Lucian's True Histories.

The institution of slavery has served to perform different functions in different societies. The distinction between ‘closed’ and ‘open’ slavery can be a useful one: in some societies slavery is a mechanism for the permanent exclusion of certain individuals from political and economic privileges, while in others it has served precisely to facilitate the integration of outsiders into the community. ‘The African slave, brought by a foray to the tribe, enjoys, from the beginning, the privileges and name of a child, and looks upon his master and mistress in every respect as his new parents… by care and diligence, he may soon become a master himself, and even more rich and powerful than he who led him captive.’ The model of an ‘open’ slavery implies that service as a slave is not a state to which a person is permanently, let alone ‘naturally’, assigned, but more akin to an age-grade. A parallel might be domestic or agricultural service as it was practised in much of Europe until this century — a period spent serving in another household after childhood and prior to marriage.

A Roman slave, on formal manumission, joined the community of citizens. To what extent ought we therefore to succumb to the temptation to see slavery at Rome — in contrast to the Greek world — in terms of the ideal type of a ‘process of integration’? In a noted article on ‘Die Freilassung von Sklaven und die Struktur der Sklaverei in der römischen Kaiserzeit’ (Rivista Storica dell' Antichitià 2 [1972], 97-129), G. Alföldi argued that in the Roman Empire slavery was an ‘Übergangszustand’ (p. 122), a transitional state which ultimately gave most slaves a recognised if not a fully equal place as members of the Roman citizen community.

When announcing the first instalment, the author made a firm declaration: ‘collegi non servato temporis ordine’. The note of elegant disdain suitably echoes a poet: ‘postmodo collectas, utcumque sine ordine iunctas’;. In fact, care for balance and variety predominates.

Nevertheless, when Pliny came to recount public transactions, he had to respect a ‘temporis ordo’, as many signs indicate. Mommsen in his classic study was able to work out the chronological framework, of the nine books, from 97 to 108 or 109. In general, his scheme stands the test — that is, apart from the notion of a rapid publication in separate books. Indeed, no argument avails to prove that the first instalment saw the light of day earlier than the end of the year 105.

Pliny was expert in finance and an alert contriver everywhere. Persons of that quality may succumb to inadvertence, although not very often. Licinius Nepos, praetor in 105, comes twice into action (4.29; 5.4), before his edict gets a mention (5.9). Again, in a letter the context of which points to 105, a consulship for Minicius Fundanus is divined ‘in proximum annum’ (4.15.5). Fundanus entered office in the early summer of 107. By contrast, Valerius Paulinus, consul suffect in the pair that followed that consulship, does not come up until 9.37. An extremely late point in the collection. It imposes a salutary warning when a number of letters in the final triad are put under scrutiny.

The exposition of Mommsen ran into criticism, sometimes hasty or even perverse. Moreover, various attempts were made to modify the dates of certain prosecutions in the Senate. The emergence of a consul on the Fasti Ostienses demolished an elaborate reconstruction that concerned two proconsuls of Bithynia. More accruing, a number of fairly close dates can now be established.

Perhaps the most remarkable feature of the works in which Ausonius of Bordeaux and Libanius of Antioch, writing within a few years of each other, recall their long and varied careers is that there is so little resemblance between them; the impressions given by these experienced and successful teachers could hardly be more disparate. The reader of Ausonius finds in his Protrepticus (Ep. 22 Peiper) a familiar enough picture of the terrors of the schoolroom; his Professores offer at first sight a series of bland commemorations apparently deficient in the interesting information which might be expected from such an archive. Libanius' many volumes, on the other hand, compared where appropriate with the Vitae Sophistarum of Eunapius, present a situation which is well summarised by the following sentences from Walden's work The Universities of Ancient Greece (still valuable seventy-five years after its publication): ‘There was, among the sophists of the fourth century…little, if any, of that spirit of brotherhood… that usually exists in a community of scholars at the present day. Instead there were jealousy, spite and often unrelenting hatred’. This striking divergence between Ausonius and his Eastern counterparts is unlikely to reflect a basic difference between East and West, or between Latin- and Greek-speaking milieux; the complaints of Augustine about his problems in Africa and Rome warn against such a simple answer. When one adds the evidence provided seven centuries later by the Frenchman Peter Abelard, whose plaintive Historia Calamitatum — an account of the disasters he suffered, not those which he caused — is remarkably similar to the prickly self-justification of Libanius in its account of bitter scheming and almost military manoeuvres in the educational world, one is forced to consider whether the evidence of Ausonius is not a serious anomaly, and to seek an explanation.

Ammianus Marcellinus, by common consent the last great historian of Rome, rounds off his obituary notice of the emperor Constantius II (d. 361) with the following observation:

The plain simplicity of Christianity he obscured by an old woman's superstition; by intricate investigation instead of seriously trying to reconcile, he stirred up very many disputes, and as these spread widely he nourished them with arguments about words; with the result that crowds of bishops rushed hither and thither by means of public mounts on their way to synods (as they call them), and while he tried to make all their worship conform to his own will, he cut the sinews of the public transport service.

This is a perceptive judgement of the ecclesiastical politics of the reign of Constantius, remarkable in a pagan writer, and of exceptional significance in that it lies outside those very ‘arguments about words’ which contaminate all the Christian assessments of this emperor. Although Ammianus is unsympathetic to Constantius, he manages succinctly to grasp the basic drift of imperial policy, inherited from Constantine himself, of trying to enforce the emperor's view of doctrinal and ecclesiastical unity by the summoning of repeated episcopal councils and browbeating the bishops into agreement — thus paying lip-service to the independence of the church's judgements. To the observant outsider, this process was notable above all for the burden it placed on the cursus publicus, as the bishops went about their business around the empire now provided with official evectiones; and Ammianus' comment finds confirmation in the letter issued by eastern bishops attending one of the many councils of Constantius' reign, that at Sardica in 343, who complained of the ‘attrition’ of the transport service caused by the imperial summons.

The extent to which Latin was familiar to the inhabitants of late sixth- and early seventh-century Constantinople is a topic of current discussion and interest. While there is little evidence to suggest a significant knowledge of Latin even among the educated in the seventh century, it is clear that in the late sixth century the language was still familiar to a section of the upper classes. Among native easterners, the degree of this familiarity would certainly have varied considerably, from those who could recognise a few words of Latin, through the lawyers, administrators and military men who had a specialised, professional knowledge, to the small proportion who could detect the Virgilian echoes in Corippus' panegyric of Justin II.

Whether Paul the Silentiary, epigrammatist and panegyrist of the Emperor Justinian's church of S. Sophia, should be included in the small category who were acquainted with Latin literature is indeed a more far-reaching issue than that of the survival of Latin in the eastern capital, since it is an element in the larger problem of the extent to which late Greek poets knew and imitated the work of their Latin predecessors. The broad generalisations of the past no longer satisfy modern scholarship, which rightly demands rigorous scrutiny of the evidence for each individual author.

In two recent studies we have examined the prose rhythms in the clausulae of late imperial Latin authors. We found two clausular systems to be prevalent, the cursus and the cursus mixtus. The cursus involves the use of accentual rhythms and consists of three basic cadences: planus, tardus, and velox. The cursus mixtus has been defined by modern scholars as a type of prose rhythm in which the clausula is structured along both accentual and metrical lines, that is by the combination of one of the three forms of the cursus with one of the standard metrical forms derived from Cicero's system — cretic-spondee, dicretic, cretic-tribrach, or ditrochee.

In this article I shall argue for an interpretation of Odyssey 19.393–466 as a flash-back taking place in the mind of Eurykleia at the moment she recognises Odysseus' scar. That Eurykleia somehow forms the connection between main story and digression has been suggested before, but so far other interpretations have been defended with more fervour.

Most famous of these interpretations is the one given by E. Auerbach in the first chapter of his Mimesis. He had chosen 19.393–466 to illustrate his thesis that in Homer everything is ‘fully externalized’ and that there is no background, only a ‘uniformly illuminated’ foreground. According to Auerbach the digression on the scar stands in complete isolation to its context. It is meant to ‘relax the tension’, to make the hearer/reader ‘forget what had just taken place during the footwashing’, and although it might have been presented as a recollection of Odysseus (by inserting the story ‘two verses earlier, at the first mention of the word scar’), this ‘subjectivisticperspectivistic procedure, creating a foreground and background’ was not chosen, being ‘entirely foreign to the Homeric style’.

Some twenty years later this interpretation was challenged by A. Köhnken, who, however, stuck to the idea that the digression is not told from the restricted perspective of one of the characters but from the perspective of the omniscient narrator; he claims that foreground and background are marked as such through a difference in narrative style: ‘berichtende Erzählung’ for the digression itself and ‘szenische Darstellung’ for the context. I disagree with both points.