This article offers a new interpretation of the wave which, in the finale of Euripides’ Iphigenia Taurica, prevents the Greek ship from leaving the Taurian land, thus making it necessary for the goddess Athena to intervene. My contention is that the wave is the predictable consequence of the sacrilege which the Greeks are committing by stealing Artemis’ cult statue from the Taurian temple. Therefore, we can detect in IT the same religious offence–punishment–compensation structure that can be found in Aeschylus’ Eumenides. However, unlike in Aeschylus’ tragedy, in IT Athena's final decrees compensate only the goddess Artemis and not the human characters: after deeply suffering as instruments of the divine will, not even in the future will they be allowed to fulfil their desires. Thus, we may say that a supernatural ‘wave’ prevents humans from leaving in accordance with their will.

The Roman triumph is treated by the Augustan poets from a literary and political perspective. Ovid in particular gives it original and ambiguous features. The topic is often presented as the prediction of a triumph, a point of view perhaps inherited from Gallus. Propertius innovates from the Gallan original, and Ovid uses Propertius’ treatment for further innovations. In his exile poetry, Ovid makes further substantial changes to the use of the triumph, which raises pointed questions as to the poet's sincerity in his apparent praise of Augustus and Tiberius.

Drawing on the perspectives of cognitive linguistics and evolutionary biology, this contribution revisits the meaning of the Homeric formula ὑπόδρα ἰδών, literally ‘looking from below’, which is generally acknowledged as an indication of anger in epic poetry. A detailed examination of the phrase suggests that the facial expression it refers to was originally an inclination of the head while maintaining a fixed gaze ahead, resulting in a view from beneath lowered brows. It is argued that this position of the head serves as a functional preparation for a physical conflict, and consequently that the epic phrase ὑπόδρα ἰδών is not merely a metonym for anger but also a signal of the willingness to resort to violence if the conflict is not resolved by other means. This is also borne out by the contexts in which the formula occurs, since in most cases the speeches introduced with a ‘look from below’ are either followed by violent actions or cause their addressee to retract the offence.

This paper sketches a taxonomy of Aristophanic puns and explores the strategies employed by ‘faithful’ English translations for rendering such jokes. No pun is untranslatable. At the same time, there is no perfect translation but a range of options, more or less effective for a certain context, audience, and type of pun. The challenges which translators face with Aristophanic jokes, as well as the ingenious solutions they offer on occasions, invite us to reappraise the original puns, whose wittiness is too often denied by scholarship.

There are numerous historical reconstructions of the lead-up to the Battle of Gaugamela, albeit often as a short prelude to the battle itself. The focus tends to be historical reality, with the extant sources blended to produce a probable sequence of events. Such narratives have their place, but the process masks the details provided by specific sources. This article analyses Arrian's representation of events to understand his narrative better. Particular attention is paid to his chronological ‘mistake’, specifically the loss of a day which is usually just corrected by commentators. I suggest that this was not an error at all, but a deliberate construct. I show that Arrian manipulates ‘narrative time’ by using the night in order to blur historical time, and how this creates a framework within which Arrian carefully constructs his Alexander–Parmenio exchanges. The construct of the adviser, the use of night imagery, and the select use of terminology (kleptein) are utilized by Arrian in order to maintain his heroic image of Alexander and to conceal any strategies of deception.

Artefact collections are a key means for many people to interact with classical antiquity. The physicality of objects easily appeals to the imagination, evoking associations between the object and the viewer's experiences. Reception of artefacts is thus multilayered, even regarding what may seem to be very simple objects, such as ancient glass vessels uncovered and collected around the middle of the nineteenth century. Drawing on research into the Damon Collection (Canterbury Museum, New Zealand) this study explores Victorian reception of Roman glass, demonstrating the many and often complex ways in which objects of utilitarian origin in classical antiquity gained new meaning and surprising popularity among a broad public. Glass vessels were receptacles for ideas and the imagination, from adventure to questions of religion and empire. In particular, vessels identified as ‘lachrymatories’ became a very personal empathetic link to the classical past, with influence on popular imagination enduring to the present day.

Greek comedy, especially New Comedy, contains many incidental descriptions of domestic interiors. This article argues that such descriptions constitute a valuable and overlooked source of evidence for historians of the classical Greek house; they are also of interest to literary critics in that they contribute to the thematic and conceptual meaning of the plays. The article presents and discusses all the surviving comic evidence for houses, including many previously neglected comic fragments, as well as a key scene from Menander's Samia which is more detailed than any other surviving literary depiction.

Lucian figured twice in the previous set of reviews, for better (Peter Thonemann's scintillating Alexander, or the False Prophet) and for worse (a posthumous completion of Diskin Clay's True History marred by a slew of editorial errors). Now Joel Relihan has furnished us with a trilogy of Menippean fantasies: Menippus, or The Consultation of the Corpses; Icaromenippus, or A Man above the Clouds; and The Colloquies of the Corpses (Dialogues of the Dead). Relihan's brief reflective Foreword reminds us that his deep and long-cultivated knowledge of the tradition of Menippean satire extends well beyond the Lucian of the second century. A slightly longer General Introduction explains the specific goals and general principles of Relihan's translation. Then each of the three Lucianic texts is given its own (longer and illuminating) introduction, with footnotes providing a modest commentary. It soon becomes clear that Relihan's ideal interlocutor is not Lucian but Menippus the Cynic. Lucian's subordinate status becomes even clearer when Relihan makes reference to ‘Lucian's evolving (in fact, ever more constricted) understanding of the potential of the person, productions, and purposes of Menippus the Cynic’ (xiv, my emphasis). Relihan's seven-page Afterword is still more disparaging: ‘Lucian drained the blood out of Menippus’ (156). His conclusion is that ‘Menippus in Lucian is good for telling Menippus stories but, after a while, Menippus needs to be put in his place and left there’ (159). On the assumption that the Menippus in question is not the Cynic but Lucian's Menippean puppet, I concur. And as I worked my way through the thirty vignettes of The Colloquies of the Corpses I realized that I was confronted with an entirely unexpected phenomenon: Lucianic tedium.

There have been very many exciting books on Latin literature in the past six months; here is at least a small selection. J. N. Adams presents an impressive volume on asyndeton in Latin literature. Based on a thorough examination of different types of asyndeta, with a special focus on asyndeta bimembria (‘asyndeta with two members’), Adams discusses ‘grammatical’ and semantic types of asyndeta, as well as their characteristic structural patterns, followed by a discussion of genres and texts, from laws and prayers over asyndeta from texts of the early Republic to the Augustan period. For historiography, Tacitus’ Histories and Annals are included as well. In the course of his discussion, Adams debunks some long-held beliefs about Latin asyndeta, which, he shows, are not predominantly a feature of sacral or legal language, as has often been claimed. He also argues that asyndeton, rather than evoking speed or rapidity, may instead invite a reading that is slow and deliberate, with meaningful pauses between the individual words (that most famous Latin asyndeton, which is printed on the dust jacket and discussed on 77–8, veni, vidi, vici [‘I came, I saw, I conquered’], works very well as an example).

This review commences with three very important recent works that raise an important question: how is it possible that we should have to wait until 2021 to have works devoted to these fundamental subjects? First, Athens is, for better or worse, at the very centre of what we understand and practise as Greek history; yet there are hardly any books that attempt to give an overview of Athenian political, social, economic, and religious history alongside its material and visual culture. It is probably no longer possible for a single scholar to write such a book; but the fact that, despite the surge of companions and handbooks of all sorts over the last fifteen years, there has been no Companion to Athens until now, raises some very interesting questions. Second, Greek economic history has experienced an explosion of publications over the last fifteen years, which have constructed new approaches, examined new questions, and utilized new forms of evidence in innovative ways. How is it possible that there has been no systematic attention paid to the most fundamental institution of Greek economies, that of the household? Finally, the Hellenistic period is one of the most vibrant fields of Greek history, but why are there almost no volumes devoted to Hellenistic social history, in particular given the substantial number of available sources? I will comment below on the contribution of these three works, but pondering on these questions, and trying to identify other huge black holes in the study of Greek history, has a value of its own.

Another bumper edition, again by way of apology for absenteeism in the spring issue (though this time due to paternity rather than plague). We begin with the latest Beard blockbuster. In her Twelve Caesars, based on her 2011 A.W. Mellon Lectures in the Fine Arts, Mary Beard turns her trademark combination of penetrating gaze and jovial tongue to the reception of the famed group of elite first-century ce Roman men who span a key moment in the transformation of ancient politics. Belying their importance for ancient historians and archaeologists, they have been rather neglected by art historians of later periods. With an extraordinarily wide lens, spanning from Alexander the Great to the 2017 modern art of Alison Wilding, Beard corrects that omission, demonstrating their central place in the history of Western art, and exploring not just how those emperors have been represented, repackaged, and reused, but what that says about the identities, worlds, and priorities of those who so mobilized them. The result is a tour de force of art and intellectual history. Not only is the reader presented with gloriously arcane anecdotes on almost every page, but their sum amounts to a sustained inquiry into the role that past power has played, and continues to play, in our history, politics, art, and culture.

In preparation for my first review, I have had the pleasure to read books that showcase the current breadth of contemporary study of ancient visual and material cultures, from subjects as diverse as canine skeletons in Athens, Egyptian papyri, and medieval mosques, and approaches ranging from the close analysis of pigment on Roman marble sculpture to the exploration of ‘viewsheds’ on the acropolis.

The eleventh volume of the Studia Praesocratica series presents a welcome challenge to scholars of early Greek philosophy to get to grips with the exciting and valuable material found in the Herculanean testimonia. These texts provide a resource that has often been overlooked even by those seeking relatively recently to present comprehensive collections of texts and evidence on the Presocratics, and Christian Vassallo has done a great service in producing this extensive collection of textual evidence, along with English translations and commentary. As Vassallo makes clear in his introduction and individual commentary sections, a close study of the reception of early Greek philosophy in the Epicurean tradition throws up exciting new perspectives that may well provide a basis to challenge standard narratives, particularly with respect to early epistemology and theology. The work is explicitly designed to be of value not just to papyrologists but to scholars of early Greek philosophy too. With this in mind, Vassallo presents the evidence separately for each individual Presocratic, with separate commentary sections aiming to put the evidence into its Epicurean context. He extends the coverage of his already monumental work by including a useful appendix on ‘Diogenes of Oinoanda's Criticism of Presocratic Philosophy’ (595–645). Any scholar of early Greek philosophy seeking to undertake a comprehensive survey of the textual evidence will be grateful to Vassallo for the work he has done and for how accessible he has rendered these texts.

This issue sees five volumes from IMAGINES – Classical Receptions in the Visual and Performing Arts. This series, published by Bloomsbury and edited by Filippo Carlà-Uhink and Martin Lindner, developed from a series of conferences starting in 2007, and has so far produced fourteen books, including both edited volumes and monographs. In keeping with the editors’ aims to work from an anti-hierarchal approach to culture, the books under discussion elaborate on a range of media, without distinguishing between ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture.

Delphi, one of the most spectacular sites in Europe and an immensely important oracular site of Ancient Greece is the theme of an edited volume originating in a conference organized in 2017. Unlike most conference proceedings, this volume is truly thorough in terms of breadth of coverage, and it is also beautifully produced and equipped with very useful indices which greatly facilitate orientation. There are twenty-three chapters in German and English, divided into six sections: archaeology, the functioning of the oracle, the role of Delphi in Greek history, the representation of the oracle in archaic and classical literature, its role in the theological and philosophical debates of the Roman period, and a brief section on its modern reception. Anyone interested in Delphi will find something useful in this volume.