Evidence has been accumulating from many languages for the existence of distinctive forms of female speech. A consistently observed characteristic of women is that they are more likely than men of the same social class and age to favour usages which belong to an accepted standard or are of high prestige. Women seem to be more conservative than men. They are also widely believed to be more given to polite linguistic forms. It has, for example, been suggested that men use plain imperatives more often than women; women favour modifiers to soften the impact of an order. Numerous other female traits have been found in different languages. In English certain intonation patterns are said to be typical of women. Other pronunciation differences have been noted in various languages, such as the omission or substitution by one sex of a sound used by the other sex. Women have also been shown to differ from men in their use of such words as particles, personal pronouns, titles and kinship terms.

The historical and quasi-romantic traditions represented by the Metz Epitome and its companion piece on the death and will of Alexander (Liber de morte) are late, problematic and derivative texts on the reign of Alexander the Great, which students often overlook and scholars often discredit on grounds of date and reliability. It seems appropriate to offer an introductory appraisal of these texts with a view to asserting their importance; however, some preliminary comments on the function of epitomes in the later Roman Empire may help establish a historiographical context.

In recent years the place (or plight) of women in ancient society has attracted much attention. Their legal position, the attitudes towards them on the part of men, the characterization of women in drama, the personality of known and spectacular individuals like Sappho and many other topics have been studied at considerable length from various points of view. It is on the surface, then, somewhat surprising that scarcely any attention has been paid to a topic which in another discipline, linguistics, has proved very popular of late, the question of women’s speech. Sixty years ago the idea that women exhibit a distinctive form of speech was already current; Jespersen devoted a chapter of his Language: its Nature, Development and Origin to ‘The Woman’. Since then with the growth of interest on the part of linguists in sociolinguistic questions an impressive body of literature relating to this topic has accumulated.

This essay is part of a larger project concerned with determining how historians today can use the evidence of the Homeric epics in order to gain a better understanding of the evolution of early Greek society—but do so responsibly, that is, in ways that are adequate to the epics' nature as poetic and cultural documents surviving from a specific time and social context. Elsewhere I have discussed Homer and history, the role of the polis, warfare and military organisation, and political thought in Homer, as well as ‘Homeric society’ in general and the problem of its historicity. Here I want to take a close look at interstate relations (sections I and III) and the political sphere (section II). I choose as my point of departure some of the views which M.I. Finley expressed in The World of Odysseus—a book that is now more than forty years old, still illuminating and indispensable but partly outdated.

One of the verses of classical poetry frequently quoted by those who have had a traditional upbringing is still an iambic senarius originally uttered by an old man in a comedy by Terence:

Few would be willing to interpret it closely. Some would see in it, as Michel de Montaigne did, a man’s confession of his emotional and spiritual weakness. Others, like John of Salisbury, perceive an expression of Christian charity. Others again make it a disavowal of intolerance and prudery in regard to human behaviour. Most would say that it had to do with being ‘humane’ in some very positive sense of this much used word and claim to hear in it a tone both elevated and elevating. The association with knowledge of literature and the fine arts which Varro and Cicero sometimes gave the abstract humanitas still exercises a powerful influence and not surprisingly the verse turns up time and again in the public discourses of University professors and in the mottos of institutions concerned with education.

Today one expects a truth or the truth to be characterized by objectivity, communicability, and unity. It should be testable, precisely expressed, consistent, and logical. To be all this, the truth must conform to the world of observation, and it must be based on data that can verify or falsify it. A truth may be general or particular, and research in different disciplines, of course, will pursue information and truths by different methods.

Some thinkers express dissatisfaction with the narrowness of this concept of truth, which is largely based on the specific needs of the inductive model of the natural sciences. It makes us uncomfortable, however, to say that the poet has one kind of truth, the philosopher another, the doctor, the physicist, and the geographer still others, and the historian another, yet autonomous truth. History is among the fields of study most subject to misapprehension, for it lies between human sciences and human arts, also between cases and laws.

During the first half of this century the view came to be widely held by numismatists, and by many Roman historians too, that the types chosen for the Roman imperial coinage were to be interpreted as a means of influencing public opinion, of reconciling his subjects to the rule of the Princeps, and of explaining imperial policy to them; in short, as propaganda. Thus for C.H.V. Sutherland coins are, in essence, ‘organs of information’, while in the words of M. Grant, ‘Roman coinage . . . served a propagandist purpose far greater than has any other national coinage before or since . . . This was the means which the Roman government . . . used to insinuate into every home in the empire each changing nuance of imperial achievement and policy’.

There can be no doubt that Valerius Maximus completed the Dicta et Facta Memorabilia during the reign of Tiberius (A.D. 14-37), although he refers to this emperor only in general terms, as ‘Caesar’, for example, in the preface to the work or, more usually, as princeps. Despite the fact that Tiberius is not named as such, there are references that note his status as ruler of Rome. First, it is made clear by Valerius that Augustus is dead, and, in addition, there are two specific exempla that show that Tiberius is the current princeps.

Tacitus is remarkably confident in the analysis and interpretation of motive and causal sequence. Having made up his mind on a matter, he opens up with all the stylistic artillery he can muster. With one eye open for pretence, he is by no means reticent to take upon himself the responsibility for stripping away the pretence and revealing the intentions and state of mind of characters. This will be readily granted. Yet it is in fact notable how often he seems to depart from the practice of simply setting forth the results of his researches and interpretations as outright statement. He creates, as it were, a distance between himself and facts, suspicions, rumours, motives and the reports of his sources. This provokes a number of questions, dealt with here in three sections. First, there are instances where he appears to allow uncertainty, where he uses expressions alluding to report, varying from rumour to historical record: why and when does he do this? In the same vein, why and when does he cite authorities and among them why does he cite some by name, which he does so seldom? Second, there is a distinct, but connected, category of usage which presents alternatives of motive. Last, I will examine larger, thematic areas where techniques are combined.

In Euripides’ Bacchae, first produced in the last five years of the fifth century, that is, after the tragedian’s death, there is a remarkable sequence of scenes which constitutes the turning point of the play. In the first of these scenes (787-861), making the last section of the great central epeisodion, the god Dionysus, masquerading as a mortal, tries to persuade Pentheus that in order to spy on the maenads on Mt. Cithaeron, he must put on woman’s dress, or rather, allow himself to be dressed in female garb by Dionysus himself (827). The elements of the ϑῆλνς στολή are detailed in advance at 830 ff. — long flowing locks, skirts down to the feet, a μίτρα for his head, and as the special equipment of the bacchant, a thyrsus and a dappled fawnskin. Pentheus strongly rejects the stranger’s suggestion, though fascinated by it, and when he goes indoors at the end of the scene he has not yet committed himself to the plan. However, it is clear to the audience from Dionysus’ speech to the chorus after Pentheus has left the stage that Pentheus, in his last attempt to exercise control and freedom of action, will not be able to withstand the power of the god. In order to fulfil the god’s plan of vengeance Pentheus must be driven out of his right mind, since only then will he accept the female disguise. When the two main characters return after the third stasimon all this has happened. Dionysus calls Pentheus out of the palace to display himself as a bacchant, and Pentheus looks to Dionysus for approval of his costume. As adjustments are made to it each element of the disguise is spotlighted — the curls and the μίτρα (928-9), the girdle and the long dress (936-7) and the thyrsus (941-2). In keeping with his costume Pentheus must learn to play the part of the bacchant, and Dionysus instructs him in the correct wielding of the thyrsus (943-4) before the two set out for Mt. Cithaeron.

The hunt for Virgil’s sources has been, by unspoken agreement among Latinists, largely abandoned. This regrettable development may in part have been a by-product of the justifiable revulsion against the excesses of Quellenforschung as practised c. 1880-c. 1930 (everyone read Posidonius and Varro; no-one else was read), in part by the opening of alluring new vistas in Virgilian studies, where apparent progress might be made without the need of painstaking consultation of HRR,GRF,FGH,FHG and similar collections. It has therefore escaped notice that just as the detailed examination of Virgil’s use of Homer (Knauer, Die Aeneis und Homer) or even of the Homer scholia (Schlunk, Virgil and the Homeric Scholia) can lead to immensely valuable advances in our understanding of the poet’s compositional techniques, so the survey of Virgil’s prose sources and the analysis of how he handles the material available to him can be employed to precisely comparable ends. It is the purpose of this paper to indicate some ways in which such a survey may be put into effect.

‘Illegitimacy has been called a social problem for the last two centuries and a moral problem from time immemorial’ (Laslett 1980: 1). Many studies of ancient Roman society have dwelt on morals, and many texts of Roman law give much detail on family law and the law of persons. By contrast with studies of modern law and society, however, there has been little focus on the ‘idea’ of illegitimacy in ancient Rome and no extended discussion of what was involved in being an illegitimate child in that society.

Scholars have observed that in Aristophanes’ Clouds entrance to the phrontisterion is likened to initiation into the mysteries; but there seems to have been no discussion of the effect that such a comparison would be likely to produce upon an audience of the period. In the present paper I wish to explore this question; and also to consider the relevance of Aristophanes’ words to anything Socrates may himself have said or done, and Plato’s attitude to the situation.

The sixth-century bishop Jordanes was actually in the process of writing, in Constantinople, his de summa temporum vel origine actibusque gentis Romanorum (Romana, after Mommsen) when he was exhorted by his friend Castalius to undertake a summary of Cassiodorus’ Gothic history, de origine actibusque Getarum (Getica, after Mommsen). When he had completed the Getica Jordanes turned his attention once again to the Romana and soon finished it off, publishing it after the Getica in A.D. 551.

Athenian history in the fifth century B.C. has, on the whole, become a battlefield where only the trained hoplite ran compete. By contrast, the period from Cleisthenes down to 480 is one where the mere peltast still has an honest chance. There are—at least in internal history—practically no facts known, and ingenuity and imagination have been limited only by what the audience has been ready to believe. These limits have traditionally been generous. And the state of affairs has tended to permit and even to encourage what philosophers call the ‘conspiracy theory’ of history. This, of course, has many aspects; but the one that interests us here may be formulated as follows: ‘All historical events happen because someone planned that they should happen; and all historical events happen just as someone planned that they should happen, unless they are upset by the counter-plans of someone else. It is the duty of the historian to elucidate these plans and counter-plans, and in doing so he is explaining the events.’ Students of ancient history have always tended to adhere to this theory, perhaps because they are exceptionally rational people, or perhaps because most of them, in the past, grew up in an atmosphere like that of The Masters, where this theory can most profitably be applied. But in any case: the fewer the attested facts, the easier—and the more tempting—to combine them all in a grand design, successful or (at the worst) frustrated. And nowhere do these conditions more obviously obtain than in the period I have mentioned. The plans and counter-plans of Cleisthenes, Miltiades, Aristides and Themistocles fill the pages of our standard works with such exciting goings-on that the student ceases to be receptive to the still, small voice recalling him to the extent of our evidence. It is the purpose of this paper to examine one very small item of evidence, well known to us all, and to make as little as possible of it.

The breaking of the dramatic illusion in Aristophanes is a well-known phenomenon, that has often been commented upon, and that many have been able to take for granted. It seems to me, however, that there is still some confusion surrounding its function in Aristophanic comedy, and that since it has an important bearing on the nature of this kind of drama, there is warrant for raising the matter again.

This is a study of dotal arrangements and the disposition of matrimonial property as they are represented in Cicero’s correspondence. From Cicero’s explanations, suggestions and worries about his daughter’s third marriage and his own fortunes, I have tried to piece together a picture of the extent and function of a wife’s contribution to the economy of a senatorial marriage, and to gauge the scope of her material obligations to the children. For this purpose the letters are of particular value: Cicero wrote to and about his wife Terentia during his exile and, later, during a period of civil conflict, when he was not only absent from Rome, but in fear of confiscation. His situation obliged him to commit to writing those financial concerns which would otherwise have left no record. The correspondence exposes not only the arrangements actually made for the use of property within marriage, but the conventions which determined them.

Until the second century A.D., the bodies of most people who died at Rome and in the western provinces of the Empire ended up on a funeral pyre, to be reduced to ashes which would be placed in a grave. The practical arrangements for this process have attracted some attention from archaeologists but virtually none from ancient historians. In this paper I shall try to combine literary and archaeological evidence to reconstruct how the pyre was prepared. I hope that this will provide a fuller background than currently exists for understanding the numerous brief references which can be found in Roman literature and the two surviving representations of a pyre (other than an emperor's) in Roman art. Cremation had different traditions in different areas, e.g. as an elite practice in parts of Gaul, even if ultimately it ‘may have been thought of as a sign of allegiance to Rome.’ There clearly were local differences, not just between provinces but between places quite close together, as well as changes over time, but many of the rites of cremation appear to have been similar throughout the Western Roman Empire, illustrating what Morris calls ‘a massive cultural homogenisation of the Roman world at a time when political and economic regionalism was increasing’.

This statement appears to overlook an informative epistle of Cyprian (Ep. 39), written before the termination of the persecution of Decius. Cyprian is still in his self-imposed exile (which ended shortly after Easter—March 23—A.D. 251) and he is writing about events that have taken place during this same Decian persecution. The letter is, therefore, a contemporary document, for the incidents described cannot have occurred—at the maximum—much more than twelve months previously.

Important contributions to the study of the sarissa and its use in combat have been made recently by Minor M. Markle, III. He has shown clearly that the sarissa proper, a pike varying between fifteen and eighteen feet in the fourth century B.C., was held in action fairly near the butt-end and was wielded with both hands by the infantryman. When the phalanx was in close order, as many as five pike-points might project in front of a front-line man towards the enemy. The front man himself had a reach of some twelve feet with his pike, and he could put his full strength into a two-armed thrust. On the other hand, a Greek spear-man wielded a seven-foot spear with a reach of some four feet (as he held it near the middle) and he thrust only with the strength of one arm (the other arm carrying his large shield, some three feet in diameter). Thus when a pike-phalanx engaged a spear-phalanx, the spear-man was at a great disadvantage; he could not reach his opponent at all until he had himself passed through some three or four pike-points, and even then he could not put as much strength into his thrust as his opponent was able to do.