A generation ago Moses Finley said that the councils and the assemblies in the Homeric poems were not genuine deliberative bodies but looser, less productive gatherings. Finley and others regarded these bodies as transitional, so that regular councils and assemblies appear only later, in systems like those identified with Lycurgus and Solon. In recent years scholars have returned to an older view that Homeric deliberative bodies were well enough organized to make decisions, even if leaders or dissenters could undermine these decisions. Differences between councils, on the one hand, and assemblies, on the other, have not been prominent in this scholarship. The noteworthy exception is Fabian Schulz's 2011 dissertation on parallels between Homeric councils and the Spartan Gerousia, in which he draws several comparisons between βουλαί and ἀγοραί.

Spartan institutions were pictured as a model of political stability from the Classical period onwards. The so-called Spartan ‘mirage’ did not involve only its constitutional order but also social and economic institutions. Xenophon begins his Constitution of the Lacedaemonians by associating Spartan fame with the politeia set up by Lycurgus, which made the Laconian city the most powerful (δυνατωτάτη) and famous (ὀνομαστοτάτη) polis in Greece (Xen. Lac. 1.1). In Aristotle's Politics, in which the assessment of Sparta is more complex and nuanced, one finds a critique of contemporary Spartan institutions as well as praise for Lycurgus as a great lawgiver who established the laws of Sparta (Arist. Pol. 2.1269a69, 2.1273b20). Most other ancient sources often remark upon the unchangeable features of some Spartan institutions as a key aspect of Spartan εὐνομία. Thucydides maintains that, after a long period of war and stasis, the Dorians established excellent laws and Sparta employed the same constitution for more than four hundred years (Thuc. 1.18.1: τετρακόσια καὶ ὀλίγῳ πλείω ἐς τὴν τελευτὴν τοῦδε τοῦ πολέμου ἀφ᾽ οὗ Λακεδαιμόνιοι τῇ αὐτῇ πολιτείᾳ χρῶνται).

As the author of the earliest secular account of the universe's formation, Anaximander of Miletus can lay a strong claim to the title of first Greek cosmologist. Tradition also credited him with invention of the first time-telling instruments: ‘He was the first to construct gnomons for the identification of solstices, time spans, horai and the equinox’ (οὗτος πρῶτος γνώμονας κατεσκεύασε πρὸς διάγνωσιν τροπῶν τε ἡλίου καὶ χρόνων καὶ ὡρῶν καὶ ἰσημερίας, Euseb. Praep. evang. 10.14.11). This paper reconstructs the location, design and function of a γνώμων which he erected at Sparta, and moots some intriguing parallels with the Augustan Horologium on the Campus Martius. Before we turn to the evidence, however, two points of terminology need to be clarified. The Greek term γνώμων can denote either a sundial—a pointer attached to a surface with marks for tracking its shadow—or the pointer itself, in English also called the gnomon; Eusebius’ reference to the identification of times suggests that what Anaximander created was in fact a sundial. Now, depending on its design, a sundial can tell either the hour of the day, the season of the year, or both; from Eusebius’ text it is not clear which function Anaximander's dial possessed, since the noun ὧραι can mean either ‘hours’ or ‘seasons’. But only one usage of the word would be appropriate for the sixth century: no authors refer to hours of the day prior to Herodotus (2.109) and there is no evidence for Greek sundials displaying hours prior to c.350 b.c.; by contrast, the use of ὥρα to mean ‘season of the year’ is as old as Homer and Hesiod, and the solstices and equinoxes mentioned by Eusebius demarcate the transitions between the seasons. Anaximander's device was a sundial, then, one which tracked seasons rather than hours. According to Diogenes Laertius, the cosmologist set up one such device at Sparta (2.1).

This article seeks to present a detailed textual analysis of Protagoras’ Great Speech in Plato's Protagoras (320c–328d). I will argue that the concept of ἀρετή (‘excellence’ or ‘virtue’) as it appears in the Great Speech is whittled down to a vague notion of civic duty. In this respect, Protagoras is bringing himself in line with the democracy, but in doing so the ἀρετή he claims to teach loses much of its initial appeal, particularly in the eyes of his aristocratic clientele. Nevertheless, if the content of Protagoras’ Great Speech overlooks the abilities required to rise to political prominence, the form most assuredly does not. As one would expect from Plato's Protagoras, his speech is replete with just that oratorical prowess his students might expect to acquire from him. This, in turn, has a number of interesting and important implications in the broader context of the Protagoras, in particular regarding the contrast or conflict between long speeches and short-answer dialectic. Moreover, although it has long been noticed that Protagoras neglects rhetoric and personal pre-eminence in his account, as far as I know there has not been any serious attempt to analyse the stylistic aspects of this masterful speech. Accordingly, both this and (to a large extent) my attempt to interpret it within the economy of the dialogue are original.

The manuscript of Andocides' speech On the Mysteries contains a series of documentary inserts culminating in the decrees of Patroclides (§§77–9), Tisamenus (§§83–4) and Demophantus (§§96–8). These decrees seem to fit their historical context and they are presented at length, with at least a few of the formalities that we would expect to find in the official record. Modern commentators have relied upon them as substantially genuine, allowing for the usual errors in transmission, but now their authenticity is contested. A close reading by Mirko Canevaro and Edward Harris rejects all three of these documents as products of feckless ‘forgery’. Alan Sommerstein responded with a strong defence of Demophantus' decree, and Mogens Hansen has recently defended Patroclides' decree and Tisamenus' as well. On many points the defenders are persuasive, but the sceptics make a good case, and so it seems reasonable to reconsider how these documents took shape.

Is Aristotle committed, as a theoretical matter, to fixed species in biology? The answer seems to be a resounding no, if we were to infer his theoretical commitments from the actual practice found in his biological works. The answer, however, is far from clear, if we turn to the ‘philosophical discussion of biology’ found in Book 1 of Parts of Animals. In fact, I shall note that its context suggests that, contrary to some recent interpretations put forward, the phrase τὰ ἔσχατα εἴδη at 644a23 is best translated and understood as ‘infima species’, and that such a reading implies that Aristotle favours the methodology that reflects his theoretical commitment to fixed species (at least in Book 1 of Part. an.).

Hellenistic ruler cult has generated much scholarly interest and an enormous bibliography; yet, existing studies have tended to focus on the communal character of the phenomenon, whereas the role of private individuals (if any) in ruler worship has attracted little attention. This article seeks to redress this neglect. The starting point of the present study is an inscription Διὶ | καὶ βασιλεῖ | Φιλίππωι Σωτῆρι on a rectangular marble plaque from Maroneia in Thrace. Since the text was published in 1991, it has been disputed whether the king in question is Philip II or Philip V of Macedon. The question is further complicated by a newly published text from Thasos, plausibly restored to read [Β]ασιλέως Φιλί[ππου] | σωτῆρος. The identity of the king in these texts is a matter of great historical significance: if Philip II is meant, not only would this impinge on the question of his divinity, he would also be the first king called Sōtēr, thus providing the earliest attestation of a cult epithet spreading from the traditional gods to monarchs. The first part of this article will re-examine the king's identity by studying these two texts in connection with other dedications similarly addressed to a ‘King Philip’ and apparently set up by private individuals. The second will move beyond Macedonia: it will draw on potential parallels from the Attalid, Seleucid and Ptolemaic kingdoms and explore the possible contexts in which individuals set up similar objects. It will be demonstrated that, while there is evidence from other Hellenistic kingdoms of seemingly ‘private’ dedications set up according to civic or royal commands, in Macedonia the piecemeal and isolated nature of the evidence does not permit a conclusive answer. But whether set up spontaneously or by civic command, these objects provide important evidence for the interaction between the public and the private aspects of ruler worship.

This passage provides invaluable evidence on the procedures pertaining to the admission of new citizens in Classical Athens. The picture that the author has given of the roles that were played by the institutions involved in these procedures is very clear: for the reader's convenience I display it in the form of a diagram in Figure 1. According to Ath. Pol., the deme voted on whether a candidate was both of legal age and of free status; if free status was denied by the deme, the candidate could appeal to the Central Court; and at the end of the process the Council of Five Hundred double-checked that the candidate was of legal age.

In the ninth book of his Ἀτθίς the Athenian historian and religious expert Philochorus related an omen about which he had himself been consulted in the late fourth century b.c.e. (FGrHist 328 F 67).

Latin is one of the best documented and most extensively studied of any language: nearly every area has been subject to continued and intense scrutiny, with ideas from recent subfields of linguistics providing a fresh look at some old topics. The Latin future (or –to) imperative, the form that conveys commands for non-immediate execution, constitutes precisely such a topic in Latin linguistics: from the Roman Imperial period on, students have demarcated the usages, syntax and context-specific features associated with this form; more recently, scholars have applied ideas from various linguistic subfields to achieve new insights. Given that the –to imperative is so well understood, it might come as a surprise to find that some matters pertaining to it are still debated. This paper will address four such contested areas: first, its register (is it colloquial—that is, a feature of everyday speech—or elevated?); second, the form's politeness (is the –to imperative ‘softer’ than the present imperative?); third, the temporal scope of the –to imperative (can it ever really pertain to orders for immediate execution, and thus overlap with the present imperative?); and fourth, the sensitivity of the form to social factors, that is, to the identity of the speaker and the addressee. (Did slaves avoid using the form with superiors? Did women, held to be more polite than men, refrain from it? By contrast, was the speech of citizen males characterized by a high frequency of the –to imperative?)

In 1968 E.K. Borthwick, with a brilliant conjecture, cleared up a passage from Aristophanes’ Peace that had been considered ‘nonsense’ since antiquity. ‘Bell goldfinch’ (κώδων ἀκαλανθίς) the line seemed to be saying: a jumbled idea at best, gibberish at worst (1078). The scholium reads ad loc.: ταῦτα δὲ πάντα ἐπίτηδες ἀδιανοήτως ἔφρασεν, ‘all this is said as deliberate nonsense’, and later scholars generally follow suit (W.W. Merry, for example, in his 1900 edition of Peace refers to the line as ‘magnificent nonsense’). But Borthwick showed that this was not the case: ‘even nonsense expressions in Aristophanes’, he writes, ‘are not haphazard collocations of incongruous words signifying nothing’. What, then, to do with the ancient scholar (and those later ones) who failed to understand the passage, claiming it instead to be ‘nonsense’?

The subject of this article was suggested by the question of whether the present tense form uĕnit in Catull. 64.85 should be considered anomalous. My analysis will result in a positive answer, and I shall conclude by proposing a way to eliminate this anomaly. However, a study of Catullus' use of the historical present may also be of some relevance for the interpretation of poem 64 as a whole.

In Fam. 13.1 Cicero, visiting Athens en route to Cilicia in the summer of 51 b.c., writes to C. Memmius L.f., praetor in 58 but by the time of Cicero's communication an exile in Athens after the shambolic consular elections for 53; Memmius was (temporarily, one assumes) absent from Athens in Mytilene, hence the need for Cicero to write to him. This letter, along with Att. 5.11.6 and 19.3, is our focus in the argument that follows, but, to summarize the situation in the very broadest terms, Cicero's concern in it is with Memmius’ intentions regarding a plot of land in Athens occupied by a house of Epicurus, and with the objections to Memmius’ plans that had been raised with Cicero by the scholarch of the Epicurean community in Athens, Patro.

Discussing different types of metaphor, Isidore of Seville quotes an anonymous fragment that uses agricultural vocabulary to describe the sailing of a ship in order to illustrate metaphorae ab inanimali ad inanimale ‘metaphors taken from inanimate objects and applied to inanimate objects’ (Etym. 1.37.3 = inc. fr. 63 Blänsdorf):1

Critics generally agree that Statius’ Silvae 2.4, a poem about a dead parrot dedicated to Statius’ patron Atedius Melior, is modelled closely on Ovid's Amores 2.6, a poem about Corinna's dead parrot. In particular, many read Statius’ poem as picking up on the metapoetic strand in the Ovidian model, in which the parrot may be interpreted as a poet-figure, though they also note that Statius’ poem shows more of a concern for the tensions involved in a poet's relationship to his patron (and the emperor). I agree with this general interpretation of the poem and its metapoetic aspect; however, there are some oddities about the dead parrot and its relationship to its dominus that have not been fully explained by theories that equate the parrot with either Statius or a non-specific Flavian poet-figure and the dominus with Atedius Melior or a similar patron-figure. For instance, why is the parrot dead, and why does Statius write an epicedium for it that is similar in tone to the epicedia for dead people in Silvae 2? Why is the parrot's relationship to its master an ambiguous one such that his cage can be described as a prison (carcer, 2.4.15), and the master's grief over the parrot's death is never specifically mentioned? Finally, why does the parrot speak the name of Caesar instead of Atedius Melior, the friend of Statius to whom the poem is dedicated?

Roman conflict with Parthia in the mid first century for control of Armenia and Domitius Corbulo's exploits in the East, culminating in the Parthian candidate for the throne, Tiridates, receiving his diadem from the hands of the Emperor Nero in Rome, have frequently been studied for what they reveal about military and diplomatic manoeuvres under the later Julio-Claudians. The historiographical investigation of our main source, Tacitus, particularly through comparison with the fragments of Cassius Dio, is also important for the light this sheds on the Roman senator's methods. The intention of this paper is to draw attention to the complexity of Tacitus’ account by indicating his use of multiple and sometimes contradictory viewpoints in his narration of Caesennius Paetus’ unsuccessful Armenian campaign of a.d. 62–63 (Ann. 15.1–17) and to highlight an unrecognized echoing of his predecessor Livy by the historian. The examination of a text that is as elusive as it is allusive will require a careful study of what must have been a debated incident, but, as I hope to show, will give a broader insight into the historian's methods and, perhaps, wider intentions. I begin with an outline of historical events and the sources available to the historian. Next, I present a narratological examination of the text to show how differing viewpoints are highlighted within a contested storyline. I then show how this confusion may appear to be dispelled by a strong plot-line that borrows heavily from Livy, wherein the actions of an older, experienced general are contrasted with those of his subordinate. However, aspects of this account suggest that the tensions within the narrative are not resolved and that this has wider implications for our understanding of the historian and his work.

The structure and organization of the Roman army is a complex subject for ancient historians. Of its multiple aspects, the schedule of the daily routine is one of the most interesting but, at the same time, is scarcely known. Of course, huge progress has been made with the publication of the daily rosters of one particular auxiliary unit in the East (cohors XX Palmyrenorum, at Dura, Syria), but the detail of the chronological organization of the unit's schedule is still to be revealed.

The rhetorical career of Libanius of Antioch (a.d. 314–c.393) spanned the reigns of a number of fourth-century emperors. Like many orators, he used the trope of the emperor as a pilot, steering the ship of state. He did this for his imperial exemplar Julian and in fact for his predecessor Constantius II as well. Julian sought to craft an identity for himself as a theocratic king. He and his supporters cast him as an earthly parallel to the Christ-like versions of Heracles and Asclepius he constructed, which was arguably a co-opting of Christian and particularly Constantinian themes. In a public oration, Julian even placed himself in the role of Christ in the Temptation in the Wilderness. This kind of overtly Christian metaphor was not Libanius’ preferred idiom, however, and he wrote of Julian as another kind of chosen and divine saviour-figure, one with its roots in the golden age of Greek philosophy. The figure of the κυβερνήτης, the ‘pilot’ or ‘helmsman’, is a philosophical concept with roots in the thought of the pre-Socratics but most familiar from Plato. The uses of this metaphor by Julian and Libanius highlight the rhetorical strategy and self-presentation the emperor employed during his reign.