What decides the outcome of a Homeric battle? This may sound like one of those arcane problems only a devoted Homer-specialist would care to raise, but in fact the question strikes at the root of major issues in archaic Greek history.

The orthodox answer is that Homeric battles were decided by single combats between champions, with the rest of the warriors only marginally influencing the fighting. It is added that these champions were aristocrats, ‘knights’. On this interpretation many have argued that the political dominance of archaic Greek aristocrats was largely based on their military dominance, and that their power was seriously impaired when, in the seventh century B.C., military prominence shifted to the mass, the ‘commoners’; this change in the balance of power contributed crucially to the rise of the polis and the emergence of tyrannies. In outline the theory derives from Aristotle(Pol. 1297 b) and is firmly entrenched in modern works.

In a recent article Margalit Finkelberg raises the question of whether or not the phrase κλοσ ἄπ;θιτον at Iliad 9.413 is indeed a Homeric formula:

λετο μν μοι νóατοσ, τρ κλοσ ἄπ;θιτον ἔσται

Her purpose is to ‘test the antiquity of κλοσ ἄπ;θιτον on the internal grounds of Homeric diction’ (p. I).1 Proposing to use specifically the analytic techniques of oral theory, she argues that this phrase does not represent a survival from an Indo-European heroic poetry, as has been suggested from the occurrence of its exact cognate, śápos;rdvas áksitam, in Vedic poetry. To this end Finkelberg presents a precise and carefully organized argument. I briefly summarize its two branches as follows:

(1) It is the formulae that comprise the oldest stratum of Homeric diction, and so it is here that one would find survivals of Indo-European poetic diction. κλοσ ἄπ;θιτον ἒσται (which Finkelberg correctly argues to be the complete phrase), however, cannot be judged a Homeric formula by the criterion of repetition since it is a unique phrase in Homer. Nor can it be judged a formula by the ‘functional’ criterion since the better attested κλἒοσ οὒ ποτ óλεῖται expresses the same essential idea in the same metrical shape.

(2) A unique phrase such as that in question might nonetheless be ancient. The development of the use of ἄπ;θιτοσ, first to modify concrete nouns, and only later with abstracts, however, would indicate that its use with κλοσ is late. The demonstration that κλοσ ἂθιτον ἔσται is a ‘formulaic expression’, moreover, argues that it was coined for this specific context in Iliad 9 by analogy with other Homeric formulae, and so does not preserve an Indo-European formula.

The list of Helen's suitors in the Catalogue of Women, a late epic poem attributed to Hesiod, is directly related to the Catalogue of Ships in Iliad 2, in that it is in fact a list of future participants in the Trojan war. That the two catalogues treat the same traditional material is demonstrated above all by their agreement on minor personages: not only the protagonists of the Trojan saga, but also such obscure figures as Podarces of Phylace, Elephenor of Euboea, Thoas of Aetolia, or Menestheus of Athens feature in both Homer and Hesiod, and are characterized by basically the same traditional expressions. But, though the Hesiodic catalogue is sometimes used as evidence that a given Homeric personage belongs to the authentic tradition,3 it seems that the exegetic potential of this poem has not yet been exploited in full. As I hope to show, the Catalogue of Women throws light on one of the most controversial issues in Homeric scholarship, that of the representation of Athens and Salamis in the Catalogue of Ships.

The second line of the poem in which Archilochus related his fable of the fox and the ape was a source of perplexity to Hellenistic scholars. According to Athenaeus Apollonius Rhodius explained it by reference to the Spartan practice of winding official dispatches round a staff or baton: ὅτι δ λευκῷ ἱμντι περιειλοντες τν σκυτλην οἱ Λκωνες ἔγρφον ἅ ἠβολοντο εἴρηκεν ἱκανς Ἀπολλώνιος Ῥδιος ν τῷ περ Ἀρχιλχου. This interpretation evidently failed to satisfy Aristophanes of Byzantium, who wrote a monograph (σγγραμμα) περ τς χνυμνης σκυτλη' view has held the field.

Anaximander is the first philosopher whose theory of the heavens is preserved in broad outlines. According to the sources the celestial bodies are huge rings of compressed air around the earth, each visible only where it is perforated by a tubular vent through which the fire contained in it can shine. Greatest and farthest of them is the sun, next comes the moon and under them there is the ring (or possibly rings) of the stars. It is a common practice to put and answer the following questions:

(i) ‘…why he should have placed the stellar circles or rings closer to the earth than are the sun and the moon.’

(ii) ‘…why these lower rings of stellar ρ do not obscure the brighter but more distant bodies.’

Open any history or hand-book of Greek literature in general, or Greek lyric in particular, and you will very soon come across several references to monody and choral lyric as important divisions within the broader field of melic poetry. And the terms loom larger than the mere question of handy labels: they permeate and pervade the whole approach to archaic Greek poetry. Chapters or sub-headings in literary histories bear titles like ‘Archaic choral lyric’ or ‘Monody’. Indeed it is possible to write a whole book and call it Early Greek Monody. Diehl's Anthologia Lyrica Graeca was structured around this distinction, which it adopted in preference to the chronological arrangement that is the obvious alternative. Indeed, it went so far as ‘to invent Greek titles “μονωιδίαι” and “χορωιδίαι” (sic)’. Most scholars would now agree that this is to go too far. But most would also continue to accept the validity and importance of the division, which a scholar has recently termed ‘the most fundamental generic distinction within ancient lyric poetry’

Pindar must have narrated the myth of the birth of Apollo in many poems. We know of at least three, perhaps four versions: his only extant account of the birth itself is in Pa. XII; the latter of the two surviving sections of Pa. VIIb describes the flight of Asteria from Zeus, her transformation into an island and (probably) Zeus' desire to have Apollo and Artemis born there; the birth also seems to have been mentioned in the Hymn to Zeus immediately after the address to Delos and the account of Delos being rooted to the sea-bed in fr. 33c–d; finally a source reports that according to Pindar Apollo passed from Delos to Delphi via Tanagra and this would probably have followed an account of the birth, though it could refer to a lost part of Pa. XII or the Hymn to Zeus. These accounts have never been the subject of systematic investigation, which is regrettable, because they make up an important aspect of Pindar's attitude to religion. In this preliminary study I focus on two interrelated aspects: the stance Pindar takes towards the Homeric Hymn to Apollo and the role he attributes to Zeus.

Herodotus tells us that some Naxian oligarchic exiles approached Aristagoras who was then ruling Miletus as deputy for his father-in-law Histiaeus, and asked him to help them return to power. Aristagoras, who saw a possible advantage for himself in the request, was willing to oblige but, as the matter lay beyond his competence, he put the project before Artaphernes, who, he said, governed all the peoples of the sea-coast of Asia. Artaphernes, in turn, brought the plan to the attention of Darius, who gave his consent. An army and a fleet of two hundred ships was made ready and placed under the command of Megabates. After a feint in the direction of the Hellespont the fleet put in at Caucasa preparatory to swooping on Naxos. There, however, a quarrel broke out between Aristagoras and Megabates over a disciplinary matter and the Persian, in a fit of pique, sent a message to warn the Naxians. As a result they were ready for the siege which proved to be a miserable failure. Aristagoras feared he would pay dearly for this débâcle and when a message urging revolt arrived from Histiaeus, he immediately acted upon it.

The appearance of two new editions of the Choephoroi in 1986 has prompted me to reexamine the theatrical logic of the recognition scene. Anthony Bowen's student edition (Bristol, 1986) offers a curious contrast. Bowen is alert to the music of the choruses, and describes them as ‘a feast in themselves’ (p. 43). He remarks with reference to the strophic verse that ‘it is surprising how well these works have come down to us’ (p. 41). When he discusses the staging, however, he no longer finds the text well preserved, and follows Fraenkel in disposing of the footprints. Three interpolations, a total of nine lines, have to be struck out (pp. 177–81). A. F. Garvie's scholarly edition (Oxford, 1986) broadly accepts the extant text, but does not – I wish to argue – yet grasp the theatrical logic of the writing.

πνοϲ, in general a common word in Greek tragedy, is a cardinal theme in the Heracles.

In the first half of the play the glorious saving Labours (πνοι, μχθοι, ἄθλοι, γνεϲ) of the warrior Hero with his bow, club and other weaponry are retrospectively evoked and further enacted. Repeated emphasis on this kind of ‘noble toil’ accords with the heroic definition of ρετ, which traditionally βανει διμχθω–8 the first strophe of the long First Stasimon in honour of Heracles (presumed to be dead) ends with:

ὑμνῆϲαι ϲτεφνωμα μ–

χθων δι' εὐλογαϲ θλω

γενναων δ' ρετα πνων

τοῖϲ θανοϲιν ἄγαλμα.

Heracles par excellence merits the title πολπονοϲ and for their individual greatness. πολυ- can mean either ‘much-’, so that it suffices for Amphitryon at 1190ff. to mention a single especially grand and godlike Labour:

AM.μϲ μϲ ὂδε γνοϲ ὂ πολπονοϲ, <ὂϲ> π

δρυ γιγαντοφνον ἥλθεν ϲὺν θεοῖ-

ϲι Φλεγραῖον ϲ πεδον ϲπιϲτϲ

This we may call the ‘epic’ view of the hero and of the πνοι performed by him cw ϲὺν θεοῖϲ. πνοϲ is normally martial in the Iliad.4 Note also, however, that the terminal ϲπιϲτϲ adds an allusion to the kind of martial ρετ most admired by 5th-century Athenians.

The plot of Iphigenia in Tauris is usually thought to be Euripides' own invention. Its basic assumption can be found in Proclus' summary of the Cypria, viz. that a deer was substituted for Iphigenia during the sacrifice at Aulis and that she herself was removed to the land of the Tauri. Her later rescue by Orestes and Pylades, however, cannot be traced with probability to any work of art or literature earlier than Euripides' play. In this play, in which Orestes recognizes and then saves the sister whom he had long thought dead, it is assumed that her replacement by a deer went unseen by those present at the sacrifice. The sequel which this assumption allowed Euripides to invent (if it was he who invented it) is original only in a limited sense, since it bears the imprint of several familiar story types. These types include the following: (1) the murder of a kinsman is narrowly averted by a recognition; (2) a reunion is followed by an intrigue; and (3) a maiden is rescued. Each is used elsewhere by Euripides. The first two, for example, are found in Cresphontes, the second in Electra, and the third in Andromeda. Correspondences of this sort, based on plot patterns, will naturally gain in interest if it can be shown that they throw light on a play's meaning or on the process that led to its creation. The student of dramatic plots, however, soon discovers that analogies between them are easy to draw and can be quickly multiplied.

Julius Tomin has recently questioned the new orthodoxy, stemming from Burnyeat's impressive article, that Socratic midwifery is not genuinely Socratic. I understand that many will feel the need to question Burnyeat's position, but I am unhappy that Aristophanes' comedy has once again been thought to give support to the view that Socrates had been known as an intellectual midwife. Thus my response will concentrate on our understanding of Clouds, and in particular on the key passage at 135ff.

Plutarch, in his Apophthegmata Laconica (Ages. 25 = mor. 210d), records that the Thasians made an offer of divine honours to king Agesilaus, and that Agesilaus ostentatiously refused them. In the past, most scholars who have had occasion to comment on this anecdote have not doubted the veracity either of the report or of the language in which it is expressed. The situation, however, has now reversed itself. The current communis opinio is the contention of Chr. Habicht that the story is an invention of the Hellenistic or early imperial period and was intended to be a criticism of contemporary practices. The purpose of this note is threefold: to demonstrate that the anecdote derives from Theopompus' Hellenica, that it has a basis in historical fact, and that the incident thus narrated had far-reaching social and political consequences.

The main source of Archytas, fr. 1 Diels-Kranz is Porphyr. in Ptol. harmon. p. 56,5–57,27 Düring; there is also an extensive quotation of its initial part in Nicomachus, Introd. Arithm. p. 6,16–7,5 Hoche. In recent years both the text and the interpretation of this fragment, whose authenticity was questioned by W. Burkert, have been re-examined, and a good deal of progress has been made especially by paying more attention to the nature of Nicomachus' quotation and its context.

In the largely historical and aporetic first book of the De Anima (DA), Aristotle makes what appear to be some rather disturbing remarks about the soul's status as a subject of mental states. Most notably, in a curious passage which has aroused the interest of commentators, he seems to suggest that there is something wrong with regarding the soul as a subject of mental states:

Thus, saying that the soul is angry is the same as if one were to say that the soul builds houses and weaves: for it is perhaps better to say not that the soul pities or learns or thinks, but that the man does [these things] with his soul. (DA 408bll–15)

In what sense did the Hellenistic philosophers see themselves as the heirs or critics of Socrates? Was Socrates, in their view, a philosopher on whom Plato was the decisive authority? What doctrines or strategies of Socrates were thoroughly alive in this period? These are the principal questions I shall be asking in this paper, particularly the third. To introduce them, and to set the scene, I begin with some general points, starting from two passages which present an image of Socrates at the beginning and at the end of the Hellenistic era. Here first are three lines from the Silloi of the Pyrrhonean Timon of Phlius:

From these matters (i.e. the inquiry into nature) he turned aside, the people-chiselling moralising ‘chatterer, the wizard of Greece, whose assertions were sharply pointed, master of the well-turned sneer, a pretty good ironist.

In the ancient Roman world, as in modern times, treaties were usually made between sovereign states. Indeed, prior to the Social War, the foedus was a significant element in relations between Rome and the non-Latin allies (socii). However, the Romans also had treaties with Italian communities integrated to various degrees with their own state. These communities included both the Latin allies (nominis Latini) and cities possessing full or partial Roman citizenship (municipia).

This passage has occasioned, if not proelia, at least divergent interpretations, not to mention instances of tergiversation. In 1910 Cyril Bailey modelled his first rendering of the lines closely on that of H. A. J. Munro: ‘But unless the breast is cleared, what battles and dangers must enter into us in our own despite’; ‘but unless the heart is cleansed, what battles and dangers must then find their way into us in our own despite’. But a reprint of Bailey's translation in 1921 produced the following change: ‘…what battles and perils must we then enter into despite our will’. What changed Bailey's mind?

The explanation appeared years later in Bailey's great edition and commentary of 1947. In his note on the passage (p. 1328), he cites objections to Munro's interpretation that had been raised by C. N. Cole and W. R. Hardie. In this paper I will examine these objections and present my own interpretation of the passage, which amounts to a qualified vindication of Munro.

Horace's Asterie ode (3.7) has been somewhat neglected by critics. Fraenkel, uninterested in the erotic odes, fails to mention it, and others see it as merely counterbalancing the preceding six Roman Odes by its frivolity and light irony. However, it is one of Horace's most subtle and best-organized erotic odes, matching the more obvious conventions of Latin love-elegy with a romanticized Odyssey as an underlying framework.

In the six remarkable elegidia transmitted in the Tibullan corpus as 3.13–18 (4.7–12) we appear to possess the writings of an educated Roman woman of aristocratic family and high literary connections: a woman, moreover, who participates as an equal in one of the most distinguished artistic salons of the age, and composes poetry in an obstinately male genre on the subject of her own erotic experience, displaying a candour and the exercise of a sexual independence startingly at odds with the ideology of her class. Such a figure is either, depending on one's viewpoint, too good to be true or too embarrassing to be tolerated. The case could easily be put that Sulpicia, more perhaps even than Sappho, has found her poems condemned by accident of gender to a century and a half of condescension, disregard, and wilful misconstruction to accommodate the inelastic sexual politics of elderly male philologists. Certainly even the most sympathetic of recent comment is prone to lapse into a form of critical language outlawed in Catullan scholarship thirty years ago. Yet feminist critics have been strangely cautious in their response. A scholar who rose swiftly to the defence of Erinna when that elusive poet's identity was impugned has notoriously written of Sulpicia:

‘She was not a brilliant artist: her poems are of interest only because the author is female.’ Five years late, Sulpicia has found a place in the major sourcebook on ancient women, but with the cycle of poems violently reordered after the judgment of a nineteenth-century (male) critic, anxious to restore his poetess's chastity against the disconcerting frankness of the texts.