Apollo travels from Pytho to Olympus, and the other gods greet his arrival (186–93):

ἔνθεν δὲ πρὸϲ Ὄλυμπον ἀπὸ χθονὸϲ ὥϲ τε νόημα
εἶϲι Διὸϲ πρὸϲ δῶμα θεῶν μεθ’ ὁμήγυριν ἄλλων⋅
αὐτίκα δ’ ἀθανάτοιϲι μέλει κίθαριϲ καὶ ἀοιδή.
Μοῦϲαι μέν θ’ ἅμα πᾶϲαι ἀμειβόμεναι ὀπὶ καλῇ
ὑμνεῦϲίν ῥα θεῶν δῶρ’ ἄμβροτα ἠδ’ ἀνθρώπων
τλημοϲύναϲ, ὅϲ’ ἔχοντεϲ ὑπ’ ἀθανάτοιϲι θεοῖϲι
ζώουϲ’ ἀφραδέεϲ καὶ ἀμήχανοι, οὐδὲ δύνανται
εὑρέμεναι θανάτοιό τ’ ἄκοϲ καὶ γήραοϲ ἄλκαρ.

In March 2005 a rescue excavation uncovered a spectacular new epigraphic find from Thebes. Now on display in the Archaeological Museum of Thebes, a column drum 0.41 m in height has inscribed on it two identical epigrams, one (the older one) written vertically in Boeotian script and a second (later) Ionian copy written horizontally on the other side. Nikolaos Papazarkadas published the editio princeps of the epigram in 2014, using both inscriptions to create a composite text. As Papazarkadas realized, the column drum, which has a chi-shaped orifice at one end meant to hold a stationary object, at one point displayed a ‘shining shield’ (φαεννὰν | [ἀσπ]ίδα, lines 3–4) that Herodotus had seen in the temple of Apollo Ismenius in Thebes. Moreover, this shield was interpreted by Herodotus (relying on the language of the inscription and likely on the commentary of temple staff) as having been dedicated by the Lydian king Croesus to the hero Amphiaraus, when he was ‘testing’ the various oracles in Greece in order to decide on a course of action against his rival Cyrus of Persia.

The Cyrus anecdote recounted in the final chapter of Herodotus’ Histories (9.122) has received the frequent notice of critics, with particular attention paid to the anecdote's relation to the work as a whole. Scholars have long since noted that the episode involves ‘the intersection of two basic narrative modes on which Herodotus has relied throughout the Histories: ethnographic description and detailed accounts of political activity and decision-making’. Thus scholars have illuminated the significance of the anecdote by comparing it to other thematically related passages in the Histories. Reading the closure of the Histories in terms of didactic enterprise, recent treatments of the anecdote tend to view Herodotus’ use of it as a moral lesson to his contemporary Athenians.

Scholars have long grappled with the nature of Heracles’ νόσος and his consequent feminization in Sophocles’ Women of Trachis (= Trachiniae). Despite being triggered by a poisonous garment, which acts by means of magic incantation, the evolution of Heracles’ symptoms is described as a clinical case. Yet, making sense of his feminization from a scientific perspective has proven hard. In this paper, I investigate the symptoms experienced by Heracles, which Sophocles generically refers to as νόσος. The first part focusses on Sophocles’ description of erôs as a disease in Trachiniae. I then move on to dividing Heracles’ symptoms into two categories, which I will call νόσος1 and νόσος2. The erotic passion for Iole which Heracles naturally experiences in the first part of the tragedy will be denoted by νόσος1, whereas νόσος2 will refer to the magic-induced symptoms from which he suffers in the second and final part. In the final section of the paper I will seek to provide a scientific explanation for νόσος2 and, ultimately, to describe the medical reasons behind Heracles’ feminization.

In their first stasimon, the chorus of Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis (= IA) praises ‘concealed Kypris’ as a marker of virtue for women (568–72):

μέγα τι θηρεύειν ἀρετάν,
γυναιξὶ μὲν κατὰ Κύ-
πριν κρυπτάν, ἐν ἀνδράσι δ᾿ αὖ
κόσμος ἐνὼν ὁ μυριοπλη-
θὴς μείζω πόλιν αὔξει.

Euripides’ Bacchae is one of the most intensively studied Greek tragedies. Generations of scholars have explored the play from different perspectives and offered fascinating insights. But there are still aspects that have not received the attention they deserve. One such aspect is Euripides’ use of libation as a dramatic motif. Even though this motif relates directly to the question of the tragic conflict between Dionysus and Pentheus, it has never been discussed in detail and its dramatic impact has not been fully acknowledged.

Social dialect, which can be defined negatively as dialect associated with variables other than geographic region, was hardly recognized as a linguistic category until the twentieth century. Although it has been recognized since antiquity that groups at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder speak differently from the elite, non-elite idioms did not merit serious investigation since they were regarded merely as corrupt or decadent approximations to the prestige variety. There is evidence that the Greeks also recognized gender as a variable in linguistic production. Age occasionally figures in discourse about language, but the association is vaguer since it was tangled up with the idea that earlier generations spoke a better or more authentic form of Greek.

Aristotle's Sophistical Refutations (= Soph. el.) seeks to uncover the workings of apparent deductive reasoning, and is thereby largely devoted to the caricature of dialectic that the ancients called eristic (ἐριστική), the art of quarrelling. Unlike antilogy (ἀντιλογία), which refers to a type of argumentation where two arguments are pitted against each other in a contradictory manner, eristic takes on in Aristotle an exclusively pejorative meaning, as is made clear, for example, by this passage from Soph. el.: ‘For just as unfairness in a contest is a definite type of fault, and is a kind of foul fighting, so the art of contentious reasoning is foul fighting in disputation.’

This article maps the complex and changing interrelation of madness (μανία) and truth (ἀλήθεια) in the erotic speeches of the Phaedrus. I try to show that μανία is not merely a secondary aspect but rather a fundamental element within the structure binding together the sequence of speeches. I will show how what starts as an apparently simple binary opposition between μανία and ἀλήθεια in Lysias’ speech and Socrates’ first speech suffers an important modification at the beginning of the palinode, and is finally turned upside down in the radical reappraisal caused by the focus on erotic μανία. The result is a different understanding of μανία, as well as a reassessment of the status and cognitive reliability of day-to-day human perspective.

Plato seems to have been pessimistic about how most people stand with regard to virtue. However, unlike the Stoics, he did not conclude that most people are vicious. Rather, as we know from discussions across several dialogues, he countenanced decent ethical conditions that fall short of genuine virtue, which he limited to the philosopher. Despite Plato's obvious interest in this issue, commentators rarely follow his lead by investigating in detail such conditions in the dialogues. When scholars do investigate what kind of virtue, if any, Plato thinks is open to non-philosophers, they typically look to the Republic. But in the Republic Plato sets out an ideal city; therefore, the virtue available to non-philosophers there is likely different from what he thinks is available to them in the real world. If we want to determine Plato's thoughts about the virtue of actual non-philosophers, we must look elsewhere. In this paper, I set my sights on the Phaedo.

The Suda tells us the following about the elder Theodectas, the Phaselian orator and tragedian:

Modern readers view ancient theories of blood flow through the lens of circulation. Since the nineteenth century, scholarly work on the ancient understanding of the vascular system has run the gamut from attempting to prove that an ancient author had in fact, to some extent or another, pre-empted Harvey's discovery of the circulation of the blood or towards attempting, often with some empathetic embarrassment, to explain the failure on the part of an ancient author to notice something that seems so obvious to the modern eye. Thus C.R.S. Harris's 1973 book The Heart and Vascular System in Ancient Greek Medicine, which remains the standard on the topic, opens with a sentence in which he marvels at how the otherwise admirable ancient Greek physicians could have ‘failed entirely to arrive at any conception of the circulation of the blood’. This modern vantage point has had an unfortunate effect. In the case of Aristotle in particular, understanding of his cardiovascular system has been diminished by a tendency to define it in contradistinction to our own modern understanding of circulation. By deliberately uncoupling from the framework of modern physiology, this paper will offer a richer and more accurate picture of his views.

In the opening sentences of Book 2 of Posterior Analytics, Aristotle defines the four types of question that one can pose within the demonstrative science. In the edition by William D. Ross, the text reads as follows (89b23–31):

In Demosthenes’ speech On the False Embassy (Oration 19), we read an obelized infinitive at §231, †εὐθενεῖσθαι†, ‘to be flourishing’, in an imaginary dialogue designed to captivate and persuade the judges through its striking antitheses and dramatic tone:

The list of Apollo's virtues (ἀρεταί) in the second hymn of Callimachus describes, in the context of the appearance of the god, a mysterious healing substance which trickles from the hair of the patron of medicine (lines 45–6). Hymn 2.38–41:

αἱ δὲ κόμαι θυόεντα πέδῳ λείβουσιν ἔλαια⋅
οὐ λίπος ᾿Απόλλωνος ἀποστάζουσιν ἔθειραι,
ἀλλ᾽ αὐτὴν πανάκειαν⋅ ἐν ἄστεϊ δ᾽ ᾧ κεν ἐκεῖναι
πρῶκες ἔραζε πέσωσιν, ἀκήρια πάντ᾽ ἐγένοντο.

Scholars continue to make progress addressing the lacunae in our papyrological sources for Callimachus’ prologue to the Aetia, both by lending additional support to old supplements and by discounting others or demonstrating their weaknesses. To the first category belongs the crucial verb at the end of line 5, where, in my view, Callimachus first characterizes the making of his poetry (Aet. 1–6):

πολλάκι μοι Τελχῖνες ἐπιτρύζουσιν ἀοιδῇ,
νήιδες οἳ Μούσης οὐκ ἐγένοντο φίλοι,
εἵνεκε]ν οὐχ ἓν ἄεισμα διηνεκὲς ἢ βασιλ[η
⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅]ας ἐν πολλαῖς ἤνυσα χιλιάσιν
ἢ⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅]⋅ους ἥρωας, ἔπος δ᾽ ἐπὶ τυτθὸν ἑλ[ίσσω
παῖς ἅτε, τῶν δ᾽ ἐτέων ἡ δεκὰς οὐκ ὀλίγη.

Often the Telchines mutter at my poetry,
being ignorant and no friends of the Muse,
because I have not completed one continuous poem
in many thousands … on kings and …
… heroes, but I … my poem only a little
like a child, though the decades of my years are not few.

This is an investigation of an aspect of Virgil's Aeneid—ultimately, of the ways in which the poet guides his reader's response to Aeneas’ stay in Carthage—and, while it touches on Roman religious practice, clothing codes, late antique Virgilian commentary and Augustan ideology, it hinges on a single word in Aeneid Book 4 and its implications for Virgil's depiction of his hero in this book. That word is laena, and it features in one of the most celebrated scenes of the poem, when Mercury descends to earth to find Aeneas busily engaged in founding Carthage (Aen. 4.259–64):

ut primum alatis tetigit magalia plantis,
Aenean fundantem arces ac tecta nouantem
conspicit. atque illi stellatus iaspide fulua
ensis erat Tyrioque ardebat murice laena
demissa ex umeris, diues quae munera Dido
fecerat, et tenui telas discreuerat auro.

This article deals with one particular aspect of Livy's narrative of the Gallic Sack of Rome, told in Book 5, and traditionally placed in 390 b.c.—namely the issue over the validity of the ransom agreement struck by the Romans with the Gauls. The broader context is well known—and needs only brief reiteration here. When the Gauls march on Rome, the Romans give battle at the river Allia, leading to a resounding Gallic victory. Most of the Romans flee the battlefield and then the city, except for a small group of both old and young, male and female, who hold out on the Capitoline Hill. That hill is subsequently put under siege by the Gauls. Following several months of beleaguerment, both sides are depicted as severely worn out by hunger and fighting. It is important for present purposes to stress that, when the Gauls stood at the gates and besieged the city, one of Rome's greatest heroes, Marcus Furius Camillus, was noticeably absent. Camillus was in neighbouring Ardea, some fifty miles south of Rome, training an army of Roman soldiers to challenge the Gallic invaders after his recent recall from exile and appointment to the dictatorship. But before Camillus’ return to Rome, the besieged Romans surrendered and agreed a ransom with the Gauls in order to liberate their city. The continuation of the story as given in Livy is equally well known. Camillus arrives in the middle of the ransom exchange, asking for the exchange to be stopped. Unsurprisingly, the Gauls are not keen on following Camillus’ orders, and insist on the ransom. Consequently, Camillus challenges the agreement between Romans and Gauls on a constitutional basis; the agreement was reached with a lesser magistrate after Camillus’ appointment to the dictatorship (5.49.2):

According to Livy (26.18.3–26.19.2), in late 211 Publius Cornelius Scipio was elected priuatus cum imperio pro consule by the comitia centuriata and sent to Spain in charge of the legions formerly led by his father Publius and his uncle Gnaeus. This was the beginning of a new phase in the Hannibalic War, which would ultimately lead Rome to victory against its most dangerous enemy. As has long been recognized, Livy assigns Scipio a central role in the narrative development of the Third Decade. For most critics, this centrality coincides with (and is the result of) Livy's admiration: in his view, Scipio is the fatalis dux, the commander sent by Providence to lead Rome to victory; he is Hannibal's rival par excellence, the only leader capable of matching the enemy's military genius and blocking his relentless advance against the Republic; he is, above all, the most shining example of the Roman virtues.

Roman emperors were at the pinnacle of society. They were supreme commanders of the armies, the highest priests and the ultimate source of law and justice. These three roles were made clear to the inhabitants of the empire from the reign of Augustus onwards through a variety of media. Public ceremonies showed emperors leaving the city for campaigns, and returning in triumph, at sacrifice, or sitting in judgement. Inscriptions likewise indicated the main roles of emperors through titulature or narrative. The military and the religious leadership of emperors were also made abundantly clear through public monuments and on centrally issued coinage. Yet, throughout Roman imperial history these last two types of source material are surprisingly silent on the emperors’ legal role.