In his digression on the Gauls in Book 6 of the Gallic War, Caesar includes a portrait of the Druids (BGall. 6.13.3 sed de his duobus generibus [sc. quae aliquo sunt numero atque honore] alterum est druidum) and their public roles first and foremost in religious and legal affairs (6.13.4–5 illi rebus diuinis intersunt, sacrificia publica ac priuata procurant, religiones interpretantur … fere de omnibus controuersiis publicis priuatisque constituunt), not forgetting their philosophical doctrine (6.14.6 multa … disputant et iuuentuti tradunt). He emphasizes the strictly oral form their teaching takes (6.14.4), how ‘they do not deem it appropriate to commit it [their learning] to writing even though in almost everything else, in public and private affairs, they resort to Greek writing (neque fas esse existimant ea litteris mandare, cum in reliquis fere rebus, publicis priuatisque rationibus Graecis litteris utantur)’, about the reasons for which he then proceeds to speculate (6.14.4):

The best-known fact about the interaction of the Republican Roman poet Gaius Lucilius (c.180–103/102 b.c.e.), the inventor of the genre of Roman verse satire, with the doctrine of Scepticism is probably a statement of Cicero: that Clitomachus the Academician dedicated a treatise to the poet (Cic. Luc. 102). Diogenes Laertius makes much of that writer's, Clitomachus’, industry (τὸ φιλόπονον, 4.67), with the comment: ‘to such lengths did his diligence (ἐπιμελείας) go that he composed more than four hundred treatises’. This phraseology surely reminds those interested in Lucilius’ influence on later Latin poetry of Horace's disparaging comment, in hora saepe ducentos, | ut magnum, uersus dictabat (‘as a bravura display, he would often dictate two hundred verses in an hour’, Sat. 1.4.9–10); moreover, Horace shortly afterwards calls his predecessor garrulus atque piger scribendi ferre laborem (‘talkative and too lazy to bear the work of writing’, 1.4.12). Yet, a sceptical view of Horace's critique might have to think of Lucilius as hard-working, like his putative friend the Academic philosopher, Clitomachus.

Given that Lucretius offers a systematic and cohesive explanation of the workings of nature, we should not expect inconsistencies in his poem. The explanation presented by Lucretius emphatically rejects any interventionist divine machinery of the cosmos, offering in its place the eminently regular dynamics of atomic configuration and dissolution, which can explain everything that pertains to natural philosophy without necessitating the activity of any divinity. The reader who understands the basics of Lucretius’ philosophy, therefore, should be surprised that the DRN begins with an anthropomorphic description of the goddess Venus, whom the poet petitions to intervene actively in human affairs. Lucretius gradually refines this initial presentation of the goddess’ essence throughout the poem, suggesting that the Venus who inaugurates the poem must be nuanced once one has learned the basic principles of Epicurean philosophy. At the end of DRN 4, Venus is presented not as a divine being but as nothing more than the sexual drive shared by all creatures in nature (haec Venus est nobis, 4.1058). Historically scholars have been keen to ‘correct’ perceived inconsistencies such as this, either by arguing that such imperfections derive from later interpolators or by appealing to the incomplete nature of the text as we possess it. Of course, no one has suggested that Lucretius would have changed or removed the proem, so the Venus problem remains an issue. One major aim of this article is to show that the process we witness with Lucretius’ Venus is not inconsistent but programmatic, a point grasped by many with regard to Venus herself but not in respect to the DRN as a whole. In other words, this article extends this insight about Lucretius’ Venus, whose providential attributes are only provisionally attached to her at the outset of the poem and, in due course, are completely removed. In fact, I will argue that the technique of gradually redefining initial propositions—a process I will refer to as provisional argumentation—fundamentally informs Lucretius’ famous metaphor of the honeyed cup, and I will suggest that we ought to recognize this technique as a major aspect of Lucretius’ discursive method throughout the DRN.

Masked revelry, the quaffing of large amounts of wine and the sound of flutes … this cavalcade would pass through the streets of Rome every 13th June, even crossing the forum itself. As we will show later on, a connection can be established between this celebration (the Quinquatrus minusculae) and the statue of Marsyas, the acolyte of Dionysus, which stood in the forum and was associated with freedom, wine and charivari. In turn, this connection will open the way for a new interpretation of the multiple meanings of the feast and the satyr in the highly charged political atmosphere of Late Republican Rome. The main aim of this study will be to show, in the third part of this article, how populares politicians tried to exploit the opportunities presented to them by religious festivities and ludi to draw more of the public into their contiones or to obtain a favourable verdict in a political trial.

Diodorus Siculus has not enjoyed a positive reputation among historians of antiquity. Since the nineteenth century his Bibliothēkē has been dismissed as a derivative work produced by an incompetent compiler, useful often only in so far as one can mine his text for lost and, evidently, far superior works of history. Diodorus’ own input into the Bibliothēkē has been dismissed as the clumsy intervention of ‘a small man with pretensions’. In one of the sharpest expressions of the traditional view, Diodorus is not a historian but ‘a mere epitomizer and an incompetent one at that’. In recent years voices of dissent have spoken up, determined to investigate Diodorus’ own contribution to ancient historiography. Their contributions have been notable for their desire to study and understand Diodorus on his own terms or to problematize his derivative use of his sources. Sacks, in particular, has argued that Diodorus’ voice can be heard in nearly every proem, a feature that occurs regularly in the text, and that Diodorus’ own views structure his analysis of historical events copied from other authors.

One of the simplest methods used by Cicero for depicting a personality or characteristic of an individual within his correspondence was to use a nickname. When describing groups, the natural progression was to use collective nouns that helped to define some essential quality of this collective. The enormity of Caesar's assassination provided an opportunity to use a plethora of terms for the conspirators, most conspicuously seen in Cicero's treatment of Cassius and Brutus following the death of Caesar. The act itself had a polarizing effect. On one side were the invective terms for assassins, murderers and parricides (sicarii, homicidae, interfectores, parricidae). On the other side were the favourable terms, such as liberators (liberatores), heroes (heroes) and tyrannicides (tyrannoctoni). Cicero also included in his correspondence Greek words, as well as their transliterations into Latin. Each word would seem to have its own subtle characteristics, focussing on different aspects and interpretations of the conspirators and their act of tyrannicide or political murder. The collective nouns themselves and the context in which they are used not only will provide the first indication of how Cicero felt about the conspirators but may also give an insight into Cicero's perception of the general feeling about the political situation in Rome at this time.

Ovid completes his narrative of the origin of Croton with the following lines (Met. 15.58–9):

talia constabat certa primordia fama
esse loci positaeque Italis in finibus urbis.

It was agreed by sure fame that such were the beginnings
of the place and of the city established within Italian borders.

Historians of antiquity are trained to be suspicious of accounts that may retroject onto the early years of figures, who were later dominant, positive traits that plausibly were exhibited only later, in essence the creation of a mythology. In the case of the Emperor Augustus, who exercised a firm control on the Roman world for over forty years after the defeat of his rival M. Antonius and introduced a new form of government, the probability that the years of his ascent to supreme power were subjected to careful recasting is very high. Here I examine an argument that was presented in 2004 on the very beginning of Octavian's public life, which, if correct, reveals a stuttering start by a young man inexperienced in the realities of Roman politics at a tumultuous moment in Roman history.

‘Who wrote the scurrilous iambic poems of the first stanza?’, asks David West at the start of his commentary on the ode. ‘The culprit’, he declares, ‘must be Horace.’ This answer accords with that to be found in other commentaries: ‘my scurrilous verses’ (Page), ‘my scandalous lines’ (Gow), ‘my scurrilous iambics’ (Wickham), ‘my abusive iambics’ (Shorey), ‘miei ingiuriosi giambi’ (Colamarino and Bo), ‘my libellous iambics’ (Nisbet and Hubbard), ‘my libellous iambic verses’ (Quinn), ‘miei giambi ingiuriosi’ (Fedeli). What, then, are these iambic verses? Some earlier scholars suggested that Horace is referring to various of his epodes, such as those addressed to Canidia (5, 17); but our knowledge of Canidia (cf. also Serm. 1.8) indicates that she would scarcely make plausible the accent on beauty in the first line of the ode. Most commentators, at least since the latter half of the nineteenth century, have believed that Horace is referring to some iambics which he had targeted at the ode's addressee but of which we now have no further knowledge: Kiessling and Heinze, for example, refer to ‘the satirical poems which Horace … has levelled at her’, while in the most recent commentary in 2012 Mayer says that Horace ‘assures an unnamed young woman that it rests with her to put an end to his vituperative attacks’.

In an article published thirteen years ago, I tried to break new ground by showing that the texts transmitted under the title Catalepton as the work of Virgil can be seen to form an elaborately arranged and highly allusive book of verse written by a single author. This latter, I argued, was identical with the anonymous poet who, in an epilogue, represents the preceding poems as the juvenilia of the author later known for his Bucolics, Georgics and Aeneid and, consequently, is himself speaking in the alleged early works as Virgil impersonator. This anonymous poet, however, cannot rightly be labelled a literary forger, since he repeatedly and quite unmistakably recalls each of Virgil's three opera as well as other texts written after the year 19 b.c. Evidently, then, he is inviting his readers to take part in a literary lusus, one in which they are expected to be familiar not only with the texts of Bucolics, Georgics and Aeneid but also with the life of the man who wrote them. The fiction of a young Virgil is created, one who wrote his first poems—the verses referred to in the epilogue as elementa and rudis Calliope (Catal. 18[15])—primarily under the influence of Catullus, the said poems being, with the exception of Catal. 12(9) and 16(13), epigrams. My interpretation has borne fruit, with Irene Peirano and Markus Stachon each devoting, in 2012 and 2014 respectively, a monograph to this approach and offering what are often very thorough analytical readings of the poems as the creations of a Virgil impersonator. However, neither of these two Latinists has considered one particular interpretative aspect, which I myself had only been able to introduce very briefly into my paper: the recognition that, as many more recent studies have now further corroborated, Roman poetry books were designed for linear, sequential reading, that they have, as it were, a story to tell. Peirano, moreover, disregards in her study the three Priapea positioned in editions before the other fifteen epigrams and shown there with their own separate numbering. In the manuscripts, however, the title Catalepton refers without exception to a unit comprising the three Priapea and the fifteen epigrams. The title Priapea, found in the catalogue of the Murbach manuscripts and in some codices (for example the Graz fragment), is always attached solely to the poem Quid hoc noui est? In the Vita Suetoniana-Donatiana (VSD), the terms Catalepton, Priapea and Epigrammata were evidently used as three different titles; the author (or his source) may not have seen that Catalepton is the title of all the poems. Furthermore, I should like to point out that, counted together, ‘Virgil's’ Priapea and epigrams come to a total of seventeen poems and so match precisely both the total of seventeen books in the real Virgil's three works and the total number of Horace's epodes, of the poems, that is, which the not-so-real Virgil quite conspicuously evokes in his own penultimate poem (Catal. 16[13]). More significantly, however, a sequential reading of the Priapea et Epigrammata can in fact build a watertight case for taking the texts to be, as it were, a composite whole, and that is what I intend to argue in the rest of the article.

In the so-called ‘Iliadic’ Aeneid (Books 7–12), Dido is scarcely mentioned. At first sight, Aeneas’ dalliance at Carthage is forgotten when he gets down to the serious business of establishing the Trojans in Italy. But the poem's last mention of Dido (at 11.74, when Aeneas places a tunic made by her on the dead Pallas) is enmeshed in a network of parallel passages elsewhere in the Aeneid relating to tunics and adoption. In the light of similarities between Aeneas and the superficially unimportant Trojan warrior Nisus, these passages bear crucially (I suggest) on the contrast between Aeneas’ public and private pietas: his obedience to imposed (or public) commitments and to chosen (or private) ones. In this way, Virgil provides guidance on what motivates Aeneas’ fury in Books 10 and 12.

Hecuba's grief upon learning of Hector's death in Hom. Il. 22.430‒6 and in the presence of his corpse later on in Il. 24.747‒59 seems to foreshadow the queen's miserable fate in the aftermath of the fall of Troy. In the subsequent literary tradition, the character of Hecuba ends up merging with the destiny of her city: as Harrison points out with reference to Seneca's Troades, Hecuba, the Latin counterpart of Greek Hekabe, functions as a metaphor for the fall of Troy (118), even represents the fallen Troy itself (128). In turning into an exemplar of maternal grief, she also comes to embody the vicissitudes of fortune. In these pages, I am interested in exploring a possible wordplay on the queen's name in Seneca's Troades, which may have originated, as I suggest, from Hecuba's distinctive posture in Euripides’ diptych Hecuba and Trojan Women (for convenience's sake I will employ the Latin form of the name throughout these pages with the exception of a few passages, in which the Greek form ‘Hekabe’ will be used in order to bring to the fore an etymological connection I will discuss below).

In Ostia, Rome's harbour-town, several parts of an inscription which reveals that the Emperor Vespasian promoted the town's water supply were found in 1983. Eventually references to the text began to circulate, then one more fragment turned up and in 2006 the formal and official publication of the text took place, for which the scholarly world is grateful to Alfredo Marinucci.

The first act of Thyestes is a challenge to the theory that the same Seneca wrote both the philosophica and the tragedies. We are compelled by the evil genius of Atreus and not by the common virtue of his Satelles. Atreus not only feels no compunction at his words, but seems to hone his evil from the prodding. It is the death of philosophy, the anti-mirror of the prince: the tyrant is not reformed, but becomes more himself—more perfectly tyrannical. It is a performance of Socrates’ monster in Republic 9—the soul composed of a hydra of desires with its ring of heads constantly changing, a lion of anger and a small man, who is to domesticate the hydra like a farmer and befriend the lion (588c–589b). The ineffectual Satelles portrays the hopeless plight of Plato's ‘little man reason’ before a lion with monstrous desires like Atreus. There is a place left for philosophy to win over the tyrant only if the Satelles does not represent all that reason can do, and stands instead only for gentlemanly virtue or common sense, which lacks the kind of logos needed to control the beast.

In this article I make three interrelated claims about Chariton's use of ἀγαθὸς δαίμων in connection with the protagonist Chaereas, who is believed to be dead. First, that it reflects a funerary formula peculiar to inscriptions from Caria, and therefore potentially supports the author's declaration to be a native of Aphrodisias in Caria; second, that the use of this funerary formula suggests an awareness of events subsequent to the death of Nero (especially the series of false Neros), which has ramifications for the novel's date, use of imperial history, and ideological thrust; and third, that numismatic evidence from Alexandria supports an association between Chaereas and Nero.

This article attempts to provide a plausible explanation of a series of expressions used by Pliny the Elder to designate a significant number of communities in Hispania: [oppida] Latio antiquitus donata, [oppida] Latinorum ueterum, oppidani Latii ueteris, [oppida] Latii antiqui and oppida ueteris Latii (Plin. HN 3.7, 3.18, 3.24, 3.25, 4.117). These phrases, commonly explained from a chronological or typological viewpoint, encompass fifty Augustan ciuitates, the most important feature of which was the enjoyment of Latin rights before the sources used by Pliny were written under the Early Principate. To address this issue, the meaning and the use of the term oppidum are first examined. In a second stage, the origin and the sense of the adjectives uetus and antiquum, as well as the adverb antiquitus, are analysed. The results suggest that oppida ueteris Latii and its variants may express, in a simple and comprehensible way, the administrative changes that a group of Republican Latin colonies in Hispania underwent through their transformation into municipia Latina during the reign of Augustus.

Justin Stover has recently edited a collection of Platonic placita, organized by individual dialogue, which he identifies as the lost third book of Apuleius’ De Platone. The work is preserved only in a thirteenth-century manuscript, Vatican BAV Reg. lat. 1572 (= R). The manuscript is filled with trivial errors, including a large number of one-word or two-word lacunae. Stover has worked ably to clean up the text and many of his emendations are uncontroversial. But any editio princeps is likely to be susceptible of improvement. I offer here some notes on a few points where I think either the text or Stover's translation and commentary can be bettered. I am not primarily concerned here with the ascription to Apuleius (if the work is not by Apuleius, it must in any case be by a Middle Platonist roughly contemporary with him), although one or two points may have some relevance to this question.

This article has the aim of bringing some fresh observations to the interpretation of a Martial epigram. Beyond the individual poem, it seeks to read Martial's poetics more broadly, particularly with regard to the presence of Greek avatars, of various kinds, in his poetic production. The strategy will be an exact reading of the literary avatars in 10.4, with an attempt to specify the tone with which individual writers are associated. Once this strategy is developed in the case of well-recognized intertextual models, it will be used to explore an underrated intertext in 10.4.

After the notable editions of Suetonius by Roth, Preud'homme, Ihm and Ailloud, the De uita Caesarum edited by R.A. Kaster in the Oxford Classical Texts has made available to scholars a critical text which rests on the firm foundations of a thorough exploration of the tradition and the scholarship on the subject. The relationship of the eighteen medieval manuscripts, placed in a time-frame between the ninth century, the age of the oldest copy, Par. Lat. 6115, and the beginning of the thirteenth century, has been extensively and carefully examined and schematized in a complex stemma codicum, which illustrates the network of copying and contamination. Moreover, the editor has revised the dating of the manuscripts, in the light of the most recent studies, and brought order to the sigla assigned to them by previous editors.

In Book 12 of Quintus Smyrnaeus’ Posthomerica (c. third century c.e.), the epic poet prepares to list the heroes who entered the Wooden Horse before the sack of Troy. Before he begins, he breaks off to ask for help (Quint. Smyrn. 12.306–13):

τούς μοι νῦν καθ᾽ ἕκαστον ἀνειρομένῳ σάφα Μοῦσαι
ἔσπεθ᾽, ὅσοι κατέβησαν ἔσω πολυχανδέος ἵππου·
ὑμεῖς γὰρ πᾶσάν μοι ἐνὶ φρεσὶ θήκατ᾽ ἀοιδήν,
πρίν μοι <ἔτ᾽> ἀμφὶ παρειὰ κατασκίδνασθαι ἴουλον,
Σμύρνης ἐν δαπέδοισι περικλυτὰ μῆλα νέμοντι    310
τρὶς τόσον Ἑρμοῦ ἄπωθεν, ὅσον βοόωντος ἀκοῦσαι,
Ἀρτέμιδος περὶ νηὸν Ἐλευθερίῳ ἐνὶ κήπῳ,
οὔρεΐ τ’ οὔτε λίην χθαμαλῷ οὔθ᾽ ὑψόθι πολλῷ.