The Porticus Octaviae was built in the Campus Martius sometime between 33 and 23 BC (Figure 1). There is controversy as to whether it was built by Augustus and dedicated to his sister, or commissioned by Octavia herself. The complex, however, which included a library and senate house was closely associated with Octavia and her son. The Porticus Octaviae fell victim to the fire of ad 80 and was probably restored by Domitian. An inscription on the propylon of the complex records its restoration, also after a fire, by Septimius Severus and Caracalla in AD 203. Little consideration, however, has been given to the importance of the Severan restoration in the context of this emperor's building programme. This article will examine the messages conveyed by the restoration of the Porticus Octaviae in terms of Severus' imperial policy, and in particular his desire to connect himself to the legacy of Augustus.

In Boeotian Thebes, the simplest thirst for topographical detail will turn up a reference to Dirce. Whether depicted as a nymph, a spring, a river, or simply as flowing water, the name represents an integral, perhaps indispensable, part of the Theban landscape. But of course it is more than that. A narrative surrounds this watery place, telling of Theban kings and queens, of founding twins, and of odd and cruel tortures and torments. It is my goal in this article to understand these varying traditions surrounding Dirce by means of an examination of the interplay between mythic narratives and Theban topography. Narratives of Dirce grow and develop in relation to the physical landscape of the city, but this relationship is seldom reducible to a one-to-one correlation of story and place. The early Greek tradition has much to say about Dirce, some of it contradictory. But superficial contradiction is the norm in this realm, and some sense can be made of what we have with careful attention to the changing contexts surrounding appearances of Dirce as they are expressed and understood in early Greek literature, and to the changing ways the city of Thebes is described in the Greek mythic tradition.

The numbers in the margins of Cicero's speeches are generally treated as a convenient referencing system and no more. The fact that there are two apparently independent sets of numbers, the shorter usually referred to as ‘sections’ (§§), and the longer as ‘chapters’ (cc.), can lead to confusion, and fashions have changed over the years as to which of the sets to use in references, without apparent discussion. Modern editors feel no obligation to follow them when deciding where to put their own paragraph-breaks. One scholar, Glucker, traced their origin out of curiosity, but then dismissed them as having no value other than as a referencing system, claiming that they often ‘ignore the beginning of proper new sections’. This article will test his claim by examining the placement of the numbers at various points in Cicero's Pro Murena.

The tenth poem of Propertius Book 4 is the most remarkable in a collection full of surprises for its readers, and appears to mark a significant departure from his previous work. If Propertius had never written his final book of poetry, we might characterize him on the basis of his earlier books as the quintessential Latin love elegist: he rejects not only a military career, but even the less demanding task of celebrating Augustus' victories, in favour of the love elegist's self-indulgent life of leisure: cf. e.g. Prop. 2.1.39–46. In the first poem of Book 4, however, Propertius announces what appears to be a wholly different poetic programme; in place of the erotic elegies of the previous books is a new ‘serious’ purpose: Propertius will sing about national, religious and antiquarian themes, as the ‘Roman Callimachus’ (Propertius 4.1a.63–4). However, as soon as the next poem, Propertius is commanded to return to his usual theme of obsessive elegiac love for one woman, a topic described as haec tua castra (‘this is your sphere of operations’, 4.1b.135). The poems which follow in Propertius 4 tend to strike a balance between antiquarian seriousness and elegiac frivolity. For example, in 4.4, Propertius relates the Vestal Virgin Tarpeia's betrayal of Rome, connecting several contemporary urban landmarks with the poem's heroine, but he remains true to his earlier colours by presenting Tarpeia as an elegiac lover who falls in love at first sight and betrays her city out of passion.

During preparations for the ill-fated Sicilian expedition in 415 BC, Thucydides tells us, the Athenians woke up one morning to find that:

Of all the stone herms in the city of Athens (the square-cut type, which following local custom stand in great numbers in the doorways of private houses and shrines), most had their faces [προ´σωπα] mutilated during a single night. No one knew who the perpetrators were, but there was a search for them with large rewards out of public funds . . . They took the matter seriously; it looked like an omen for the voyage, and furthermore as though it had been done as part of a conspiracy for revolution and the overthrow of the democracy [δη´μου :kgr;αταλυ´σεωσ].

Some accused the flamboyant politician and general Alcibiades, ‘adducing as evidence the undemocratic licentiousness of his conduct in general’. Andocides emphasizes how seriously the matter was taken by the city authorities:

The boule, summoning the generals, ordered them to make an announcement that those of the Athenians who lived in the city should take their arms and go to the Agora, those within the Long Walls should go to the Theseion, those in Piraeus to the Hippodamian agora. As for the knights, a signal was to be given by trumpet before nightfall for them to go to the Anakeion; the boule was to go to the Acropolis and sleep there, the prytaneis in the Tholos.

Sed, ut ego quoque te aliquid admoneam de vestris cautionibus, Treveros vites censeo: audio capitales esse: mallem auro, argento, aere essent.

However, if I may give you a caveat from your own legal arsenal, I advise you to keep clear of the Treveri: I hear that they are deadly customers, like their Roman namesakes. If you want a Board of Three, better try the Masters of the Mint.

The letter, from which this passage is taken, is one of a number that passed between Cicero and a young lawyer, Gaius Trebatius Testa, who was serving with Julius Caesar's army in Gaul in the late 50s BC.

As in most of his letters to Trebatius, Cicero revels in jokes and word-play with a legal flavour which, of course, would have suited this particular recipient. This passage is far from easy to translate adequately into English because it contains a ‘developing’ pun, the full force of which is inevitably lost in translation. The actual structure of the pun, however, is obvious enough: Trebatius' proximity to the tribe of the Treveri leads to a word-play with the Latin word, Tresviri (‘Board of Three’). The fact that the Treveri had a reputation for ferocity in battle causes Cicero to call them ‘deadly’ (capitales) which, in its turn, leads to an implied reference to the Tresviri Capitales, three junior officials in Rome who were in charge of executions and prisons.