Chapters 50–2 of Herodotus' first book have been relatively neglected by scholars, presumably because they appear at first glance simply to list Croesus' sacrificial offerings at Delphi, rather than operating as a narrative imbued with the tragic motifs that scholars have long admired and explored in the Lydian logos as a whole. Only H. W. Parke has paid attention to these chapters, and even he considers them only from the perspective of Herodotus' historical veracity. Caroline Dewald, in an article on the misleading power of objects in Herodotus, does not include 1.50–2 in her discussion, while Gregory Crane notes that Herodotus' list is ‘surprisingly detailed’, but can only explain its specificity in terms of the presumed general appeal of such a list to his contemporaries. This note will suggest, however, that, as well as simply documenting Croesus' spectacular offerings, the narrative of these chapters is also shaped by some fundamental themes that run through the whole Croesus story.

In the early fourth century bc, a slave of possibly Phoenician origin, called Pasion, was owned by the Athenian bankers Antisthenes and Archestratos (Dem. 36.43). During the course of his slavery, Pasion quickly rose to become the trusted manager of his owners' money-changing and banking firm in Piraeus. After having been manumitted (Dem. 36.48), he took over the running of this bank (Isocr. 17, passim), became a very successful banker, and established a shield factory. His businesses prospered to the extent that by the time of his death in 370/369 he had assembled a fortune estimated at around 70 talents. With this money, Pasion made a number of generous benefactions to the Athenians, as a reward for which the Athenians passed a decree in his favour granting him a gold crown and the right of citizenship to him and his descendants ([Dem.] 59.2). As soon as he received his grant of citizenship, Pasion started to make use of his citizen rights and invested in real property. Although he was probably never actively involved in politics, he is known to have been a close friend of several members of the political elite, such as Agyrrhius of Collyte (Isocr. 17.31) and Callistratus of Aphnida (Dem. 49.47). Moreover, he had dealings with important public figures, such as Timotheus, son of Conon (Dem. 49, passim).

The study of the women of classical Athens involves an evidentiary paradox. Women and their pastimes were prominent subjects in this state's literature and in the pictures on its painted pottery, while its comedies and tragedies regularly had articulate and forthright female characters. But none of this gives us access to the ways in which women conceived of their own lives; for they were – as the late John Gould explained so well – ‘the product of men and addressed to men in a male dominated world’. What is more, we lack any works from democratic Athens by female writers to counter this persistently male perspective. Two further biases complicate the study of Attic women. What evidence we have focuses almost without exception on the girls and the wives of Athenian citizens and so provides limited insight into the different circumstances of female slaves and female resident aliens. Typically this evidence also presents the life of wealthy females as the norm for every Attic woman, hampering our ability to reconstruct how exactly the daughters and the wives of poor citizens lived their lives.

In an article in The Classical Quarterly in 2009 I suggested that it was high time that those Euripides scholars who believe that the demagogues were ‘a bad thing’ woke up to the fact that historians of the fifth century had long since discredited that view and had been portraying them in a favourable light. The Euripideans' conviction that the passages in the plays which denounce democracy were objectively justified had led them to confuse what the playwright's characters say with what he himself felt, which of course is unknowable. I focused then on Suppliant Women and Orestes. In this article I turn the spotlight onto Hecuba, understanding of which I feel has been damaged by a failure to take on board the clear polarizing of democratic Greeks and royalist Asians upon which the tragedy insists.

In the second half of the third century bce Roman historical epic (notably that written by Naevius and Ennius) and Roman historiography (notably that of Fabius Pictor) came into being at roughly the same time. Whether and in what ways these two literary forms may have mutually influenced each other in their early development is a matter of debate, but it is obvious that there are both similarities and a generic difference, demonstrated by the use of prose or verse respectively and the accompanying style. Such characteristics enable a distinction between different types of narrative, even if the same events in Roman history are covered.

The Seleucid Empire was the largest and most ethnically diverse of all the successor kingdoms formed after the death of Alexander the Great. The relationship between the Macedonian dynasty and various subject peoples is therefore a central question of Seleucid historiography. This article focuses on the relations between king and native temples, arguing that temple despoliation was standard procedure for Seleucid rulers facing fiscal problems. I explore various instances in which Seleucid kings removed treasures from native temples under coercive auspices, suggesting that this pattern problematizes recent scholarship emphasizing positive relations between Seleucid kings and native priestly elites.

Geoffrey Bakewell finds in Aeschylus' Suppliants ‘an invaluable perspective on Athenian attempts at establishing their own identity in the late 460s bce’. The play presents a ‘displaced self-portrait of Athens’, and the ‘ambivalent welcome to exotic immigrants’ and ‘wariness towards outsiders’ makes that portrait ‘not entirely flattering’ (ix). I am not sure whether this judgement is meant to express a modern perspective, or that of Aeschylus' audience. Bakewell claims that metics ‘by their very nature constituted an existential threat to the democratic city and its self-understanding’ (8), and that they were perceived as ‘threatening’ (19), but provides no supporting evidence. To illustrate Athenian attitudes to metics he appeals to the Old Oligarch (not, perhaps, the most representative of witnesses), citing his frustration at not being allowed to assault foreigners; there is no mention of Dicaeopolis (Ach. 507–8). It is, of course, true that in Suppliants Argos is imperilled by the refugees' arrival: but that is because they are pursued by an army determined to enforce a legal claim on them, which Athenian metics typically were not. The view that tragedies gave spectators a ‘mental license to think through a pressing issue in an extended way, and at a safe remove’ (123) is widely held, and may be right. But its application ought not to depend on disregarding crucial features of a play's distinctively tragic scenario.

Anyone who has ever taught or studied the Aeneid will be familiar with student gripes that the protagonist, Aeneas, does not meet their expectations of a hero: stolid, boring, wooden, uninspiring, lacking in emotional range. Likewise, students of Lucan's Civil War often find it hard to get a handle on the figure of Cato, and his hard-line heroics are usually met with a combination of disbelieving horror and ridicule. The important and deceptively simple suggestion of J. Mira Seo's new monograph is that such apparently two-dimensional and unsatisfactory ‘problem characters’ in Latin literature (19) are the result not of the failure of the ancient poets to depict their protagonists successfully, but rather of the different expectations that Romans held about literary characterization. Her book sets out to explore the possibility that Roman writers were not attempting to present characters who are psychologically ‘rounded’ in the way that we moderns expect, with our Cartesian approach and our high regard for radical individuality and subjectivity. Rather, she argues, Roman characterization was based on a distinctively Roman approach to self as ‘aemulatory, referential, and circumscribed by traditional expectations of society’ (15). For Seo, characterization is a literary technique (4) rather than mimetic of real people (5) and, like genre, characters in literature are established through reference to earlier material. Indeed, characterization is a form of allusion, and characters in literature are ‘nodes of intertextuality’ (4) created out of generic expectation and familiar schemata, and the significant and creative modification of these. This technique is often evident in ancient literature (the intertextuality of Virgil's depiction of Dido is well known); however Seo pursues its implications through close readings of five case studies: Virgil's Aeneas, created through the conflicting voices of fama, with effeminate Paris as his ghostly doppelganger; Cato as Lucan's lethal exemplum; Seneca's Oedipus, becoming ‘himself’ under the pressure of decorum and the literary tradition; and two of Statius' most stereotypical and over-determined characters, the archetypal ‘doomed beautiful youth’, exquisitely intensified in the figure of Parthenopaus, and the doomed prophet Ampharius. In her series of illuminating and insightful readings, Seo shows how such characters are built up through schematization, through articulation from a variety of perspectives in the texts, and through the evocation and skilful modification of familiar literary motifs. Although I am not sure she has entirely cracked the problem of Roman characterization, her book opens up a stimulating new approach to Roman poetry and characterization, which I hope will inspire others to take up the call for more research in this area.

Two important recent books re-examine long-standing orthodoxies which have come under fire in recent decades. Julia Kindt challenges the orthodox model of Greek religion which has put the polis as its central organizing principle, as manifested in the work of Christianne Sourvinou-Inwood and the Paris school. The book combines methodological and theoretical discussion with a series of case studies ranging from the Archaic period to the Second Sophistic. Kindt does not deny the value of the polis-centred model for major aspects of Greek religious life; rather, her main disagreement is that it creates simplistic polarities and leaves aside or treats as exceptions many important aspects of Greek religion. While the polis model sees religion as embedded in the structures of the polis, Kindt argues persuasively for the need to conceptualize Greek religion as a series of interrelated but distinct layers. She rightly stresses the autonomy of religion as a symbolic and figural system; and she emphasizes the significance of personal experience and agency and the ways in which practices such as magic illustrate the multiple links between personal experience and agency and the religious community of the polis. Finally, of particular significance is her challenge to the standard polarity of local versus Panhellenic and the need to adopt a wider spectrum of layers and identities.

This being my first attempt at writing the Roman History subject review, some kind of comment on the nature of the field as illustrated by this issue's crop of books seems appropriate. Firstly, the paucity of books focusing on the period of the Roman Republic is striking, especially if Cicero is taken out of the equation; the Imperial period clearly dominates, though the study of Late Antiquity (in which I must declare an interest) is still clearly on the rise. In terms of subject matter, traditional political history is obviously still largely out of fashion, religion is on a roll and the ‘cultural turn’ continues its rise (again I declare an interest), but the economy is making a late comeback (thanks to the formidable industry of the Oxford Roman Economy Project). This issue's collection offers a healthy mix of genres: biographies, student textbooks/sourcebooks, edited volumes, ‘companions’, and substantial monographs, including both revised PhDs and the reflections of more seasoned scholars, books for specialists and novices alike. I shall be interested to see how the balance of both subject matter and methodology appear in future issues.

Whatever Luca Giuliani writes is usually worth reading. Image and Myth, a translation and revision of his Bild und Mythos (Munich, 2003), is no exception. This monograph engages with a topic germane to the origins and development of classical archaeology – the relation of art to text. Giuliani begins, rather ponderously, with an exposition of G. E. Lessing's 1766 essay Laokoon, ‘on the limits of painting and poetry’. Lessing, a dramatist, predictably considered poetry the more effective medium for conveying a story. A picture, in his eyes, encapsulates the vision of a moment – likewise a statue. The Laocoon group, then, is a past perfect moment. A poet can provide the beginning, middle, and end of a story; the artist, only the representation of a fleeting appearance. Giuliani shows that this distinction does not necessarily hold – works of art can be synoptic, disobedient of Aristotelian laws about unity of place and time (and scale). Yet he extracts from Lessing's essay a basic dichotomy between the narrative and the descriptive. This dichotomy dictates the course of a study that is most illuminating when its author is being neither narrative nor descriptive but analytical – explaining, with commendable care for detail, what we see in an ancient work of art. But is the distinction between narrative and descriptive as useful as Giuliani wants it to be? One intellectual predecessor, Carl Robert, is scarcely acknowledged, and a former mentor, Karl Schefold, is openly repudiated; both of these leave-takings are consequent from the effort on Giuliani's part to avoid seeking (and finding) ‘Homeric’ imagery in early Greek art. The iconography of Geometric vases, he maintains, ‘is devoid of narrative intention: it refers to what can be expected to take place in the world’ (37). In this period, we should not be asking whether an image is ‘compatible’ with a story, but rather whether it is incomprehensible without a story. If the answer is ‘no’, then the image is descriptive, not narrative. Thus the well-known oinochoe in Munich, clearly showing a shipwreck, and arguably intending to represent a single figure astride an overturned keel, need not be read as a visual allusion to Odyssey 12.403–25, or some version of the tale of Odysseus surviving a shipwreck. It is just one of those things that happens in the world. Well, we may be thinking – let us be glad that it happens less frequently these days, but double our travel insurance nevertheless. As Giuliani commits himself to this approach, he is forced to concede that certain Geometric scenes evoke the ‘heroic lifestyle’ – but, since we cannot admit Homer's heroes, we must accept the existence of the ‘everyman aristocrat’ (or aristocratic everyman: either way, risking oxymoron). Readers may wonder if Lessing's insistence on separating the descriptive from the narrative works at all well for Homer as an author: for does not Homer's particular gift lie in adding graphic, descriptive detail to his narrative? And have we not learned (from Barthes and others) that ‘descriptions’, semiotically analysed, carry narrative implications – implications for what precedes and follows the ‘moment’ described? So the early part of Giuliani's argument is not persuasive. His conviction, and convincing quality, grows as artists become literate, and play a ‘new game’ ‘in the context of aristocratic conviviality’ (87) – that of adding names to figures (as on the François Vase). Some might say this was simply a literate version of the old game: in any case, it also includes the possibility of ‘artistic licence’. So when Giuliani notes, ‘again we find an element here that is difficult to reconcile with the epic narrative’ (149), this does not, thankfully, oblige him to dismiss the link between art and text, or art and myth (canonical or not). Evidently a painter such as Kleitias could heed the Muses, or aspire to be inspired; a painter might also enjoy teasing his patrons with ‘tweaks’ and corrigenda to a poet's work. (The latter must have been the motive of Euphronios, when representing the salvage of the body of Sarpedon as overseen by Hermes, rather than by Apollo, divergent from the Homeric text.) Eventually there will be ‘pictures for readers’, and a ‘pull of text’ that is overt in Hellenistic relief-moulded bowls, allowing Giuliani to talk of ‘illustrations’ – images that ‘have surrendered their autonomy’ (252).

The stream of publications on Socrates and his legacy – including, of course, the nature and extent of Plato's ‘Socraticism’ – continues to flow copiously. This review will consider a sample of titles which have appeared in the last four or five years (several of which have also been released in paperback form more recently). They embody a variety of research aims and approaches, and reflect some of the methodological issues involved in the enterprise of Socratic studies.

A recent special issue of the Classical Receptions Journal marked the twentieth anniversary of the publication of Charles Martindale's Redeeming the Text. Latin Poetry and the Hermeneutics of Reception. Although the rich and various examples of classical reception scholarship that have appeared over the past two decades are by no means all cut from Martindale's cloth, the ‘seminal’ and ‘influential’ nature of his study is surely not in doubt. It is fitting, then, that this issue's round-up of reception publications focuses on a small cluster of recent studies that, like Redeeming the Text, explore the complex reception histories of Latin literature, and do so with a keen eye to the theoretical underpinnings of such scholarship; fitting, too, that our first title, Romans and Romantics, features Charles Martindale among its editors. The eighteen essays in this collection in fact range well beyond literature, with visual culture and the physical fabric of the city of Rome playing an important role; but encounters with Latin texts are a central component of the book, and the overarching theoretical and methodological framework for examining them bears the clear imprint of Martindale's reception manifesto. The introduction emphasizes the importance of remaining alert to the two-way dynamics of reception: not only do the contributors explore the ways in which Romanticism was shaped by antiquity, but they also examine the impact that Romanticism has had on subsequent views of antiquity. Although the idea of reception as a two-way process is often parroted, its implications are not always interrogated and explained so carefully as they are here. Most valuably, Romans and Romantics acknowledges and confronts the overly simple ‘myths’ that attach to our ideas of both the classical and the Romantic, showing how notions of what Romanticism ‘is’ are just as contingent and subject to distortion as those of the classical. So, for example, Timothy Saunders' fascinating chapter on ‘Originality’ successfully challenges the assumption that Romanticism was in some way antithetical or inimical to Roman studies, and that it was responsible for the lasting negative impression of Latin (literary) culture as imitative and inferior. Instead, he argues, ‘Romantic notions of originality’ (85) were more complex than we might assume, and could certainly find space for recognizing and celebrating Rome's creative use of its Greek heritage. Other chapters offer useful studies of the ‘varied, vital, and mutually sustaining’ (v) interactions between Romantics and Romans, including accessible accounts of key authors such as Shelley, Byron, and de Staël. Particularly worthwhile, though, is the final section, ‘Receptions’. By focusing on post-Romantic material, it lays bare our own modern preconceptions of the Romantic movement and encourages contemplation of how receptions of Romanticism are as important as receptions of Rome. Ralph Pite's excellent chapter on Thomas Hardy, for example, shows how this author, and many of his late nineteenth-century contemporaries, might be disappointed by visiting Rome: their expectations of the city, shaped by their own Romantic inheritance, could be undermined by the revelation of the modernized capital of a newly unified Italy, ‘threaten[ing] the post-Romantic traveller's cherished idea of ‘an eternal city frozen in time’’ (328).

Originally published in Dutch in 1995, Antiquity. Greeks and Romans in Context by Frederick Naerebout and Henk Singor aims to provide (in its own modest words) a ‘reasonably comprehensive one-volume’ overview of the Greco-Roman world for undergraduates and a wider interested audience (xiii). The main focus of the work is the Greco-Roman world from 1000 bc to 500 bc (divided into the Archaic, Classical, Hellenistic, and Roman Imperial periods). Each period is covered under the same three headings (in the interests of comparability): ‘Historical Outline’, ‘Social Fabric’, ‘Social Life and Mentality’. The wider context is, however, by no means ignored. The authors provide a valuable overview of the Palaeolithic and Neolithic periods (27–35) and of the early civilizations of Eurasia up to 900 bc (36–58). At the other end of the timeline, the book does not simply conclude with the Roman Imperial period but carries on the story up to the tenth century ad and beyond (369–94). A particular emphasis is placed in the introductory chapter on ‘The Ecology of History’ (11–23):