Everybody in life wants to win. At its most basic, this must stem from the survival instinct: in a battle against predators, winning means survival; defeat means death. In a social context, however, obviously not everyone can win, and we have to learn to accommodate defeat, whether our own or that of others. Hence, in a competitive society, defeat presents a challenge. Usually, if an observer sympathizes with the defeated, there is an impulse to dress up the defeat in various guises; or, if the defeated party is scorned, the defeat is presented in the most humiliating terms possible. In a gladiatorial context, the attitudes of the observer, not to mention the gladiators themselves, are hard to recover. Recent work has focused on the ‘affective dispositions’ of the spectators, drawing analogies with modern combat sports. Yet, modern spectators do not have to decide whether the defeated party deserves to live or die, whereas, for a Roman spectator, defeat was to be calibrated on a scale of life and death. The ancient protagonists themselves will obviously share impulses with their modern equivalents, although, when the contest is potentially fatal, the drive to win must take on an urgency surpassing pure ambition. When a modern athlete dies on the sports field or in the boxing ring, it is an accident, however tragic, whereas a gladiator who lost a fight could suffer the penalty of losing his life as well. Defeat was in deadly earnest.

The Roman period in Greece has had a relatively short history of inquiry compared to other epochs of the country's long history and, as a result, very little has been written about modern perceptions of this period. For various reasons, neither modern Greeks nor foreigners have been particularly concerned with the country's Roman past, a period which has often been relegated to a negative realm. As a result, misperceptions about the Roman period in Greece are rampant, with many fallacies being perpetuated by labels and displays in museums and archaeological sites throughout the country, as well as by pedagogical institutions and the media.

In the first months of 44 ce, the Roman emperor Claudius, after spending as few as sixteen days in Britain, returned to Rome to celebrate his triumph. On his journey back to Rome, he stopped near the mouth of the Po river to take a cruise, as Pliny the Elder describes:

In the 1855 edition of his guide to Pompeii, the French artist and archaeologist Ernest Breton begins a chapter on the city's houses and shops with a print showing tourists in a grand Pompeian residence (figure 1). At the rear of an atrium with an enormous impluvium, a man contemplates a raised garden while a well-dressed couple approaches from the right. Behind them, in the roofless remains of the house, the garden's ancient sculptural display remains in situ; animals and deities inhabit a landscape dominated by a shrine-like niche, a pool, and pillars painted with trees. Deep shadows and encroaching vegetation set a romantic, melancholic mood. This is the House of Marcus Lucretius (IX.3.5), excavated less than a decade prior and, at the time, one of the ancient city's most famous sights. As is typical of nineteenth-century illustrations of Pompeii, the size of the house is exaggerated: while the decorative scheme and arrangement of the rooms is accurate, the garden is too highly elevated and too large in proportion to the figures. The atrium's disproportionate impluvium is a complete fabrication, the actual impluvium having been dismantled in antiquity. Despite the artistic licence, Breton and his imagined tourists follow the same path as ancient visitors to the house, drawn toward the garden and its sculptures by the manipulation of space and decoration.

The earthquake of 62/63 ce was a catastrophic event for Pompeii and Campania. The destruction and death toll were extensive and it is clear that the city of Pompeii was still recovering and rebuilding when the eruption of Vesuvius happened. This article takes into consideration the mental and emotional damage that the earthquake caused and the way in which Seneca and the archaeological record help us to perceive strategies of consolation and therapy. Seneca discusses this earthquake in Book 6 of his Naturales quaestiones and hopes to lead his reader from the shock of the earthquake to a more comprehensive understanding of the physical causes of the tremor. The cultural memory of events not witnessed directly (such as Seneca's write-up of the Pompeii earthquake) makes us all survivors and ‘turn[s] history into a memory in which we can all participate’. If trauma ‘spreads via language and representation’, Seneca wants to limit what exactly is traumatic about this event and employs his creative rhetoric to do so. His account demonstrates how Stoic physics and ethics are connected and moves the reader from his or her fear of earthquakes to the fear of death at the root of the anxiety. Seneca carefully alters the valence of certain terms as well as selected memories of the earthquake to encourage his reader to transcend his or her fear and view earthquakes as natural occurrences, not anomalies to be dreaded. He does this through strategies identified in modern trauma theory as useful for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and this article investigates how contemporary trauma theory can help us understand aspects of Seneca's remedy. Seneca's repetitions of certain events and terminology works to reassess and renovate them from a philosophical angle – in essence it turns potential ‘flashbacks’ and ‘triggers’ into beneficial sites of memory and the means of recovery. Survivors often relive the trauma again and again – Seneca's work alludes to this, but now makes the victim actively revise how to make such iterations part of the recovery.

It felt slightly spooky when I opened The Winnowing Oar and found a lecture by Martin West on editing the Odyssey that concludes with a pre-emptive defence of his endorsement of Aristophanes’ reading at Od. 13.158: six months earlier, in my brief review of West's edition (G&R 65 [2018], 272), I had – somewhat recklessly – described that reading as ‘reckless’. It's an excellent lecture, and well worth reading. But the Aristophanic variant still fails to convince me. This difference of opinion pales into insignificance, however, next to the textual bombshell in Franco Montanari's chapter in the same volume, on the failed embassy in Iliad 9. Applying the familiar analytic argument-schema ‘X would have mentioned Y, if Y had been in the text that X read’, I am inexorably led to the conclusion that Montanari is working from a text of Iliad 9 in which the embassy concludes with Achilles’ response to Phoenix (47). The long-standing riddle of the use of duals to describe a three-man delegation is therefore solved: Ajax was a later addition to the text. The alternative explanation, that X has chosen not to mention the one member of the delegation who (even after Achilles has pointedly declared the discussion at an end) succeeds in getting Achilles to make a positive (though deferred) commitment to coming to the rescue of his comrades (649–55), is surely too far-fetched to be credible. Montanari is a very fine scholar: but the embassy that he describes is not the one that I find in my text. Eleven other fine scholars have contributed to this Festschrift for Antonios Rengakos: I will briefly mention three chapters that particularly caught my attention. Margalit Finkelberg argues persuasively for a seventh-century fixation of the Homeric texts in the light of iconographical evidence. Jonas Grethlein, in a study of Odysseus and Achilles in the Odyssey, hopes to show (and succeeds in doing so) ‘that the relation between Odysseus and Achilles in Homeric epic is far more complex than the metapoetically charged juxtaposition of βίη versus μῆτις, which Greg Nagy's The Best of the Achaeans has made a central creed of Homeric scholarship’ (140). I agree whole-heartedly: this painfully reductive antithesis never deserved the prominence it has gained. And, as Grethlein observes, ‘the Iliadic echoes make the Odyssey into more than an adventure story: it becomes a multi-facetted narrative engaged with ethical issues’ (138). Gregory Hutchinson, who can be relied upon for stimulating thoughts expressed with precision, elegance, and wit, begins by suggesting that scholars have laid ‘too much emphasis on the production’ of the Homeric poems, ‘and not enough on the effect of the works on the audience or audiences of the time’ (145). He goes on to examine the phenomenon of repetition in the light of cognitive studies (specifically, the concept of ‘attention’) and comparative literature. Oral improvisation is acknowledged as ‘a conceivable possibility’, but ‘it may be time to turn…our primary attention…to an understanding of [the poem's] impact which best fits the text and best captures its multiplicity and power’ (167).

Nos ausi reserare… (‘We dare unbolt…’): a small but weighty beginning, with the new Loeb Ennius. It's nearly eighty years since E. H. Warmington finished his four-volume Remains of Old Latin (1935–40), combining the fragments of Ennius, Lucilius, Accius, and other pre-Sullan poetry in cheerful farrago with the Twelve Tables and a book of ‘archaic inscriptions’. The dry title notwithstanding, this was a flagship collection from a long-serving general editor of the Loeb Classical Library (1937–74): the scholarship was valiant, despite the slips so fully catalogued by unkinder reviewers, and the product has exerted wide influence as the go-to ‘accessible’ edition of so much important material – even if l'Année Philologique insists on calling its editor ‘Brian’ (his son: talk about tuer le père). Still, eighty years are a long time even in Classics, and an update could fairly be called overdue; happy news, then, that Harvard have commissioned Gesine Manuwald, another London professor, to oversee it. The new title is Fragmentary Republican Latin, more of a mouthful but a touch less downbeat; the remit is extended to include oratory and historiography; and the first instalment is a chunky Ennian diptych (one book for the Annals, one for the rest), jointly curated by Manuwald and Sander M. Goldberg.

Ancient Sparta has become a major field of study in ancient history over the last four decades. But so far it has largely remained an issue for Sparta specialists, while the rest of Greek historians have rarely put Sparta at the centre of their attention. The two-volume Blackwell Companion to Sparta, edited by Anton Powell, is a major contribution which should give Sparta its rightful place in the study of Greek history. This companion should stand as a model for companion volumes: the twenty-nine contributions manage to combine introducing beginners and non-specialists to the field, providing encyclopaedic coverage of the evidence and the aspects of the subject, and asking new questions and offering new points of view. The volume is divided into an introduction and four further sections: on Spartan origins and archaic Sparta; on political and military history from the Persian Wars to the Roman period; on the politics, economy, society, and culture of classical, Hellenistic, and Roman Sparta; and on the reception of Sparta in the modern West.

The first time I visited Pompeii, I was walking along one of its iconic paved streets when another visitor in front of me stumbled over a rough patch of pavement. Looking down resentfully, she turned to her friend and said in an irritated tone, ‘Look at this! They really need to do something about these roads…’. If that sore-toed tourist had found Eric Poehler's new book, The Traffic Systems of Pompeii, in the Pompeian gift shop, she would have been much illuminated. This long-gestated project represents an exciting new type of scholarship on the ancient world, using evidence gleaned from the scratched and rutted roads of Pompeii and other urban sites across the empire to expose both how ancient traffic worked and the constantly evolving negotiations between residents and government over its control.

Change is what keeps the study of classical art and archaeology in business. The stories that we tell of ancient material culture – about form, function, and modes of response – are premised on the continuities that we trace, no less than on our evidence for rift or rupture. In each case, historical analyses of how things developed coalesce with critical attempts to explain why they did so. Answers shuffle and shift. But the project of describing and interpreting change remains constant.

Shaul Tor presents an illuminating and wide-ranging treatment of the relation between the epistemology and theology of Hesiod, Xenophanes, Parmenides, and, to a lesser extent, Empedocles. Over six detailed chapters, he combines philosophical innovation with philological and cultural sensitivity to offer new and fascinating insights on several widely discussed and difficult issues of early Greek philosophy. In his first chapter (‘Rationality and Irrationality, Philosophy and Religion’), Tor surveys the scholarly division between ‘rationalizing’ and ‘mysticizing’ readings of early Greek philosophers. His treatment is thorough and nuanced and helps to render with great clarity the assumptions underlying much modern analysis. Starting from the observation that reason and inspiration are generally treated as dichotomous, he begins with a consideration of some traditional ‘rationalizers’ (the Milesians, Hecataeus, the Hippocratics, etc.) and notes that none provide the sort of straightforward separation and rejection of the divine that standard accounts might lead one to assume. He provides a particularly useful critique of the distinction between the rational and irrational and the philosophical and the religious, arguing that the epistemological developments of early Greek philosophy are ‘an essentially theological enterprise’ (48).

Newly available in paperback in 2018, Simon Perris’ The Gentle, Jealous God. Reading Euripides’ Bacchae in English, sets out to ‘adumbrate a new cultural history for this classic play’ (20). While, as the author points out, the Bacchae has received attention in recent years from reception scholars interested in its performance history – including Erika Fischer-Lichte's 2014 Dionysus Resurrected – less has been written on translated versions or adaptations which are intended primarily for reading rather than performance. Perris’ work moves the conversation forward by examining in detail a series of case studies, while touching on many more examples in the course of his discussion.

‘Why Classics matters’ is an important question and Neville Morley offers his answer in a slim volume published in Polity's Why It Matters series which is advertised as follows: ‘word-leading thinkers make the case for the importance of their subjects and aim to inspire a new generation of students’. Morley opens the book with a chapter entitled ‘What's Wrong with Classics’ and presents himself in the afterword as ‘a historian who does ancient stuff’, whose ‘ability to appreciate Latin poetry…or spot subtle intertextual references is, to say the least, negligible’ (126). His first chapter provides basic information about the standing and importance of classical languages in the Western curriculum from the Middle Ages to the present day and then focuses on the (much discussed) issue of gender and class: yes, Classics used to be the epitome of the aristocratic male education, not only in Britain (the main focus of Morley's book) but throughout Europe. This fact, and the trite topos of the sadistic at worst, mind-numbingly boring at best, Classics teacher is illustrated with many quotations from literature, from Eliot's Middlemarch to Tartt's The Secret History. From classical knowledge as cultural capital Morley pivots to Classics as ‘a weapon in the culture wars and the clash of civilizations’ (35) and to far-right internet memes, which leads him to the conclusion that Classics matters today precisely because it is dangerous and deeply problematic. At some point in this chapter he swerves into narrowing down Classics to mean ‘ancient history’ – approximately at the point where he remarks that classicists themselves have actually been ‘at the forefront of questioning traditional understanding of the classical word and how it should be studied’ (36), so his answer as to why Classics does matter mostly pertains to the study of ancient history (and, to a degree, reception):