Weighty tomes preponderate, but I put chronology before avoirdupois. First comes a stout Companion to the Punic Wars, edited by Dexter Hoyos. It is part of the book's comforts as a companion and one of its merits to treat not only what is named on the tin – five chapters for the first war, nine for the second, and three for the last half century of Carthage, with one chapter dealing directly with the siege of 148–146 – but other topics that are by no means peripheral. It is a bonus to have Nathan Rosenstein's revisionist views on ‘Italy: Economy and Demography after Hannibal's War’, or rather his demolition of long-held ones: positive arguments are briefly put. Whether Part V, ‘Conclusions’, lives up to its name is another matter: it consists of three papers on the aftermath, including ‘Carthage and Hannibal in Roman and Greek Memory’ (which I wish had been taken further). The editor's international team have satisfactorily marshalled the material in the main sections: ‘Roman Politics and Expansion’ between the first two wars is immediately followed by Hoyos’ own ‘Carthage in Africa and Spain’ during the same period; similarly, ‘Punic Politics, Economy, and Alliances, 218–201’ precedes ‘Roman Economy, Finance, and Politics in the Second Punic War’. Illustrations are not among the comforts of this volume: far from panoramas or even diagrams of famous battles, we have five plain maps.

Gareth Williams’ engaging new study of Seneca's Natural Questions is called The Cosmic Viewpoint, a pleasing title that evokes his central thesis: Seneca's study of meteorological phenomena is a work where science and ethics are combined, designed to raise the reader up towards a cosmic perspective far beyond mortal woes, the better to combat adversity in Stoic style. Chapter 1, ‘Interiority and Cosmic Consciousness in the Natural Questions’, introduces the idea of Seneca's worldview, contrasting it in particular with the approaches of Cicero and of Pliny. In contrast to Cicero, Seneca's emphasis is on interiorization, and his ‘cosmic consciousness’ takes his perspective far above the Imperial consciousness of Pliny's Encyclopaedia, which for all its all-encompassing scope still takes a terrestrial Roman perspective. In Chapter 2, Williams addresses the question of how Seneca's moralizing interludes are to be understood in relation to the technical discussion of meteorology; this is a key issue for Williams, since his overall thesis is that Seneca's work has an integrated ‘physico-ethical agenda’ (73). From now on the chapters reflect this integration between the moral and the scientific. Chapter 3 focuses on Seneca's discussion of the flooding of the Nile in Book 4a and its integration with the theme of the vice of flattery. In a nice discussion of ‘The Rhetoric of Science’, Chapter 4 argues that Seneca's presentation in Book 4b of his investigation into the question of how hail and snow are produced is such as to invite critical reflection on the scientific procedures involved (these procedures are: reliance on influential authority, argument by analogy, argument by bold inference, competing arguments, and superstition in contention with reason), but that the aim is not to reject the possibility of attaining scientific truth, but rather to suggest that to attain it one must rise above these petty arguments to find the cosmic perspective, and that to do this is in itself morally improving regardless of any knowledge gained. Chapter 5 discusses Seneca's treatment of the winds in Book 5 and his implicit contrast of the natural phenomena with the transgressive actions of human beings who plunder the earth's resources and wage war on one another. Chapter 6 examines the ‘therapeutic program’ (256) of Seneca's treatment of earthquakes in Book 6. Chapter 7 explores how Seneca's treatment of ancient theories about comets reflects the ascension of the mind to the celestial plane that is the ultimate aim of his scientific enquiry. In Chapter 8, Williams discusses the significance of Seneca's excursus on divination within his treatment of thunder and lightning. Finally, a brief epilogue explains the way that the progression of ideas across traditional book order (where the final books are Books 1 and 2) can be understood to serve Seneca's moral programme. This is a rich and compelling study of Seneca's Natural Questions that establishes it as a work of considerable literary and philosophical qualities. Williams’ final, gentle suggestion is that we moderns, too, might find some peace and liberation in Seneca's cosmic viewpoint, far above the troubles of our everyday lives.

‘And verily so excellent he was in this perspective, that a man would say, his even, plaine, and flat picture were embossed and raised work.’ Philemon Holland's endearing 1601 translation of Pliny's Natural History (35.50) is one of the earliest documented references in English to ‘perspective’, understood as ‘the art of delineating solid objects upon a plane surface so that the drawing produces the same impression of apparent relative positions and magnitudes, or of distance, as do the actual objects when viewed from a particular point’ (OED). The passage relates to a Sicyonian painter called Pausias, whose penchant for representing oxen front-on, and yet conveying all their bulk and size, clearly impresses Pliny. But in a sour footnote, the Loeb edition comments: ‘there is no proof that perspective is meant’. It is true that the established text of Pliny does not support Holland's claim that Pausias ‘had a singular gift to work by perspective’. With the benefit of Renaissance expositions, Holland presumably knew what perspective was. But did Pliny know – or indeed did any other ancient writer or artist understand the basic principle of a vanishing point? Modern scholarship has been frustratingly incapable of answering that question, with authorities such as Panofsky and Richter concluding that the geometrical know-how existed, but was not applied, and others (e.g. John White) content to accept that artists understood the principle without needing its formal articulation. Given this aporia, one seizes Rocco Sinisgalli's monograph, Perspective in the Visual Culture of Classical Antiquity, with an eager hope that we may resolve the issue. It is a slim volume, and promises that ‘key concepts…are clarified and enhanced by detailed illustrations’ (cover). Alas, the diagrams rarely clarify or enhance the somewhat staccato text; and the central claim of the book, that ‘ancient theories of perspective were based primarily on the study of objects in mirrors, rather than on the study of optics and the workings of the human eye’ (cover), remains (appropriately, it may be) speculative. If read in a certain way, texts of Euclid and Ptolemy imply the use of mirrors by painters. But one has only to glance at the surviving text of Ptolemy's Optics, as translated from Arabic into Latin by a twelfth-century Sicilian admiral (sic) of Byzantine Greek origin, to see that it is the stuff of a very sadistic Latin Unseen; and that even if Ptolemy's terms meta (‘destination’) or nutus (‘sign’) be sympathetically understood as ‘principal vanishing point’, we could wish that Ptolemy – and indeed the other authors deployed by Sinisgalli, such as Lucretius and Vitruvius – had expatiated upon the utilization of a vanishing point by artists. The trompe-l'oeil trick of linear recession is played often enough in Roman wall-paintings – but that is not quite the same thing, and painters seem not to have been concerned about creating a complete illusion. Sinisgalli imagines Augustus at home on the Palatine, in the Room of the Masks: it is proposed that if the emperor was wearing slippers, with an eye-level at 1.48 metres, and in shadowy light, he would share in a unified ‘perspective’. But I fear we are still unsure.

Bravely stepping into the arena, we first tackle Paul J. Burton's Friendship and Empire, which strikes a blow for the Romans, though he disclaims participation in the ‘defensive/offensive’ imperialism debate. He uses theory, the comparatively optimistic I(nternational) R(elations) Constructivism rather than IR (Neo-)Realism, though without abandoning the latter completely, to show that Roman foreign relations in his period were conceived in terms of amicitia rather than of Ernst Badian's clientela; and, more importantly, that language has an impact on how we construct global realities. History matters, and Roman diplomatic concepts should be considered on their own terms. Once individual friendship and its uncertainties and dissolution have been analysed, three empirical core chapters follow, which apply theory to cases in the categories of ‘Beginnings’, with discussion of socii, deditio voluntary and involuntary, and fides; ‘Duties’ (cf. le don); and ‘Breakdown and Dissolution’ (usually simultaneous). This sensitive contribution is detailed and persuasive, though least strong on breakdown. Look at the outbreak of the Third Punic War: the Romans were disturbed by an ‘internal unilateral adjustment in status-perception’ (323). Action spoke louder than fair words.

The interest in Presocratic philosophy, and the scholarly output on it, have been rising again in the last few years. I start this review with a sample of recent publications in the area. It is easy to expect that Daniel Graham's collection of The Texts of Early Greek Philosophy, in two volumes, will become a popular tool for the study of Presocratic philosophy (for some qualifications on this expectation see below). The sourcebook aims to present ‘the complete fragments and a generous selection of testimonies’ for the major early Greek philosophers. English translations (all by Graham himself) are set opposite to Greek and Latin texts (with slim textual notes identifying substantive textual variants), with succinct introductions for each philosopher, and brief commentaries and basic bibliographies following the texts. The Diels-Kranz (hereafter DK) collection is the starting point for this sourcebook, but Graham is quite selective in his shortlist of those who deserve a place in his sourcebook: out of ninety DK sections, he includes only nineteen philosophers (Thales, Anaximander, Anaximenes, Xenophanes, Heraclitus, Parmenides, Zeno of Elea, Anaxagoras, Empedocles, Diogenes of Apollonia, Melissus, Philolaus, Leucippus, Democritus, Protagoras, Gorgias, Antiphon, Prodicus, and Pythagoras, the last being relegated to an appendix) and two anonymous texts, the Anonymus Iamblichi and the Dissoi Logoi. Although the sourcebook includes some fragments and testimonies that did not appear in DK (e.g. the Strasbourg papyrus for Empedocles), and only a selection of the testimonies included there, the major difference in terms of the material included for the selected philosophers is the order in which fragments and testimonies are presented. The fragments are incorporated within the context of the broader testimonies containing them (and signalled in bold), rather than listed separately, as in DK; the numbering of fragments and testimonies does not correspond to DK, but the DK numbers are given in addition, and volume 2 includes a list of concordances (besides an index of sources, an index of other passages quoted by Graham in his end-of-chapter commentaries, and a short general index of names and topics). Graham's choice is definitely a healthy step forward from DK's largely artificial strategy of separating fragments and testimonies into two different sections; one might wonder whether the decision to signal in bold words, phrases, sentences, and sections that supposedly count as original fragments within the broader context in which they occur is still too heavily indebted to the DK model. For each author the texts are organized in four main sections: life, works, philosophy, and reception, with the philosophy section typically structured into thematic subsections. Of course the strengths and shortcomings of a monumental work such as Graham's can be fully appreciated only over time, once you use it repeatedly in your teaching and research. I have mentioned Graham's approach to the distinction between fragments and testimonies: some sustained methodological discussion, and explanation of the criteria guiding the distinction, would have been welcome. Unavoidably some readers will find Graham's shortlist of philosophers and selection of texts unsatisfactory and too narrow: some qualms about notable exclusions – such as Solon, Alcmaeon, Archytas, Pherecydes, the Orphics, and the Derveni author – have already been voiced (for example, by Jason Rheins in his review in Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews). As far as I could see, the translations are reliable, and the short introductions, commentaries, and bibliographies provide just enough information for readers to contextualize the authors and texts within the philosophical tradition (less so within the broader archaic Greek cultural and literary tradition), and appreciate some of the key exegetical and philosophical issues that they raise. Just enough, and this brings me to what I find to be the less convincing aspect of such an enterprise as Graham's. His collection will certainly be of some use as an accessible reference tool for advanced students and researchers, but its selectivity will prevent it from becoming a research tool in its own right, and standard editions of individual Presocratics will remain the first port of call (for example, the second edition of Coxon's The Fragments of Parmenides, reviewed below). At the same time, the breadth of the material that it contains, coupled with the relative thinness of the apparatus of introductions and commentaries, does not make The Texts of Early Greek Philosophy the kind of introductory sourcebook that could be used on its own in an introductory undergraduate course on ancient philosophy, or on the Presocratics. It is difficult to imagine lecturers of such courses prescribing to their students more than a small fraction of the material offered by Graham; and those students will still need to use standard introductions to Presocratic philosophy such as Kirk–Raven–Schofield, Barnes, McKirahan, or Warren to make real sense of the evidence presented by Graham, placing it within a unified narrative about the nature and development of early Greek philosophy. From this point of view, Graham's collection risks falling into no man's land from the point of view of its readership: it is neither a ground-breaking, research-shaping tool such as, for example, Long and Sedley's collection on The Hellenistic Philosophers has been for three decades now, nor an introductory textbook easily accessible (for both sheer bulk and price) to undergraduate students. That said, Graham's work still deserves a place in all university libraries and on the shelves of ancient philosophy scholars.

The front cover of John Bintliff's Complete Archaeology of Greece is interesting. There is the Parthenon: as most of its sculptures have gone, the aspect is post-Elgin. But it stands amid an assortment of post-classical buildings: one can see a small mosque within the cella, a large barrack-like building between the temple and the Erechtheum, and in the foreground an assortment of stone-built houses – so this probably pre-dates Greek independence and certainly pre-dates the nineteenth-century ‘cleansing’ of all Byzantine, Frankish, and Ottoman remains from the Athenian Akropolis (in fact the view, from Dodwell, is dated 1820). For the author, it is a poignant image. He is, overtly (or ‘passionately’ in today's parlance), a philhellene, but his Greece is not chauvinistically selective. He mourns the current neglect of an eighteenth-century Islamic school by the Tower of the Winds; and he gives two of his colour plates over to illustrations of Byzantine and Byzantine-Frankish ceramics. Anyone familiar with Bintliff's Boeotia project will recognize here an ideological commitment to the ‘Annales school’ of history, and a certain (rather wistful) respect for a subsistence economy that unites the inhabitants of Greece across many centuries. ‘Beyond the Akropolis’ was the war-cry of the landscape archaeologists whose investigations of long-term patterns of settlement and land use reclaimed ‘the people without history’ – and who sought to reform our fetish for the obvious glories of the classical past. This book is not so militant: there is due consideration of the meaning of the Parthenon Frieze, of the contents of the shaft graves at Mycenae, and suchlike. Its tone verges on the conversational (an attractive feature of the layout is the recurrent sub-heading ‘A Personal View’); nonetheless, it carries the authority and clarity of a textbook – a considerable achievement.

‘Classics, is, to me, the unicycle of education. It isn't especially practical or useful… It won't get you a well-paid job in a fancy office, and it won't necessarily make you attractive to the opposite sex… But none of that is important compared with the simple fact that studying Classics is brilliant’ (253). So says comedian (and former Cambridge classicist) Natalie Haynes on her own one-wheeled whistle-stop tour of the classical world: The Ancient Guide to Modern Life. Haynes is an intelligent guide with a real passion for the Classics and a great sense of humour. The index gives a good indication of what to expect: The Office can be found next to Xenophon's Oeconomicus, Dead Poets Society next to Tertullian's De Spectaculis, and Barbra Streisand sandwiched between Stoicism and Suetonius. Chapter titles are inevitably playful: from ‘Thinking Allowed’ to ‘Frankly, Medea I Don't Give a Damn’ and the inevitable ‘There's No Place Like Rome’. But this is not just a book played for laughs: Haynes's discussion of Aristophanes (199–209) is keen to emphasize that entertainment and education, comedy and Classics are not mutually exclusive categories: as she shows, is it possible both to amuse and advise.