A notable intellectual development of the past decade or two has been the ever-growing interest in human consciousness and the workings of the mind. Sometimes grouped under the umbrella term ‘cognitive sciences’, diverse disciplines such as neuroscience, psychology, philosophy, computer science, and linguistics have all made major contributions to our understanding of the human mind and brain; and the large number of popular science books published in this area show that this can be an engrossing topic for the layperson as much as for experts. In this article we want to explore, at a rather general and non-technical level, how this focus on matters of cognition can help us think about an aspect of Greek tragedy.

The first-century-AD philosopher Onasander (Strategikos 1.13, 15) comments that a general must be a good and effective speaker in order to encourage his men before battle, and ancient historians on occasion have commanders address large audiences of soldiers in an age when there was no artificial amplification of the human voice. In 1993, and reiterated in 1998, Mogens Hansen argued that the extensive pre-battle ‘speech’ found in our sources was, if given at all, only ‘a few apophthegms that could be shouted by the general as he traversed the line, or a speech made to the officers only who passed it on to the soldiers’. He accepts that a general often addressed his troops in camp or in parade formation; his objection solely relates to those speeches ostensibly given immediately before battle to troops already arrayed for combat. For Hansen, ‘a brief exhortation of the troops, unit by unit, while the commander walked along the front is probably all the historical reality [one] may expect to find behind the fully-fledged speeches reported by the historians’, these being a ‘literary composition and not the historian's report of a speech which had actually been made’. In Hanson's view, unless the harangues were given to troops in camp, or to individual units in battle formation, or, perhaps, to small military forces, these speeches could not have been given as reported. With respect to the last possibility, Hansen only rather reluctantly acknowledges that Thrasybulus' speech delivered to approximately 1000 Athenian insurgents in 404 BC, and reported by Xenophon (Hell. 2.4.10–12), ‘is possibly right’.

In a recent contribution to Greece & Rome, Thomas Harrison illustrated how the conceit of the United States as the ‘New Rome’ colours our knowledge of both the ancient world and our own. His deceptively light-hearted approach and examples illustrated that the transhistorical approach is certainly one that can be used for fun; however, at its core, the article poses a much more serious question – can the transhistorical approach to imperialism be used for profit? Or, as Harrison posed the question, ‘Can an understanding of ancient imperialisms cast light on contemporary experience?’ Acutely, Harrison points to the symbiosis between interpretations of the past and the present, illustrating the abundance of what might be termed ‘palimpsestic’ readings of modern empires, which are generated by writing through the history of past empires.

It is hard for biographers, ancient and modern alike, to resist the story of the young Julius Caesar's kidnapping by a band of pirates. Suetonius and Plutarch both include full versions of the tale, with specific details (Suet. Iul. 4; Plut. Vit. Caes. 1.4–2). Suetonius, for instance, writes that the kidnapping took place near the island of Pharmacusa (just off the coast of Asia Minor), while Plutarch, noting that too, also specifies that the ransom that freed Caesar came from the (nearby) city of Miletus. And while Suetonius writes that Caesar, after his release, launched a fleet, pursued the pirates, and punished them, Plutarch includes another phase in the story: having taken command of a fleet and set sail (again, from Miletus), Plutarch's Caesar captured nearly all the pirates but, instead of killing them right away, ‘he himself went to Iuncus, the governor of Asia, on the grounds that it belonged to him, as governor of the province, to punish the captives’. When Iuncus postponed a decision on the matter (evidently hoping to make a profit out of the situation), Caesar returned to Pergamum, took the robbers out of prison, and only then crucified them himself.

One of the main concerns of Plato's Phaedrus is rhetoric. This concern pervades the dialogue right from the opening scene, where Phaedrus – someone with an obsessive and conspicuously superficial attachment to speech-making – is seen taking a walk in the country, having just come from hearing the great orator Lysias deliver a display speech (πíδϵιξις). There follows a sequence of three speeches: Phaedrus' reading of Lysias' speech, followed by Socrates' two speeches. In the latter half of the dialogue, the scene shifts from a presentation of rhetoric to an extended discussion about rhetoric. In particular, it presents an extended critique of contemporary rhetoric, and outlines what Plato takes to be the ‘true τχνη’ (techne – ‘art’, ‘craft’, or ‘science’) of rhetoric.

In the early Imperial Age, the steadily growing Christian movement was viewed with suspicion by both the authorities and the people of Rome; in the second century, the Roman rejection of Christian teachings, customs, and practices resulted in a most intriguing counter-movement. During this century, two types of negative response to the Christian faith had become established. The first encompasses the anti-Christian accusations circulating among the Roman population during most of the period, occasionally resulting in Christians being persecuted. At the end of the century, supplementary controversy arose from within the intellectual world. Those who engaged in this polemic were authors who had studied Christian customs, and who consequently targeted the substance of the Christian teachings.

I never share the feeling of those who go so far in their anger against men of their own race that they not only take away their enemies' annual crops but also destroy their trees and agricultural equipment, thereby leaving no opportunity for reparation. Instead, those who do that seem to me to be extremely short-sighted: the more they assume to be terrorizing the enemy by ruining their land and taking away all their hopes of earning a living – not just for the present, but also for the future – just that much more do they brutalize others and so create a hatred of themselves that is never removed.

During the three centuries from Homer to Hippocrates, views of human ageing and longevity evolved in a socio-cultural sense, with relationships to Greek medicine and science. I, as a biomedical scientist, examine ancient literature for roots of the idea that life-course outcomes can be influenced by tangible ‘natural’ factors, whether these are environmental or the result of lifestyle. The concept that an individual has any choice in health and ageing departs radically from ancient, persistent beliefs in the primacy of the supernatural, that the gods could predestine one's life span by birth or could alter it at any time.

The Περὶ Ἀλυπίας (‘On Consolation From Grief’, henceforward PA) of Galen, recently rediscovered in a fifteenth-century manuscript in a monastery in Thessalonica, contains a wealth of information for the scholar of Roman libraries and books. The work, a treatise on the avoidance of the grief contingent upon loss and suffering, begins by listing the losses suffered by Galen himself in the fire of AD 192. The fire destroyed the Templum Pacis, a series of warehouses and storerooms, and the libraries on the Palatine hill. As Galen had spent much effort copying books from these libraries, and had then deposited his copies in the warehouses that also burned, his work was lost beyond the possibility of recovery.

Conduct in human relationships, in amicitia (‘friendship’), is a prevalent theme in Horace's works, and was of considerable interest to ancient philosophers. The extent to which such aspects of human behaviour should be regarded as philosophical is a question that has been discussed both in relation to ancient philosophical texts and to Horace. My concern here, however, is not primarily to argue for their philosophical nature but to illuminate certain influences in the Satires and Epistles that draw on philosophical texts pertaining to conduct and amicitia, and in particular those of Horace's near contemporary, Philodemus.

Before Vespasian returned to Rome to take up the reins of imperial government, he reportedly had a vision in the Serapeum of Alexandria and, as the New Serapis, healed two men. These wonders came to define Vespasian's time in Egypt and yet, for modern readers, their prominence in the story of the emperor's rise to power creates an apparent inconsistency. The same man who on his deathbed joked about his impending divinization also apparently played the part of a god at the beginning of his reign. Such contradictions are to be expected in the colourful accounts of emperors' lives, but this particular one invites further investigation because of its significance to the historical development of the conception of the emperor's divinity. Through detailed consideration of the prospects for reception of these wonders both during and after the Flavian dynasty, this article seeks to demonstrate the predominance of Domitianic influence on the story of Vespasian's wonders. Domitian's reign saw a new emphasis on the living emperor's divinity, which diminished again under Trajan. Nevertheless, wonders were a means through which the charisma of the emperor was manifested in Flavian Rome and later.

The Cupid and Psyche episode in the Metamorphoses of Apuleius is rightly viewed as an escape from the novel's ‘real world’. But that does not of course prevent it from saying serious things about the nature of love and the psychology of the lovers. My aim in this article is to argue that the Cupid who removes Psyche to an earthly paradise (5.1–2.2) is just as much in need of an emotional education as she is. Indeed, initially Psyche could well have been better off with ‘the lowest of mankind’ with whom Venus had instructed him to ensnare her (4.31.3). For her, Cupid may in fact prove at the outset to be the malum (evil) of Apollo's sinister prophecy (4.33.1).

In my previous article, ‘The Roles of Children in Roman Religion’, it was shown, from literary and visual evidence, that children of both sexes played a part in religious cult in choirs and groups, as assistants to priests and other sacrificants, at weddings and in private rites. Most of the evidence cited came from Rome and Italy, as indeed the title implies. Since writing it, however, I have been collecting Latin epitaphs to children throughout the provinces of the Roman empire, and in the course of this study I have come across a small amount of evidence for children in religious roles. It is worth considering whether such children, along with those represented visually, were participating in what might be called offi cial Roman religion or whether they were to some extent involved in their own local cults.