When Diocletian ascended the throne of the Caesars on September 17, 284, there was still in the field against him an army under the command of Carinus, the elder son of Carus. Carinus was killed by one of his own officers in the battle of the Margus (285), and Diocletian was thus left undisputed master of the Empire. Of all the emperors who up till now had reigned in Rome none had succeeded in emancipating himself so completely from outside influence, whether wielded by the Senate or by the Praetorian Prefect or by any one else, as did this native of Illyria. It was left for him to deprive the Senate of the last of its fictitious prerogatives—prerogatives which had extended even into the domain of army administration—and to become in the fullest sense of the term the founder of an absolute monarchy.

The remains of 39 villas have been discovered, up to the present, in the region which was covered by lapilli and ash during the eruption of Vesuvius in A.D. 79. Twelve of these were excavated between the years 1749 and 1782, in the vicinity of Castellammare di Stabia; the rest have been excavated during the last half-century, either in the immediate neighbourhood of Pompeii or in the territory of the modern comuni adjoining it (Boscoreale, Scafati, Gragnano). A list of 36 of the villas arranged in the chronological order of their excavation is given in Rostovtzeff's Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire. Rostovtzeff concludes his note with the words ‘Useful work could be done by a scholar who would devote a little time and care to a study of the Campanian “villae rusticae,” and endeavour to investigate the history of the buildings.’ Unfortunately all of the villas were buried again after their excavation, and, in investigating the history of the buildings, we have only the scanty information furnished by the reports, which, often amounts to nothing at all. Inability to see the buildings, however, would not be such a great disadvantage if, at the time of the excavation, adequate records had been made of the building materials used, and the methods of their use.

It is not the purpose of this paper to propose a new commentary on the legal provisions recorded in the Lex Irnitana, or to attempt to re-interpret as a whole what is certainly one of the major epigraphic discoveries of this century. Much more modestly, it employs an analysis of the diplomatic form to understand the imperial document called until now the ‘letter of Domitian’, which stands at the end of this copy of the Flavian municipal law.

By considering monetization across the Iron Age and Roman periods and across the whole of Temperate Europe some major developments become apparent. The spread of coinage in the Iron Age bears some relationship to the eventual extent of the Roman Empire. Coins stand in the archaeological record for systems of doing things, for ways people relate to each other and to things, and for ways of conceptualizing the world. They provide a useful way to approach the meeting of the worlds of the Iron Age and of Rome. Material forms of being Roman became increasingly important as a dimension of Roman identity. The commercialization implicit in Rome's ‘Cultural Revolution’ was underpinned by the extension of Roman-style monetization. In this light the monetization of Temperate Europe emerges as a process of considerable importance.

A geoarchaeological coring survey of the Forum Boarium has shed considerable light on Rome's archaic landscape. We present the first empirical evidence that substantiates ancient and modern assumptions about the existence of a river harbour and ford in early Rome. Prior to the growth of the city, the riverbank — reconstructed as a high ledge at the base of the Capitoline Hill and a low-lying shore north of the Aventine — was particularly advantageous for river-related activities. However, the river valley changed significantly in the sixth century b.c.e., as a result of complex fluvial processes that were arguably spurred by urbanisation. Around the beginning of the Republic, Rome's original harbour silted up, and a high, wide riverbank emerged in its place. The siltation continued until the Forum Boarium was urbanised in the mid-Republic. In order to build their city and maintain river harbour operations, the Romans therefore had to adapt to dynamic ecological conditions.

The battle of Bovillae on 18th January, 52 B.C., which led to Clodius' death, was literally treated by Cicero in a letter to Atticus as the beginning of a new era—he dated the letter by it, although over a year had elapsed. It is difficult to exaggerate the relief it afforded him from fear and humiliation for a few precious years before civil war put him once more in jeopardy. At one stroke Cicero lost his chief inimicus and the Republic lost a hostis and pestis. Moreover, the turmoil led to a political realignment for which Cicero had been striving for the last ten years—a reconciliation between the boni and Pompey, as a result of which Pompey was commissioned to put the state to rights. Cicero's behaviour in this context, especially his return to the centre of the political scene, is, one would have thought, of capital importance to the biographer of Cicero. Yet two recent English biographies have but briefly touched on the topic. It is true that, in the background of Cicero's personal drama, Caesar and Pompey were taking up positions which, as events turned out, would lead to the collapse of the Republic. However, Cicero and Milo were not to know this, nor were their opponents; friendly cooperation between the two super-politicians apparently was continuing. Politicians on all sides were still aiming to secure power and honour through the traditional Republican magistracies, and in this pursuit were prepared to use the odd mixture of violence, bribery and insistence on the strict letter of the constitution, which was becoming a popular recipe. In retrospect their obsession with the customary organs of power has a certain irony. Yet it is a testimony to the political atmosphere then. Their manoeuvres are also important because both the instability caused by the violence of Clodius and Milo, and the eventual confidence in the rule of law established under Pompey's protection, helped to determine the political position of the boni associated with Pompey in 49 B.C. Cicero's relationship with Milo is at first sight one of the more puzzling aspects of his career. What had they in common, except that Milo, like most late Republican politicians, was at one time associated with Pompey? Properly interpreted, however, this relationship may not only illuminate Cicero's own attitudes but illustrate the character of the last years of Republican politics.

The Social war broke out when Rome refused to grant the allies' demand for citizenship. Any explanation of this refusal is conjectural; on this subject I have nothing new to say. This paper is concerned rather with the attitude of the Italians. I shall argue, like Professor Gabba, that they sought a share in political power, though not only, if at all, for the reasons he suggested; and that their desire to become Romans reflects the success of Rome in unifying them in sentiment and was stimulated by the Cimbric war and by the career of Marius and other novi homines of his time.

The article offers a re-edition of a Latin stilus tablet found in 1917 at Tolsum in the Netherlands, the region inhabited in Roman times by the tribe of the Frisii, and first published as a contract of sale for an ox. The re-edition, with readings based on new techniques of digital image capture, establishes the date of the text (A.D. 29) and shows that it does not concern the sale of an ox, but is more probably the second half of a loan-note for a sum of money now lost, between a debtor whose name is lost and a creditor named Carus (or perhaps Andecarus) who was a slave of Iulia(?) Secunda, herself perhaps the wife of a tribune of Legion V named T(itus) Cassius

This article examines the context in which Caesar, enthroned in state, attended the Festival of the Lupercalia of 44 B.C. at which he was offered and rejected a diadem; it asks the question what the ritual had to offer to Caesar. An examination of the Festival's character and tradition suggests (a) that it took the form of a street carnival, (b) that it was concerned simultaneously with the purification, fertility and protection of the people of Rome, and (c) that it had no element of a coronation in its rituals. The suggestion is offered that Caesar's prime motivation was to associate himself with the founders of the city, since he and his family were receiving the honour of a new group of Luperci, set up to parallel those of Romulus and Remus. If Antony's offering of the diadem was pre-arranged, the light-hearted and provocative atmosphere of the occasion strongly suggests that the plan must always have been that Caesar should publicly reject the offer, as he did. But the whole incident illustrates the vigour and creativity of religious life at the time.

With this striking and bravura narrative of the earthquake and tsunami of 21 July A.D. 365 Ammianus Marcellinus ends Book 26 of his Res Gestae. Though displaying many of the features characteristic of Ammianus – daunting linguistic variation, brilliant observation of detail, a dazzling and blurred sequence of discrete pictures — this passage also stands out from the main body of the narrative. Most notably, the historian distorts chronological sequence: an event which occurred before Procopius' usurpation in September A.D. 365 is not narrated until after his capture and execution by Valens in the following year. It is also given a prominent position at the close of a book. Ammianus' perspective goes far beyond the normal limits of historiographical propriety — indeed is little short of omniscience. Finally, the tale of incredible events stands out for concluding with the historian's own personal testimony. Though Ammianus famously included lengthy accounts of his military adventures in earlier portions of his history, first person interventions in the later books are exceptional and always calculatedly striking.

Air reconnaissance over the United Kingdom has been continued during the last four years, a period which has seen a considerable extension of such work, and one notable for exceptionally dry summers. Thus, both the Royal Commission on Historical Monuments for England, through the Air Photographs Unit of the National Monuments Record, and the Royal Commission for Scotland have undertaken extensive surveys, while the growth of local flying has meant that many areas of the country have been reconnoitred more intensively than has hitherto been possible. The account that follows relates almost entirely to the work sponsored by the Committee for Aerial Photography of the University of Cambridge, though information is, indeed, often interchanged with others making similar surveys. The fullest knowledge of any given site comes from study of all available records. The first clue may be obtained by one observer, later reconnaissance by others may amplify the record, perhaps making plain what was previously only suspected. Nevertheless, had it not been for knowledge of the first, perhaps incomplete, observation, subsequent reconnaissance might never have been undertaken. This is a pursuit in which each participant may owe much to others: the cumulative results reflect the activities of many.

This article arises from the current programme of excavation and survey of the Ager Cosanus and, in particular, of the Late-Republican villa of Settefinestre. The villa stands on a hill in the hinterland close to Cosa beside the line of the road which ran from the statio of Succosa, on the Via Aurelia, towards Saturnia. This villa is the most substantial and best preserved of a number of farms scattered over the district, all similar in plan and architectural features. The structural remains of some of these are still clearly visible: namely, the villa of Casale della Provinca which stands immediately to the north of Poggio di Malabarba, and the villa of Sughereto di Ballantino (or Valle d'Oro) which stands a few metres from the Via Aurelia opposite Succosa. Other visible remains, although clearly recognizable as villas, are in a worse state of preservation and do not allow any reasonably accurate reconstruction of their plan to be made.

In the cities of the pre-Christian Roman empire, Jewish groups were in general free to pursue their own religious and social practices and, at any rate until Hadrian, they were not persecuted by the Roman government; even the exceptional and provocative demands for worship which came from a tyrannical emperor such as Gaius Caligula do not amount to planned persecution. There is a contrast with the subsequent fate of the early Christians, whose cult was, of course, often suppressed by the emperor and his governors. There is also a contrast with the later plight of the Jews themselves under Christian rule.

Since, at the local level, Jews on the one hand and Greeks and natives on the other were often profoundly hostile to one another, the fact that the central government was on the whole proof against anti-Jewish pressure coming from below is indeed noteworthy. The edict of L. Flaccus as proconsul of Asia, by which in 62/1 B.C. he had confiscated the Jewish Temple contributions collected for export from his province, was never repeated, so far as we know (Cic., Flac. 66–9). Not only that: the Romans appear at times to have chosen to put their influence behind Jewish communities in dispute with their neighbours, as occurred to some extent in the cases which we shall discuss here, and did not cease even after A.D. 70.

The ninth book of the correspondence of Q. Aurelius Symmachus contains a number of letters lacking the names of their addressees. Otto Seeck once suggested that one of these letters might have been written to the historian Ammianus Marcellinus. This suggestion has been accepted and built upon by most subsequent writers on Ammianus, and it has come to be generally agreed that he had connections among the senatorial aristocracy of Rome; connections, according to some scholars, that led to serious distortions in his history. A. Alföldi, in an attempt to rehabilitate his fellow-Pannonian, the brutal emperor Valentinian, maintained that Ammianus, ‘body and soul on the side of the senators’ (who hated Valentinian), presented ‘his dear Roman aristocrats’ with a picture of Valentinian ‘as black as one-sided hatred can contrive’. W. Ensslin suggested that Ammianus was a supporter of the usurper Eugenius whom Theodosius crushed in 394, and that the letter in question was deliberately published without his name to protect Symmachus' family—in which he has been followed by W. Hartke, and, with added refinements, by R. A. Pack.

A number of inscribed pedestals which once carried statues of Julius Caesar have been found in Greece, on the Greek islands, and in Asia Minor. Two of these, one from the Agora Excavations (F), the other from Samos (Q), are published here for the first time. It may seem worth while to present and to examine these inscriptions as a group, since they indicate the position which Caesar occupied, at least in the Greek East, during the two years following his victory at Pharsalus.

Animal sacrifice was a central component of ancient Roman religion, but scholars have tended to focus on the symbolic aspects of these rituals, while glossing over the practical challenges involved in killing large, potentially unruly creatures, such as bulls. The traditional explanation is that the animal was struck on the head with a hammer or an axe to stun it, then had its throat cut. Precisely how axes, hammers, and knives were employed remains unexplained. This article draws upon ancient sculpture, comparative historical sources, and animal physiology to argue that the standard interpretation is incomplete, and, in its place, offers a detailed analysis of exactly how the killing and bleeding of bovines was accomplished and the distinct purposes of hammers and axes within these rituals.

Aphrodisias in Caria is an unusually well preserved site that offers exceptional material for a case-study of the impact of changed social, political, and religious structures on the urban centre of a medium-sized prosperous city of the Late Empire, probably typical of others in Asia. Against the background of the city's well preserved late antique townscape and the (relatively modest) architectural reconfiguring of its classical fabric, this paper looks at the public statuary of the period, its context and significance.

In a recent article, ‘Augustan Poetry and the Life of Luxury’, JRS 66 (1976), 87, I argued that much recent scholarship has misjudged the Augustan poets in certain important respects, because it has been thought in principle possible to separate ‘literature’ and ‘life’, as if they were clearly distinguishable entities; in reality, the two affect each other in a ceaseless mutual interaction. That argument was developed as a general treatment of the βίος φιλήδονος as presented in Latin literature, and as lived in reality in a society in which Greek and Italian elements, poetical motifs and real behaviour, were inextricably intermingled.

The present paper is devoted to a more particular enquiry into one poet and one type of historical figure. I argue that Propertius' presentation of himself in poetry as a lover—romantic, reckless and obsessed—is closely related to the figure in history of Mark Antony. That historical figure is itself to be seen in a long tradition of great lovers of pleasure, in which the actual lives of real men can be seen to be shaped and coloured by the influence of ‘literature’. The argument of my earlier paper does not depend for its validity upon the acceptance of the present one, but they both pursue the same approach.

Epistles 8.14, one of Pliny's longest letters, has been widely dismissed as a clumsy combination of two ill-fitting stretches of prose. This article demonstrates a significant chain of allusions in the letter's opening to Tacitus’ Agricola, as well as to Cicero, Ovid and Seneca; it shows how Pliny prompts such a reading in the surrounding Epistles 8.13 and 8.15; and, through consideration of the diptych form and the theme of slavery, it demonstrates the letter's pivotal role as centrepiece to Book 8.

When Cilicia for a season was a province of consular rank, governed in succession by P. Lentulus Spinther, Ap. Claudius Pulcher and M. Tullius Cicero, what held it together was the high-road from Laodicea to the Syrian Gates. Those proconsuls never strayed very far from the road. Cicero, coming up from Tarsus early in February of 50 B.C., encountered an unexpected welcome. P. Vedius had journeyed out some way from Laodicea to meet him, that ‘magnus nebulo’, a friend of Pompeius Magnus. Vedius was escorted by a large and motley retinue. With him paraded a baboon in a chariot—no doubt congenial company, and perhaps a reminder of absent friends or a high dignitary like Ap. Pulcher, the recent proconsul, whom the outspoken Caelius Rufus likened to an ape. Vedius also had some wild asses (the bleak upland plains of Lycaonia and Cappadocia were their peculiar habitat). For what purpose no man can say, though the breeding of high-grade mules had become a lucrative pursuit in this age. The dubious credit of introducing the flesh of young onagri to Roman tables was reserved for the great Maecenas.