Despite elegy’s newfound aetiological and epicizing strains in Propertius 4, the book is a veritable chorus of female voices: Arethusa, Tarpeia, Acanthis and Cornelia join Cynthia (in her belated return) to articulate private sentiment and personal experience in the patriarchal world of which, dead or moribund, they are collatoral damage. This chapter explores how Propertius connects his female cast (which includes cameos also from the legendary Cassandra, a priestess of the Bona Dea, and Cleopatra) with the women of Virgil’s Aeneid, who likewise are evanescent (yet never silenced) victims. Chief among these heroines is the ‘elegiac’ Dido, her volubility in life and silence in the underworld refracted in the monologues of Arethusa, Tarpeia and Cynthia. Present too throughout the book are Dido’s Virgilian analogues (e.g., Camilla, Cleopatra and, perhaps, Helen), while the action of the Aeneid as a whole, from the sack of Troy to the Latin war and death of Turnus, are variously rewritten – by Propertius and Horos in opposing programmes, by Cynthia in the militia amoris of her last hurrah and by Cornelia, in whose ghostly allusion to the Danaids echo the final lines of the Aeneid.

Human beings become scarcer than before in the simile world of the Aeneid, contributing to a tale about the loneliness and sorrow of human beings who struggle to connect with each other or to affect the world around them. Both Aeneas and the characters in the simile world are marked by solitude and isolation. The human characters in the simile world of the Aeneid share few strong ties with other creatures, and they often fail to affect the world around them in ways that their fellows in Greek epic would take for granted. In the story world, similes highlight moments of furor, the overpowering rage that underlies both love and war and threatens not simply Aeneas’ mission to found Rome but also the existence of a rational world order. Similes draw out isolation and overwhelming passion as two poles of emotion in the poem with little in between. They use new storytelling techniques that appear rarely or not at all in the similes of earlier epics, and they often lack an exit expression joining a simile to the story. These features weaken the conventional distinctions between similes and other components of epic narrative.

The figures of Dido and Aeneas in Aeneid 4 illustrate how Virgil adopts Stoic belief in human responsibility. Dido’s naturally determined disposition to fall in love with Aeneas is indeed Homerically co-motivated with Venus and Juno (who can be viewed as Stoic ‘impressions’), but she allows it to resist ‘incognitively’ what she knows from Aeneas and the prophets is fate, Aeneas’ duty to ‘follow Italy’. She is ‘dragged’ by fate through her own noble disposition when she realises her wrongdoing and wishes for her death. Otherwise, her career and her curses on Rome illustrate perfectly the Stoic chain of fate’s causality. Aeneas, despite his growing knowledge of his fate and his natural disposition to fulfil it, at first rejects it because of his Stoically ‘incognitive’ loneliness. In his speech to Dido, he reveals that his assent to fate is still shaky when he states that he is not following Italy ‘of my own will’. The oak simile captures his situation: ‘his mind remains unmoved, tears roll to no purpose.’ But after Mercury urges him to perform his duty to fate, he obeys, ‘rejoicing’ , finally giving his assent to fate, but remaining very much a Stoic ‘moral progressor’.

This chapter explores Elena Ferrante’s use of Virgil’s Dido as a model for Elena and Lila, the two protagonists of the Neapolitan Novels, through the lens of absence. Not only is Ferrante able to conjure and comment on the Aeneid’s treatment of one of its most divisive characters following the classical rules of intertextual engagement with the ghosts of masterpieces past; she ends up changing the whole game. By teasing narrative material out of Virgil’s silences in Dido’s story-arch, Ferrante centres and requalifies the very reason of Dido’s undoing – the trauma which stems from the loss of love – as the generative force behind both Elena’s and her own literary output. However, by making Lila’s invisible writing and her subsequent disappearance into the beating heart of Elena’s writing, Ferrante uses Virgil as her Muse to stage a woman-centred takeover of literary greatness. Elena’s anxieties over how much of Lila’s life she has truly cannibalized, and her responsibility in Lila’s disappearance, not only take Virgil to task for hiding his Muse, but suggest an alternative model of criticism; moving beyond the postmodern view of the absent author and his unaccountability by giving agency back to the Muse.

When Mercury in Book 4 of Virgil’s Aeneid appears to Aeneas and tells him to leave Dido he is not simply a representation of Aeneas’ inner thought processes. He stands for a world-historical vision that is communicated via Mercury from Jupiter. The chapter analyses the divine intermediaries in Homer and Apollonius as well as Virgil.

The depiction of Troy and Carthage in Virgil’s Aeneid is influenced by the very recent events of the civil war between the future Augustus and Mark Antony and Cleopatra. The orientalising propaganda directed against Cleopatra and her city of Alexandria has left its mark on the depiction of Carthage and Dido, whose temptations for Aeneas recall the temptations of Alexandria and Cleopatra for Mark Antony. The victory at Actium over Antony and Cleopatra represents the defeat of a threat of a Roman reversion to their Eastern origins in Troy.

An analysis of Aeneas’ departure from Dido in Book 4 of Virgil’s Aeneid, discussing his speech of defence in particular, together with an investigation of the poem’s overall attitude to the use of rhetorical language

Because Christian history has distinct stages hinging on the Incarnation, the term “pagan” drafts non-Christians into particular temporal relationships with Christianity. This essay explores the ways that pagans are historically solicited for their virtue, beauty, rhetorical skill, knowledge, and capacity for engendering Christian self-reflection. It launches from the idea that pagan-ness in medieval writing performs a politics of historical othering, but it argues that many narratives that engage in such confessional border-keeping are tormented by contradictory responses of mourning and loss. As a result, in a variety of historical writings, pagans are overtly damned in order to be underhandedly “saved.”