Of all the extant sources, Suetonius' Life of Augustus contains the fullest, and certainly the most systematic, treatment of the supernatural indications of the future Augustus' greatness. Suetonius deploys the full range of divinatory techniques – both those administered by the institutions of the Roman state religion (augurs and haruspices) and those excluded from its ambit (astrology and dreams) – to underline divine approval for the dominance of Augustus. Scholars have readily explained the appearance of this unparalleled congeries of supernatural support by adducing the personal belief in supernatural phenomena of Suetonius and Dio, the two principal mediators of this material.

In the negotiations which were concluded by the Peace of Philocrates, Philip hoped to gain control of the Greek states so that he could invade Persia with his own kingdom secure from invasion by powerful enemies in his rear. Elimination of the Thebans as a leading state was an essential step in his plan, because he could foresee that the only combination sufficiently strong to thwart him would be Athens and Thebes. For this reason he insisted on an alliance with the Athenians as a necessary condition for the peace: he hoped that on the basis of this alliance the Athenians would send hoplites to Thermopylae who would aid him both in the suppression of his Theban allies and in the expulsion of Phalaecus and his mercenaries from the forts. He expected that, when the Thebans learned that the tyrant and his troops were to be punished severely and the Phocian people treated leniently, the Thebans would be provoked into attacking him and the Athenians would come to his aid by taking them in the rear.

Plutarch reports that when Sulla was giving himself airs after his successful service under Marius in the Jugurthine war (107-105 B.C.), one of the nobility reproached him with regard to his improved circumstances. (It is my guess Sulla had asserted that his achievements in Numidia heralded a return of his family's interrupted renown — with all the social, moral and financial assumptions this implied.) The riposte was, according to Plutarch: (Sulla 1.4), which Plutarch took to mean (i) that Sulla's patrimony had been negligible (having already stated categorically that Sulla was reared in unenviable domestic circumstances — intelligence he seems to have gathered from this item and one other [discussed below] which he proceeds to relate as evidence) and (ii) that his wealth had been gained subsequently (and, it goes without saying, from other quarters). Plainly the antagonistic observation implied that Sulla's fortune was outside the bounds of what was proper. Sulla was demeaned. The biographer comments for his readers' information that ‘… though the age of pure and upright manners had passed and people had degenerated and given way to their appetites for luxury and extravagance, yet [the Romans of that period] still thought that to forsake one's hereditary poverty was just as disgraceful as to squander a fortune that one had inherited‘ (ibid).

The clades Variana was a major Roman defeat, occurring over three days of fighting in AD 9. Three Roman legions and several units of auxiliaries were destroyed, and their commander, Publius Quinctilius Varus, died at the climax of the fighting. Suetonius said that the army paid the price for its general's temeritas and neglegentia, and many other commentators, both ancient and modern, have condemned Varus as a general ever since. This paper re-evaluates Varus’ competence as a general by re-examining the extensive literary and archaeological evidence for the clades, with reference to comparative literary evidence that shows how Roman generals usually reacted in comparable situations. It will be argued that Varus’ aggressive march towards a rumoured rebellion with a large baggage train, his re-organisation of the baggage train, his change of course westwards, and even his fatal advance into the defile at Kalkriese, were logical decisions in the context of standard Roman military responses to crisis. It is shown that Varus was hamstrung by intelligence and logistical limitations that were not peculiar to him but were systemic to the Roman army at the time. Varus’ generalship is thus contextualised as relatively competent, although uninspired.

This paper discusses a series of archaic poems in which one poet responds directly to the work of another, identifying the other by name or by direct allusion (for example, Simonides frag. 542 PMG, Solon frag. 20 West, Sappho frag. 137 Voigt). Such responses often disagree with their models, and this disagreement is frequently constructed in terms of a correction, not only to the subject matter, but also to the way in which the original is composed. These responses, therefore, not only reflect the pattern of improvisation and ‘capping’ common to much Greek poetry, but form an ongoing debate on the nature and role of the poet and his poetry. The construction of such responses also serves to underline both the importance of improvisation and the permanency of the fame conveyed by the completed poem.

This article shows how, from the time of its construction up until late antiquity and beyond, written sources reflected and perpetuated the fama of Pompey's theatre. Such was its reputation as the Roman theatre par excellence that, even after its absorption into the fabric of medieval Rome, in the earlier fifteenth century Italian proto-antiquarians were prompted by what they had read to attempt to locate it. A key figure in the process of sifting and applying the ancient sources was Biondo Flavio (1392–1463). Roughly contemporary with the early stages of Alberti's De re aedificatoria, but probably preceding the blueprint of the Roman theatre in that work, Biondo's pioneering ‘theatre-made-of-words’ in his Roma instaurata presented a newly accurate understanding of its structure and use (clearly distinguishing it from the amphitheatre) which proved influential in inspiring further topographical and antiquarian interest and research in the early sixteenth century.

C.J. Simpson “has suggested recently that far from displaying Agrippa’s modesty and moderation, as Dio has it, his refusal of a triumph in 19 B.C. was motivated by pride and annoyance: firstly, because the offer of a triumph had not been made freely by the Senate, but on Augustus’ order, it was not a sincere recognition of his merits; and secondly, the most recent triumphator, Cornelius Balbus, had been a mere Spaniard; and Augustus’ refusal of a triumph in 19 provided a useful precedent. Agrippa’s refusal needs more of an explanation than personalities and hurt feelings. It may be that there were more substantial issues of imperial prerogatives and the image of the regime at stake, at a difficult stage in the constitutional evolution of the Augustan principate.

My aim is to establish whether there is a concept of ‘miracle’ or ‘the miraculous’ implicit in the Homeric poems (and therefore perceived and understood by Homer's audience). Such a question is fraught with difficulties, as it necessarily involves broader (and still widely debated) issues such as Homeric man's view of the gods and the essential nature of the early Greek oral epic tradition. But, if an answer can be found, it should in the process help us to gain more insight into those wider issues—the theological basis of the Iliad and the Odyssey, and the world-view of Homer's audience.

It is an almost universal principle that texts should not receive emendation until the reading of the MSS. has received careful consideration. An initial awkwardness may, after reflection, prove to be a poet's sacrifice of style to achieve some higher end – an allusion to traditional literature, a word-order reflecting the structure of his ideas, or the accurate expression of ideas which are not easily put into verse. The last reason is usually held responsible for the short-comings of Parmenides' poetry, while in his prologue, with which I am here concerned, sacrifices of the first kind may also be expected, as literary allusions have been proved plentiful and significant. In a previous publication I have also argued for a carefully contrived word-order at B8.53, hinting that this may also be the case at B1.3. If my hunch were correct, then it would involve restoring the manuscript reading in that line.

Of the c. 270 inscribed Greek and Latin inscriptions held at Burdur Archaeological Museum in Turkey, only three definitely are metrical, all of which are in Greek. A fourth, fragmentary item reused as a Moslem gravestone has not been located during research at the Museum in the last decade. The one presented here is unpublished, and will be included more briefly in an edition of all the Greek and Latin inscriptions at Burdur which is currently being prepared for publication by R. A. Kearsley and the present writer. As with the other unpublished verse text (inv. 23.43.88, also funerary), there is no specific provenance known, but both can be attributed generally to the region of Pisidia. The other inscription, first published last century, was brought into the Museum from Akören in 1994 (inv. no. 499.141.94); it has been presented in an improved edition with commentary and photographs elsewhere.

‘Socratic irony’ is a familiar enough phrase. In the words of the Concise Oxford Dictionary it means the ‘simulation of ignorance as [a] means of confuting [one’s] adversary’ in argument. It is named after the philosopher Socrates, who was notorious for his use of the device as a means of discomforting his opponents without exposing himself to the risk of being shown to be wrong. Examples of Socratic irony abound in the early dialogues of Plato: the locus classicus for this unpopular trait is a disgusted outburst of Thrasymachus in the first book of the Republic. Socrates has just explained why neither he nor Polemarchus has given a satisfactory account of justice— ‘You see, we have not the ability as I believe’—when Thrasymachus realizes the familiar trick being played on him.

In his Philippics Cicero more than once refers to Fadia, whom he depicts as Antony's wife, and to the children she bore him. He also discusses Fadia in his correspondence with Atticus. Plutarch was aware of the Philippics and much of Cicero's correspondence, and therefore of Fadia, and yet, in his Life of Antony, he says nothing about her. This paper examines three possible explanations for the biographer's silence: (i) an informed sensibility regarding the historical value of invective; (ii) the narrative design of this Life and its contribution to Plutarch's characterisation of Antony; (iii) Plutarch's (disturbing by contemporary standards) disapproval of an aristocrat's siring children on women of the lower orders – even by way of legitimate marriage or concubinage. It is, it appears, the ensemble of these factors which excludes Fadia from Plutarch's biography, and the pertinence of each adds to our appreciation of Plutarch's biographical principles.

This article identifies and defends a previously unobserved dedicatory acronym to Maecenas in the second half of Ecl. 6.69 (MAEC- in reverse: Calamos, En Accipe, Musae) and contextualizes the specific linguistic choices and central themes of that acronym within a broader network of Vergilian word games. I argue that the dedicatory acronym in Ecl. 6.69 shares linguistic and thematic features with numerous previously identified Vergilian word games, and that from this network of wordplay emerges a common discourse on poetic lineage, genre, and patronage. An awareness of this network of wordplay in Vergil's corpus provides a starting point for a more comprehensive and nuanced interpretation both of individual Vergilian word games and of Vergilian wordplay as a general phenomenon. On a literary level, the conclusions I draw from the MAEC- acronym and the relationship between wordplay and various thematic issues inform a clearer picture of generic shifts and expectations in Eclogue 6, the Eclogues in general, and Vergil's corpus more broadly, and contribute to an understanding of the subtle ways in which Vergil negotiates issues of patronage in his first collection.

Astronomical themes, with a rather limited scope, were a minor but recurrent element in ancient poetry, and Horace makes considerable use of them in the Odes. Most of the examples involve risings and settings as guides to the time of year, and most are within the range of the phenomena mentioned in Hesiod’s Works and Days. But in Odes 3.29.17-20, for the special interest of Maecenas, Horace breaks new ground by drawing more topical material from the Julian calendar, to remind his friend that it is now July and too hot for working in Rome: the (evening) rising of Cepheus on the 9th, the (morning) risings of Procyon on the 15th and Regulus on the 29th, and the entry of the sun into Leo on the 17th. Such an array of calendaric lore is clearly designed to appeal to Maecenas, who must have had a particular interest in astronomical phenomena.

Many have recognised poem 63 as a study in contrasts – light versus darkness, masculine versus feminine, rationality versus madness, animal versus human, culture versus nature. Caught between these polarities is the figure of Attis, removed from everything bright, male, sane, human, and civilised by one impassioned act. The poem suggests that it is partly the nature of the place, its quasi-Hippocratic airs, waters, and places, that emasculates Attis, making him like a notha mulier, iuvenca, and famula. This article will use ecofeminist theory – in particular, Val Plumwood's Feminism and the Mastery of Nature – to investigate the logic of domination running between the poem's polarities and to show how a foreign ‘Eastern’ wilderness effeminises Greek Attis. Moreover, it will be shown that the characterisation of Attis and the galli as a dux and his comites associates the story with the Roman imperial endeavour, suggesting that we can read the poem alongside others that portray conquest (11, 29) and the experience of young men abroad on provincial cohorts (10, 28, 47). In this way, Catullus implies that the imperial project is also made weak and feminine by its very contact with foreign places.

Whether the result of internal revolution or external factors, in the late sixth century BC Rome underwent regime change. A king, or at least a sole ruler of some sort, was replaced by a governmental system in which power was distributed amongst a wider aristocratic group. Just what that elite group comprised at that point in time remains open to question, and the institutional reality is certainly more complicated than the simple shift from monarchy to consulship portrayed in the later literary sources;1 but as part of that change, according to Roman tradition, a priesthood was instituted to perform the deposed king’s sacred duties. This priesthood provides us with an opportunity to reappraise the role of religion in the development of the Roman state, and a useful locus from which to assess changes in religious and political power in the transition from monarchy to Republic at Rome.

In early 58, the tribune Clodius proposed a lex de capite civis Romani reaffirming the essence of an earlier lex Sempronia, that no Roman citizen should be put to death without a trial. Since Cicero, as consul in 63, had overseen the summary execution of five men, he was, without doubt, the target of Clodius’ rogation. On the day before the bill de capite civis Romani was voted upon, however, and at the insistence of friend and foe alike, Cicero departed from the city, but his ‘timely’ exit did not put an end to this episode. Very soon after his departure, chattels were removed from his estates under the aegis of the consuls, and his wife was subjected to financial harassment.