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.

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.

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.

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.