At 3.60 Herodotus tells us that he has dwelt at length on the Samians because ‘they are responsible for three of the greatest buildings in the Greek world’: the tunnel of Eupalinos, the great temple, and the breakwater that protects their harbour. As successive commentators have pointed out, that is not the real reason for the length of his account. We hear about the tunnel for the first time in this chapter (60.1–3); Maiandrios escapes down a secret channel at 146.2, which may or may not be Eupalinos' tunnel; we hear about the temple of Artemis, not of Hera, at Samos in 48; dedications in the temple of Hera are mentioned in passing at 1.70.3, 3.123.1, 4.88.1, and 4.152.4, but the temple itself cannot be said to play a major part in Herodotus' narrative; naval expeditions sail from Samos (e.g. 44.2, 59.4) but there is no emphasis on the harbour or its breakwater. What Herodotus should have said is ‘I have dwelt at length on Samos, because I am interested in the island's history; and, by the way, they are responsible for three…’; but it is not our job to tell him what he ‘should’ have said. As David Asheri remarks, ‘We can explain it [the length of the Samian logos] most simply by supposing that the logos already existed before the final draft of the book’.

One of Xenophon's chief aims in Memorabilia is to defend his beloved teacher from charges raised both during and after his trial. Some readers have thought that he has gone so far in whitewashing Socrates that the resulting portrait makes it impossible to explain the hostility he aroused: Socrates appears here merely as an innocuous friend offering good advice on all sorts of mundane subjects. But the apologetic strategies employed by Xenophon are more complex and subtle than that. The widespread view of him as a simple-minded defender of conventional attitudes blinds us to the places where he speaks with a different, more radical voice. We should not be surprised to find that the enthusiastic student of Socrates, one of the most radical and unconventional thinkers of ancient Greece, has some radical thoughts of his own.

In a passage from the late rhetorical treatise generally known as De optimo genere oratorum, Cicero defends his past forensic competence in the face of Atticist critique by praising his Pro Milone as an example of grand style (9–10):

This article is about a young man of whom we know almost nothing. He never said or did anything that was recorded, we do not know for certain what he looked like, and his personality is entirely lost to us. He was killed at the age of seventeen, but even that event is passed over in fleeting comment. However, the very mention of his demise tells us something: that despite our almost total ignorance about the youth himself he was not without some importance. He was at least in name a king, though it can hardly be said that he ever ruled. Yet his birth and death were equally planned, and from his birth onwards he was someone who figured in the plans and dreams of mighty people. Those plans and dreams shifted with the politics of the day, and he was always a pawn on the chessboard of life. What follows here examines how the personalities of the great people around him and their changing fortunes governed how he was seen, and the uses to which he was put.

In a letter famous for outlining the genesis of his work The Prince, Machiavelli responded to his friend's description of his day as a courtier in Rome by describing his own daily routine on his farm. The morning he spent bird-catching, taking a book of poetry to pass the time, ‘Dante, Petrarch, or one of the minor poets like Tibullus, Ovid, or some such’. The afternoon was spent at the inn in noisy arguments over games. However, in the evening he goes on:

Bertold Brecht's wonderful poem Fragen eines lesenden Arbeiters (Questions from a Reading Workman) begins by posing (or making his ‘reading workman’ pose) a number of awkward questions:

Wer baute das siebentorige Theben?
In dem Büchern stehen die Namen von Königen.
Haben die Könige die Felsbrocken herbeigeschleppt?
Und das mehrmals zerstörte Babylon –
Wer baute es so viele Mal auf?

Who built seven-gated Thebes?
In books one only finds the names of kings.
Did the Kings haul the blocks of stone all the way up?
And Babylon, the much-destroyed city –
Who was it built it up again so many times?

At the end of the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries, knowledge of ancient Greek for most educated Englishmen was something one could aspire to but not necessarily attain. Greek was learnt for reading alone and so less time was spent on its study than Latin, which at this period was learnt also for conversation: this might explain why today, Greek remains a second language in schools, to be learnt after Latin. Even in continental Europe, for one as learned as Erasmus, difficulties could be encountered in the study of the new language. ‘My Greek studies are almost too much for my courage’, he wrote in 1500, ‘while I have not the means of purchasing books nor the help of a master’. What Erasmus lacked – namely a teacher and reading material necessary to learn from – was paralleled across Europe, but nowhere more so than in English schools in the mid-sixteenth century. Without these, the schools in England also found it hard to introduce and maintain Greek in the classroom.

‘Who, pray, had previously collected literary references to cucumbers?’ Martin West once again hits highly quotable form in his commentary on the Trojan poems of the Epic Cycle (50). (The answer, of course, is no-one – so Athenaeus’ evidence is unlikely to be derived from a secondary source.) A characteristic boldness of hypothesizing is also on display. For example, West puts a name (Phayllus) to the (pre-Aristotelian) compiler who assembled and summarized the epics of the cycle. Since he credits Phayllus with conjectures about the names of the poets (27), one might expect a certain fellow-feeling on the part of West. But the naming of the poets, ‘not based on any established consensus or firm tradition’ and drawn from sources that ‘cannot have been unanimous or decisive’, is described in terms that sound reproachful: ‘bluff assertiveness…bold constructionism’. καὶ κεραμεὺς κεραμεῖ κοτέει καὶ τέκτονι τέκτων, / καὶ πτωχὸς πτωχῷ ϕθονέει καὶ ἀοιδὸς ἀοιδῷ (‘So potter is piqued with potter, joiner with joiner, / beggar begrudges beggar, and singer singer’). Which of Hesiod's rivalrous professions (Op. 24–5) has most affinity to scholars engaged in conjecture is, perhaps, open to debate; but the ἀοιδός (‘singer’) peeks out from West's own exercises in creative writing. Admittedly, he provides only one extended piece of Greek verse composition (201–11), but prose summaries are supplied on at least ten occasions (e.g. 183: ‘It is possible to imagine a defiant speech on these lines: “Leaders of the Achaeans…”.’). Acknowledging that his ‘imaginative reconstructions’ are ‘highly speculative, a flight of fancy’ (281), West pleads that they ‘serve to illustrate how the thing could have been done’. But since it could have been done otherwise, these reconstructions also serve to plant in readers’ minds an insidiously vivid but possibly misleading image. As West observes in another context, ‘the reconstruction of Wilamowitz…goes too far beyond the evidence’ (94). The same could be said, for example, of West's identification of passages in the Iliad and Aethiopis that are ‘variants on the Iliad poet's original, unwritten account of Achilles’ death’ (149): West's own confidence in this hypothesis fluctuated in The Making of the Iliad (G&R 59 [2012], 245–6) between confidence (‘doubtless’, 346) and caution (‘may have’, 390). On a point of detail: Aristotle does not describe the Cypria and Little Iliad as ‘episodic’ in Poet. 1459a37 (60): he explicitly says that they are about ‘a single action’, a judgement which excludes ‘concatenation…without organic connection’ (166). Yet, whatever one's reservations, West's scholarship is, as always, profound, original, and indispensably provocative. Moreover, this book provides an added bonus in the form of an exercise in another of West's areas of expertise: readers must become textual critics, transposing a misplaced line of text (308) and emending the puzzling reference to an ‘undermined species of stingray’ (309).

First up for review here is a timely collection of essays edited by Joseph Farrell and Damien Nelis analysing the way the Republican past is represented and remembered in poetry from the Augustan era. Joining the current swell of scholarship on cultural and literary memory in ancient Greece and Rome, and building on work that has been done in the last decade on the relationship between poetry and historiography (such as Clio and the Poets, also co-edited by Nelis), this volume takes particular inspiration from Alain Gowing's Empire and Memory. The individual chapter discussions of Virgil, Ovid, Propertius, and Horace take up Gowing's project of exploring how memories of the Republic function in later literature, but the volume is especially driven by the idea of the Augustan era as a distinct transitional period during which the Roman Republic became history (Gowing, in contrast, began his own study with the era of Tiberius). The volume's premise is that the decades after Actium and the civil wars saw a particularly intense relationship develop with what was gradually becoming established, along with the Principate, as the ‘pre-imperial’ past, discrete from the imperial present and perhaps gone forever. In addition, in a thought-provoking afterword, Gowing suggests that this period was characterized by a ‘heightened sense of the importance and power of memory’ (320). And, as Farrell puts it in his own chapter on Camillus in Ovid's Fasti: ‘it was not yet the case that merely to write on Republican themes was, in effect, a declaration of principled intellectual opposition to the entire Imperial system’ (87). So this is a unique period, where the question of how the remembering of the Republican past was set in motion warrants sustained examination; the subject is well served by the fifteen individual case studies presented here (bookended by the stimulating intellectual overviews provided by the editors’ introduction and Gowing's afterword). The chapters explore the ways in which Augustan poetry was involved in creating memories of the Republic, through selection, omission, interpretation, and allusion. A feature of this poetry that emerges over the volume is that the history does not usually take centre stage; rather, references to the past are often indirect and tangential, achieved through the generation and exploitation of echoes between history and myth, and between past and present. This overlaying crops up in many guises, from the ‘Roman imprints’ on Virgil's Trojan story in Aeneid 2 (Philip Hardie's ‘Trojan Palimpsests’, 117) to the way in which anxieties about the civil war are addressed through the figure of Camillus in Ovid's Fasti (Farrell) or Dionysiac motifs in the Aeneid (Fiachra Mac Góráin). In this poetry, history is often, as Gowing puts it, ‘viewed through the prism of myth’ (325); but so too myth is often viewed through the prism of recent history and made to resonate with Augustan concerns, especially about the later Republic. The volume raises some important questions, several of which are articulated in Gowing's afterword. One central issue, relating to memory and allusion, has also been the subject of some fascinating recent discussions focused on ancient historiography, to which these studies of Augustan poetry now contribute: How and what did ancient writers and their audiences already know about the past? What kind of historical allusions could the poets be expecting their readers to ‘get’? Answers to such questions are elusive, and yet how we answer them makes such a difference to how we interpret the poems. So Jacqueline Febre-Serris, for instance, argues that behind Ovid's spare references to the Fabii in his Fasti lay an appreciation of a complex and contested tradition, which he would have counted on his readers sharing; while Farrell wonders whether Ovid, by omitting mention of Camillus’ exile and defeat of the Gauls, is instructing ‘the reader to remember Veii and to forget about exile and the Gauls’ or whether in fact ‘he counts on having readers who do not forget such things’ (70). In short this volume is an important contribution to the study of memory, history, and treatments of the past in Roman culture, which has been gathering increasing momentum in recent years. Like the conference on which it builds, the book has a gratifyingly international feel to it, with papers from scholars working in eight different countries across Europe and North America. Although all the chapters are in English, the imprint of current trends in non-Anglophone scholarship is felt across the volume in a way that makes Latin literature feel like a genuinely and excitingly global project. Rightly, Gowing points up the need for the sustained study of memory in the Augustan period to match that of Uwe Walter's thorough treatment of memory in the Roman republic; Walter's study ends with some provocative suggestions about the imperial era that indeed merit further investigation, and this volume has now mapped out some promising points of departure for such a study.

The interaction between Greeks and non-Greeks is an increasingly popular subject among Greek historians, as shown by four important books reviewed here: their significance lies in the various challenges that they pose to the still dominant structuralist approach, which focuses on polarity and alterity and privileges certain discourses in literary texts over the diversity encountered when one examines the totality of the evidence. All four books put at the centre of their attention the significance and consequences of real-life encounters and interactions between people of different cultural and ethnic backgrounds.

A quality not much considered here in the past, how often a work is likely be taken from the shelf, prompts me to put Saskia's Hin's The Demography of Roman Italy in first position. For that depends in turn on how reliable, clear, and broad of outlook the chapters are, and where they lead the reader. Though dry and plain it might seem (for all the developing technologies), the subject moves directly towards a hot, polarized topic – ‘the Roman economy’ and its development – with oscillation between extreme positions. It is a particular merit, then, to put forward a fresh view (though previously adumbrated elsewhere) that is not extreme and must be taken seriously. That is where Hin will take historians. But the book is structured in three sections: economic and ecological parameters, demographic parameters (morality, fertility, and migration), and population size. The separate chapters are well supported from a variety of evidence, judiciously treated and well written up. That on climate, with a mildly positive conclusion, needed no apology. If I have a complaint is it about the index: dive into a passage involving ‘Brass modelling’ and you will have to rummage back in the text (111) for hope of identifying it.

Mit Mythen Leben, the 2004 study of Roman sarcophagi by Paul Zanker and Björn Ewald, has appeared (with updated references) in English. This is a cause for gladness among all Anglophones engaged in the teaching of ancient art, because for non-German readers there was frankly nothing to match the intellectual scope and illustrative quality of Zanker–Ewald. Our only regret may be that students will find this explanation of the imagery on the sarcophagi so convincing that further debate seems futile. It is well known that Roman sarcophagi, of which thousands survive from the second and third centuries ad, have had a ‘presence’ or ‘afterlife’ in Western art history for many centuries: some were even re-used for Christian burials (the tale of one such case in Viterbo, the so-called ‘Bella Galiana’ sarcophagus, might be one addendum to the bibliography here). But what did they once signify? Many were produced in marble workshops of the eastern Mediterranean, from which the suspicion arises that Roman customers may not have exercised much discrimination when it came to selecting a subject or decorative scheme. (Our authors rather sidestep the question of how much was carved at sites of origin, such as Aphrodisias, then completed – with portrait features added? – in Rome.) Accepting, however, that an elaborate sarcophagus was a considerable investment – the cost calculated as about six months’ or even a year's salary for a captain in the Praetorian Guard – and supposing that the imagery were more than a status symbol, we are left with essentially two options. One is to follow the Belgian scholar Franz Cumont and others in analysing the iconography in terms of its clues to Roman beliefs about the afterlife. For certain images of myth this seems to work very well – the story of Alcestis, for example; for others, rather abstruse allegories must be sought: what eschatology is lodged in Medea's tragedy, or a scene of Achilles on Skyros? The alternative is to follow Zanker and Ewald in supposing that the sarcophagi do not so much represent the belief systems of the deceased as offer a sort of visual counselling to the bereaved. Hence the title – living with myths, not dying with them: for the regular occasions on which Romans were obliged to remember and honour the dead (parentalia, rosaria, etc.), sarcophagi on display in family burial enclosures provided ‘encouragement to free association’ (31) in various therapeutic and consolatory ways. These of course encompass some of Cumont's reconstructions of Stoic comfort and so on – but with its emphasis upon the response of viewers, the Zanker–Ewald approach clearly allows more flexibility of significance. To say that the message often reduces to ‘it could be worse’ is a brutal summary of the sympathetic and subtle readings expounded in this book. Yet occasionally one could wish for more sophistry. For example, in discussing the consolatory potential of images of Niobe and her unfortunate offspring – a ‘massacre of the innocents’ with obvious pertinence to mors immatura – the authors allude (74) to the curious persuasive strategy deployed by Achilles when he, at last in a mood to yield up the mangled body of Hector, invites the grief-stricken Priam to supper (Il. 24.603 ff.). As Malcolm Willcock long ago showed (CQ 14 [1964], 141 ff.), Achilles resorts to a formulaic paradeigma: ‘You must do this, because X, who was in more or less the same situation as you, and a more significant person, did it.’ Only in this the case the a fortiori argument relies upon a rather implausible twist to the usual story, namely that Niobe, having witnessed the deaths of her twelve children – and with their corpses still unburied, since everyone in the vicinity has been turned to stone – adjourns to dinner. No other telling of the myth mentions this detail: indeed, Niobe herself is usually the one turned to stone. Of course this version suits Achilles well enough: if Niobe lost all her children but not her appetite, why should Priam, who has lost merely one of his many sons and daughters, hesitate to share a meal? But did Homer expect his audience to be disconcerted by such mythical manipulation, or was it typical of what happened when myth served as consolation? And if Achilles/Homer may resort to such embroidery, did educated Romans feel inclined to do likewise? Was this part of the presence of myth in ‘everyday life’?

It might seem unduly cautious to consider reception as still an ‘emerging’ sub-discipline within Classics, but a selection of publications from recent years provides evidence of its continuous development and diversification. Edited volumes (the preferred format in reception studies’ infancy) are still very much in evidence, but, as this subject review indicates, an increasing number of monographs bear witness to the confidence and rigour of new work in the field.

The last few years have brought us handbooks, companion guides and encyclopaedias in serried ranks. In size these works have ranged from magnum (opus) through to double magnum or perhaps (in the case of the 2010 Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece and Rome) to jeroboam. The new Wiley-Blackwell Encyclopedia of Ancient History outdoes them all in capacity (clearly a rehoboam) and range. This vast work – comprising over 5,000 entries in more than 7,000 pages – advances confidently (note the bold use of the definite article in the title: TheEncyclopedia of Ancient History) beyond the confines of the ‘classical world’ and ‘ancient Greece and Rome’ to provide nothing less than a reference work for the whole of Ancient History from the Near East to the Egypt of the Pharaohs, from the Neolithic to the eighth century ce. The refusal of this work to recognize traditional boundaries would clearly have appealed to the spirit of Alexander III, the Great (whose entry spans an impressive six pages). Alexander would no doubt also be impressed by the remarkable juxtapositions which occur within this alphabetized encyclopaedia: in volume 11 we move within five pages from an Egyptian residence and town associated with Rameses II (Piramese) to the Greek district of Elis around Olympia (Pisa) to a ‘short Jewish magical text of a Late Antique Babylonian provenance’ (Pishra de-Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa; 5337). Alexander's attempts at eastward expansion proved, in the end, too much for his men. One wonders if this work too – in the form of thirteen printed volumes – may prove to be similarly overwhelming to many an undergraduate whose starting point lies in Augustan Rome or Periclean Athens:(consider, for example the daunting thirty-five pages of maps which precede the first entry in volume 1 (not ‘Aardvark’, alas, but ‘Abantes’). However, it is important to consider that the print version of this work is not the end of the project nor even the main point of the project at all. The Encyclopedia of Ancient History is a true child of the World Wide Web. It has clearly been conceptualized as an online resource (not simply as a printed text that can be viewed on a computer screen) that will continue to expand and evolve: