Despite the importance of the Judgement of Paris in the story of the Trojan War, the Iliad has only one explicit reference to it. This occurs, rather out of the blue, in the final book of the poem in a dispute among the gods about the treatment of Hector's body (24.25–30). Achilles keeps dragging the body around behind his chariot, but Apollo protects it with his golden aegis (24.18–21). Apollo then speaks among the gods and attacks the conduct of Achilles (24.33–54), claiming at the end that he offends the dumb earth (24.54). Other gods too have their concerns about what is going on, and they keep trying to get Hermes to snatch the body away (24.23–4). The three most powerful divine enemies of Troy, however, Hera, Poseidon and Athena, will have none of this. They remain as hostile to Troy and Priam and his people as they ever were, and it is in this context that the Judgement of Paris is mentioned:

By convention epinician poetry claims to be both obligatory and truthful, yet in the intersection of obligation and truth lies a seeming paradox: the poet presents his poetry as commissioned by a patron but also claims to be unbiased enough to convey the truth. In Slater's interpretation Pindar reconciles this paradox by casting his relationship to the patron as one of guest-friendship: when he declares himself a guest-friend of the victor, he agrees to the obligation ‘a) not to be envious of his xenos and b) to speak well of him. The argumentation is: Xenia excludes envy, I am a xenos, therefore I am not envious and consequently praise honestly’. Slater observes that envy may foster bias against the patron, but the problem of pro-patron bias remains: does the poet's friendship with and obligation to his patron produce praise at the expense of truth?

The importance of music for epinician, as for all other types of choral performance in Archaic and Classical Greece, has long been recognized, but the exiguousness of the evidence for the compositional principles behind such music, and for what these poems actually sounded like in performance, has limited scholarly enquiries. Examination of Pindar's texts themselves for evidence of his musical practices was for a long time dominated by extensive and often inconclusive debate about the relations between metres and modes. More recently scholars have begun to explore Pindar's relations to contemporary developments in musical performance, and in doing so have opened up new questions about how music affected audiences as aesthetically and culturally significant in its own right, and how it interacted with the language of the text. This article will investigate the performance scenarios of two of Pindar's epinicians, arguing that in each case the poems contain indications of specific musical accompaniments, and use these scenarios as a starting point for engaging with wider interpretative questions. The self-referential dimension of these compositions will be of particular importance; I shall argue that Pindar deployed a type of musical intertextuality, in which his compositions draw on pre-existing melodic structures, utilizing their cultural associations for the purposes of his own pieces, a process crucial to the dynamics of performance of the poems concerned. By doing so I shall attempt to reach a better understanding of the roles played by music in epinician performance and of Pindar's place in relation to the musical culture in which he worked.

Among the most characteristic motifs in Greek mythology is the sexual union of a god with a mortal woman and the resultant birth of a hero. The existence of hexameter poetry listing the women thus favoured – the famous women in the underworld in the eleventh book of the Odyssey, and above all the Eoiai – is evidence of an interest in the women involved, not only in their heroic sons, and suggests that already at an early date the theme was the object not merely of passive reception but of an active consciousness. The Eoiai, indeed, saw such unions as an integral part of an earlier and better age, when mortals and immortals were closer:

ξυναὶ γὰρ τότε δαῖτες ἔσαν, ξυνοὶ δὲ θόωκοι
ἀθανάτων τε θεῶν καταθνητοῖς τ' ἀνθρώπων
(fr. 1 Μ–W)

Against a background of anxious evocation of Dionysiac rites, Euripides' Heracles stages the extreme degradation of the tragic hero who, as a consequence of the hatred of a divinity, loses his heroic traits and above all his human ones in the exercise of brutal violence. By comparing Heracles in the grip of madness to a furious bull assailing its prey, the tragedian clearly shows the inexorability of the divine will and its arbitrariness, and emphasizes madness itself through images traditionally associated with the bull. However, the reference to monstrosity and animals does not only involve Heracles, but also concerns the representation of Lyssa, the demon of madness sent by Hera to induce Heracles to slaughter his own family. This representation of Lyssa includes the monstrous and disturbing Gorgon and the dog, set alongside the metaphor of hunting, which in turn highlight the link between the demon and the Erinyes, those other bringers of madness.

In 428 b.c.e. the city of Mytilene launched a revolt against the Athenians and invited the Spartans to send them assistance. The plans for the revolt were reported to the Athenians (3.2), who sent a force against the city (3.3). The Mytilenians asked for help from the Spartans (3.4.5–6), but the fleet they sent arrived too late to help the city (3.26.4). The revolt appears to have been the initiative of the city's wealthier citizens: Thucydides reports (3.27–8) that heavy armour was not distributed to the people until Salaethus, the leader of the rebellion, realized that Spartan help would not arrive in time. Once the people received this armour, they refused to take orders from officials and held meetings, insisting that the government should distribute all available grain. If they did not, they threatened to negotiate on their own with the Athenians about surrender. The government was powerless to stop them and decided it was best to come to terms with the Athenians. It was agreed that the Athenians would have the power to act as they wished with the city and that the Mytilenians would have the right to send envoys to Athens to plead their case before the Assembly.

At Republic 9, 583b1–587a2, Socrates argues that the pleasure of the philosophical life is the truest pleasure. I will call this the ‘true pleasure argument’. The true pleasure argument is divisible into two parts: 583b1–585a7 and 585a8–587a2. Each part contains a sub-argument, which I will call ‘the misperception argument’ and ‘the true filling argument’ respectively. In the misperception argument Socrates argues that it is characteristic of irrational men to misperceive as pleasant what in fact is a condition of neither having pleasure nor being pained. In the true filling argument Socrates argues that in so far as pleasure entails somatic or psychic filling and there are more and less true fillings, there are more and less true pleasures. Philosophical filling is the truest filling and thus the truest pleasure. The misperception argument critically contributes to the true pleasure argument by clarifying what pleasure is not: merely an appearance (φαινόμενον) or merely the absence of pain. The misperception argument thereby clears the ground for the constructive contribution of the true filling argument.

In the fifth century b.c.e. the Athenians did not make any distinction between laws (nomoi) and decrees (psêphismata). The Assembly passed both kinds of measures in the same way, and both general enactments and short-term provisions held the same legal status. At the end of the fifth century, however, the Athenians decided to make a distinction between the two kinds of measures and created the rule that no decree would be superior to a law (Andoc. 1.86; Dem. 23.86, 218; 24.18, 59, 116, 188; 46.2). The Assembly continued to pass decrees in the same way, but a new body of nomothetai was created to ratify laws (nomoi). There were also two separate procedures for rescinding the two kinds of measures: one could bring a graphê paranomôn (a public action against an illegal decree) against a psêphisma and a graphê ‘nomon mê epitêdeion theinai’ (a public action against an inexpedient law) against a nomos. This much is clear; scholars do not agree however about the procedure for passing a new law (nomothesia) in fourth-century Athens.

It might seem quite commonplace to say that Aristotle identifies fire, air, water and earth as the στοιχεῖα, or ‘elements’ – or, to be more precise, as the elements of bodies that are subject to generation and corruption. Yet there is a tradition of interpretation, already evident in the work of the sixth-century commentator John Philoponus and widespread, indeed prevalent, today, according to which Aristotle does not really believe that fire, air, water and earth are truly elemental. The basic premise of this interpretation is that Aristotle takes fire, air, water and earth to be, in some sense, composite bodies and, as such, analysable into simpler constituents. But, of course, an element of bodies is defined by Aristotle himself as something into which bodies can be analysed, and which does not admit further analysis (Metaph. 5.3, 1014a26–1014b15; Cael. 3.3, 302a14–21). So if fire, air, water and earth can be analysed into simpler or more basic constituents, then it would seem to follow that the latter ought to be considered Aristotle's true elements. These are usually identified as the primary contraries hot and cold, dry and wet; many, perhaps most, commentators would insist also upon prime matter as the subject upon which these contraries act.

The present article examines the textual transmission of the Aristotelian Mechanics, a treatise on mechanical questions now generally ascribed to the Peripatetic School. The treatise was edited three times in the nineteenth century, namely by Johannes van Cappelle (1812), Immanuel Bekker (1831) and Otto Apelt (1888); most recently, an edition was produced in the twentieth century by Maria Elisabetta Bottecchia (1982). Bottecchia's edition is a clear improvement over the previous editions in the extent of its research. Whereas the other editors of the Mechanics altogether consulted a total of nine manuscripts, Bottecchia considered nearly the complete manuscript material for her critical edition of the text. When I started my project I did not expect to find significant new results which would make a completely new critical edition of the text necessary.

The principate of Augustus coincided with a surge of interest in the short Aristotelian treatise which we now entitle Categories, contributing to its later installation at the outset of the philosophical curriculum and its traditional function as an introduction to logic. Thanks in part to remarks made by Plutarch (Sulla 26.1–2) and Porphyry (Vita Plotini 24.7), the origin of this interest has often been traced to Andronicus of Rhodes: his catalogue (πίνακɛς) and publication of the Aristotelian corpus began with the Categories and may have drawn fresh attention to a previously obscure treatise. But the later Neoplatonic sources name several other philosophers who also discussed the Categories and played an important role in crafting its interpretation during the first centuries of our era. For example, the Neoplatonist Simplicius discusses the views of Stoics and Platonists who questioned the Categories' value as a treatment of grammar or ontology, while others defended its usefulness as an introduction to logic. These early debates, as these later sources suggest, exercised a lasting influence on the shape of subsequent philosophy and philosophical education within and beyond the Aristotelian tradition.

The role and status of the Egyptians in the army of Hellenistic Egypt (323–30 b.c.) has been a debated question that goes back to the position within Late Period Egyptian society (664–332 b.c.) of the Egyptian warriors described by Herodotus as machimoi. Until a few decades ago, Ptolemaic military institutions were perceived as truly Greco-Macedonian and the presence of Egyptians in the army during the first century of Ptolemaic rule was contested. The Egyptians were thought of as being unfit to be good soldiers. Egyptians would have been hired only as late as 217 b.c. to fight against the Seleucid king Antiochus III in Raphia. The Ptolemaic victory (in fact rather a status quo) was made possible thanks to the addition of twenty thousand Egyptians to reinforce the Greek army. For a long time the subsequent role of Egyptians in the Ptolemaic army in the second and first centuries b.c. did not attract much attention. One usually assumed that they were ‘second-rate soldiers’ called machimoi. In recent decades, the scholarship on Ptolemaic Egypt, notably Demotic studies, reasserted the role of Egyptians in the Ptolemaic army from the late fourth century onwards.

In 135 b.c., unable to endure the treatment of their master Damophilus, a group of slaves, urged on by the wonder-worker Eunus, captured the city of Enna in Eastern Sicily in a night-time raid. The subsequent war, according to our sources the largest of its kind in antiquity, raged for three years, destroying the armies of Roman praetors, and engaging three consecutive consuls in its eventual suppression. The success of the rebels in holding out for years against a progression of Roman armies indicates the importance of the event, and the capabilities of their leaders. One expects the man capable of leading such a revolt to have been exceptional, and in this respect the ancient accounts do not disappoint: in a narrative replete with larger-than-life characters, ranging from the depraved slave-owner Damophilus (Diod. Sic. 34/5.2.10, 35–8) to the restrained Roman consul Calpurnius Piso (Val. Max. 4.3.10), one figure stands out in Diodorus Siculus' depiction: the leader of the slaves. This man, Eunus, whom Diodorus describes as the leader of the event he calls the (first) Sicilian Slave War, has been variously interpreted in modern scholarship. Analyses have fallen into two (not mutually exclusive) categories. On the one hand, the hostile and outlandish account of Diodorus is accepted uncritically, with the details of Eunus' character understood as faithful, historical representations. On the other hand, the negative facets of Eunus' character are reinterpreted in a positive historical context, thereby outlining his suitability and capability to lead such a large and successful insurgency against Rome. Indeed, Urbainczyk recently argued that despite the difficulties in saying anything definite about the leaders of the so-called Sicilian Slave Wars ‘[Diodorus] attributed to [Eunus] all the powers, abilities, wisdom, and cunning that challenges to the status quo had to have in order to succeed’.

In a paper in an earlier issue of this journal I endeavoured to show that Nonius Marcellus’ three glossarial sources known as ‘Gloss. iii’, ‘Alph. Verb’ and ‘Alph. Adverb’ (lists 26, 27 and 28 in W.M. Lindsay's analysis of Nonius’ sources) were compiled by a lexicographer who paid attention to both metre and sense when excerpting works of Republican poetry. That compiler always excerpted quotations of poetry such that they consisted of, or began or ended with, a metrically complete verse. That method has produced quotations of high quality that are, on several counts, considerably more transparent and more reliable than those preserved by less diligent sources.

In these notes it will be argued that our text of Cicero's Philippics may be improved in nearly a score passages by printing manuscript readings that editors have repeatedly spurned. If my detailed arguments are accepted, this article will have also a wider import, serving as a reminder that when a manuscript tradition is bifid both branches should be taken seriously, even if one branch is in general more corrupt than the other, and showing how modern technology may be harnassed as a powerful aid in the study of Cicero's idiom.

Editors of Cicero's Pro Archia have assumed that Petrarch's lost transcription of the equally lost Liège manuscript that he discovered in 1333 survives in an almost unaltered version in a single Florentine manuscript, while the remaining 265 Itali reflect another stage of the text, when conjectural corrections by its learned discoverer were introduced into the text. This article proposes a reassessment of that dichotomy, based on a first comprehensive study of the whole transmission.

Roman elegy is well known for its reversal of traditional Roman gender roles: women are presented in positions of power, chiefly but not exclusively erotic, that bear little or no relation to women's lived experience in the first century b.c.e. Yet the way elegy presents the beloved in a position of power over her lover, as Sharon James has observed, ‘retains standard Roman social and power structures, thus suggesting an inescapable inequity even within a private love affair: rather than sharing goals and desires, lover and beloved are placed in a gendered opposition … Hence resistant reading by the domina is an anticipated and integral part of the genre’. James's remark is indeed correct for each of the instances in which the domina, or female beloved, speaks directly. When she does so, as James also shows, she speaks at cross-purposes with her lover, following a script that is designed ‘to destabilize him’ in an attempt to keep his interest. Yet what has not been noticed is that when the beloved is instead male, the situation is quite different. Tibullus' Marathus in poem 1.8, our sole example of a male elegiac beloved-turned-speaker, is the exception that proves the fundamental rule of gender inequity. Marathus, that is, when given the opportunity to speak, does in fact share the aims of a male lover, albeit in pursuit of his own puella. When the gendered opposition so integral to elegy is erased, the beloved no longer protests against the strictures of the genre; when both are male, lover and beloved alike are entitled to speak as elegiac lovers.

Most of the above text is straightforward. Horace is explaining that wrath – the reader may think at this stage either of Horace's own wrath expressed in the scurrilous iambi mentioned in 2–3 or that of the woman he addresses – resembles various other things. Thus in 5a wrath's effect is compared to that of the Magna Mater on her priests, the Galli (they were driven so far from their senses that they castrated themselves), and in 5b–6 to that of Apollo on the Pythia (the god interfered with her personality so that she could utter his prophecies). In 7a Dionysus’ effect on his maenads provides the analogy (one thinks of Agave and her sisters, who dismembered Pentheus under the delusion that he was a lion). These are good comparisons to the ruinous effects of anger.

Carmen 4.2 is one of the most commented upon of the odes of Horace. It is indeed a complex poem. To summarize roughly: addressing the young poet Iullus Antonius, Horace presents the dangers of emulating Pindar, offering what seems like a lengthy description as well as an approximation of Pindar's own poetic style (1–24). Not as a doomed Icarus imitating the grand Pindaric swan, but in his own preferred mode, like a bee on the banks of Tibur, Horace will continue to produce his own highly refined poems on a small scale (25–30). Iullus Antonius, on the other hand, will sing of Augustus’ triumph maiore plectro (33, a phrase which in all likelihood refers to his activity as an epic poet). Modestly, Horace himself will be content to join in with the popular chants for Augustus’ triumphal return as one happy civilian among the crowd (33–52). Iullus Antonius will moreover offer a grand sacrifice of ten bulls and as many cows on that occasion, whereas Horace promises a single bull-calf that he is saving especially for the purpose (53–60). I will try to offer a new interpretation of these last two strophes by pointing out an unnoticed allusion to a Hellenistic subtext.

The formula cognomen + nomen, as portrayed in Latronis enim Porcii (Sen. Controv. 1 praef. 13), the first double-name reference without praenomen in Seneca the Elder's work (henceforth referred to simply as Seneca), emerged as a result of the radical changes which the Roman onomastic system began to experience at the end of the Republic. On account of a wide variety of factors, both social and linguistic, the cognomen seized the role of diacritic name and individual signifier, having ousted praenomen from its ancient throne; the relatively limited number of praenomina in common use contributed substantially to their waning. The formulae of two constituents visibly reflected the progressive decline of praenomina; during the Early Principate double names still represented the usual formal means of reference (tria nomina being highly formal, mostly occurring in official contexts), but it mostly consisted of nomen + cognomen rather than praenomen + nomen or praenomen + cognomen. The formula nomen + cognomen, which developed once personal cognomina began to spread among the lesser classes, was primarily crafted for addressing men of ambiguous status, peregrini and freedmen. Thus, Cicero tends to avoid its use in naming members of the nobility, whom he refers to with a clear preference for the older, lustrous conjunction praenomen + cognomen.