This paper is intended to discuss the household in which Classical Athenians typically lived, and the interest in it shown by the polis. Aristotle saw the household – in his vocabulary the oikos, or sometimes the oikia – as the basic social unit of the polis. He defines the primary relationships within the household as: master and slave, husband and wife, father and child. Clearly for Aristotle the household was paradeigmatically made up of the nuclear family together with whatever slaves the family owned. Modern scholars, while often differing about the roles of the members of the household, have generally accepted that the polis, and in particular Classical Athens, was indeed made up of a number of such households. The slave's role in the household, though important, was obviously different from the roles of the members of the nuclear family, and slaves will be left out of account in this paper.

The economic role of the state is controversial, even after the collapse of communism and the election of New Labour. The demand that governments get off the backs of wealth-creators has barely diminished since the 1980s; but some still urge control of private and corporate greed in the public interest. There is no sign of such controversy in Greek antiquity; but I shall suggest that the practice of the cities depended on political considerations which reveal comparable principles. All governments, whatever their complexion, now accept some responsibility for general economic well–being, even if their actions may amount to little more than a claim that prosperity will ‘trickle down’ from top to bottom. Numerous functions which would now be identified as economic were performed by Greek cities; after brief preliminaries to set the economic scene, I shall explore them, and try to determine why they were undertaken.

On the eve of the Peloponnesian War Athens was a great urban agglomeration. It was almost invulnerable to an enemy. So in 431 B.C. the Athenians began to migrate from the countryside into the city on the advice of Pericles (Thuc. 2.14–16). This recalled to Thucydides the time of Theseus (Thuc. 2.15). S. Hornblower regards this migration as the long-postponed physical synoikism, or synoikism in its physical aspect. He insists on the difference between political and physical synoikism, the former being the political unification of the state and the latter mainly the migration into the city. But the Athenians did not migrate into the city for the first time in 431. At the time of Xerxes' invasion the inhabitants of Attica were to be moved into the city before being evacuated to Salamis and elsewhere, and the invasion made their vulnerability clear to the Athenians. They suffered two evacuations, the devastation of Attica and the substantial destruction of Athens. Through driving back the Persians Athens became the leader of the Delian League and acquired great naval power. The change of Athens' position in the Greek world and the damage caused by the Persians necessitated a major reconstruction of the town. The Athenians began with the town and harbour. They built the walls of the city and of the Piraeus first of all. Beforelong the Piraeus had been built on a large scale. In these years the Athenians remembered Theseus again, and he now gained honour and esteem among all the Athenians.

Does it matter that all fifth-century staged performance was masked? Modern discussions of fifth-century drama focus almost exclusively on the words of the text, for that is what survives to us, and there is a sound methodology in this, since in a theatre that held over 15,000 people aural appreciation was central. I wish to isolate the amount of information that was communicated to the audience by masks, and so discover what then can be incorporated into modern studies of ancient staging, and in particular to determine what visual details existed for the ancient audience to help them understand ‘character’. Direct evidence is slight, and this must remain a brief overview. Nevertheless, reasonable deductions from the plays allow for a clear appreciation of what was the essential information conveyed by fifth-century masks.

We know that Cicero successfully defended Sextus Roscius on a charge of parricide in 80 B.C.; we know that Vespasian became emperor after the civil wars of A.D. 69, and founded the Flavian dynasty which ended with his son Domitian's death in A.D. 96.

J. L. Styan in his book The Dark Comedy quotes a comment of Federico Garcia Lorca, ‘If in certain scenes the audience doesn't know what to do, whether to laugh or cry, that will be a success for me'. A friend and colleague suggested in a conversation after witnessing my production of the Amphitryo in Perth in 1991 that he found that play similarly fascinating, because at times it made certain parts of the audience feel so uncomfortable, even as it was making them laugh. Riotously funny the Amphitryo undoubtedly is from time to time, but there is often a savage bite to the humour and a feeling evoked by the action which is not dissimilar to the effect of tragedy, especially when the unwitting humans have their lives and fortunes distorted by the amoral antics of the immortals. In short, the play shows signs of being of mixed genre, a fact which is acknowledged by the famous statement of Mercury in the prologue:

Anyone who has ever read the tragedies of Seneca must have wondered at the intention of the author. In the absence of any external evidence for their staging this is not surprising. W. Beare argues for declamation before a select audience who would have appreciated the sparkle of the rhetoric. G. E. Duckworth, whilst stressing that presentation on stage cannot be proved, suggests tentatively that they were at least written with an eye to performance. C. D. N. Costa holds out for solo virtuoso recitals, with perhaps extracts or a few scenes being performed. F. Ahl recalls the emperor Domitian's enactment forbidding plays to be presented anywhere except indoors, and thus the large houses of the aristocracy may have been home to tragic theatre. V. Sorensen feels that a public performance of Seneca's tragedies would have been a notable public occasion, and with his ample means to fund such events, Seneca may have been trying to entice a large audience towards the benefits of Stoic philosophy.

In his 1982 essay on Catullus 64, Richard Jenkyns offered an eloquent and elegant counterblast to the ‘reductivism that has characterized much recent criticism of Latin poetry’ (p. 82). He argued that to impose a unifying interpretation on such a work as Peleus and Thetis impoverishes it. ‘Anyone who has failed to perceive that throughout this poem Catullus is deliberately various, disproportionate and unpredictable has certainly not understood it’ (p. 92). With the advent of the millennium, it seems that Jenkyns, even if he won the battle, did not win the war, though, doubtless because of him, the unities which scholars now advocate have become decidedly more capacious, more able to serve as hold-alls, than those imposed by their predecessors. The instinct to identify unifying principles appears to be a strong one. In any case, Jenkyns’ own view of the poem – that it ‘is made up of pictures in that it is a gallery of tableaux or set pieces’ (p. 150) – can surely be taken as suggesting the kind of e pluribus unum of a work such as Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. The various tableaux, each of them displayed, as it were, by the poet to elicit a differing response, may add up to a single experience. It is not simply that the total may be greater than the sum of the individual parts; it is rather that the total may attain a unity of its own.

Of the poet Martial we know a great deal – especially when compared with what we know about his younger contemporary Juvenal, yet one needs to be careful in approaching what he tells us about himself. For instance, he refers several times to his suburban smallholding at Nomentum, usually identified as modern Mentana but possibly Casali, and in so doing is accustomed to belittle its produce. Hence he claims to send as a harvest gift fruit bought in the Subura rather than his own indifferent home-grown (10.94), and declares at 2.38 that what his estate yields is (not produce but) respite from the troublesome Linus. Now it is well appreciated that jokes regarding the viability, or rather otherwise, of suburban estates were standard; but it is possible that Martial's Nomentan estate was originally part of one owned by his compatriot the Younger Seneca, and we are told by Columella (3.3.3) that the vineyards on this estate were especially famed. Thus, although Martial's estate would have been small, the wine it produced might in fact have been very good of its kind – for all that his Nomentan neighbour Quintus Ovidius is credited with better (13.119):

Nomentana meum tibi dat vindemia Bacchum:

si te Quintus amat, commodiora bibes.

‘A Nomentan vintage gives you my wine. If Quintus loves you, you will drink better.’

Euripides' Medea has penetrated to parts of modernity most mythical figures have not reached. Since she first rolled off the printing presses half a millennium ago, she has inspired hundreds of performances, plays, paintings, and operas. Medea has murdered her way into a privileged place in the history of the imagination of the West, and can today command huge audiences in the commercial theatre. Yet in Britain, at least, her popularity on the stage is a relatively recent phenomenon. Medea has transcended history partly because she enacts a primal terror universal to human beings: that the motherfigure should intentionally destroy her own children. Yet this dimension of the ancient tragedy was until the twentieth century found so disturbing as largely to prevent unadapted performances. On the British stage it was not until 1907 that Euripides' Medea was performed, without alteration, in English translation.