The transition from the black to the red-figure technique during the last quarter of the sixth century BCE is bound up with a radical change in the depiction of the human body. Suddenly we begin to see foreshortening, three quarter views, a variety of poses and postures, and a more vivid and realistic image of the body. The purpose of this article is to suggest that objects played a crucial role in this radical change, for it was supported, augmented, and sometimes even generated by the representation of humans engaged with objects. To bolster this claim and bring a leading example of an object playing this crucial role, the article focuses on the case of the strigil, an instrument with a sickle-shaped curved blunt blade, used for scraping off oil, sweat, and dirt after athletic exercise. From the time of the introduction of the strigil into Athenian red-figure vases in the late sixth century BCE, most probably by the painter Euthymides, the number of such depictions rapidly increased. It is apparent that, from the very beginning, the vase painters were interested in exploring the relationship between the strigil and the naked male body, as evidenced in the creation and use of the apoxyomenos, an iconographic motif in which the strigil interacts with the entire body and guides its movements. This iconography gave the vase painters the chance, and even the excuse, to represent postures and viewpoints hitherto unknown in vase painting. In these images, the strigil generates the movement and disciplines the body: body and strigil are entities existing in a reciprocal relationship. The motif of the apoxyomenos encapsulates the notion that the radical change in the depiction of the human body is entangled with the depiction of objects surrounding it. This notion becomes even more conspicuous when compared to two related iconographical motifs, namely oil rubbing and oil pouring: in these, objects play a minimal role, if any, and they remained marginal in athletic iconography.
The paper describes the major reform of the Jewish calendar in 358/9 CE by Hillel Bar Yehuda, the historicity of which was recently questioned by Sacha Stern. This requires a separate assessment of the solar part (the intercalation cycle) and the lunar part (the timing of the mean lunisolar conjunctions) of the calendar that emerged after 358/9. As for the solar part, evidence from several Christian sources from the late 4th century proves the intercalation cycle in the 360s differed from the modern one perhaps only in year 16. The dating of the 5th century Ketubah from the Egyptian city Antinoopolis implies that the difference disappeared by 417 CE. New evidence from the Aramaic tombstone inscriptions from Zoar, a locality in Jordan, shows that year 9, not 8 as in the modern cycle, was intercalated from 372 to 467 or even 542. We conjecture that the original calendar of Hillel Bar Yehuda followed the cycle GUĤADZT counted from Tishri 311 BCE. We also conjecture that year 9, together with years 6 and 17, ceased to be intercalary during Emperor Justinian’s reign (527–565) though years 6 and 17 recovered intercalary status sometime after 823. As for the lunar part, the letter of Resh Galuta from 835/6 implies that the calendar of Hillel Bar Yehuda was a Nisan-based Molad calendar. The Julian date for the Passover in 387, given by two Christian authors, implies the presence of the rule Molad Zaqen for Rosh Ĥodesh Nisan at 18 hours and suggests that Molad Nisan was at least 19.5 minutes later than the modern one associated with Molad BaHaRaD. We tested this Nisan-based Molad calendar with the sequences of (30–29)-day months, the rules LO B-D-U PESAĤ and Molad Zaqen and two variable months, Ĥeshvan and Kislev, against available historical data: the dates on 18 Aramaic tombstone inscriptions from Zoar from 392–526 and two dates from Iggeret of Sherira Gaon—and found a perfect agreement except for two cases which imply the rule LO U PESAĤ was absent in the original calendar of Hillel Bar Yehuda and was introduced after 506, requiring a third variable month, the role played by Tevet as seen from the letter of Resh Galuta. The letter of Resh Galuta implies that the Nisan-based calendar lasted for almost 500 years. We conjecture that 823–836 was the time of transition to the modern Tishri-based calendar. We also give the reasons why Hillel Bar Yehuda’s name was all but forgotten. The reference epoch (the first Molad Nisan) of that calendar and the length of the calendar month will be established in a subsequent paper. This would allow us to pinpoint, with some exceptions, the Julian dates behind the Jewish dates from 360–836.
The defendant of Lysias 1 relies unnecessarily on fallacious legal arguments. The law on justifiable homicide permitted the kurios to kill a man whom he caught ‘in the act’ with a legitimate Athenian woman under his guardianship. However, it did not require the guardian to do so, and it did not prevent the guardian from seeking an alternative punishment. Although the law on justifiable homicide does not address the intent or motives of the guardian or specify how the illicit act must be discovered for the killing to be legal, these are central issues in Lysias 1. Ironically, it would have been easier for Euphiletus to catch Eratosthenes in the act, and his case would have been just as compelling, if he had rushed into the bedroom as soon as he had learned that Eratosthenes was in his house rather than wait to kill the adulterer until after he had gathered witnesses and stopped at a nearby tavern for torches. Perhaps the logographer circulated the speech not to memorialize what he wrote for an actual client, but to entertain a reading audience. Thus, we cannot rule out the possibility that the speech is fictional.
In my article, I analyze the first stasimon of Sophocles’ OT (vv. 463–521) and its function in the dramatic context. I demonstrate that the Chorus of this stasimon is similar to both the spectator—in its collectivity and role of responsible citizens and judges, and to the hero—in its ignorance and preference for human skill over divinely inspired wisdom. In this way, through its mediation, the Chorus brings the hero’s experience closer to that of the spectator and shows that his fatal ignorance is not a feature of his unique fate but an essential part of the human condition.
The three tessellated sidewalk inscriptions were exposed by the Israel Antiquities Authority archaeologists between 2008 and 2023. Two of the inscriptions, dating from mid-5th–early 6th century CE, are fully preserved; of the third inscription, dating from 3rd–4th century CE, the first seven letters preserved. Both Late Antique inscriptions mention an individual named Elias who built a construction, probably at his own cost. The differences between the two inscriptions—in style, technique and the title comes mentioned in only one—raise questions regarding the dating of the inscriptions, the identity and status of Elias in each inscription, and the kind of constructions built. With regard to the Roman Period inscription, in spite of its state of preservation, and the fact that only a section of the sidewalk was excavated and almost nothing of the adjacent construction, it may be assumed that Sillios/Sillius, the individual whose name is mentioned in the inscription, constructed the sidewalk or the structure which faced the inscription. While studying the three inscriptions we looked for similar sidewalk formulas and for the prevalence, forms and origin of the names mentioned in the inscriptions among Jews, Pagans and Christians in the region and beyond.
The 3rd pl. indicative γόον at Iliad Z 500 has always presented problems. It means ‘bewailed’ and belongs to present γοάω but might be imperfect and might be aorist. Neither is straightforward in form. Imperfect, the analysis of most of the ancients because it is ‘κάλλιον,’ is shown here in addition to conform to a particular pattern of Homeric narration, while aorist, following the minority ancient view, requires either an indefensible, effectively pre-Greek, ancestral form or a morphological analogy that is unworkable. The form taken by this consequently demonstrable imperfect has most often been explained via an elaborate phonological scenario that is questionable, it is argued, in both of its key points. It has also, less usually, been morphologically accounted for as a slightly disguised version of the expected 3rd pl. imperfect of the “Aeolic” inflection of Ionic etc. γοάω. This is the correct view, it is maintained here, but can be made a much stronger hypothesis by a demonstration that there are two (but not three) additional pieces of evidence for the “Aeolic” inflection of this very verb in epic language—one of which, pres. infinitive γοήμεναι, is standardly recognized as “Aeolic,” but never evaluated and deployed in the discussion of γόον; while the other, the irregularly short iterative imperfect form γόασκε in the Hymn to Aphrodite, has never been utilized as evidence bearing on the problem of γόον at all.
Compromise, a consensual settlement of differences achieved by mutual concessions, is a fundamental concept in politics. Underlining primarily the legal aspects of compromise, Latin vocabulary lacks an appropriate term to denote political compromises in the sense outlined above. Nevertheless, in Roman politics, compromises were negotiated and reached in domestic and foreign affairs to resolve social and political conflicts, end wars, and forge alliances. If compromises were not depicted as such, how were they presented? What circumstances determined the terminology used to discuss such political arrangements? By addressing the historical tradition of the Early Republic, followed by an analysis of key case studies from Caesar’s civil war to the last years of the emperor Tiberius, specifically in the context of armed conflicts between Romans, this article explores the language used in depicting different instances of Roman compromise. Accordingly, this article shows that despite the lack of a specific term analogous to the modern “compromise”, and as much as Roman politics was characterised by high-octane, often violent conflicts, compromises served as expedient and dynamic tools affording reasonable alternatives to violence.
This paper reexamines the Heroes’ Parade in Book 6 of Virgil’s Aeneid through the lens of apocalyptic literature, specifically the ‘historical apocalypse’. It seeks to reveal how Virgil recontextualizes common themes and motifs found within the apocalyptic genre to support Rome’s imperial ideology. Drawing on a comparative analysis with the cloud vision in 2 Baruch, this study explores how both texts employ a divinely mediated review of history yet serve different purposes. While historical apocalypses typically offer consolation to oppressed communities, Virgil’s account celebrates Rome’s imperial destiny and proclaims the dawn of a new age—an era of salvation inaugurated by Augustus. Through this adaptation, the Aeneid transforms the Heroes’ Parade into an imperial manifesto, positioning Augustus’ reign as fulfilling a divine plan and elevating Rome’s history to a transcendent, prophetic plane. In this way, the parade reinforces Augustus’ legitimacy and Rome’s preordained supremacy.
On the basis of phraseological, contextual, and thematical considerations this article argues that there is an intratextual proemial allusion from Od. 13.90 to Od. 1.4 and that it operates as an intertextual allusion to an equivalent intratextual proemial allusion from Il. 11.55 to Il. 1.4. Unlike cases where intratextual parallelism reflects intertextual parallelism, an intratextual association between the Odyssey’s first and second proems is built on an analogous intratextual association between the Iliad’s first and second proems, which results in an intertextual relationship between the pair of first and second proems of the Odyssey and the Iliad.
