This article is concerned with the antecedents to the formation of the group known as οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι καὶ οἱ σύμμαχοι, and correctly styled the (First) Athenian Alliance (in distinction from the Second Athenian Alliance) and with the problems of its constitutional arrangements. So much has been written in the knowledge of subsequent events—by Herodotus, Thucydides and modern scholars—that it is particularly difficult for us to see this topic in its historical perspective, that is to see how the Athenian Alliance grew out of what went before. For example, the hegemony enjoyed by Athens in the Alliance has been described by many as the means by which she was later to fulfil her imperialistic ambitions, but few have studied its powers in relation to earlier examples of hegemony; yet it must have been these earlier examples of hegemony which were active in men's minds in 478/7 B.C. After a section, A, on the nature of the evidence, I therefore keep to the historical order and discuss in section B the campaign of Mycale down to the capture of Sestus; in section C the operations under Pausanias and the change of hegemony; in section D the creation of the Athenian Alliance; and in section E the relationship between Athens and the Allies.

This paper is prompted by a careful study of the ancient evidence and of the waters and coasts of the Salamis Channel, which has led me to a new conception of the battle. I proceed from the assumption that the ancient evidence is sound and that, if it is interpreted with respect, it provides a fairly close framework for the course of the battle. To this framework some additions can be made by means of local knowledge, whether gained at first or at second hand. The paper is divided into five sections: the topography of the Salamis Channel, the evidence for the battle, the manoeuvres of the day and the night before the battle, the day of battle, and an Epilogue with an Appendix on the new Scholia to the Persae.

In the 460s BC an unnamed artist painted an unusual oinochoe with a unique scene–a Greek chasing an Oriental archer–that marks an important stage in the development of symbolic imagery in the arts of early Classical Greece. This oinochoe of unusual shape (Plate 8a-b), now in Hamburg, was first published by Konrad Schauenburg. On side A, a bearded Greek hunter, running ¾-view to the right, clutches his phallos in his right hand and reaches his left arm toward an Oriental archer, on side B. The archer stands ¾-view to the right, bent at the hips, with his upper body in a rare frontal pose, and his hands raised to his head. A curious inscription fills the space between the two characters. Two equally plausible restorations of the inscription, each of which carries its own divergent interpretation of the images, have emerged: the original publication by Schauenburg and a response by Gloria Pinney.

The paper has two main aims, one larger and one slightly narrower. The larger aim is to undermine further a tendency that has dogged the interpretation of Platonic political philosophy in modern times, despite some dissenting voices: the tendency to begin from the assumption that Plato's thinking changed and developed over time, as if we already had privileged access to his biography. The slightly narrower aim is to reply to two charges of intellectual parricide made against Plato. The first is explicit and well known: that he recommended political structures of a sort that would exclude the free-ranging philosophical inquiry sponsored by Socrates. The second is implicit in the standard reading of the Politicus, and says that Plato actually came to approve (however reluctantly) of Athens' execution of his teacher. I argue that the relevant passage (Plt. 297C - 302B) has been misunderstood, and that it is in fact fully consistent with the blanket criticism we find in the Republic of all existing forms of constitution. The Athenian democracy still got it wrong, both in general, and in making the particular decision to kill off old Socrates. I also argue that so far from proposing to abolish Socratic inquiry, Plato's political works as a whole (Republic, Politicus and Laws included) are actually designed to show the need for it.

L. 1 fin. Apparently ΠΙ perhaps ΕΠΙ. L. 2 init. The fork of the upsilon is just visible. L. 6 fin. Τ or Π.

Too little remains to permit a reconstruction, but we have evidently a fragment of a regulation concerning catches of fish. (I take it that ἰχθύν in l. 3 is collective.) There can be little doubt that we have here evidence of a dalyan at Caunus in antiquity as to-day. (See Part I, p. 14 n. 15.) The fish are principally of two kinds, kefal and levrek, both excellent eating; in the summer and winter respectively they go up from the sea to the lake to spawn, and returning some two months later are caught in huge quantities. Wherever exactly the bed of the river may have lain in ancient times, there is no reason to suppose that the habits of the fish were any different then. For ancient fisheries in Asia Minor see Broughton, Economic Survey IV, 566, 799.

The course of Athenian military operations after the battle of Kyzikos is not to be explained by considerations of strategy alone. Immediately after their victory the Athenian commanders acted briskly enough, building a fort and instituting a tithe at Chrysopolis, but instead of following up the annihilation of Mindaros' fleet by the capture of Sparta's bases on land, they then lapsed into an inactivity hard to excuse in generals who had just shown such capacity in action, and apparently alien to the temperament of Alkibiades. The whole history of Greek naval warfare shows that no power can maintain control of the sea while the nearby seaboard remains in the hands of the enemy, and by thus neglecting the coastal towns Athens allowed Sparta bases in the Hellespont for the ships which Pasippidas and Klearchos collected from the allies (Xen. Hell. I 1. 32, 36, 3. 17) and even opportunity for new construction (ibid. 1. 25–6, 3. 17). The Hellespont was in any case vital to Athens, the area in which a defeat could lose the whole war for her, yet though Thrasyllos had gone home months before the battle to get reinforcements for the Hellespont, nothing was sent there, and when Thrasyllos did collect a force he took it to Ionia.

About a year ago I paid a hurried visit to the Cyclades, with the purpose of ascertaining how far they would repay a more lengthened sojourn; and having satisfied myself that no part of Greece offered a better field for examination than the islands of the Aegaean sea, this last winter I undertook to visit the Cyclades one by one—no trifling matter when we consider that there are twenty-two of them, and only two of them have anything like hotel accommodation.

The objects of interest there to be studied may be conveniently classed under four distinct heads, and every one of these interests is essentially due to the position of the islands, as the stepping-stones used in all ages before the invention of steam between Europe and Asia.

Forensic oratory must of necessity deal with the subject of law, and rhetoric which aspires to be of use in the courts must offer the potential litigant or logographer guidance on the way to deal with questions of law. Accordingly, Aristotle devotes some space to this issue in the Rhetoric. Although the morality of Aristotle's advice has been debated, little attention has been paid to the more basic question of the soundness of his advice. The aim of this paper is to examine Aristotle's presentation of the rhetoric of law in the Rhetoric in comparison with actual practice in surviving forensic speeches. The fourth century Rhetorica ad Alexandrum, commonly ascribed to Anaximenes of Lampsakos, also offers advice on the manipulation of argument from law, and the general similarity of that advice to Aristotle's suggests either direct influence or a common source. Anaximenes' discussion of the use of law in forensic oratory is both more brief and less systematic, and will be given more cursory treatment.

In this paper an attempt is made to establish the chronology which Herodotus intended to convey for events in Book vii on the basis of his arrangement of topics for a listening audience. The relationship of the Decree to those events is then discussed. The question of the authenticity of the Decree's contents is considered with special reference to the arrangements for manning the fleet. Thus the paper falls into three parts. An Appendix on the later tradition is added.

A committee has been set up under the auspices of the British Academy with the object of compiling a prosopography of the later Roman Empire (A.D. 284-641). Its object is to do for the later Empire what the Prosopographia Imperii Romani has done for the Principate, to provide the materials for the study of the governing class of the Empire. The majority of the entries will be persons holding official posts or rank together with their families, and the work will not include clerics except in so far as they come into the above categories.

At other times and in other places I have tried to show, by means of a study of the manner in which Homer uses words, the nature of the Homeric field of values. I have also tried to show the effect of that field of values on the concepts of punishment, honour and friendship. In this paper I wish to develop the enquiry in a rather different direction, but using the same tools and method of approach. I shall begin by discussing some peculiarities of behaviour of certain Homeric words, leave, at first, the questions I shall ask hanging in the air, and then attempt at the end to show how these peculiarities fit together into a pattern, a pattern imposed (or encouraged) by Homeric values and the structure of Homeric society.

I begin with the word νεικείειν. LSJ renders this as ‘quarrel, wrangle with’ or transitively ‘chide, rail at, upbraid’, Ebeling, Lexicon Homericum, as increpo. Ebeling's rendering I find unhelpful, since I am as unsure of the implications of increpo as of νεικείειν. I understand the words LSJ uses, but (as presumably we all do) regard wrangling with someone as a different activity from chiding or rebuking him, and each as distinguishable from railing at him. What induced Homer to use the same word in Greek was presumably that he saw a resemblance between these activities stronger than their differences: at all events, the likelihood that this was the reason is strong enough to make it worth while to look for the resemblances by studying some examples of the usage of νειείειν.

Xenophon's account of Euphron, tyrant at Sicyon from 368 to 366, appears to present him as a typical fourth-century ‘new tyrant’, dependent on mercenaries and concerned solely with his own power. But why did Xenophon choose to recount Euphron's actions and fate at such length, and why does he insist so strongly that he was a tyrant? Xenophon's interest in Euphron is part of his general approach to tyranny in the Hellenica, which depicts a series of individuals and regimes, all described as tyrannies. The model of tyranny with which Xenophon operates is broader and more inclusive than we would expect, contrasting with the narrow, constitutional idea of tyranny defined by Aristotle. Understanding this has two consequences. It allows us to appreciate Euphron in a new light, giving credit to the positive tradition about his support for the Sicyonian democracy and his posthumous heroization; we can see the debate which existed in his own time about his role and position. It also raises the question of why Xenophon recognized tyranny in so many places, and was so keen to emphasize his construction of these regimes. We need to situate him within the evolution of ideas about tyranny, since the concept of tyranny is largely constructed by historians: Herodotus ‘created’ tyranny in the aftermath of the Persian Wars, while Thucydides developed the concept from the individual to the general, as this better fitted his Athenocentric model. Xenophon, in contrast, was reflecting contemporary debates over the interpretation of different types of ruler and regime, and developing his own theory of tyranny. Therefore to see a ‘new tyranny’ movement in the fourth century is misplaced: an examination of Euphron reveals the complexities of self-presentation in fourth-century Greek politics.

Anyone who has read my book Greek Popular Morality in the Time of Plato and Aristotle (Oxford 1974) (hereafter ‘GPM’) and has also read Professor A. W. H. Adkins' book Merit and Responsibility (Oxford 1960) (‘M&R’) will have noticed that the two books differ substantially in their approach to the history of Greek moral values and in some of the conclusions which they reach. Adkins' critical review of GPM, entitled ‘Problems in Greek Popular Morality’, CPh lxxiii (1978) 143–58 (‘Problems’), explains very clearly why he finds GPM in many respects inadequate or misleading, and it has greatly helped me to understand my own disquiet at the influence exercised by the presuppositions, methods and conclusions of M&R. My purpose in this paper is not to offer a review of M&R twenty years too late, nor to attempt a rebuttal, point by point, of the criticisms of GPM contained in Problems, but to examine one major issue: how should the portrayal of moral evaluation on the tragic stage or in epic narrative be used as evidence for the history of Greek moral values?

A very important proposition is stated in M&R 127: ‘A drama is a practical work; it involves action. People appear on the stage and behave as they do in real life.’ With this proposition I agree, subject to three provisos, of which one limits its application and two amplify it. The limiting proviso is obvious.

The foundation and development of the Venetian Quarter in Constantinople, and the history of the early trading relations between Venice and the Roman Empire are intimately connected with and illustrate the movement by which the Republic gradually passed from actual, through merely nominal, vassalage to actual and formal independence. That movement constitutes an essential part of early Venetian history, the growth of the Republic as a free State between the Empire of the East and the Empire of the West, both weak at sea and in need of a fleet which Venice alone was able to supply, and shows us the Republic skilfully steering her course between Saracens, Normans, Greeks and Germans towards her goal, naval supremacy in the Adriatic and the Levant.

It is not the object of this paper to dwell on the larger movement, but rather to examine the relations between Venice and the Eastern Empire with special reference to the Venetian Quarter in Constantinople. Those relations were governed by the Chrysobulls, or Golden Bulls, whereby the Emperors made gradually extending concessions to the seamen and merchants of their vassal State.

1. For more than two thousand years research into the origins of the Greek lexicon had been understood and carried on in the spirit exemplified but also mocked in the Platonic Kratylos. The revolutionary change came in the early nineteenth century when after many inspired guesses Franz Bopp (1791–1867) finally and definitively proved in 1816 that Greek, in company with many European languages, derived, like Indian and Iranian, from one prehistoric ancestor, the whole family being dubbed Indo-European by the well-known physician and physicist, Dr Thomas Young, in 1813, three years before the publication of Bopp's work. But the first true etymologist was August Friedrich Pott (1802–87) who with the two volumes of his Etymologische Forschungen, published in 1833 and 1836 respectively, laid the foundations of Indo-European, and therewith also Greek, etymology.

Throughout the nineteenth century, and even down to our own days, the main emphasis has been on the IE origins of the Greek vocabulary.

The Hellenistic temple of Apollo at Didyma presents several unique features in its plan. In its exterior it resembles the typical large Ionic temple of Asia Minor with a double colonnade surrounding it, no opisthodomus, and a pronaos containing three rows of four columns each. But at this point the plan of the temple was modified in the strangest manner. For the pronaos does not lead by a great central doorway into the cella, but where the doorway should come, the worshipper entering the building found himself faced with a blank wall 1·495 rn high with above it a colossal opening 5·63 m wide (PLATE VIIa). Consequently the worshipper in the pronaos could not even look directly into the sanctuary. Instead, just above his eye-level beyond the embrasure of this ‘window’ stretched the floor of a large room, 14·04 m by 6·73 m with its roof supported on two columns. Through this room's central door (which was opposite the window) the spectator on ground level outside could catch a glimpse of the upper part of the naiskos in the inner court (the adyton).

The curious art of mosaic had one period of splendour: the Byzantine empire; and that art was assuredly Greek. The Greek mosaics of my title, however, are the much more humdrum productions of an earlier age. In mosaic, even more than in other arts, it is hard to draw the line between Greek and Roman, but this provisional survey of early development hardly reaches a point where that comes in question. I am not concerned with Pompeii, and little with Delos, Pergamon or even Sicily; a trifle more with Alexandria; but primarily with the pebble-mosaics of the fourth century, though looking forward as well as back. The earliest pebble-mosaics are of a simple, decorative character; later they become much more pictorial and sophisticated. The later pieces are of the greatest interest to the art-historian, but may trouble the art-critic. Mosaic by its nature is essentially an art of decoration, and can only achieve real greatness in an aesthetic ambience where purely decorative values are dominant, as they were in Byzantium; not in the Greco-Roman world, where, as in the Renaissance, half the artist's excitement comes from wrestling with the representation of nature.

Technically the pebble-mosaics of which I shall be speaking are all set in approximately the same way: a layer of coarse cement or plaster as a foundation, and above that one of finer quality into which the pebbles are pressed. Presumably the mosaicist, like the fresco-painter with his top coat of plaster, laid only so much of the fine layer at a time as he could adorn before it hardened; and as the fresco-painter normally worked down the wall, the mosaicist, I suppose, worked from one edge, moving backwards across the already hard surface of the coarse cement, laying the fine and setting the pebbles in it. In Renaissance fresco-painting the artist often drew a sinopia or outline of the composition on the under-plaster, to guide him as he painted the wet plaster with which he gradually covered it. Traces of such guides have been observed by the excavators under mosaic-floors at Pella. One would guess that it was normal practice, and that the mosaicist working on any but the very simplest pattern-design must also have followed a cartoon, but of what nature we have no idea.

Of the themes of the Byzantine Empire there exists in Greek only one systematic account, the confused and discursive work of Constantine Porphyrogennetos, from which little trustworthy information as to the history of the themes before the accession of the Macedonian dynasty can be gathered. The same author has also preserved a table of precedence drawn up by Philotheos the protospatharios in the year 899, which includes the generals of the various themes existing at that time; and he has himself given us a record of the salaries paid to the generals in the time of Leo VI. This lack of information may, however, be in part supplied from the Arab geographers, who provide us with five catalogues of the themes, the earliest of which, that of Ibn Khurdadhbah, is fifty years earlier than the list of Philotheos and about one hundred years earlier than Constantine's work. With this catalogue that of Al Idrisi (1154) is practically identical. The other three are that of Ibn Al Fakih Al Hamadhani (circ. 902), preserved in the Geographical Dictionary of Yakut (1224), that of Kudama (circ. 930), and that contained in the Khitab Al Tanbih wal Ishraf (Book of celebration and observation) of Al Mas‘udi (956). Of these descriptions those of Ibn Khurdadhbah and Kudama have been translated into French by Prof. De Goeje, and that of Al Mas‘udi by M. Carra de Vaux; of that of Ibn Al Fakih I give a translation below.

In this article I am concerned to form a view of the interaction of Homer's Iliad with other texts prior to his. This is an issue whose legitimacy, particularly in English-language scholarship, has been rather obscured by scholarly discourse in terms of oral poetics, an issue I shall discuss presently. Yet, unless they are completely new fictions, the Cyclic epics do show us some of the material with which Homer was bound to be interacting, and it has been the achievement of the Neoanalysts to detail that interaction. In the following I do not claim to add greatly to the repertoire of neoanalytic data, but I do hope to build on it some sense of Homer's achievement in this area and to make clear our entitlement to respond to Homer's intertextuality.

Plato says that the Spartans arrived one day late for Marathon because they were at the time engaged in a war against Messene, and he hints that they had other difficulties too. As there is no mention of this revolt of the Messenians in Herodotos or Thucydides, or in any later historian, it is generally supposed that Plato (whose historical references are notoriously inaccurate) was simply mistaken about it. Nevertheless, two curious facts seem to support him: Zankle was seized about this time by Anaxilas of Rhegion and renamed Messene because, says Pausanias, Messenians fleeing from the Spartans after an unsuccessful revolt formed the bulk of his forces; secondly, Strabo says that the second Messenian War was the one in which Tyrtaios was engaged, and that there were two later wars between Messene and Sparta—the last of these, the fourth, was presumably the one which followed the earthquake of 465; the third may then be Plato's war in 490. These two supporting indications have not convinced most historians, for Thucydides gives a different explanation of the renaming of Zankle, and Strabo does not clearly and definitely refer to a revolt in 490. It has also seemed surprising that no authors earlier than Strabo and Pausanias should have preserved the tradition of the war. The question has often been discussed, most recently and fully by Jacoby, who decides that the revolt is a fiction.