What follows is an experiment in reading practice. I propose that we read some key passages of theAeneidand theMetamorphosesin the active pursuit of acrostics and telestics, just as we have been accustomed to read them in the active pursuit of allusions and intertexts; and that we do so with the same willingness to make sense of what we find. The measure of success of this reading practice will be the extent to which our understanding of these familiar and well-studied texts (...) can be usefully enriched by our interpretation of our discoveries (or rediscoveries). These will include an undiscovered authorial signature NASO in the ‘second proem’ of theMetamorphoses; an unnoticed self-referential response to Horace with NITIDO at the centre of Ovid's epic and a similarly self-referential AVSVM at the centre of Virgil's epic; in theAeneidwe will also find glances to Aratus with LEPTE and an Aratean anagram on Aeneas’ shield; and two new acrostics connecting Dido, Ajax and Lavinia. (shrink)

In Theriaca 343–358, Nicander recounts a rather unusual myth. After Prometheus had stolen fire, Zeus was seeking the thief and, when men delivered Prometheus over to him, he gave them the gift of youth. Humans entrusted the ass to carry this load, but the ass was seized by thirst and sought the help of the snake, who demanded in return the thing he was carrying on his back. This is how the gift of youth given to men fell to the (...) serpent’s lot. Ever since, inevitable old age has weighed upon them, while the snakes cast off their old skin and gain a new one. Like any digression in Hellenistic epic poetry, this parable certainly is intended to entertain the reader, yet it must have a more serious function: by showing that it was only out of stupidity that men gave away their invaluable gift to the ass, Nicander asserts the great value of knowledge for life. Remarkably, it is precisely in this passage that the poet has inserted the acrostic of his name. The idea that his poetic work will ensure the survival of his name for future generations, directly expressed in the closing lines, is here conveyed with the greatest refinement. (shrink)

The termTabulae Iliacaeis conventionally applied to twenty low reliefs scattered through museums from Warsaw to New York. The common name conceals a bewildering artistic farrago: the earliestTabula, theTabula Iliaca Capitolina, is mid-Augustan, the latest late Antonine. Five of theTabulaebear the name Theodorus and I shall argue that he is the craftsman responsible for their execution. Where provenance is known, it is always Rome or the Roman Campagna. The materials of theTabulaevary widely: most, but not all, are of some sort of (...) marble, white, yellow, and Giallo Antico. Little can be said of their size, for not one survives complete. It would appear, however, that the largest rectangularTabula, the calcite 1 A, was originallyc.25 cm by 42 cm. Two, portraying the Shield of Achilles, were circular and 5O may have had a radius of 20 cm. The nameIliacaeis appropriate only in as much as eleven out of twentyTabulaeportray episodes from theIliad and six the Sack of Ilium; others, however, represent Alexander's victory at Arbela and the apotheosis of Hercules. What theTabulaedo display in common is a combination of low reliefs in miniature and inscriptions, often extensive and not always on the same topic as the reliefs. In ancient art, only the Megarian bowls stand comparison, and their ratio of text to illustration is substantially lower. (shrink)

Aratus has been notorious for his wordplay since the first decades of his reception. Hellenistic readers such as Callimachus, Leonidas, or ‘King Ptolemy’ seem to have picked up on the pun on the author's own name atPhaenomena2, as well as on the famous λεπτή acrostic atPhaen.783–6 that will be revisited here. Three carefully placed occurrences of the adjective have so far been uncovered in the passage, but for a full appreciation of its elegance we must note that Aratus has set (...) his readers up to notice a fourth. (shrink)

It is well known that in early Greek epic old age was something that could be scraped off a man, and it is the purpose of this note to explore the image and to suggest a possible origin. The idea is first attested in a counterfactual conditional sentence in Phoenix's speech atIl.9.445–6: ‘nor even if [a god] himself were to undertake to render me young and flourishing after scraping off old age …’ (οὐδ' εἴ κέν μοι ὑποσταίη αὐτός | γῆρας (...) ἀποξύσας θήσειν νέον ἡβώοντα …); in a description of Medea's magical rejuvenation of Aeson in theNostoi(fr. 7.2 Bernabé = 6.2 Davies, γῆρας ἀποξύσας); and in the account of Eos' botched attempt to make Tithonus immortal in theHomeric Hymn to Aphrodite(223–4):οὐδ' ἐνόησε μετὰ ϕρεσὶ πότνια Ἠώςἥβην αἰτῆσαι, ξῦσαί τ' ἄπο γῆρας ὀλοιόν.Nor did lady Dawn think in her mind to ask for youth and to scrape off ruinous old age.This language also occurs in Late Antiquity, and Andrew Faulkner in his commentary on theHymn(ad loc.) cites Greg. Nanz.Carm.1.2.2.483 (PG37.616) in the fourth centurya.d.and the much later Cometas,Anth. Pal.15.37.2. So far as the imagery implicit in these passages is concerned, S. D. Olson writes, ‘old age is imagined as a scurf or patina that can be scoured off a person’. Faulkner, however, prefers a more precise reference: ‘Griffin … relates it to the idea of old age as a skin that can be shed, as that of a snake’, and he helpfully cites Theodoros Prodromos,Carmina historica24.18, ἀπόξυσαι τὸ γῆρας ὥσπερ ὄϕις (‘to scrape off old age like a snake’). (shrink)