The name Iphianassa occurs only once in Latin literature—in the proem to De Rerum Natura (= DRN). Here Lucretius illustrates the evils of religion with a description of Iphianassa's sacrifice at Aulis (1.80–101):

illud in his rebus uereor, ne forte rearis
impia te rationis inire elementa uiamque
indugredi sceleris. quod contra saepius illa
religio peperit scelerosa atque impia facta.
Aulide quo pacto Triuiai uirginis aram
Iphianassai turparunt sanguine foede
ductores Danaum delecti, prima uirorum.
cui simul infula uirgineos circumdata comptus
ex utraque pari malarum parte profusast,
et maestum simul ante aras adstare parentem
sensit et hunc propter ferrum celare ministros
aspectuque suo lacrimas effundere ciuis,
muta metu terram genibus summissa petebat.
nec miserae prodesse in tali tempore quibat
quod patrio princeps donarat nomine regem.
nam sublata uirum manibus tremibundaque ad aras
deductast, non ut sollemni more sacrorum
perfecto posset claro comitari Hymenaeo,
sed casta inceste nubendi tempore in ipso
hostia concideret mactatu maesta parentis,
exitus ut classi felix faustusque daretur.
tantum religio potuit suadere malorum.

Herodotus’ fateful tale of the seven Persian emissaries sent to seek Earth and Water from the Macedonian king Amyntes has been the subject of increasingly rich discussion in recent years. Generations of commentators have cumulatively revealed the ironies of Herodotus’ account: its repeated hints, for example, of the Persians’ eventual end; and, crowning all other ironies, the story's ending: that, after resisting the indignity of his female relatives being molested at a banquet, and disposing of all trace of the Persian ambassadors and their party, Alexander of Macedon then arranges his sister's marriage to the leader of the search party sent to investigate his disappeared compatriots (Hdt. 5.21.2). More recent readings have gone further in uncovering the mythological archetypes for the logos, or in tracing its exploration of a number of themes: revenge, guest-friendship, the equation of sexual and military conquest, or the ‘explosion of violence resulting from the contact of two different cultures’. Most fruitful perhaps have been those readings that have seen the logos no longer as a detached ‘short story’ but in its wider context in the Histories: David Fearn, for example, has stressed the need to understand the presentation of Alexander I in the light of what the reader knows of his subsequent history.

On the outside wall and in the vestibule of the ‘House of Publius Paquius Proculus’ in Pompeii (building I.7.1) three graffiti containing the name Cucuta can be found. The first simply reads Cucuta (CIL 4.8065 [outside wall]). The second tells us that Cucuta was an attendant of the Emperor Nero (CIL 4.8066 [outside wall]): Cu(cuta) | Cucuta Ner(onis). From the third we learn that Cucuta was a financial secretary (a rationibus) of Nero (CIL 4.8075 [vestibule]): Cucuta ab ra[t]ioni[b]us | Neronis Augusti. While the meaning and significance of these graffiti may seem apparent—that one of Nero's attendants scratched his name on the wall and vestibule pillar as he waited for the emperor to return from a meeting—the closeness between Cucuta (an otherwise unattested name) and cicuta (hemlock) raises a key question: should we read Cucuta as Cicuta and therefore understand the third graffito in particular as a joke about Nero's rumoured fondness for killing family, friends and his senatorial enemies with poison? In other words, is it Poison, and not a person, that keeps Nero's finances in order? And, if so, can the Cucuta graffiti give us an alternative insight into the plethora of wall inscriptions found outside building I.7.1 greeting Publius Paquius Proculus and recommending him for office?

In his lengthy survey of the cosmic devastation wrought by Phaethon's disastrous chariot ride, Ovid includes two catalogues detailing the scorching of the world's mountains (Met. 2.217–26) and rivers (2.241–59). Ovid enlivens these lists through his usual play with sound patterns and revels in the opportunity to adapt so many Greek names to Latin prosody; for instance the opening line of the catalogue of mountains (ardet Athos Taurusque Cilix et Tmolus et Oete, 2.217) masterfully illustrates both of these features. The lists are also brimming with playful erudition. To take but a few examples: a dried-up Ida belies its standard epithet πολυπῖδαξ, ‘many-fountained’ (2.218); the sun's heat doubles the flames of volcanic Etna (2.220); burning Xanthus is destined to burn again (2.245; cf. Hom. Il. 21.330–82); and the famous gold-bearing sands of the Tagus are melting (2.251). These features not only ‘relieve monotony’; they warrant the catalogues’ inclusion in the category of Ovid's most entertaining.

In Sophocles’ Oedipus Coloneus, after laying hands on Antigone and Ismene, Creon ridicules Oedipus by saying these words (OC 848–9):

οὔκουν ποτ’ ἐκ τούτοιν γε μὴ σκήπτροιν ἔτι
ὁδοιπορήσῃς.

Recent scholarship on Plato's Cratylus (= Cra.) has yielded interpretations that assign various functions of philosophical importance to the dialogue's lengthy etymological section. Barney (2001) considers the section an ‘agonistic display’ (69–73) in which Socrates beats contemporary practitioners of etymology at their own game while, at the same time, offering a cosmological theory intended for serious intellectual competition. In this context, Barney emphasizes the importance of Parmenides, a charioteer who journeys towards Truth, as a literary point of reference for Socrates’ own etymological quest after the true meaning of names which, from Cratylus’ naturalist perspective on language, are considered indicative of their referents’ essential nature. The contents of the etymologies may be a ‘rational reconstruction’ (52–7) of Cratylus’ linguistic naturalism. Sedley (2003) stresses the encyclopedic character of Socrates’ lexical interpretations and argues that these are ‘exegetically correct’ (28) in representing the opinions of the name-givers of old who subscribed to a Heraclitean view of a world in flux, as is reflected in the original form of the names they devised. Ademollo (2011) stresses that Socrates’ etymologies display the evolution of Greek intellectual thought, shown to be heavily reliant on the assumption of a universe in flux, and serve to exhibit the weaknesses in Cratylus’ naturalist view of language.

‘Everyone who now reads and writes in the West, of whatever racial background, sex or ideological camp, is still a son or daughter of Homer.’ While the extent to which this claim is accurate has been disputed, it is not wrong in our own day to grant the highest honours for ongoing influence to the author of the Iliad. All the more so in Late Antiquity, a period frequently viewed as hermetically isolated from the classical world, but which resolutely viewed itself as part of that unbroken cultural and literary continuum. One of those who made repeated use of Homer's epic was the Emperor Julian (a.d. 331–63), one of the most prolific writers among Rome's emperors. In the fourth century a.d., Homer's influence was still predominant, not only being Julian's favourite and most frequently cited author but also forming for Libanius of Antioch ‘one of the pillars of rhetorical teaching’. Despite Glen Bowersock's statement that Julian's many writings offer unique insight into his character and disposition, Julian is still a historical character who is not easy to ‘know’. Julian's life was shaped by the murder of his father, brothers and uncles by a cabal involving, if not orchestrated by, his cousin Constantius II. This was followed by the removal of his trusted confidant Salutius, again by Constantius. These experiences exhibit an unusual phenomenon, in that, when Julian referred to them, they were prefaced by a spate of Homeric allusions. Julian's wrath at people taken from him was both genuine and politically useful, but the expression of it was dangerous enough that he expressed it obliquely in the language of Homer. These citations and allusions, drawn primarily from the Iliad, were far more than Julian's flaunting of his education, but were rather a tool for subtly conveying his desired message, a message with strong political tones. I will treat these passages in the order in which Julian wrote them, although that places the events reminisced about in the reverse order.

In the first two books of De finibus (= Fin.), Cicero deals with the Epicurean view of the final goal of life. This philosophical discussion, which is preceded by a rhetorical proem that stands on itself, is framed as a dialogue between Torquatus, who defends the Epicurean position, Cicero, who attacks it, and Triarius, who confines himself to a few critical interventions. If philosophy starts in wonder, according to the celebrated passage from Plato's Theaetetus (155d), the company meets this criterion admirably well, for the actual discussion starts with Torquatus’ surprise about Cicero's aversion to the Epicurean view (Fin. 1.13). He even suggests that this aversion has nothing to do with a fundamental disapproval of Epicurus’ doctrines but that it should rather be sought in stylistic concerns.