My investigation into the cognitive aspects of landscape description takes as its focus the landscapes that the poet evokes on the Shield of Achilles (Il. 18.478–608). Drawing on studies in cognitive psychology I note the extent to which an audience might derive a ‘spatial mental model’ from the topographical or ‘locative’ indicators that the Homeric poet offers. Then I consider the ‘non-locative’ information that the poet conveys about the landscapes of the Shield. In this connection I develop Barbara Tversky's notion of landscape representation as a ‘cognitive collage’. What makes the scenes on the Shield vivid, however, is human presence. Finally, therefore, I draw on enactivist theories of cognition, recently introduced into Classics, which offer a valuable supplementary approach to ‘reading’ and enjoying landscape descriptions in Homer.

This article takes up the subject of shared memory and its interaction with landscape, with specific reference to Troy, to Homer's Iliad, and to the tradition of ‘pilgrimage’ to Troy and its environs that evolved in the ancient world in response to the Trojan War story. Over the course of centuries this particular location on the Hellespont, a Bronze Age site, exercised a particular fascination, thanks to memories – no doubt gravely distorted – of a great siege by combined Greek forces eager to avenge, as legend tells it, the abduction of Helen. A few centuries later, the site became a destination for ‘pilgrims’ who were eager to see for themselves the landscape of Troy and the Troad and to experience for themselves, physically and emotionally, certain actions that were attributed to the heroes of the so-called Trojan War.

Speech-act theory starts from the premise that the minimal unit of spoken communication is not the word or sentence but the production of words or sentences in the performance of certain kinds of acts, such as challenging, entreating, apologising, thanking, or rebuking. Some speech acts may be expressed quite economically, in a few words (for example, ‘I congratulate you’); others require a sequence of sentences or syntactic chunks to achieve their illocutionary function—that is, to fulfil the intention of the speaker. In a recent paper, drawing on two fields of study outside Classics—cognitive psychology and discourse analysis—I examined a single set of speech acts recorded in the Homeric epics: the rebukes which Homer's characters address to one another in the course of the Iliad and the Odyssey. In that paper I demonstrated that all speeches in Homer which we identify as rebukes share a common structure, or format, and that this format is remarkably similar to the format to which we ourselves—in middle-class communities in the Western world—refer when, for example, we chastise a child. And I proposed that this notion of format-based speech may be extended perhaps even to the full range of speech acts observable in this everyday world and in the Homeric epics, of which apologies, challenges, words of consolation, and refusals of invitations are examples.

Most classical journals report on research on literary, historical and linguistic questions, and rarely allocate space to discussions of pedagogy at tertiary level. This article, however, falls into the latter category. It takes the form of a report on the teaching of Latin and Greek (both classical and post-classical) in universities in Australia and New Zealand; and it makes a number of suggestions regarding the future of the classical languages in this region.

Any general examination by an outsider of the situation of Classics in Australian and New Zealand universities would readily conclude that most departments are managing well, or at least holding their own, compared to other disciplines. Student enrolments are high overall, since most departments, like those in Britain and North America, have expanded their teaching range to embrace ancient history, classical literature in translation and, in some cases, archaeology. This has been the situation for the best part of the last two decades. Often these subjects were introduced in order to ‘subsidise’ and protect the continuance of Greek and Latin with their smaller numbers; but they have been extremely popular with students in every university in Australasia in which they are taught. And so these teaching areas have come to have a life and a rightful presence of their own.

Priam has arrived at Achilles' hut. He has taken Achilles unawares. He has clasped his knees, he has kissed his hands. He has made his twofold plea: he has appealed for compassion in Peleus' name and, taking his cue from Achilles' sympathetic response, he has requested the ransom of Hector. It is the climax of the Iliad. We await Achilles' words, we await the response which has been the focus of the enormous expansion and elaboration of Book 24: the preparation for the journey, the journey, the meeting with Hermes, Priam's remarkable arrival at Achilles' hut, his painfully slow but deliberate approach to the single reason for his mission, to his request for the return of Hector's corpse. It has been the point to which the course of the Iliad has been implicitly directed since Achilles first learned of the death of Patroclus: his bitterness and his continuing obsession with Patroclus have found expression in the harsh negatives of his response first to Lycaon, then to Hector. That harshness has been translated into action, too: into the cruel rhythm of Achilles' ἀριστεία and his repeated mutilation of Hector's corpse.