25-26 ARS ANIMUS UDJCL PROSE

ARS ET ANIMUS 2025-2026 LATIN LITERARY PROSE WINNERS

ARS ET ANIMUS STUDENT POETRY AUTHORS

EDITOR

OLIVIA MORICONI

TRACI DOUGHERTY

STEPHEN SENA EMMANUELLE KRAMER CHARLOTTE MARLOWE CELESTE NEWELL ANTHONY CIVELLO

COPY EDITORS EMMANUELLE KRAMER

STUDENT PROSE AUTHORS

LITERARY JUDGES

OLIVIA MORICONI

PROSE MARY BROWN JEANNETTE KESHISHIAN ANNIE ROTTER PATRICIA WEIDLER

STEPHEN SENA EMMANUELLE KRAMER CHARLOTTE MARLOWE CELESTE NEWELL ANTHONY CIVELLO

HTTPS://SITES.GOOGLE.COM/UDSD.ORG/UDSD-JCL/

POETRY TRACI DOUGHERTY MARY JANE KOONS

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FROM THE EDITOR Dear Readers, It is with great pleasure that we present the latest edition of ARS ET ANIMUS, Upper Dublin’s annual celebration of student literary achievement.

We are deeply grateful to the students whose dedication and talent make this publication possible. Their work affirms the continued relevance and vitality of classical studies.

This volume brings together an exceptional collection of creative works from high school students whose voices reflect both a deep respect for the ancient world and a vibrant, contemporary imagination.

Each piece demonstrates how classical languages, literature, and ideas continue to inspire meaningful expression today.

We also extend our sincere thanks to the teachers and mentors who support and inspire these young scholars, fostering curiosity, discipline, and a love of learning.

Featured here are the winning selections of prose, composed in both English and Latin. These works reveal not only impressive linguistic skill, but also thoughtful engagement with classical themes—myth, history, philosophy, and the enduring questions that connect past and present.

We invite you to explore these pages and engage with the voices within.

May they inspire reflection, spark curiosity, and strengthen our shared appreciation for the classical tradition.

Enjoy, and gratias vobis agimus.

EDITOR

From evocative storytelling to insightful interpretation, our student authors engage with antiquity, reimagining its stories and ideas in ways that feel both timeless and new. Their writing reminds us that the study of the classics is not merely an act of preservation, but one of creative renewal.

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CONTENTS

Prose UNDERCLASSMEN

UPPERCLASSMEN

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LIGHTER LEGIONARY

6

HANNIBAL’S SHORTCUT

34

THE SPY’S WAX TABLET

16

CIRCE’S SPA RETREAT

21

THE MARINER’S SHADOW

26 PAMPHILUS AND EUPOMPUS

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NJCL CONTEST AD

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HS PROSE

HANNIBAL’S SHORTCUT Olivia Moriconi, 12th Grade, Level V NJCL Creative Writing, 5th Place The wind rasped through the mountain pass, a primal, icy warning torn from the mountain's throat. Snow whipped across the faces of the soldiers and animals, stinging their skin and freezing their breath. Hannibal stood at the edge of a narrow cliff, staring at the granite mass that blocked their path. It was like nature had decided to challenge him. Behind him, thousands of men waited, exhausted and cold. Elephants, once symbols of power and fear, now trembled in the snow, their eyes dull.

They had come so far. From Carthage to Hispania, across rivers and dangerous lands, all to strike at the heart of Rome. Hannibal promised them glory. He promised them Italy.

But now, the Alps stood in the way, and this wall of stone was the final barrier.

General Maharbal approached, noting, “We can't go forward. The men are freezing. The animals are dying. We've lost too many already.”

Hannibal didn't respond. He just stared at the rock, his jaw clenched. He never backed down from a challenge, but this was something else. The granite wall was smooth, tall, and seemed utterly impregnable. No path around it, no way over it. It was like the mountain itself was laughing at him.

That night, the camp was silent. Fires burned slowly, and the men huddled together for warmth. Hannibal sat alone, staring into the flames. Maharbal joined him, sitting quietly for a while before speaking.

“When I was a boy, my father taught me how to split limestone. Not with hammers. With fire and vinegar.”

Hannibal turned slowly. “What did you say?”

Maharbal looked up, “We’d heat the rock until it glowed. Then pour vinegar into the cracks. The stone would steam and split apart.”

Hannibal's eyes widened. “Could it work here?”

“It has to,” Maharbal asserted. “Or we die here.”

The next morning, Hannibal called his engineers. “We will burn the mountain, he said.

“And then melt it with vinegar.”

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ARS ET ANIMUS The men stared at him like he was crazy, but Hannibal’s voice was firm. “Gather wood. Every branch, every log. Faciant ignem! Heat it until it glows. Then pour vinegar into the cracks.”

It was a crazy plan. But craziness was better than death.

The soldiers quickly got to work. They chopped down trees from the lower slopes and dragged the wood up the icy paths. Fires were built along the base of the granite wall. Flames roared, licking the stone and slowly heating it. The granite began to change color, turning dark, then redhot.

Then came the vinegar. Barrels of it, originally meant to preserve food, were hauled up the mountain. The soldiers poured it onto the glowing rock. The acidic vapor hissed as it rose, the sour smell of fermentation stinging their throats. Cracks began to form. The stone, blistered and smoking, uttered a long, fracturing groan, as if the mountain itself were in agony. When the pickaxes struck, the granite didn't just break—it shattered, falling away in volcanic, steaming chunks. The wall began to crumble.

Hours passed. Then, with one final blow, a massive piece of granite fell away, revealing a narrow path through the mountain. The men erupted in cheers. “Vici!” they shouted. Some cried. Others dropped to their knees in relief. Even the elephants seemed to sense the victory, erupting in a loud roar.

Hannibal seized Maharbal's shoulder. 'You’ve saved us!' he proclaimed. “Labor omnia vincit”, he thought.

Maharbal smiled. “No, Legatus Legionis. You saved us by believing in madness.”

The army moved forward, slowly but surely. The path was narrow and dangerous, but it was a path. They had beaten the mountain. They had defied nature. But the journey wasn’t over. The descent into Italy was just as treacherous. Slippery slopes, hidden crevices, and freezing winds continued to test their strength. Yet something had changed. The men had seen the impossible become possible. They had watched fire and vinegar defeat a mountain. That memory gave them strength.

One soldier, a young Iberian named Larto, wrote in his journal: “Today we proved the gods are just men with better tools. The mountain cracked, not from thunder, but from our own unyielding will.”

As they reached the foothills, the landscape changed. Snow gave way to green valleys. The air warmed. The elephants, though fewer in number, marched proudly. Hannibal rode ahead, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

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HANNIBAL’S SHORTCUT continued

Rome was near.

The shortcut had worked! Not just as a physical path, but as a symbol. Hannibal’s army had done what no one thought possible. They had crossed the Alps. They had survived.

And now, they would fight.

But even as they marched into Italy, the memory of the granite wall stayed with them. It became a story passed from soldier to soldier, a tale of desperation and determination.

Some called it madness, but others called it genius. Either way, it had worked.

The days that followed were filled with tension. The men were tired, but their spirits were high. They had faced death and won. They had seen their Legatus Legionis turn a hopeless situation into triumph. Every step forward felt like a victory.

At night, around the campfires, they spoke of the mountain. They described the heat of the flames, the sour sting of vinegar, and the sound of the rock splitting. They laughed, argued, and reflected. It became a legend before the war had even begun.

Hannibal, though, remained focused. He knew the most challenging part was still ahead.

Rome would not fall easily. The battles to come would test them in ways the mountain never could. But he also knew something else: his men believed in him. They had followed him through snow and stone. They would also follow him into battle.

One evening, as the army camped near the River Po, Hannibal stood alone, watching the stars. Maharbal joined him, silent for a moment before speaking.

“The men are ready,” he declared.

Hannibal nodded. “They’ve already won the hardest fight.”

Maharbal's smile held the cold knowledge of the Alps. “The mountain showed us the path to Rome, Commander. Now, Vincere aut mori!”

The next morning, the army moved again. The elephants led the way, their massive feet thudding against the earth. Behind them came the cavalry, infantry, and the engineers who had cracked the mountain. They marched not only as soldiers but also as survivors of the Alps.

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THE AUTHOR’S WORK explained My story retells Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps as both a historical and emotional moment. The mountain is a symbol of fear and endurance, while the fire‑and‑vinegar technique represents transformation. By highlighting the soldiers’ exhaustion, the trembling elephants, and the tension between Hannibal and Maharbal, I wanted to show how even courage can emerge in the harshest conditions.

I was inspired to write this because I’ve always been fascinated by moments where people push past what seems impossible. Writing it made me think about how determination can shift with one's mindset. I wanted to imagine what it felt like to stand in that cold environment and still choose to keep going, and in doing so, I found myself reflecting on how belief and creativity shape our own challenges, too.

Olivia Moriconi is a dedicated high school Latin student at Upper Dublin High School.

She serves as the Senior Vice President of the Latin Club and as State Secretary on the PAJCL board. Olivia has earned multiple awards in NJCL Creative Writing Contests, the Philadelphia Classical Society Annual Art Competition, and the National Latin Exam. Outside of her love for Latin, she is the VP of her school's Dance & Investments Clubs and the secretary of Key Club. She also volunteers at a local nonprofit and throughout the community, and enjoys playing tennis on her school team and in her spare time.

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THE LIGHTER LEGIONARY Stephen Sena, 10th Grade, Level IV NJCL Creative Writing, 9th Place My name is Claudius Marthidus. I am a blacksmith for the Roman armies, and I have made a discovery.

About two weeks ago, my assistant Lucius, who purchases the metals I smelt, came across a merchant claiming to sell a new metal. It was expensive, so Lucius brought back only one ingot. When I held it, however, it weighed approximately half as much as a brass ingot of the same size. I immediately sought to meet this strange vendor.

When I met him, he was much taller than I expected, with pale skin and orange hair.

He brought me to his shop, where he had about twenty of these lightweight ingots.

He also showed me his sword, forged from the same metal. It was astonishingly light, and I was struck by its ingenuity.

If armour could be made from this metal, the legions would no longer be burdened by their equipment. Until now, segmented armour was made of brass and was so heavy that many soldiers instead chose chainmail, if they wore armour at all.

Nothin really se sto unless fates h determ d it to

Chainmail, however, provided limited protection against thrusting weapons and caused severe chafing unless worn over thick clothing, which often led to overheating in the Mediterranean climate.

With this new metal, more soldiers could wear segmented armour that offered greater protection while remaining lighter and cooler due to its air gaps.

I asked the foreign merchant to procure more of the metal and drafted a proposal to the Senate, carefully detailing its properties and my idea of forging armour from it.

After a week of waiting, their response arrived.

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ng is set in one, s the have mine to be so.

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They refused. The Senate claimed they did not know enough about the metal and were unwilling to depend on foreign sources for something as vital as armour.

Though disappointed, I took hope from their words. Vincit omnia veritas.

I immediately began testing the ingots I had purchased. The metal melted at a far higher temperature than brass and cooled more quickly. Despite its lighter weight, it proved stronger than both brass and steel.

At the end of the month, I observed something remarkable. A brass chestplate I had kept in my workshop had developed a green patina and weakened. The chestplate made of the new metal showed no corrosion at all and remained as strong as the day it was forged.

I continued my tests. When soaked in rainwater for a week, the brass dented easily, while the strange metal remained unchanged. When submerged in seawater, the brass developed a corrosion-induced hole, yet the new metal again showed no damage.

Astonished by its strength-to-weight ratio and resistance to corrosion, I named the metal titanium, the metal of the Titans.

Rather than writing to the Senate again, I requested permission to present my findings in person. Today was the day of my speech.

I entered the Senate building with my wagon in tow, flanked by two guards. I bowed deeply, careful not to meet their stern eyes, and began to speak.

“Great Senators of the Republic of Rome! I thank you for allowing me—” “Skip the pleasantries. Tell us about your findings,” one Senator interrupted.

I cleared my throat. “I have found a metal unlike any other. It is stronger, lighter, and more durable than steel, and it does not overheat in sunlight. Even when left in seawater, it does not rust or corrode. I present to you this metal: Titanium, metallum Titanorum!”

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THE LIGHTER LEGIONARY continued I removed the cloth from my display, revealing a full set of titanium armour and a sword. The metal glimmered in the light, but there were no gasps of surprise.

I continued. “Integrating titanium into our armour and weapons would allow the legions to march farther and replace equipment less frequently.”

One Senator spoke. “Where does this metal come from?”

I swallowed. “It comes from beyond our lands. I obtained it from a northern merchant. However, he claims it may also be found in Rome or Greece.”

The murmurs did not cease.

“With this metal, our armies would be stronger than any other—” “Are you suggesting they are not already?” another Senator demanded.

“No, of course not. I merely meant unstoppable.”

I was running out of words. “This metal could benefit Roman society beyond the military.”

The Chancellor stood, and silence fell.

Despite all I had shown them, the Senate focused only on the metal’s foreign origin. They dismantled my proposal piece by piece and rejected it.

I have since learned that the merchant has returned with more titanium, which now serves no purpose. Tomorrow, I must tell him the bad news.

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THE AUTHOR’S WORK explained The Lighter Legionary is a story of a blacksmith who has a brilliant idea, but even after proving its success, he is denied. Despite this, he continues his project, and manages to get it to the army. However, at the end of the story, his workshop along with all of his research, is destroyed, and he gives up entirely and flees. This shows how close someone can get to success, even achieving some of it, and ultimately give up, all because of the repeated stress and rejections eventually became too much to handle.

Stephen Sena is a passionate and curious high school Latin student at Upper Dublin High School. They are officers in their school's Latin Club, and are active participants in Oreland Troop 1 Scouts. They have won multiple awards from various Latin groups, including NJCL, NLE, and PLUMA.

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LATIN WEEK COMPETITIONS

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CIRCE’S SPA RETREAT Emmanuelle Kramer, 12th Grade, Level V NJCL Creative Writing, 7th Place Circe’s eyes glazed over the sight of the pearly white walls of her villa. A yawn escaped her lips; her mind folded between the events of the day. She spent her afternoon turning wicked men into pigs and goats. She quickly whipped up an herbal concoction to cure an ailment in a small Greek village.

She sighed, the stress from everything clinging to her forehead.

“I wish I could just rest. There is so much work to be done, and I don’t have nearly enough time or energy to work through it all.” She waved her hands back and forth, little wisps of magic threading through her hair strands.

Herbs and spice containers floated around her chair, the spin of her hands and flexed fingers maneuvering them.

“I wish I could just relax…” Suddenly, Circe caught a glimpse of a woman feeding her farm animals outside of her villa. She worked her arms back and forth to tend to the lands. Mud sat scattered and splat across the edge of her tunic, and she wiped the sweat cleanly off her face. Circe’s eyes widened.

“She’s working so hard, too. We must have a way to rest together. Hm… what should I do?” Circe’s eyes wandered around to the view from the other end of her house. She noticed the gentle tread of the ocean waves slinking back and forth up the shore.

Her eyes widened. “I know what to do.” She smiled, now grabbing her floating spices. Circe left her villa and walked over to the working woman across the way, preparing a thin, sincere smile.

“How are you doing today?” Circe chirped. The woman looked up from her tending. “Who are you and what do you want?” the woman asked, narrowing an eyebrow. Circe smiled.

“Oh, not much. I just live across the street. I noticed that you were working very hard. I wanted to show you a way to reduce your stress. I feel that same frustration from working. It’s quite awful, really. The worst pain is in the joints.” Circe chirped, fiddling with hair strands.

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“How did you even know that I was-” the woman asked, bewildered.

“Oh, nothing. I can just sense it. Now, come here, let me show you what I need you to do.” Circe said, motioning for the woman to follow her and set up. Circe whisked her hands through the air, separating the spices and herbs into various rows. She pointed the woman to stand in the center of a circle where ivy, hydrangeas, thyme, and other spices surrounded her in thick, bushy rows of neatly threaded plants.

Through Circe’s magical direction, each spice knitted itself in several surrounding circles around the woman.

“Wonderful! The spell is turning out nicely. Sooner or later, you’ll be even more relaxed.” Circe smiled. Panic settled in on the woman’s porcelain face, like cracks climbing up her cheeks.

“What are you doing to me?!” the woman cried. “Am I some sort of witchcraft to you?” she shouted, her voice echoing between thick winds.

“I’m trying to help you. Relax, please.” Circe sighed, tossing her long, golden brown hair over her shoulders. Circe raised her hands and guided the stitched spices like a conductor directing an orchestra. The herbs spun around the woman, levitating her pigs and cows. The spices climbed and grew all over the animals. All of a sudden, a giant white cloud grew out of them. In place was a door. It was the same pearly white as Circe’s house. The spices continued to spin and circulate in rapid succession, the force of the motion spinning the woman into dizziness. After a few minutes of cooling, the spices stopped spinning and landed flat on the ground. The door floated down to earth, and a low sound emanated from it.

PHOEBUS BLESSED MY SIGHT BUT

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CIRCE’S SPA continued

“What happened to my cattle? What did you do with them? This is my livelihood! I cannot survive without them! Give them back to me!” the woman cried, preparing to lunge at Circe.

Circe was headed for the door. She stopped in her tracks, holding a hand out to stop the woman. “Don’t worry, this spell is only temporary. In a few hours, everything will go back to normal. You see, I’m doing you a favor. Come on, let’s head inside.” Circe smiled and offered the woman a hand.

The woman stopped in her tracks. She looked over the hand. Her own shook, her fingers gently settling over the palm. She nervously took Circe’s hand. The two women steadily headed for the door. Circe’s magic opened the broad, pearly white doors.

Inside was the most beautiful spa that existed. There were baths and pools filled with the finest water in all of the Mediterranean. The whitest, purest sand clung to crystal clear beaches. Tall, arching columns surrounded the baths. Murals and mosaics patterned the ceilings. The spa chairs had the most comfortable sheets and cushions to host tired people. There were long tables containing the most luscious foods, the taste of salt and sweet transcending the eater’s experience.

“What is all of this? How were you able to conjure such a gorgeous space?” the woman asked, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. Circe smiled back in return.

“Oh, you know, just magic and a desire. Don’t worry, your animals will turn back to normal in a little while.

For now, how about the two of us enjoy this space until then?” Circe grinned, extending her hand for the woman to take.

“Absolutely.”

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THE AUTHOR’S WORK explained I wrote Circe's Spa Retreat about themes of relaxation and the cleverness of her work as an enchantress. As people, we are all incredibly busy and work a lot. We accumulate stress, which can take a turn on our health. I wanted to highlight the stress of Roman/Greek citizens, and provide a humorous and lighthearted story about Circe's efforts to improve lives.

I wanted to capture the transition of stress to relaxation that we all need, regardless of if we are human or god.

Emmanuelle Kramer is a senior at Upper Dublin High School. She served as Editor-in-Chief of the Keystone, the PA Junior Classical League's state publication. She also serves as Co-President of the UDHS Latin Club. She has received multiple awards for creative writing and is a 2x NSLI-Y scholarship recipient. Additionally, she enjoys filmmaking, penpalling, and studying Russian and Indonesian.

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THE MARINER’S SHADOW Charlotte Marlowe, 12th Grade, Level V NJCL Creative Writing, 3rd Place Everything was ready for the sailor to set sail. He had checked that the boat was in order and was about to set off from the harbor when he realized that he had forgotten a crucial tool. He quickly left his boat to retrieve his astrolabe. The navigation tool was like a piece of his mentor left behind —a token that would bring him good luck at sea and also guide him in the right direction. Satisfied, the sailor let the sails loose and began his daunting journey across the ocean.

The sun barred its rays down onto the small vessel floating through the salty sea. The wood of the ship was dry and seemed to crack under the fearsome rage of the sun. The cool water would lap up on the sides of the boat, quenching the thirst of the wood only for a moment before it was shriveled back into flaky pieces by the torridity of the day. The air was thin and stale, and not a whisper of wind could be heard across the flat ocean, so the heat sat on the surface and simmered. The boat reeked of boiled seawater and rotting fish as the heat continued to bake the ship and its passengers.

The sailor lay lazily on the mass of the ship. His arms dropped flat at his side, beckoning any type of gust to blow softly through his tunic. His skin glinted in the sun as sweat slid down his arms and neck. He glanced over at the row of amphoras that lay in the back of the ship. Their pale, clay bodies held the smooth liquid of olive oil within. Their long, narrow necks, which led into an elongated body, allowed the oil to swish up and down with the ship's sway. A soft gargling noise could be heard when the oil splashed in the bodies of the amphoras. The sailor’s job was to deliver them to Italy for the trade of sweet grain from the fields of Tuscany through the Mediterranean Sea complex. However, the day was hot and relentless, and the more that the sun beat down on the sailor, the more he found himself lost at sea.

In the right hand of the sailor, he held an astrolabe. The weight of the tool felt familiar in his hands, the smooth brass warm from the sun. The circular brass instrument was full of layered plates and a rotating framework. The mater, or mother, is the main body of the astrolabe. It is marked with degrees on the raised outer rim.

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Sitting on the top of the mater is the tympanum. It is a flare plate engraved with a grid representing altitude and azimuth, which measures the direction of the horizontal line to a celestial body. Following

“That was the gods’ punishment —

the tympan is the rete, a rotating framework with pointers that indicate the positions of bright stars and the path of the sun.

After the rete is the alidade, a straight bar that rotates on the front and back of the face, allowing the user to sight celestial bodies and read the altitude. All of these functions combined help sailors keep time, navigate, and locate celestial bodies while at sea.

The sun was now directly above the boat, at the full climax of its ascent. The water glimmered under its

not silence,

rays as it rippled back and forth. The sailor snapped

but echo.”

pinpricks are aimed at the sun. Remembering what

out of his fog and turned the astrolabe over to find the alidade. He then rotates the alidade until its his mentor taught him, he avoided looking directly at the sun and instead aligned the alidade so that the sun’s shadow passed through the sights. The sailor then reads the sun’s altitude by looking at the degrees engraved on the rim of the meter. After performing a few more calculations, the sailor was now confident he knew where he was and the direction he had to sail in. With a newfound sense of purpose, he got back to work to get the vessel back on route. The sun was even angrier, making the task of the sailor almost impossible. His chest heaved as sweat steadily dripped down his face, stinging his dry eyes.

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Suddenly, a breeze flew through the sails of the ship. The wood of the vessel let out a low creak as the gust whipped violently around it. The sail caught the wind and held it tight. The amphoras clinked and gargled loudly as the vessel lurched forward with the sudden push of the gale. The sailor took advantage of the sudden wind and jumped into action to keep the boat moving in the right direction as the bow cut sharply through the water's tension.

The icy spray of the sea offered relief to the sailor’s face as it spiraled up the front and sides of the vessel.

The air now smelled of fresh salt and a warm breeze.

As the sailor stood at the front of the boat, he felt his skin chill as the wind made his sweat slick and cool on his body. He said a quick thanks to the Anemio for the sudden gale. He soon relaxed as the wind began flowing through his hair and tunic. He was now confident in himself and felt comfortable again sailing on the sea thanks to his astrolabe. Now, he would be able to make it to Italy, complete the trade, and start the travel all over again.

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THE AUTHOR’S WORK explained This story is about feeling lost and then regaining direction. The sailor’s journey across the ocean reflects moments when things feel overwhelming and uncertain, but also shows how guidance and experience can help you regain control.

The astrolabe, the navigation device that the sailor uses, is an important symbol in the story. This tool is more than just navigation; the device serves as the sailor’s mentor.

The mention of “Anemio,” the Greek wind god, personalizes the wind, making it feel powerful and almost spiritual.

I used the harsh sun and still ocean to show struggle and exhaustion, while the sudden wind represents change and relief. Emotionally, the story moves from frustration and doubt to confidence and calm.

I was inspired by the idea that people can feel lost at times but then find their way again through what they’ve learned and who has influenced them along their journey.

When writing this, I focused mainly on description and on making the reader feel stuck, which is part of the human experience.

Charlotte Marlowe is a high school Latin student at Upper Dublin High School. She serves as the treasurer of the Latin Club and has received Best of Show in the PJCL Art Contest.

Outside of Latin, she is active on the school's varsity track team, plays piano, and enjoys volunteering.

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WITH PROFOUND THANKS

RUDOLPH

MASCIANTONIO 28 SEPTEMBER, 1940 - 22 SEPTEMBER, 2016 Dr. Rudolph Masciantonio dedicated his life to the belief that classical studies should be accessible to all—and especially to the youngest of learners. A lifelong educator in the Philadelphia Public Schools, he taught Latin, Spanish, French, and social studies before becoming the city’s head of foreign languages and a visionary curriculum specialist.

In the 1970s, Dr. Masciantonio led one of the most ambitious Foreign Language in Elementary Schools (FLES) initiatives in the country. Under his guidance, students in grades four through six received daily Latin instruction from itinerant teachers. The results were profound: after just one year, students demonstrated measurable academic gains in reading and English vocabulary—evidence of the far-reaching impact Latin can have when introduced early.

In his will, Dr. Masciantonio established a trust fund of the Philadelphia Classical Society to encourage the study of Latin and Greek among students of all ages. The PCS Competition and today’s luncheon has been partially funded by this bequest.

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PAMPHILUS AND EUPOMPUS Celeste Newell, 12th Grade, Level II NJCL Creative Writing, 1st Place Pamphilus arose from his bed, casting aside his thin, ragged blanket and tying worn sandals onto his feet. The paint was now dry on his latest work, and he stared nervously at it for a few seconds before he left to buy bread for his breakfast. Almost frantically his gaunt figure strode down the alley while his bright, sullen eyes flitted about as if following the contours of some invisible scene. He returned with a piece of black bread, which he was already eating as he crossed the narrow threshold of his house. He wrapped his painting in a linen sheet and, setting it under his arm, left for Sicyon. There he would show his work to the master painter Eupompus, and seek his counsel.

The dusty road pounded at his feet, and the summer sun beat down on his sweating back.

The air was so sticky that he feared the wax paint of his picture had begun to melt, and he paused to unwrap it. For an unnerving moment, the linen seemed to cling to the panel.

Breathlessly he lifted it. The cloth rose cleanly. From behind it the dark eyes of Artemis stared back at him. The deep, watery greens of the picture for a moment relieved him of the deafening heat. As he folded the sheet over his painting again, he cast his gaze, eyes swimming, upon the blistering horizon. He could not see Sicyon.

When he finally arrived at the city, the sky glowed a febrile vermilion and his shadow stretched thrice his length across the ochre earth. He trudged down the noisy alleys, hoping he hadn’t misheard the directions that impatient merchant had given him. As the walls darkened around him, his exhaustion mingled with frantic worries. Would he find the house of Eupompus, or wander until he fell prey to bandits lurking in the night? If he did find the house, would anyone answer? Would the master, awoken from his sleep, storm down and open the door irate—yell at this presumptuous young buck for calling upon him at such an hour, expecting an audience with the great Eupompus?

As these morose musings filled his brain and the last miserable slice of sun retreated below the horizon, he realized he had come to a junction in the road.

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Pamphilus and Eupompus continued A fountain, spewing water from a stone Medusa’s gruesome mouth, bubbled at him from the facing wall. A stone Medusa—he recalled the merchant’s rasping voice. “…turn left, then walk until you are twenty paces away from the fountain with a stone Medusa. To your right will be the house of Eupompus.” Remembering this, the excited Pamphilus turned and ran back down the quiet street, clutching at the white linen covering his precious panel. He could not count his paces, for he flung himself down the road in frantic strides, but he needn’t have: he kept his eyes facing left, and halted at the only nameplate he had seen on the entire street. It read, of course, ΕΥΠΟΜΠΟΣ.

“What is your name, young man?”

So said the dignified, ruddy-faced master who answered the door in a large white tunic.

“I am Pamphilus. Am I correct to assume you are the great and esteemed Eupompus?”

“Eupompus I indeed am, although perhaps not esteemed and certainly not great. What brings you to my door?”

“I am a poor young painter who wishes your advice upon his work. Though I apologize for coming at so late an hour—if you could kindly spare a few minutes to view the—” “Nonsense, young man. It is dark, and I do not wish to view your work by lamplight. How could I make any sense of the colours, even of the fainter forms?”

“Sir, I’m very sorry. I left Amphipolis in the morning; but it took me all day to walk to Sicyon, and the sun was already setting as I began to search for your house.”

“Worry not, young man. Stay for a night, and I will examine your work in the morning.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Do you mind?”

“No—well—did you say I might lodge in your house tonight?”

“Were my words unclear, young man?”

“Not at all, master.”

So Eupompus beckoned the dizzy lad to his dinner table, where his family sat eating soup, lentils, and bread. Pamphilus wished the lamps were brighter so he could see the murals covering the walls, but he didn’t dare to ask for more light.

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ARS ET ANIMUS He sat at the edge of the table and shoveled soup into his mouth with handfuls of bread, trying to drink in the enlightened conversation of Eupompus—but he was so tired and deliriously happy that the words seemed like honey-sweet torrents of nonsense lulling him to sleep. He had no recollection of being put in bed.

“Pamphilus, have you slept enough?”

Pamphilus opened his eyes. He could see nothing except the white light streaming through the window, but he recognized the voice and realized where he was. He bolted upright.

“Master Eupompus! Of course, I am ready to enact your wishes.”

“There is nothing I wish of you, Pamphilus, except permission to unwrap your painting.”

“Sir? You needn’t have asked; it is my honor to have you view my humble work.”

He said this, but his mind filled with terror. What if he doesn’t like it? What if he laughs? What if he tells everyone? Pamphilus did not have time to finish these thoughts before he heard the master’s voice from the front room, crying: “Gods in heaven! What have I seen? These figures seem to reach out and breathe onto my face— the space seems so deep I might climb into it! Is this not the work of a sorcerer?”

Pamphilus grew frantic. Eupompus thought him a sorcerer? Now his reputation was surely ruined.

He rushed into the front room, barefoot and in his nightshirt, and threw himself upon his knees.

“Sir, I swear before Athena herself—or any deity you might name—I am only a painter who creates his art by the weak principles of his studies. Surely my work lacks such merit as to be suspected that dark arts are complicit in its production?”

Eupompus guffawed. “Young man, do you have no literary breeding? I did not mean to say that I truly suspected any weird sublunary powers to have assisted you—I would never make, unsubstantiated, such an affront to a brother of the brush.”

Pamphilus stood starstruck. Eupompus—the great Eupompus—was impressed. He must be dreaming. Pamphilus began to smack his arms.

“Are you delirious, lad? Why do you strike yourself so?!”

“I strike myself, master, because I wish to escape my delirium!”

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HS LATIN PROSE “Hoho! But I am not a delusion—it is you who is imagining yourself to have reason to hurt yourself so.”

Over breakfast, as Pamphilus admired the vivid frescos that covered the walls, Eupompus cast him a resolute glance. The young man shivered.

“Pamphilus,” the master began, “do you not think it would be wise if you submitted that panel as your application to paint the Dionysian temple mural? I expect the adjudicators would be rather impressed.”

Pamphilus nearly dropped his cup. A mural—a temple—the most public wall in Sicyon. He protested (as any poor young man must, when offered a miracle): he had never painted on a wall, not even his own; he could make small illusions on a panel, but to paint a mural would be to curse himself to failure.

“You can never fail under my guidance,” Eupompus said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And so Pamphilus submitted his Artemis.

The attendants, bless their senseless hearts, did what attendants sometimes do: they became intoxicated on beauty and certainty. Before Menaster himself had even deigned to look, the rumor had spread through servants and market-stalls alike that a young painter had won—had already won—the commission for the Dionysian temple.

Menaster, meanwhile, was having a good day.

He sauntered down the road, shoulders thrown back, brows scowling at the sunrise. “Today I will put those drunken little attendants in their place!

Apparently they haven’t learned that true worship of Dionysus lies in reserving all the wine for the gods, as we mortals are unfit to partake in any of it.” Such thoughts ran through Menaster’s squarish head while he strutted, and his path was always clear: passersby kept out of his way, though they nodded in sullen deference. As he flung open the temple doors, he bellowed: “Hippias! Show me the work of the contestants from this week! I will choose which shall get the commission!”

Hippias replied, too eagerly: “Venerable Menaster, it would be quicker if I showed you only the work of the winner, for his was so superior—”

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“Hmph,” said Menaster, and marched to the closet. Hippias produced a painting covered in linen.

Menaster snatched it, tore the cloth away—and fell into violent coughing.

“IDIOT!” he screamed when he could breathe. “You animals really are blind drunk. This is the most gruesome painting I have ever seen: it has no exalted beauty of any sort, it seems dank and deep and horrifically real. Anyone who sees it would be terrified, and never suspect the countenances depicted to be those of gods—this one seems like a common wench staring out of a dark doorway!”

Hippias, pale, offered to bring the other paintings. Menaster examined them one by one and hated them all, and when he heard that Eupompus had declined to submit, the blood rose in his head like a boil. He would go to Eupompus, he decided, and talk sense into that ageing painter who had grown too indulgent of youthful tricks.

“Priest Menaster,” Eupompus asked when the man arrived, “do you truly wish to uphold such a judgment of this young man’s work?”

“Yes, Eupompus. I have some respect for you as a man, and I am grateful to your work for having raised the reputation of Sicyon—but I cannot stomach the images of this youngster you promote.

In fact, I still feel ill from having seen them. Give me some of your wine; it will soothe my stomach.”

Eupompus poured. Menaster drank, then demanded to see the painter, muttering of banishment.

Pamphilus was fetched, ignorant of the storm he had wandered into. He entered with the stiff politeness of someone who has only ever bowed to power.

“Oh, venerated priest,” Pamphilus said, “it is an honour to meet you.”

Menaster’s face tightened into disgust.

“Young Pamphilus,” he began, “I have seen the work you submitted, and I cannot accept it. It is a total affront to the cultivated sensibility of religion, and will doubtlessly enrage the public who might have the misfortune of beholding it.”

At those words Pamphilus fainted into Eupompus’s arms.

Here, in a just world, the story would end in ashes.

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HS LATIN PROSE But Sicyon, as it happened, was a city that loved painting more than it loved priests.

The next day, Pamphilus’s Artemis stood in a corner of the Dionysian temple—set there under the pretense of “public judgment,” a scheme Eupompus had contrived with a visiting Athenian priest who had seen the panel and—unlike Menaster—possessed eyes. Although no services were held, a sign was posted outside the doors: PLEASE ENTER PRONAOS TO VIEW PAINTING BY DISPUTED WINNER OF MURAL CONTEST, AND REPORT YOUR OPINION TO THE ATTENDANT. A surprisingly large number of people came—men who did not even worship there, women who did not attend temples at all, boys who came only to scoff and remained, strangely quiet, before Artemis’s stare.

Hippias kept a tally of favorable and disfavorable votes, though he suspected it would do little to convince Menaster. The priest himself stayed shut up in his back room, but he could not block out the sounds of praise coming through the wall.

Around two o’clock he ran out of wine, but he was too embarrassed to leave and get more.

By the end of the day, the praise tallies outnumbered the vetoes by around five times.

Hippias wore a quizzical smile. Aristion chuckled in a corner. Together they went to report the result.

They found Menaster crumpled on the floor, eyes shut but painfully awake.

“Hippias…” he groaned. “You don’t need to tell me. I suppose…those swine…chose Polyphemus’s painting.”

“Yes, I am afraid so,” Hippias said, not sounding very sorry.

Menaster’s face twitched, as if it pained him to swallow his own pride.

“Well…damn it, then. Let him prepare the walls…” he croaked. “When he is ready, I will examine his sketches to see…that they do not contain anything…too heinous.”

And thus the city, not the priest, made the decision.

Somewhere beyond the temple doors, Pamphilus—still pale, still faint-prone, still unbelieving—stood with Eupompus beside him, clutching nothing now but the knowledge that his painting had survived the gaze of the world.

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THE AUTHOR’S WORK explained My short story "Pamphilus and Eupompus" conjectures the lives of the eponymous Eupompus and his pupil Pamphilus, both painters recorded to have live in ancient Greece. (Pamphilus's painting of Artemis is also a real object, though painted by myself and not Pamphilus.) Through ekphrasis and dialogue I present the artistic and religious life of the era, and use the description of characters to introduce psychological insight on the effects of art in society and worship. Some passages also delineate the kindhearted guidance that Eupompus provides; honest, encouraging, and devoid of meddling and the genericized plagiarism that we call convention. This is contrasted with the hypocritical orthodoxy of the crank Menaster--and the outcomes arising respectively from each may draw parallels to social phenomena in our lives today. Questions may arise herefrom regarding the nature of art, its value in society and religion, and its conflicting roles as personal expression and cultural currency.

Celeste Newell is a questionable creature who scrounges around in obscure corners of libraries and the internet. She has been studying Latin as of last summer, in order to learn to read the classics in their original form. Outside of writing, she paints, and plays musical instruments.

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HS POETRY

THE SPY’S WAX TABLET Anthony Civello, 10th Grade, Level III NJCL Creative Writing, 2nd Place

The marketplace of Rome was alive with noise; vendors shouting prices for wine, bakers hawking loaves of bread, and children darting between stalls with figs clutched in their hands. The smell of roasted meats mingled with incense drifting from nearby temples, while the clatter of sandals echoed against marble columns. Amid the chaos, a man in a plain tunic moved with deliberate calm. He carried a wax tablet tucked under his arm, its surface scratched with a simple list: bread, olives, oil, wine. To anyone watching, he was just another Roman citizen running errands. But beneath the wax lay a message that could topple a governor and save the empire.

This man was a member of the Frumentarii, Rome’s shadowy intelligence corps. Originally couriers tasked with transporting grain across the empire, the Frumentarii had evolved into the emperor’s “eyes and ears.” They monitored governors, reported on military loyalty, and suppressed dissent. Their name came from frumentum, meaning grain, but their actual cargo was information. And tonight, their courier carried more than just groceries.

The invention of the “double tablet” was born of necessity. Wax tablets were everywhere in Roman life: used by merchants to record debts, by teachers to drill students, and by senators to draft speeches. They were practical, reusable, and ordinary. But spies discovered that beneath the wax lay opportunity. By carving a second message into the wood itself, then pouring wax over it, they created a hidden layer of communication. The visible wax bore a trivial list, while the accurate intelligence: military movements, conspiracies, or coded instructions was etched into the wood. Only those who knew how to scrape away the wax could uncover the truth.

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The courier’s hidden message tonight was urgent. In Gaul, whispers of rebellion had reached Rome. A provincial governor was plotting with local chieftains, promising freedom from Roman taxes in exchange for loyalty. The spy’s carved words named conspirators, troop numbers, and dates of planned uprisings. If intercepted, the tablet would appear harmless. But in trusted hands, the wax would be scraped away, revealing the conspiracy beneath.

As he walked, the courier passed the Forum Romanum, where marble temples gleamed in torchlight. The Temple of Saturn loomed above, its columns a reminder of Rome’s immense wealth and power. Priests moved through the crowd, their robes brushing against merchants selling amphorae of wine and baskets of olives. Yet beneath that grandeur, corruption festered. Governors enriched themselves, soldiers grew restless, and enemies waited at the borders. The empire’s strength depended not only on legions and laws but on secrets carried in silence, like the very message transported tonight The courier’s path took him along the Via Appia, Rome’s great road stretching southward.

Roman roads were themselves of immense importance; symbols of order, engineering, and control.

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THE SPY’S WAX TABLET continued

They allowed legions to march swiftly, merchants to trade, and spies to move unseen.

Tonight, the road was his lifeline. Each step carried him closer to the imperial palace, where the emperor’s advisors awaited news. He passed milestones inscribed with Latin, reminders that Rome’s reach extended far beyond the physical city walls.

But danger lurked. The courier knew that Rome’s streets were filled with informants. A rival spy could seize the tablet, scrape away the wax, and expose the message. Torture was the price of failure, so he must not fail.

To protect himself, he rehearsed his cover story: a simple man sent to fetch groceries for his household. The wax tablet, with its list of bread and wine, was his shield. He even muttered the list under his breath, as if reminding himself of errands, blending into the rhythm of ordinary life.

The brilliance of the double tablet lay in its simplicity. Unlike complex ciphers, it required no mathematics or elaborate decoding. It was a physical trick, hiding information in plain sight. Roman spies understood that deception was not about dazzling complexity but about invisibility. A grocery list was believable, ordinary, forgettable. That ordinariness was its greatest strength.

As the courier approached the Colosseum, its massive arches cast shadows across the street. The amphitheater was a product of Rome’s obsession with spectacle; gladiators fought, animals were slaughtered, and crowds roared. Torches flickered against stone walls, illuminating carved reliefs of victories and gods. Yet even here, spies moved among the spectators, listening for whispers of dissent. The empire’s entertainment masked its fragility, using bread and circuses as its cover. Just as the Colosseum’s grandeur concealed the blood beneath, the wax tablet concealed rebellion beneath a grocery list. .

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He continued past shrines dedicated to household gods, where families left offerings of bread and wine. Religion was woven into every corner of Roman life, and spies knew how to use it. A tablet carried into a temple looked like nothing more than a record of sacrifices. But in truth, it could carry intelligence across provinces, hidden beneath wax and prayer.

Finally, the courier reached the Palatine Hill, where the emperor’s palace rose above the city. Guards inspected him, glanced at the tablet, and waved him through. To them, it was nothing more than a list of household goods. But inside, in a quiet chamber lit by oil lamps, the wax was scraped away. The carved words emerged, stark and urgent: Rebellion in Gaul. Troops gathering. Conspirators named.

The emperor’s advisors leaned over the tablet, their faces grim. The double tablet had done its work. A mundane grocery list had carried a message that might save Rome from chaos.

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HS PROSE

THE AUTHOR’S WORK explained The piece explores the idea of hidden truth beneath ordinary life, using ancient Rome as the setting. The double tablet acts as the main symbol, showing how something simple can conceal information powerful enough to change history.

The busy streets, temples, and markets represent the surface of Roman society, while the secret message carved beneath the wax reflects the danger and corruption underneath. I wrote this to show how fear, duty, and responsibility can exist quietly inside everyday routines, and how a single person can carry a burden that no one around them notices.

Anthony Civello is a determined high school Latin III student at Upper Dublin High School. He has earned nominations and awards for PCS and PLUMA in the past and has been a member of the National Latin Honors Society for multiple consecutive years. Outside of Latin, he is an active member of clubs, works as a cashier, and volunteers at his church.

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BERNICE L. FOX CONTEST AD

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OFFICERS EDITORS EMMANUELLE KRAMER

LAYA SUBRAMANIAN SENIOR EDITOR

SONJA MANKOPF JUNIOR EDITOR

AVA MORICONI EDITOR

EDEN JOSEPF EDITOR

ARS ET ANIMUS ARS ET ANIMUS is the annual literary magazine of the Upper Dublin High School.

Dedicated to showcasing the finest creative and scholarly works from middle and high school students. Featuring award-winning pieces in prose, both in English and Latin, our publication celebrates excellence in classical literature, language, and imagination, connecting the ancient world with the voices of today’s young scholars.

NOMINEES ARLO DALGARNO-PLATT ELISE BRASCH HAZEL CHABALLA ANTHONY CIVELLO SAMUEL CRUZ JACEN GLASSMAN VIOLET GORMAN JULIA GREGG EMMANUELLE KRAMER MORGAN KEATON CHARLOTTE MARLOWE AVA MORICONI

MOLLY PERMAR STEPHEN SENA LAYA SUBRAMANIAN SOPHIA VITELLA MERIAH WILSON

ARS ET

OLIVIA MORICONI

NO.2