an offering to the gods.

That’s my view, too.

So what name shall we give our city?

Well, do you want to use that mighty name

from Lacedaemon—shall we call it Sparta?

By Hercules, would I use that name Sparta for my city? No. I wouldn’t even try esparto grass to make my bed, not if I could use cords of linen.

All right then, what name shall we provide?

Some name from around here— to do with clouds, with high places full of air, something really extra grand.

Well, then, how do you like this: Cloudcuckooland?

Yes! That’s good! You’ve come up with a name

that’s really wonderful—it’s great!

Hang on, is this Cloudcuckooland the very spot where Theogenes keeps lots of money, and Aeschines hides all his assets?

It’s even more than that—it’s Phlegra Plain, the place where gods beat up on all the Giants in a bragging match.

This fine metropolis! O what a glittering thing this city is! Now who should be the city’s guardian god? Who gets to wear the sacred robes we weave?

Why not let Athena do the guarding?

But how can we have a finely ordered state where a female goddess stands there fully

armed,

that’s really wonderful—it’s great!

Hang on, is this Cloudcuckooland the very spot where Theogenes keeps lots of money, and Aeschines hides all his assets?

It’s even more than that—it’s Phlegra Plain, the place where gods beat up on all the Giants in a bragging match.

This fine metropolis! O what a glittering thing this city is! Now who should be the city’s guardian god? Who gets to wear the sacred robes we weave?

Why not let Athena do the guarding?

But how can we have a finely ordered state where a female goddess stands there fully

armed,

while Cleisthenes still fondles weaving shuttles.

Well, who will hold our city’s strong Storkade?

A bird among us of a Persian breed— it’s said to be the fiercest anywhere of all the war god’s chicks.

Some princely cocks? They’re just the gods to live among the rocks!

Come now, you must move up into the air,

and help the ones who’re building up the wall— hoist rubble for ’em, strip and mix the mortar, haul up the hod, and then fall off the ladder.

Put guards in place, and keep all fires concealed. Make your inspection rounds holding the bell. Go to sleep up there. Then send out heralds— one to gods above, one down to men below. And then come back from there to me.

And you? You’ll stay here? Well, to hell with you . . .

Hey, my friend, you should go where I send you—without you

none of that work I mentioned will get done. We need a sacrifice to these new gods. I’ll call a priest to organize the show.

You, boy, pick up the basket, and you, my lad, grab up the holy water.

I think it’s good and I agree, your notions here are fine with me, a great big march with dancing throngs and to the gods send holy songs, and then their benefits to keep

we’ll sacrifice a baby sheep— let go our cry, the Pythian shout, while Chaeris plays our chorus out.

Stop blowing all that noise! By Hercules, what’s this? I’ve seen some strange things, heaven knows,

but never this—a raven with a pipe shoved up his nose. Come on, priest, work your spell, and sacrifice to these new gods as well.

I’ll do it. But where’s the basket-bearing boy?

Let us now pray to Hestia of the birds,

and to the Kite that watches o’er the hearth, to all Olympian birds and birdesses . . .

O Hawk of Sunium, all hail to you, Lord of the Sea . . .

And to the Pythian Swan of Delos— let’s pray to Leto, mother of the quail

to Artemis the Goldfinch . . .

Ha! No more goddess of Colaenis now, but goldfinch Artemis . . .

. . . to Sabazdios, Phrygian frigate bird, to the great ostrich mother of the gods

and of all men . . .

. . . to Cybele,

our ostrich queen, mother of Cleocritos . . .

. . . may they give to all Cloudcuckooites security, good health, as well—and to the Chians, too.

I do like that—the way those Chians

always get included everywhere.

. . . to Hero birds, and to their chicks, to Porphyrions and Pelicans, both white and grey, to Raptor-birds and Pheasants, Peacocks and Warblers . . .

. . . Ospreys and Teals Herons and Gannets, Terns, small Tits, big Tits, and . . .

Hold on, dammit—stop calling all these birds. You idiot! In what sort of sacrifice

does one call for ospreys and for vultures? Don’t you see—one kite could snatch this goat, then carry it away? Get out of here, you and your garlands, too. I’ll do it myself— I’ll offer up this beast all on my own.

Now once again I have to sing a song to purify you all, a holy sacred melody.

The Blessed Ones I have to call— but if you’re in a mood to eat we just need one and not a score for here our sacrificial meat

is horns and hair, and nothing more.

Let us pray while we make sacrifice to our feathery gods . . .

O Muse, in your songs sing the renown of Cloudcuckooland—this happy town . . .

Where’d this thing come from? Tell me—who are you?

Me? I’m a sweet tongued warbler of the words— a nimble servant of the Muse, as Homer says.

You’re a slave and wear your hair that long?

No, but all poets of dramatic songs are nimble servants of the Muse, as Homer says.

No doubt that’s why your nimble cloak’s so thin. But, O poet, why has thou come hither?

I’ve been making up all sorts of splendid songs to celebrate your fine Cloudcuckoolands— dithyrambs and virgin songs and other tunes

after the style of that Simonides.

When did you compose these tunes? Some time ago?

O long long ago—yes, I’ve been singing the glory of this town for years.

Look here— I’ve just been making sacrifice today— the day our city gets its name. What’s more, it’s only now, as with a new-born child, I’ve given it that name.

Ah yes, but Muses’ words are swift indeed— like twinkling hooves on rapid steeds. So thou, O father, first of Aetna’s kings,

whose name means lots of holy things, present me something from thy grace whate’er you wish, just nod your face.

This fellow here is going to give us trouble— unless we can escape by giving something.

You there with the tunic and the jerkin on. Strip off the leather coat and give it up to this master poet. Take this jerkin. You look as if you’re really freezing cold.

The darling Muse accepts the gift

and not unwillingly— But now your wit should get a lift from Pindar’s words which . . .

This fellow’s never going to go away!

“Out there amid nomadic Scythians, he wanders from the host in all his shame, he who has no woven garment shuttle-made— a jerkin on, but no tunic to his name.” I speak so you can understand.

Yes, I get it—you want the tunic, too.

Take it off. We must assist our poets.

Take this and get out.

I’m on my way— But as I go I’ll still make songs like these in honour of your city— “O thou sitting on a golden throne,

sing to celebrate that shivering, quivering land. I walked its snow-swept fruitful plains . . .”

Aaaaiiiii!

Well, by Zeus, at least you’ve now put behind the cold, since you’ve got that little tunic on! God knows, that’s a problem I’d not thought about— he learned about our city here so fast.

Come, boy, pick up the holy water and walk around again. Let everyone observe a sacred holy silence now . . .

Don’t sacrifice that goat!

What? Who are you?

Who am I? I’m an oracular interpreter.

To hell with you!

Now, now, my dear good man, don’t disparage things divine. You should know there’s an oracle of Bacis which speaks of your Cloudcuckooland—it’s pertinent.

Then how come you didn’t talk to me about this prophecy some time before I set my city here?

I could not do that— powers divine held me in check.

Well, I guess there’s nothing wrong in listening to it now.

“Once grey crows and wolves shall live together in that space between Corinth and Sicyon . . .”

What's my connection to Corinthians?

Its Bacis’ cryptic way of saying “air.”

Now, now, my dear good man, don’t disparage things divine. You should know there’s an oracle of Bacis which speaks of your Cloudcuckooland—it’s pertinent.

Then how come you didn’t talk to me about this prophecy some time before I set my city here?

I could not do that— powers divine held me in check.

Well, I guess there’s nothing wrong in listening to it now.

“Once grey crows and wolves shall live together in that space between Corinth and Sicyon . . .”

What's my connection to Corinthians?

Its Bacis’ cryptic way of saying “air.”

Now, now, my dear good man, don’t disparage things divine. You should know there’s an oracle of Bacis which speaks of your Cloudcuckooland—it’s pertinent.

Then how come you didn’t talk to me about this prophecy some time before I set my city here?

I could not do that— powers divine held me in check.

Well, I guess there’s nothing wrong in listening to it now.

“Once grey crows and wolves shall live together in that space between Corinth and Sicyon . . .”

What's my connection to Corinthians?

Its Bacis’ cryptic way of saying “air.”

“First sacrifice to Pandora a white-fleeced ram. Whoever first comes to prophesy my words, let him receive a brand new cloak and sandals.”

Are sandals in there, too?

Consult the book. “Give him the bowl, fill his hands full with offal . . .”

The entrails? Does it says that in there?

Consult the book. “Inspired youth, if thou dost complete what here I do command, thou shalt become an eagle in the clouds—if not, if thou will not give them me, you’ll ne’er become an eagle, or a turtle dove, or woodpecker.”

That’s all in there, as well?

Consult the book.

Your oracle is not at all like this one— Apollo’s very words. I them wrote down. “When an impostor comes without an invitation— a cheating rogue—and pesters men at sacrifice, so keen is he to taste the inner parts, well then, he must be beaten hard between the ribs . . .”

I don’t think you’re reading that.

Consult the book! “Do not spare him, even if he’s way up there, an eagle in the clouds, or if he’s Lampon or great Diopeithes in the flesh.”

That’s not in there, is it?

Consult the book. Now, get out! To hell with you . . .

Ooooh . . . poor me!

Your oracle is not at all like this one— Apollo’s very words. I them wrote down. “When an impostor comes without an invitation— a cheating rogue—and pesters men at sacrifice, so keen is he to taste the inner parts, well then, he must be beaten hard between the ribs . . .”

I don’t think you’re reading that.

Consult the book! “Do not spare him, even if he’s way up there, an eagle in the clouds, or if he’s Lampon or great Diopeithes in the flesh.”

That’s not in there, is it?

Consult the book. Now, get out! To hell with you . . .

Ooooh . . . poor me!

Run off and do your soothsaying somewhere else!

I have come here among you all . . .

Here’s more trouble. And what have you come here to do? Your scheme— what’s it look like? What do you have in mind? Why hike up here in buskin?

I intend to measure out the air for you—dividing it in surveyed lots.

For heaven’s sake, who are you?

Who am I? I’m Meton— famous throughout Greece and Colonus.

What are these things you’ve got?

Rods to measure air. You see, the air is, in its totality,

Run off and do your soothsaying somewhere else!

I have come here among you all . . .

Here’s more trouble. And what have you come here to do? Your scheme— what’s it look like? What do you have in mind? Why hike up here in buskin?

I intend to measure out the air for you—dividing it in surveyed lots.

For heaven’s sake, who are you?

Who am I? I’m Meton— famous throughout Greece and Colonus.

What are these things you’ve got?

Rods to measure air. You see, the air is, in its totality,

shaped like a domed pot cover . . . Thus . . . and so, from up above I’ll lay my ruler . . . it bends . . . thus . . . set my compass inside there . . . You see?

I don’t get it.

With this straight ruler here I measure this, so that your circle here

becomes a square—and right in the middle there we have a market place, with straight highways proceeding to the centre, like a star, which, although circular, shines forth straight beams in all directions . . . Thus . . .

This man’s a Thales! Now, Meton . . .

What?

You know I love you—

so do as I say and head out of town.

Am I in peril?

It’s like in Sparta— they’re kicking strangers out—lots of trouble— plenty of beatings on the way through town.

You mean a revolution?

God no, not that.

Then what?

They’ve reached a firm decision— it was unanimous—to punch out every quack.

I think I’d best be off.

You should, by god, although you may not be in time—the blows are coming thick and fast . . .

O dear me . . . I’m in a pickle!

Did I not say that some time ago? Go somewhere else and do your measuring!

so do as I say and head out of town.

Am I in peril?

It’s like in Sparta— they’re kicking strangers out—lots of trouble— plenty of beatings on the way through town.

You mean a revolution?

God no, not that.

Then what?

They’ve reached a firm decision— it was unanimous—to punch out every quack.

I think I’d best be off.

You should, by god, although you may not be in time—the blows are coming thick and fast . . .

O dear me . . . I’m in a pickle!

Did I not say that some time ago? Go somewhere else and do your measuring!

so do as I say and head out of town.

Am I in peril?

It’s like in Sparta— they’re kicking strangers out—lots of trouble— plenty of beatings on the way through town.

You mean a revolution?

God no, not that.

Then what?

They’ve reached a firm decision— it was unanimous—to punch out every quack.

I think I’d best be off.

You should, by god, although you may not be in time—the blows are coming thick and fast . . .

O dear me . . . I’m in a pickle!

Did I not say that some time ago? Go somewhere else and do your measuring!

Where are your honorary governors?

Who is this man—a Sardanapallos?

I have come here to Cloudcuckooland as your Commissioner—I was picked by lot.

As Commissioner? Who sent you here?

Some dreadful paper from that Teleas.

How’d you like to receive your salary and leave, without doing anything?

By god, that would be nice. I should be staying at home for the assembly. I’ve been doing some work on Pharnakes’ behalf.

Then take your fee and go! Here’s what you get . . . [strikes him]

What was that?

A motion on behalf of Pharnakes.

I call on witnesses—he’s hitting me— He can’t do that—I’m a Commissioner!

Piss off! And take your voting urns with you! Don’t you find it weird? Already they’ve sent out Commissioners to oversee the city, before we’ve made the gods a sacrifice.

“If a resident of Cloudcuckooland should wrong a citizen of Athens . . .”

Here come scrolls again—what’s the trouble now?

I’m a statute seller—and I’ve come here to sell you brand-new laws.

What laws?

Like this— “Residents of Cloudcuckooland must use

I call on witnesses—he’s hitting me— He can’t do that—I’m a Commissioner!

Piss off! And take your voting urns with you! Don’t you find it weird? Already they’ve sent out Commissioners to oversee the city, before we’ve made the gods a sacrifice.

“If a resident of Cloudcuckooland should wrong a citizen of Athens . . .”

Here come scrolls again—what’s the trouble now?

I’m a statute seller—and I’ve come here to sell you brand-new laws.

What laws?

Like this— “Residents of Cloudcuckooland must use

the same weights and measures and currency as those in Olophyxia.”

Soon enough you’ll use them on your ass, you Fix-your-Holean!!

What’s up with you?

Take your laws and shove off! Today I’ll give you laws you really feel!

“I summon Pisthetairos to appear in court in April on a charge of official outrage . . .”

Really? You again! Why are you still here?

“If anyone chases off court officers and won’t receive them as the law decrees . . .”

This is getting really bad—you still here?

I’ll ruin you! I’m taking you to court— ten thousand drachmas you’ll . . .

PISTHETAIROS: [turning and chasing the Commissioner off stage]

And I’ll throw out those voting urns of yours!

Have you any memory of those evenings when you used to shit on public pillars where our laws are carved?

O god! Someone grab him!

Not going to stick around?

[To Slaves] Let’s get out of here—and fast. Go inside. We’ll sacrifice the goat to the gods in there.

All mortal men commencing on this day at every shrine will sacrifice to me, from now on offering me the prayers they say,