of what’s going on up there? Ah, here comes one, panting as if he’d run across that stream at Elis where Olympian athletes race.

Where is . . . Where is he . . . where . . . where is . . .

where . . . where . . . our governor Pisthetairos?

I’m here.

The building of your wall . . . it’s done.

That’s great news.

The result—the best there is . . . the most magnificent . . . so wide across . . . that Proxenides of Braggadocio and Theogenes could drive two chariots in opposite directions past each other along the top, with giant horses yoked, bigger than that wooden horse at Troy.

By Hercules!

I measured it myself—

its height—around six hundred feet.

Wow! By Poseidon, that’s some height! Who built the wall as high as that?

The birds—nobody else. No Egyptian bore the bricks—no mason, no carpenter was there. They worked by hand— I was amazed. Thirty thousand cranes flew in from Lybia—they brought foundation stones they’d swallowed down. The corn crakes chipped away to form the proper shapes. Ten thousand storks brought bricks. Lapwings and other river birds fetched water up into the air from down below.

Who hauled the mortar up there for them?

Herons— they carried hods.

How’d they load those hods?

My dear man, that was the cleverest thing of all. Geese shoved their feet into the muck and slid them, just like shovels, then flicked it in the hods.

Is there anything we can’t do with our feet?

FIRST MESSENGER:

Then, by god, the ducks, with slings attached around their waists, set up the bricks. Behind them flew the swallows, like young apprentice boys,

with trowels—they carried mortar in their mouths.

Why should we hire wage labour any more? Go on—who finished off the woodwork on the wall?

The most skilled craftsmen-birds of all of them— woodpeckers. They pecked away to make the gates— the noise those peckers made—an arsenal! Now the whole thing has gates. They’re bolted shut and guarded on all sides. Sentries make rounds, patrolling with their bells, and everywhere

troops are in position, with signal fires on every tower. But I must go now— I need to wash. You’ll have to do the rest.

What’s up with you? Aren’t you astonished to hear the wall’s been finished up so fast?

Yes, by gods, I am. It is amazing! To me it sounds just like some made-up lie. But here comes a guard from there—he’ll bring news to us down here of what’s going on up top. He face looks like a dancing warrior’s.

Hey . . . hey . . . Help . . . hey you . . . help!

What’s going on?

We suffered something really bad . . . one of the gods from Zeus has just got through, flown past the gates into the air, slipping by the jackdaw sentinels on daytime watch.

That’s bad! A bold and dangerous action. Which god was it?

We’re not sure. He had wings— we do know that.

You should have sent patrols of frontier guards out after him without delay.

We did dispatch the mounted archers— thirty thousand falcons, all moving out

with talons curved and ready—kestrels, buzzards, vultures, eagles, owls—the air vibrating with the beat and rustle of their wings, as they search out that god. He’s not far off— in fact, he’s here somewhere already.

We’ll have to get our sling-shots out—and bows. All you orderlies come here! Fire away! Strike out! Someone fetch a sling for me!

And now the combat starts, a strife beyond all words, me and the gods at war. Let everyone beware,

protect the cloud-enclosing air, which Erebus gave birth to long ago. Make sure no god slips through without our catching sight of him. Maintain your watch on every side—already I can hear close by the sound of beating wings from some god in the sky.

Hey, you—just where do you think you’re flying? Keep still. Stay where you are. Don’t move. Stop running.

Who are you? Where you from? You’ve got to tell me. Where’d you come from?

I’m from the Olympian gods.

You got a name? You look

like a ship up there—

the Salaminia or the Paralos.

I’m fast Iris.

Fast as in a boat or fast as in a bitch?

What is all this?

Is there a buzzard here who’ll fly up there to arrest this woman?

Arrest me? Why are you saying such rubbish?

You’re going to be very sorry about this.

This whole affair is most unusual.

Listen, you silly old fool, what gates did you pass through to breach the wall?

What gates? By god, I don’t have the least idea.

Listen to her—how she feigns ignorance! Did you go past the jackdaw generals? You won’t answer that? Well then, where’s your pass, the one the storks give out?

What’s wrong with you?

You don’t have one, do you?

Have you lost your wits?

Didn’t some captain of the birds up there stick a pass on you?

By god no, no one up there made a pass or shoved his stick at me, you wretch.

So you just fly in here, without a word, going through empty space and through a city which don’t belong to you?

What other route are gods supposed to fly?

I’ve no idea. But, by god, not this way. It’s not legal.

Right now you’re in breach of law. Do you know, of all the Irises there are around, if you got what you most deserve, you’d be the one most justly seized and sent to die.

But I’m immortal.

In spite of that, you would have died. For it’s obvious to me that we’d be suffering the greatest injury, if, while we rule all other things, you gods do just what you like and won’t recognize how you must, in your turn, attend upon those more powerful than you. So tell me, where are you sailing on those wings of yours?

Me? I’m flying to men from father Zeus,

instructing them to sacrifice some sheep to the Olympian gods on sacred hearths— and fill their streets with smells of offerings.

Who are you talking about? Which gods?

Which gods? Why us of course—the gods in heaven.

And you’re the gods?

Are there any other deities?

The birds are now men’s gods—and to the birds men must now sacrifice and not, by god, to Zeus.

Thou fool, thou fool, stir not the awesome minds of gods, lest Justice with the mighty mattock of great Zeus

destroy your race completely—and smoke-filled flames from Licymnian lightning bolts burn into ash your body and your home . . .

Listen, woman—stop your spluttering. Just keep still. Do you think you’re scaring off

some Lydian or Phrygian with such threats? You should know this—if Zeus keeps on annoying me, I’ll burn his home and halls of Amphion, reduce them all to ash with fire eagles. I’ll send more than six hundred birds—porphyrions all dressed in leopard skins, up there to heaven,

to war on him. Once a single porphyrion caused him distress enough. And as for you, if you keep trying to piss me off, well then, I’ll deal with Zeus’s servant Iris first—

I’ll fuck your knickers off—you’d be surprised how hard an old man’s prick like mine can be— it’s strong enough to ram your hull three times.

Blast you, you wretch, and your obscenities!

Go way! Get a move on! Shoo!

My father won’t stand for insolence like this—he’ll stop you!

Just go away, you silly fool! Fly off [1210] and burn someone to ashes somewhere else.

On Zeus’s family of gods we’ve shut our door— they’ll not be passing through my city any more. Nor will men down below in future time invoke the gods by sending them their sacrificial smoke.

Something’s wrong. That messenger we sent, the one that went to human beings, what if he never gets back here again?

O Pisthetairos, you blessed one, wisest and most celebrated of all men . . . the cleverest and happiest . . . trebly blest . . .

[He’s run out of adjectives] . . . Speak something to me . . .

What are you saying?

All people, in honour of your wisdom,

crown you with this golden diadem.

I accept. But why do people honour me so much?

O you founder of this most famous town, this city in the sky, do you not know how much respect you have among all men, how many men there are who love this place? Before you built your city in the air,

all men were mad for Sparta—with long hair, they went around half starved and never washed, like Socrates—and carrying knobbed sticks.

But now they’ve all completely changed—these days they’re crazy for the birds. For sheer delight they imitate the birds in everything. Early in the day when they’ve just got up, like us, they all flock to feed together, but on their laws, browsing legal leaflets, nibbling their fill of all decrees. So mad have they become for birds that many men

have had the names of birds assigned to them. One lame tradesman now is called the Partridge. And Melanippus’ name is changed to Swallow, Opuntius the Raven with One Eye. Philocles becomes the Lark, and Sheldrake is now Teagenes’s name. Lycurgus has become the Ibis, Chaerephon the Bat, Syracosius the Jay, and Meidias is now named the Quail—he looks like one right after the quail flicker’s tapped its head. They’re so in love with birds they all sing songs

with lines about a swallow or a duck,

or goose, some kind of pigeon, or just wings, even about some tiny bits of feather. That's what’s going on down there. I tell you, more than ten thousand men are coming here, demanding wings and talons in their lives. You’ve got to find a way to get some wings for your new colonists and immigrants.

All right, by god, this is no time for us to just stand around. [To a slave] You, get inside there— fill all the crates and baskets up with feathers.

Get on with it as fast as possible. Let Manes haul the wings out here to me. I’ll welcome those who come from down below.

Our city soon will have a reputation for a large and swelling population.

Just let our luck hold out!

Our city here inspires so much love . . .

I’m telling you you’ve got to bring it fast!

For what do we not have here up above which any men require in their places? Desire, Wisdom, and eternal Graces— we’ve got them all and what is still the best— the happy face of gentle peaceful Rest.

God, you’re a lazy slave—move it! Faster!

Let him bring the wings in baskets on the go— then once more run at him—give him a blow. The lad is like a donkey—he’s that slow.

Yes, that Manes is a useless slave.

Now first of all you need to sort