we often spy strange amazing spots— in those flights peculiar sights.

There’s a tree grows far from us simply called Cleonymos, a useless tree, without a heart— immense, and vile in every part. It always blooms in early spring,

bursting forth with everything that launches legal quarrelling. and then in winter time it yields

a shedding foliage of shields.

There’s a land ringed by the dark, a gloomy wilderness, where Heroes meet and with men eat.

Men live with heroes in that place,

except at dusk—then it’s not safe for the two of them to meet. Men who in the night time greet

the great Orestes are stripped bare he strikes at them and leaves them there. And so without their clothes they bide— paralysed on their right side.

Oh, dear, dear, dear. I pray Zeus doesn’t see me. Where’s Pisthetairos?

Who’s this? Why so muffled?

Do you see any god who’s trailed me here?

No, by Zeus, I don’t. But who are you?

What time of day is it?

What time of day? A little after noon. But who are you?

Quitting time or later?

You’re pissing me off . . .

What’s Zeus up to? What about the clouds— is he scattering them—or bringing them together?

You’re a total fool!

All right—then I’ll unwrap.

Prometheus, my friend!

Hey, quiet. Don’t shout.

What’s the matter?

Shhh . . . don’t shout my name. I’m done for if Zeus can see I’m here.

But I’ll tell you what’s going on up there, if you take this umbrella. Hold it up, above our heads—that way no god can see.

Ah ha! Now that’s a smart precaution—

You’re pissing me off . . .

What’s Zeus up to? What about the clouds— is he scattering them—or bringing them together?

You’re a total fool!

All right—then I’ll unwrap.

Prometheus, my friend!

Hey, quiet. Don’t shout.

What’s the matter?

Shhh . . . don’t shout my name. I’m done for if Zeus can see I’m here.

But I’ll tell you what’s going on up there, if you take this umbrella. Hold it up, above our heads—that way no god can see.

Ah ha! Now that’s a smart precaution—

that’s forethought, just like Prometheus! Come under here—make it fast—all right, now, you can talk without a worry.

Then listen.

I’m listening—speak up.

Zeus is done for.

And when was he done in?

It happened once you colonized the air. From that point on,

no human being has made a sacrifice to any god, not once—and since that time no savoury smells from roasting thigh bones have risen up to us from down below. So now, without our offerings, we must fast, as if it’s time for Thesmophoria. The barbarian gods are starving?so now

they scream out like Illyrians and say their armies will march down attacking Zeus, unless he moves to get the ports re-opened,

to make sliced entrails once again available.

You mean other gods, barbarian ones, are there above you?

Barbarian deities? Of course. That’s where Execestides derives all his ancestral family gods.

What’s the name of these barbarian gods?

The name? They’re called Triballians.

I see—that must be where we get our phrase a gods’s got me “by the balls.”

You got that right. Now let me tell you something to the point—

ambassadors are coming here to settle this, from Zeus and those Triballians up there. But don’t agree to peace unless great Zeus gives back his sceptre to the birds again, and gives the Princess to you as your wife.

Whose this Princess?

The loveliest of girls— she’s the one in charge of Zeus’s thunderbolt and all his assets—wise advice, good laws, sound common sense, dockyards, slanderous talk—

his paymistress who hands three obols out to jury men . . .

So in Zeus’s name, she’s the one in charge of everything?

That’s right. If you get her from Zeus, you’ve got it all. That’s why I came here to tell you this. I’ve always been a friend of human beings.

Yes, of all the gods it’s thanks to you that we can fry up fish.

I hate all gods— but you know that.

You’ve always hated them. Heaven knows—it’s something natural to you.

I’m Timon through and through. Time to get back.

So let me have the parasol. That way, if Zeus does catch sight of me from there, he’ll think I’m following some basket girl.

Take the piss pot, too—then you can act as if you’re the one who’s carrying the stool.

By that tribe of men with such huge feet they use them for a shade retreat, there’s stands a lake where Socrates, deceives men’s souls, that unwashed tease. Peisander went there to find out

the spirit his life had been without. A big young camel he did slay,

then, like Odysseus, snuck away. By camel’s blood to that place drawn, up pops a Bat—it’s Chaerephon!

Here it is—Cloudcuckooland—in plain view, city we’ve come to as ambassadors.

What are you doing? Why drape your cloak that way, from right to left? It’s got to be re-slung the other way—like this.

You fumbling idiot—

a born Laespodias, that’s what you are! O democracy! Where are you taking us,

when gods vote in a clumsy oaf like this?

Keep your hands still! O to hell with you! You’re the most uncivilized of all the gods I’ve ever seen. All right, Hercules, what do we do?

You’ve heard what I propose. I’d like to wring his neck—whoever he is who set up this blockade against the gods.

But you forget, my friend, that we’ve been sent

as envoys to negotiate down here.

That just makes me want to throttle him twice as much as I wanted to before.

The grater for the cheese—can someone get it? And bring the silphium. Hand me the cheese. Now, fire up the coals.

Greetings, mortal. We three are gods, and we salute you!

But I’m grating silphium right now.

What kind of meat is this?

The meat’s from birds— they’ve been tried and sentenced for rebellion,

rising up against the fowl democracy.

Is that why you’re shredding silphium all over them before doing something else?

Well, hello there, Hercules. What’s up?

We’ve come as envoys sent down from the gods to negotiate the terms for peace.

There’s no oil left in the jug.

And bird meat should be glistening with lots of oil.

We gods get no advantage from this war. If you and yours were friendly to the gods,

you’d have water from the rain in all your ponds— halcyon days would be here all the time. We’ve come with total powers in such things.

From the start we didn’t launch a war on you— and we’re ready to talk peace, if that’s your wish, provided you’re prepared to do what’s right. And here’s what’s right: Zeus gives his sceptre back to us—I mean the birds—once more. And then, if we can settle this on these conditions,

I’ll invite the envoys to have lunch with me.

That’s just fine with me! I vote we say . . .

What’s that you fool! Idiotic glutton! You want give away your father’s power?

Is that what you think? Look, if birds here rule everything down there, won’t you gods above be even stronger? Now underneath the clouds men can bend down and swear false oaths to you. But once the birds and you become allies,

if any man should swear by Raven and by Zeus and then perjure himself, Raven would come by,

swoop down upon the man before he sees him, peck at his eye and pluck it out.

By Poseidon, what you’re saying makes good sense!

Sounds good to me.

What do you say?

Nab aist roo.

You hear what he said? He agrees with you. Now listen up—here’s yet another benefit you’ll get from us. If any man once vows to one of the gods he’ll sacrifice a beast, then tries to talk his way out of doing it by splitting hairs and, acting on his greed,

holds back his vow, saying “Gods are patient,”

we’ll make him pay for that as well.

How? Tell us how you’d do that.

Well, at some point, when that man is counting up his wealth or sitting in his bath, some kite will fly down, while he’s not paying attention, grab his cash, the value of two sheep, and carry that up to the god.

He gets my vote again— I say we give the sceptre back to them.

All right—ask the Triballian.

Hey, you— Triballian—want me to smack you round?

Oo smacka skeen dat steek?

He says it’s fine— he agrees with me.

Well, if it’s what you want,

then it’s all right with me.

Hey, we’re ready to agree to terms about the sceptre.

By god, there’s one more thing— I’ve just remembered. I’ll let Zeus keep Hera, but he must give me that young girl Princess. She’s to be my wife.

Then you don’t want a real negotiation. Come on, let’s go back home.

That’s up to you. Hey, cook, watch that gravy.

Make sure you make it sweet!

Hey, Poseidon, my dear fellow, where you going? Come on, are we going to war about a woman?

What should we do?

Do? Settle this matter.

What? You fool! Don’t you see what he’s doing, how all this time he’s been deceiving you? You’re ruining yourself, you know. If Zeus dies, after giving all his sovereignty to birds, you’ll have nothing. Right now you’re his heir— you get whatever’s left when Zeus departs.

Oh dear, dear—how he’s trying to play with you. Come on over here—let me tell you something.

You uncles’s putting one over on you, you poor fool—because, according to the law, you don’t get the smallest piece of property from your father’s goods. You’re illegitimate—

you’re a bastard.

A bastard? What do you mean?

I mean just what I say. Now, your mother? she was an alien woman. And Athena— do you think a daughter could inherit if she’s got legal brothers?

But once he dies, couldn’t my dad leave me all his property as a bastard’s share?

The law won’t let him. The first one to claim your father’s property

will be Poseidon here, who’s raised your hopes. He’ll claim he’s your father’s legal brother. I’ll read you what Solon’s laws dictate—

“If there are lawful children, then a bastard has no rights as a close blood relative. If there are no lawful children, the goods

go to the nearest next of kin.”

What! I don’t get anything from my dad’s stuff?

Not a thing, by god. So tell me this— has your father introduced you to his kin group yet?

No, not me. As a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering about that for some time.

Well, don’t just stare up there, mouth wide open, planning an assault. Join up with us instead. I’ll make you a king and give you bird’s milk.

I’ve always thought you’re right in what you say about the girl. I’d hand her over to you.

What do you say?

I vote no.

So now, it’s up to the Triballian here. What you say?

De geerl geeve over greet souvrin bridies.

There! He says to hand her over.

No by god!

he never said to give her up—no way. He’s just babbling like a swallow.

So he said hand her over to the swallows!

You two work it out—agree on peace terms.

Since you’re both for it, I’ll say nothing more.

We’re ready now to give you all you ask. So come along with us in person— up to heaven—there you can get your Princess, and all those other things as well.

So these birds were slaughtered in good time before the wedding feast.

If you want to, I could stay here and roast the meat. You go.

Roast the meat? You mean you’d wolf it down, you glutton. Come on with us. Let’s go.

I’d have enjoyed eating that.

Hey, you— one of you bring me out some wedding clothes!

In lands of Litigation there’s a place— it’s right beside the water clock— where that villainous and thieving race of tongue-and-belly men all flock. They use their tongues to sow and reap, to harvest grapes and figs en masse. A crude barbarian tribe, a heap

of Philipses and Gorgias.

From these horse-loving sycophants, who use their tongues to cram their gut, through all of Attica’s expanse in sacrifice the tongue’s first cut.

You here who’ve done fine things, more wonderful than I can say, you thrice-blessed race with wings, you birds, welcome now your king on his return, as he comes back among these wealthy halls. Here he approaches—you’ll never see a star so bright in any gleaming home of gold.