riding astride the beetle like a horse!

Easy now, beetle, gently does it, easy. Don’t charge and make things much too rough for me, trusting your strength, right at the start of things, not until you sweat, and your beating wings loosen up your joints and make your muscles free. I beg you, don’t breathe on me that filthy smell. If you do that, you can stay here in your stall.

Master, my lord, how crazy you’ve become!

Be silent! Hold your tongue!

Why are you flapping through the air so senselessly?

I’m soaring off to help out all the Greeks, a bold new venture, never done before.

Why are you flying? Why this mad sickness?

You must speak fair words and never mutter such trivial sounds. Instead cry out with joy. Tell men to hold their tongues and to close in their toilets and their sewers with fresh bricks

and to plug their arse holes firmly shut.

There’s no way I’ll stay quiet, not unless you tell me where you plan to fly.

Where else, but up to Zeus in heaven?

What for?

To ask him about each and every Greek— what he’s got in store for them.

And what if he doesn’t tell you?

I’ll take him to court for treason, selling Greeks out to the Medes.

No, by Dionysus, you’ll never go, not while I’m alive.

There’s no other way.

Help! Help! Help! Children, your father’s leaving—

he’s secretly abandoning you all to go to heaven.

You poor wretched girls, try pleading with your father. Beg him.

Father, oh father, is this report true, what those at home are saying about you— you’re leaving me here, going up to the sky, to the birds and the ravens? You’re trying to fly? O daddy, these stories—are all of them true? If you love me, I need an answer from you.

Yes, my girls, it’s what you think. The truth is I’ve had it with you—you keep begging me for bread and calling me your daddikins,

he’s secretly abandoning you all to go to heaven.

You poor wretched girls, try pleading with your father. Beg him.

Father, oh father, is this report true, what those at home are saying about you— you’re leaving me here, going up to the sky, to the birds and the ravens? You’re trying to fly? O daddy, these stories—are all of them true? If you love me, I need an answer from you.

Yes, my girls, it’s what you think. The truth is I’ve had it with you—you keep begging me for bread and calling me your daddikins,

when there’s not a drop of money in the house, nothing at all. But when I’m successful, when I get back again, you’ll soon enjoy a huge cake with my knuckles for a sauce.

But how are you going to finish the trip? You can’t travel that road in a sailing ship.

I won't be sailing on the sea in a ship.

I'll be flying up there on a horse with wings.

Daddy, how did you plan to capture this thing, harness it, and go to the gods on the wing?

In those stories by Aesop, I found out the beetle was the only beast with wings

that could reach the place where gods reside.

Father, father, that’s false. All folks deny stories which say that stinking brutes fly and can rise to the gods way on high.

Once, long ago, when it had a quarrel with an eagle,

it went up there and took out its revenge by rolling from the nest the eagle’s eggs.

Why not hitch Pegasus and his divine wings? The gods would receive you as our tragic king.

My dear girl, I’d have needed twice the food. But now whatever meal I eat myself will serve to feed this beetle, too.

But what if it falls in the depths out at sea?

With wings like those ones, how will it flee?

For that I’ve got this rudder I can use.

And the beetle will be just like those boats they make in Naxos.

But then as you float, what harbour will open to welcome that boat?

Doesn’t Piraeus have a Beetle Harbour?

Beware of collisions. You might fall down from way up there and become a lame clown. If so, for Euripides you’ll be a story-- he’ll turn you into a tragical glory.

I’ll watch out for that. And now good bye!

And you for whom I’m doing all this work,

for the next three days you must not fart or crap. If this creature smells that while in the air, it’ll toss me head first and come down to graze. So come now, Pegasus, be off. Good luck. Keep those bright ears of yours pricked up and shake that golden bridle and your bit until they rattle. What are you doing? What are you up to? Why turn your nose toward those stinking sewers? Let yourself go bravely up above the earth, stretch out

those racing wings of yours and head straight for the halls of Zeus. Keep your nose out of the shit, away from all the food you eat each day. Hey, that man down there, what are you doing? I mean that one crapping in Piraeus, right by the whorehouse. You’re destroying me, doing me in. Can’t you please bury the stuff, pile lots of earth on top, and then plant thyme and pour perfume on it? If I fell down and something happened to me from up here and killed me, the state of Chios would be fined

five talents, all because of your ass hole. O my god, I’m scared. And I’m not joking, not any more. You there working this machine, take good care of me. Right now there’s a wind twisting its way around my belly button. If you don’t watch it, I’ll be making stuff to feed the beetle. But it seems to me I’m getting near the gods. Yes, I can see the home of Zeus.

Who’s in there, in Zeus’ house? Why won’t you open up?

A human voice!

Where did that come from?

Lord Hercules! What’s that disgusting thing?

A horse beetle.

You disgusting, reckless, shameless creature! You scoundrel, you consummate rascal, the worst rogue there is! How did you get here, you most villainous of all the villains? What’s your name? Speak up, won’t you?

Super-scoundrel.

In what country were you born? Tell me.

Super-scoundrel.

Who’s your father?

My father? Super-scoundrel.

By this earth, you’ll die for sure if you don’t give your name.

I’m Trygaeus and I’m from Athmonum, a good vine-grower. I don’t slander people,

and I don’t like disputes.

Why have you come?

To offer you this meat.

You poor fellow, how did you get here?

Well, sticky fingers, you see how you no longer think of me as the vilest of all rogues. Please be off now and summon Zeus for me.

O dear, dear, dear! You won’t reach the gods. You’re not even close. They’ve gone away. They moved out yesterday.

Where on earth did they go?

They wouldn’t go to earth!

Well, then, where?

Oh, a long, long way away, under the very dome of heaven itself.

So why have you been left here by yourself?

I’m keeping an eye on the furniture, what’s left of it—some little pots and pans, boards, some wine jugs.

Why have the gods all left?

They’re angry at the Greeks—so they moved War

into the house where they were living, giving him full power to treat you Greeks any way he wishes. They moved their home even higher up, as far as they could go, so they wouldn’t see you fighting any more or hear any of your prayers.

Tell me this— why have they been treating us like that?

Because they tried to make peace many times, but you prefer to fight. If the Spartans had a small success, they’d say something like, “By the twin gods, those Attic types will pay.” And if, with events turning out quite well for those in Attica, the Spartans came to talk of peace, you’d answer right away, “By Athena, they’re playing tricks with us. No, by Zeus, there’s no way we’ll go along. They’ll come back, if we hang on to Pylos.”

Yes, that’s way folks in our country talk.

Well, that’s why I don’t think you’ll ever see Peace in your time again.

Where’s she gone, then?

War has thrown her into a deep hole.

What hole?

That one, way down there. What’s more, you see how many rocks he’s piled on top to stop you hauling her back out again.

Tell me, what’s War planning to do to us?

All I know is last evening he brought home a gigantic mortar.

He’s got a mortar?

What’s he going to do with that?

Well, he wants it to pulverize the city states of Greece. But I have to go. I think he’s coming out—

he’s making such a fuss in there.

Oh, oh! I’m in a mess. Come on, I’d better find some way to get away from him. I think I hear the sounds of a warlike mortar.

O you human beings, you mortal men, you human creatures who endure so much, how your jaws are going to feel the pain!

By lord Apollo, look at the mortar, the size of it! This is a disaster— that look he’s got! Is this the enemy

we’re running from—so terrible, so tough, so hard on a man’s legs?

O Prasiae! thrice damned, five times damned, damned a thousandfold! This very day you’re going to be demolished.

This is no concern of ours, gentlemen, since it’s a problem for the Spartans.

O Megara, Megara, how very soon you be crushed to bits, turned into mincemeat.

Whoa, my goodness me, he’s throwing in some bitter tears for the Megarians,

big ones, too.

And Sicily, you’re destroyed, as well.

Such a great state to be grated down in such a miserable way.

All right, lets pour over this some Attic honey.

Hey, I’d advise you use a different honey. That stuff costs four obols. So ease up with that stuff from Attica.

Boy! Boy! Uproar!

Why’d you call me?

I’ll make you really yelp! Standing there doing nothing. Here’s a fist for you!

That hurts! O master, I’m in agony! Your fist wasn’t full of garlic, was it?

Why don’t you run and fetch me a pestle?

We don’t have one. It was only yesterday

when we moved in here.

Then go get one from the Athenians—and make it fast.

By god, I’ll do it. If I don’t find one, then I’ll be beaten till I howl.

Well now, what are we poor wretched types to do? You see there’s great danger threatening us. If he returns and brings along a pestle, War will sit there using it to pulverize all our city states. O Dionysus, may he perish and not get back with it!

Here he is.

What’s going on?

You didn’t bring it?

The strange thing is this—those Athenians have lost their pestle, that tanner who ground

all Greece to powder.

By Athena, that sovereign lady, he did well to die, just when the city needed him to go, before he dumped us all into that hash.

Then go get another one in Sparta and be quick about it.

I’m off master.

And get back here on the double.

Well, men, what’s going to happen to us? At this point, we’re in deep trouble. So if one of you, by chance, is an initiate of Samothrace, this would be a splendid time for you to pray the servant lad sprains both his feet.

Alas!

O woe is me! And one more time Alas!

What is it? You mean this is the second time you’ve come back here without a pestle?

Yes. The Spartans have lost their pestle, too.

How’d that happen, you rogue?

Well, they lent it to some other folks in Thracian country, and it got lost.

By those two sons of Zeus, the Thracians did good work! Good luck to them! You mortal men, keep up your courage!

Pick up this stuff and take it back inside. I’m going in to make myself a pestle.

All right, now it’s time to sing that old song Datis used to sing every day at noon

when he’d yank his cock, “Ah, how that feels good! O, that’s so nice! I’m getting off on this!” You men of Greece, now’s an excellent time to set aside our quarreling and fights and drag up Peace, who’s friendly to us all, before some other pestle interferes. So you farm labourers and merchants, you carpenters, craftsmen, immigrants, foreigners, and islanders, come here,

all common folk, as quickly as you can, and bring some picks and ropes and levers. Now’s our chance to have a drink together,

a swig from the Good Spirit’s cup.

Come on this way, all those of you who’re keen to rescue us right now. It’s now or never! All you Greeks, let’s help each other out by getting rid of all our warlike ranks and the nasty deep red colour of blood. The day that Lamachus detests is here.

So come on, tell us what we need to do. Give us some direction. It seems to me there’s no way I’ll be stopping work today until we’ve used these levers and machines to haul out here into the light of day the greatest goddess of them all, the one who more than any other loves the vine.

You must keep quiet, just in case your joy in what we’re doing and these shouts of yours gets War, who’s in there, fired up again.