harsh in my ways, as I was earlier. Instead you’ll see a soft, much younger man, once I’m free from troubles. For long enough we’ve killed each other, wearing ourselves out on journeys to the Lycaeum and back with sword and shield. But what can we do

to bring you most delight? Come on, speak up. It’s happy circumstance that’s chosen you

as our supreme commander.

Well, come on. Let me see how we get these stones removed.

You reckless rogue, what are you going to do?

Nothing bad—we’re just like Cillicon.

You evil wretch, you’re done for.

Yes, I am, if that’s how my lot turns out—Hermes would know how to do things with a lottery.

You’re doomed! You’re dead!

On what day?

Immediately.

But I’ve not purchased any flour or cheese for my forced march to death.

No doubt about it, you’re already mincemeat.

Then why is it receiving such a major benefit

has escaped my notice?

Are you not aware Zeus has issued a decree that anyone who’s caught digging that goddess up must die?

You mean it’s absolutely necessary I must perish on the spot?

Yes. Now you know.

Well then, lend me three drachmas right away,

so I can buy a sucking pig. Before I die, I have to get myself initiated.

By Zeus, lord of thunder and lightning . . .

Master, I’m imploring you—by the gods— don’t report us!

I cannot keep silent.

In the name of those meats I brought for you from the goodness of my heart.

My dear chap,

I’ll be destroyed by Zeus if I don’t shout and make a real commotion over this.

No, don’t shout. O my dear little Hermes,

I’m begging you!

You men, tell me what you’re doing? You’re standing there like statues. You fools, don’t hang around saying nothing, if you do that, he’ll start to yell.

Lord Hermes, please don’t yell or squeal. If you recall a tasty meal of young pig as a gift from me, don’t make my words a trivial plea.

O lord and master, can’t you hear how they are trying to bend your ear?

Do not reject the prayers we say

and let us dig up Peace today. Of all the gods you love men best and give them gifts, so bless our quest, if you dislike Pisander’s plume, his spiteful pride, we will resume our constant offerings to you, my lord, with great processions, too.

Come, I beg you, have pity for their cries.

They’re honouring you more than they used to do.

They’re greater robbers than they used to be.

What’s more, I’ll tell you of a terrible act, a major plot against the gods, all of them.

All right, tell me. You might win me over.

For some time the Moon and that rascal Sun have been hatching many plots against you, to hand Greece over to barbarians.

Why would they do that?

Because, by Zeus, we sacrifice to you—barbarians

make their offerings to them. That’s why,

as one might expect, they want all of us to be totally destroyed, so they alone will have the rituals all to themselves.

So that’s why those two for some time now have been stealing daylight on the sly and taking bites out of each other’s disk, those scoundrels!

That’s right. So, dear Hermes, put your heart into helping us find Peace, and pull her out with us. We’ll celebrate the great Panathenaea in your honour, and festivals to all the other gods— the Mysteries, Dipolia and Adonia

will honour Hermes. The other cities, once free of misery, will sacrifice to Hermes as their guardian everywhere. You’ll get fine things, a huge variety. To start things off, I’ll give you this gift, a bowl for you to pour libations with.

My, my, how I’m always keen on presents when they’re made of gold.

Come on then men, get to work in there. Take those picks of yours, move in, and get those stones removed. Hurry!

We’ll do it. But you, wisest of the gods, take charge of us. You understand this task, so tell us what we need to do. You’ll find we won’t be slack in doing other work.

Come on, hurry up and hold the bowl out, so we can offer prayers up to the gods before beginning work.

A libation! A libation! Now speak the reverent words.

Speak well. As we pour out this libation, let’s pray an age begins this very day when many fine things come for all the Greeks, and anyone who works with his whole heart to pull the ropes won’t grip his shield again.

By Zeus, may we spend our lives in peace,

embracing mistresses and poking fires.

And any man who’d rather be at war . . .

O lord Dionysus, may he never stop yanking arrows from his funny bone.

If there’s a man eager for army rank who does not wish to drag you to the light, O lady, in his battles . . .

May he go through the same experience as Cleomenes.

And anyone who manufactures spears or deals in shields and thus is keen for war because of better trade . . .

Let such a man be seized by thieves and get no food to eat but barley.

If someone will not work with us

because he wants to be a general,

or if a slave is ready to desert . . .

May he be laid out on a wheel and whipped.

May good things come to us! Now raise a shout! Strike up a cry of joy!

Leave out the strike. Just shout out for joy.

Oh, all right, then. Hail! Hail! That’s all I’ll say! Hail to Hermes, the Graces and the Seasons, to Aphrodite and Desire! What about Ares?

No, no!

And no cheers for Enyalius, right?

No!

All right, everyone make a real effort

and pull these ropes to reel her in.

Heave away!

Heave ho!

Come on, pull!

Pull even harder!

Heave . . . Come on, heave!

The men won’t pull together.

Why not pull your weight? You’re too proud to work. O you Boeotians, you’ll be crying soon.

All right now, heave.

Heave ho!

You two there, come on and pull as well.

Aren’t I pulling, too—

holding the rope and hauling furiously, working really hard?

Then how come this job isn’t moving forward?

Hey, Lamachus, you’re a problem sitting there, in the way. My good man, we don’t need your monster.

Well, these Argives haven’t been hauling long. They laugh at other people’s suffering, collecting pay and rations from both sides.

But Spartans, my dear chap, are pulling rope like real men.

But look—among that crowd the only ones who’re keen to help are those who’ve been chained up in jail. The arms makers

keep getting in their way.

The Megarians aren’t making any effort.

Well, they’re pulling and showing all their teeth, like puppy dogs.

Yes, by Zeus, because they’re dying of hunger. Hey, you men, we’re not getting anywhere. We must all work at this together. So one more time.

Heave!

Heave away!

Heave!

By Zeus, pull!

We’re shifting it a little.

This is dreadful—some are pulling one way, others in another. You Argives there, you’re going to get a beating!

Come on, heave!

Pull!

There’re people here with us who’re traitors.

But those of you who long for Peace keep pulling— put your backs into it!

But some men here are interfering, getting in the way.

O you Megarians, get the hell away!

The goddess hates you, for she remembers you were the first to rub your garlic on her. And you Athenians, I’m telling you stop holding that position where you’re pulling at the moment—you’re not doing anything but fighting in the courts. If you really wish to set the goddess free, then move on down, shift yourselves towards the sea a little.

All right, men, let the farmers grab the rope all by themselves, with no one else.

Ah, you men, now things are going much better.

He says we’re getting somewhere. Come on, then,

every man must pull with all he’s got!

Hey, the farmers are getting the job done, all by themselves.

Come on, all of you.

Come on!

Now they’re working all together!

Let’s not relax—keep pulling even harder!

Here it comes now!

Now heave! Everyone, heave! Heave! Heave! Heave! Heave! Heave! Heave! Heave! Heave! Heave! Heave! Heave! Everyone, heave!

O holy lady who provides us grapes,

where can I find words to speak to you, the ten-thousand-gallon words to greet you? I didn’t bring them when I came from home. And I welcome you as well, Opora,

and Theoria, too. What a gorgeous face you’ve got there, Theoria, and sweet breath! So fragrant to my heart! It’s just lovely— like perfume or freedom from conscription.

You mean she smells just like a soldier’s pack?

The hateful pack of such a hateful person makes me puke—it stinks of onion belches. She smells of harvest times and festivals,

the Dionysia, flute music, tragic plays, songs of Sophocles, thrushes, poetic scraps

penned by Euripides . . .

You’re in trouble now, spreading lies like that about her. She hates that poet who uses trivial phrases from the law courts.

. . . ivy, cloths for straining wine, bleating flocks, women’s bosoms when they run out to the fields, a drunken serving girl, a jug of wine when it’s been overturned, and lots of other splendid things.

Come now, look how the city states are reconciled. They’re chatting with each other, laughing,

having a good time, though all of them have wonderful black eyes with cups attached.

And let’s also take a look at faces in the audience here, to see if we can guess what each man’s trade is.

That’s a stupid idea.

Can’t you see that man who makes battle crests? He’s tearing out his hair.

There’s someone who makes hoes— he’s just farted at that sword smith.

See that one, the sickle maker who’s feeling so good, he’s flipped his finger at the spear maker?

All right, tell these labourers it’s time to go.

Listen up, folks. The peasants should be off, taking their farming tools back to the fields as soon as possible. But leave behind your swords and spears and javelins. This place has now been overrun with mellow Peace. So all men should move out and back to work— off to the fields, singing a song of joy!

Ah, this day our workers have so yearned for and just men, too! I see you and rejoice.

After such a long, long time, how I wish to greet my vines. How my heart desires to hold in my embrace those same fig trees I planted in the days when I was young.

Now men, first of all let’s offer prayers

to the goddess who’s brought us our freedom from battle crests and Gorgons. After that, let’s head off home, back to our farms. But first, let’s buy a nice little piece of pickled fish to eat while in the fields.

By Poseidon,

how fine their ranks look, compact and spirited, just like a barley cake or a sumptuous feast.

By Zeus, that’s a splendid mattock he’s got there, all set to go, and those three-pronged garden forks are glistening in the sun. They could clear out the rows between our vines so beautifully! Now I’m keen to get back home myself, into the fields, working with my pitch fork, turning clods of earth after all this time.

You men, remember that old way of life

Peace used to give us in our earlier days, those figs pressed into cakes or freshly picked, the myrtles and sweet new wine, the violets beside the spring, the olives we so longed for. For the sake of these speak to the goddess now.

Welcome, dearest goddess, welcome! How I rejoice now that you’ve come. Overwhelmed with longing for you, I kept hoping for a miracle, to go back to my fields again.

O lady we’ve been yearning for, you were the greatest benefit to all of us who spend our lives working on the land, for you alone

would help us out. In earlier days, while you were in control, we had so many sweet and lovely things that cost us nothing. For farmers you meant security and wheat. Our vineyards and our young fig trees

and all the other plants we have will smile with joy to welcome you.

But how can she have stayed away from us for all this time? Hermes, of all the gods you’re the friendliest to us, so tell me.

O you wisest of all working farmers, listen to my words, if you’d like to hear how Peace first went astray. It all began when that Phidias ran into trouble, and Pericles, afraid he’d share his fate,

for he was frightened of your character and your ferocious ways, fired up the town, before he had to suffer anything too drastic, throwing out a little spark, the Megarian decree, and fanned it into a conflict so intense, the smoke

drew tears from all the Greeks, not only here, but in Sparta, too. Well, once that started, the first vineyards were compelled to crackle and a pot, once hit, kicked out in anger

at another pot, and there was no one there who could prevent it any more. And so, Peace just disappeared.

Well, by Apollo, no one ever told me that’s what happened. I’d never heard how Peace could be hooked up with Phidias.

I hadn’t either, not until just now. But if she’s his kin, that’s why she’s beautiful. So many things are kept concealed from us!

Well, after that, the towns who were your subjects, once they saw you were so enraged at one another

and your fangs were out, hatched all sorts of plans against you, because they feared the tribute, and then used their gold to bribe the Spartans, the most important of them, and those men, being greedy and treacherous with strangers, tossed Peace out in a disgraceful manner and held out for war. This gained them profit, but brought the workers to catastrophe. Warships repeatedly went out from here

to get revenge—they devoured the fig trees, which belonged to men who bore no blame.

No, that was justified—those men chopped down one of my trees of dark grey figs, a bush I’d planted and then nursed with my own hands.

Yes, by Zeus, that was truly well deserved!

Those men destroyed a storage chest of mine. They smashed it with a stone. And that box held six bushels full of corn!

Then working men came from their fields in droves and let themselves, without their knowing it, be bought and sold, just as the others were. Longing for figs, they didn’t even have grape pits to eat, and so they looked toward the demagogues. These men, who clearly knew how displaced folk were weak and short of food, with their forked cries drove Peace out, though she came back in person many times, moved by affection for the land. Then they began to squeeze the rich fat types among their allies, on the trumped-up charge

that they were followers of Brasidas. And then you lot would tear the man apart, like puppy-dogs. The city was all pale and cowering in fear. It would snap up every scrap of slander with great pleasure, whatever anyone tossed out. Strangers, who saw the blows come raining down on them, stuffed mouths of the informers shut with gold. So they grew rich, while, without your knowledge, Greece might have been destroyed. This work was done by that man who dealt in leather.

Stop, lord Hermes! That’s enough! Don’t tell us any more. Leave that man where he is, down in Hades. He’s no longer one of us. No, he’s yours.

He was a villain when he was alive, a windbag who liked to slander people, an agitator who stirred up trouble, but when you mention all these things right now, your slandering one of your own people.

But, reverend goddess, why are you so quiet?

Talk to me.

She won’t speak to this audience. All the suffering she’s had to undergo has made her very angry at them.

Then let her say a few words just to you.